SPN fic: "They Yip for Thee" (Gen, PG)
May. 5th, 2013 10:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fannishlisstitle: They yip for thee
author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fannishliss
5000 words
rating: PG
pairing: None
spoilers: broadly season 8
Note: this may resemble a crack premise, but readers have confirmed it's not really a crack story. I hope you enjoy!
---
Dean couldn't believe what he was hearing.
"Seriously?" He'd already said it two or three times, but "Sam? Seriously?" just kept coming out.
Sam's lips were pressed into that thin little line, his jaw jutting, his eyes narrowed and glinting.
Two trials done, Sam badly weakened — and now this?
"I just—" Sam started, then he tried to take a deep breath, let it out, and start over. "I just, I mean — think about it, Dean."
"I have been, Sam, I been thinking about nothing else for the past year since we found the damn tablet," Dean swore.
"Dean—" Sam whined. He couldn't help it, Dean knew — after a lifetime of Dean exerting authority over Sammy as the eldest, Sam always reverted to the little brother voice when distressed.
And Dean couldn't deny that Sam was distressed.
"You think too much, Sammy," Dean said. "Quit it. We do our goddamn jobs, make sure you stay in one piece somehow, and then we let it go."
Sammy turned him the saddest of all puppy dogs eyes and Dean hastily looked away. "I can't let it go, Dean. Not — not this time."
Sam and Dean had both seen Hell firsthand— but they'd been lucky. They'd got out. And now they were trying to seal Hell forever. Dean got it-- of course he did. More than a few demons had sold their souls with good intentions — did they really deserve eternal torment? But more, Sam had argued, did any soul deserve an eternity in Hell?
Going after Bobby had left a mark on Sam. Bobby's innocent soul should have gone straight to the pearly gates, but instead it had been condemned to the fiery depths. There was no justice. Dean had known that, deep inside, for a very long time — but Sam still insisted justice was possible. Hope ruled supreme in Sam's bleeding heart. He dreamed of finding a way to save the demons — demons!
Dean groaned, and shook his head.
"We gotta shut the gates, Sam," Dean said wearily. "We don't have a choice. We gotta do this thing — you gotta do it. You don't have the luxury of some pie in the sky dream, like you can single-handedly save all those souls. No one could. Not you — not, not Cas—" Dean's voice shook a little — "maybe God, if he'd ever show his tail from out of whatever rabbit hole he spiralled down... but not us. We got one job left — you do the trial, and I help you do it, the end. Finis."
Sam glared at Dean balefully, and gave one hmph, but said no more.
"You're gonna do that trial, man," Dean said warningly, shook his finger, and the topic was closed as far as he was concerned.
Next morning, Dean opened one bleary eye when Sam got back from his morning run. The motel room door eased silently open, and Sam lurched in, doubled over, clutching at his stomach and making for the bathroom.
Dean sat up, swung his feet over, and followed Sam toward the bathroom: no such thing as privacy between brothers after all.
"What the hell, Sammy," he complained. "You sick, you gotta tell me. We finally got your strength back up, now you're out pounding the pavement, it's no wonder you can't...."
"Grl grl grl grrrr ark! ark ark! Grrrrrr ark!!!"
"Jesus Christ!" Dean yelled, backpedalling, as a tiny ball of pure demonic fury poked its fangy, black-eyed face out of Sam's open hoodie.
Sam was clutching a teeny tiny little white chihuahua, so angry and so horrible that Dean didn't even know whether to shoot it, stab it, salt and burn, or just grab the thing with tongs and hurl it back out into the parking lot and triple lock the door.
"Shh, shh — it's just Dean — he's my brother, okay? Shh." Sam was actually trying to soothe the horrid thing.
"What the hell is that?" Dean shouted, still flailing and trying to come up with some idea of a proper response.
"Dean! It's a puppy, Dean, god!" Sam answered, back in whiny little brother mode. Dogs had always done that to him, reducing Sam from full grown man, mister logical, super hunter, to a pudgy seven-year-old who just wanted a puppy more than anything else in the whole wide world. Dean had always been the one who'd had to enforce Dad's rules, so that meant even now, decades later, he bore the blame for dashing Sam's hopeless childhood dreams.
The despicable little dog was trying to look at Dean like he was a smallish link of Jimmy Dean sausage, greasy and ripe and a good-sized bite for a dog whose whole body could fit in a coffee cup.
"Where the hell did you find that thing, Sammy? And don't even think about keeping it," Dean scolded.
"Dean! It's cold and wet out there. I heard her whimpering, and then she tried to follow me, on her tiny little legs!" Sam's eyes were so big now that Dean couldn't even understand how he was managing it: the helpless pleading, the yearning for justice, the indignant crusade for compassion. If Sam had ever been allowed to actually finish the law degree he hadn't even begun, he would have been one amazing defense attorney. He was incredibly righteous and sympathetic and seemed to have the benefit of every argument.
"Wait-- she?" Dean said.
The little she-dog was growling in her throat snarling up at Dean with pure hatred in her eyes.
"Son of a--" Dean began.
"Ark! Ark ark ark!" the little cur interjected, furious once more.
"Dean! Shush!" Sam reprimanded. He covered the little dog's entire head with one gigantor hand -- even though he was only aiming for the ears.
"Sam -- " Dean began, in warning tones.
"No, Dean. I found her, I'm making the decision," Sam said.
"The Hunting life is not fit for a dog," Dean started, then shook his head as he realized what he'd actually said.
"No argument there, Dean," Sam said, his sharp little teeth showing as he gloated over Dean's failure to score the rhetorical point.
The chihuahua stopped barking, trained her huge watery eyes adoringly on Sam, and showed her sharp little teeth in a smile that exactly matched.
Dean felt his dislike of the dog step up a degree to wary distrust.
The little dog's jaws relaxed into a doggy grin, her tongue came out and she began to pant, smiling at Dean in triumphant satisfaction.
"I think her name is Delilah," Sam said.
"I gotta hand it to her if she gets you to cut your hair," Dean allowed.
Sam rolled his eyes and went to dig an old duffel out of the trunk of the Impala. They needed that sort of thing for lugging this and that -- tools, artifacts, severed monster parts -- they didn't always want to use their very best, or even second or third best duffels.
"Dude, you've got a puppy purse," Dean chided. He didn't know if he was more disgusted or more secretly gleeful about the blackmail power.
Sam refused to give Dean the pleasure. He just lined the bottom of the duffel with a few torn up holey old socks and a bloodstained towel from several hotels back, settled Delilah gently in, and sat back to see how she liked it.
She looked back up at him with patently worshipful eyes.
Dean frowned. "Don't get too attached," he started up.
"Not another word," Sam warned.
Dean kept his mouth shut but glared at the dog, pointing two fingers at his eyes and then at her. She just panted and glared right back.
As much as Dean hated to admit it, the little dog proved to be no trouble at all. She settled right into her duffel, never made a mess, never barked (unless Dean was trying to yell at Sam) and ate whatever Sam fed her. By the time they finished their Hunt and went home to the bunker, Dean had grown so used to Delilah that he almost forgot to chide Sam about dogs in the car.
Delilah vanished into the depths of the bunker. Dean hardly knew she was there. She slept in Sam's room. Sometimes he heard the click of her tiny claws as she followed him around. She had a nest under the conference room table in a cardboard box and one of Sam's most dilapidated old hoodies.
No more progress was made toward the third trial, and they still hadn't heard a peep from Kevin, or from Crowley, or from Castiel, or really, from anybody, except that Garth called in fairly regular and Charlie had taken to posting coded messages to Sam on her blog, which Sam had a fun time breaking.
A Hunt came up, and Sam put Delilah in a kennel for a few days so Dean didn't have to go alone. The little dog whined and pleaded and barked and cringed, but Sam refused to relent. It did Dean's heart good to see that Sam hadn't gone completely soft. He threw one last glance over his shoulder at Delilah as they left, and he was surprised at the twinge it gave him to see the little dog's paws pressed up against the bars of her kennel.
Just a day or two, Dean told himself.
A day or two turned into five before they'd nailed it — literally — a woodnymph, and not, Dean complained, the sexy kind; instead it was the kind that crept up on innocent campers in the middle of the night and sent down tap roots that sucked its victims dry by morning. A nail gun and blessed iron ten penny nails did the trick, and the woodnymph was just another shrub in another forest.
Dean expected the little chihuahua to pitch a fit when she saw Sam again. But he never expected what came next.
In the kennel where there had been one little tiny white dog, there were three dogs: Delilah, a slightly larger brown chihuahua, and a third black and white chihuahua almost the size of a regular dog.
"There's been some mistake," Sam said. "I only boarded one dog, Delilah — the teeny one."
Sam blushed as Dean mockingly mouthed the word "teeny" at Sam from behind the kennel guy's back.
"That your signature?" the guy said, pointing.
"Yes," Sam allowed, frowning.
"Three dogs listed here — Delilah, Jezzy, and Rahab," the guy read off.
Sam's eyebrows didn't know which way to go apparently. He looked to Dean for help.
Dean was nonplussed. Delilah was Sam's problem. Now he had two more chihuahuas to deal with, which, somehow served him right. It might be fun to watch Sam crash and burn after giving Dean so much grief for so many years, just for enforcing Dad's no dog rule. Let Sam drown in a floodtide of snippy little girldogs. Dean wouldn't clean up after any of them, either.
Dean smirked an evil grin to himself as he pictured Sam on hands and knees, cleaning up some foul-smelling Jezzy prezzy from underneath a heavy piece of Men of Letters furniture.
So they stopped on the way home at a big box store and bought more dog food, and that was Dean's tacit acceptance.
The three little dogs were slightly more noticeable in the bunker than one had been. They still all slept in Sam's bedroom and made their nest under the conference table, but sometimes at night, Dean woke to find himself alert— the click of dog toenails echoing through the ritzy marble halls. He never saw anything amiss in the morning, and none of the dogs snarled at him anymore, but they watched him, and blinked, and it was a little creepy, but he wasn't gonna let himself get spooked by twelve pounds of dog all told.
A lifetime of Hunting made Dean a confirmed night owl. He didn't see the point of getting up with the dawn when his work was all about the things that Hunted by night, and law enforcement officials were so much easier to coerce by the time four in the afternoon rolled around. He liked to stay in bed until ten or eleven in the morning, especially now he had his own bed, complete with memory foam, and no one was going to pound on the door at noon to be paid up for another day.
Sam was different. He liked civilian hours. He liked to get up at the crack of dawn and run through the first light of day. He liked the crisp air and the solitude, the feeling of getting the day going right. Sam had ideals and dreams. His ordeal in the pit had reinforced all that — his Stanford habits had all come back full force the year he spent with Lucifer shouting inside his noggin — desperate for the touchstone of normal, Sam had wed himself to running, healthy eating, regular bedtimes — it was like living with Mr. Rogers, Dean thought, but he didn't complain. He didn't feel any need to deny Sam his little comforts.
So one morning, Sam came in a little late from his run. Dean tossed over and buried his head under the pillows, the sound of doggy toenails echoing in the hall outside his room.
"Keep still in there," Sam whispered to the dogs, and more doggy toenails followed him back to the conference room.
Too many doggies, Dean thought to himself. The thought wouldn't go away. It chased Dean out of bed and into his dead guy robe. (They'd laundered it a dozen times by now, but too late, the name had stuck.)
Shaking his head, Dean left his room and crossed down the hall to Sam's. The door was ajar. Dean poked it with a finger.
The door swung inward —nothing in Sam's room but darkness. But Dean's spidey sense was still prickling. He stepped further into the darkness.
The darkness looked back at him with four glittering eyes.
"Holy mother of crap!" Dean yelled, skittering back out into the hall.
Sam came pelting back from the conference room, skidding to a halt as Dean cowered back against the wall outside his room. His eyes darted guiltily from Dean's panic-stricken face back into the darkness of his room.
Two identical little dogs stepped daintily out, their toenails clicking on the marble. They were solid black and skinny and looked exactly alike. They stepped up to Sam, circled his feet, and sat down in front of him, blinking back at Dean.
"Dean, meet Behemoth and Goliath," Sam said without preamble.
"Wow," Dean said, still getting his composure back. "Where...?"
"They followed me home. These guys are fast as lightning," Sam said. The two skinny little dogs dipped their heads modestly.
"What about the names?" Dean asked.
Sam shrugged. "I dunno, they just come to me, I guess." Sam patted Dean awkwardly on the shoulder as Dean straightened up and tried to regain his dignity. Sam turned and went back to the conference room, the two little black dogs trotting at his heels, like a shadow.
"This place is going to the dogs," Dean muttered to himself, then chuckled, and broke out grinning to himself at random for the rest of the day.
Sam was up to five dogs now, and Dean was sensing a pattern. He couldn't put his finger on it. The dogs were well-behaved. But really. Five chihuahuas in under a month? What were the odds? There was nothing in the lore about chihuahuas. Black dogs yes, but not itty bitty ones that weighed less than a bag of flour.
Sammy was looking good, too. The horrible dark circles were fading back from under his eyes. The tight, gaunt look to his cheekbones had relaxed. And he wasn't swaying like a punchdrunk old boxer anymore. Dean couldn't really chalk it up to the dogs — but he didn't have a better explanation, except maybe time and rest. Dean was feeding him up as well as he knew how — and he guessed cheeseburgers and chili con carne had put some color back in his little brother's cheeks. The little dogs made Sam smile, and that wasn't nothing.
Things were quiet for a while in the bunker. Garth checked in, no new Hunts had come down the pipeline. Things were quiet everywhere. The calm before the storm, Dean couldn't help thinking.
Then, finally, in the middle of the night, a pounding came at the doors of the great hall, as Dean liked to think of them. He and Sammy had each other's back as Sam checked the outside surveillance camera.
It was Cas, and he had Kevin, and there were two more chihuahuas with them.
Dean, boggled, opened the doors and let in his Angel, a Prophet, and two solemn chihuahuas, perfect mirror images of each other, one black with tan markings, one tan with black markings.
"Dean, Sam — may I present Gog and Magog," Castiel said, gesturing to the dogs.
"Hi," Sam said, waving his fingers, as Dean struggled to wrap his mind around it all.
"So, uh, I guess — all dogs go to Heaven?" Dean said, feebly.
Castiel looked shocked. "I should hope not. I've been on the run from Heaven — if not for these two, I'd never have made it — nor would we have successfully retrieved Kevin from the clutches of Crowley."
"Retrievers," chuckled Dean, and then he coughed when Sam and Cas and Kevin just stared at him. The two burly chihuahuas, much bigger than any of Sam's, gazed on with implacable eyes.
"We're ready to complete the third trial," Kevin said, and Sam went stony-faced and balky.
Dean stood up a little straighter, as he always did when Sam got stubborn.
"Sounds like a good reason to sit down at the conference table," Dean said, ushering Cas and Kevin out of the foyer, "with liquor." He had the strongest urge to offer to take Cas's coat — it had never happened before, but Dean had never had a home before to welcome Cas into.
"Thank you, Dean — and I'd very much like to taste the Scotch as well," Cas said, shrugging out of his trenchcoat and offering it to Dean with his blue eyes warm and comforting.
"Sure thing, Cas," Dean said, and he brought out what he figured was a hundred year old bottle.
After they'd all sat down, and Dean had poured, Kevin started to talk.
"The Daemons are key," said Kevin, gesturing around. "It's awesome you guys already made contact."
"Huh?" Sam and Dean said.
Kevin stared, shook his head, and looked at Cas. "They have no idea, do they?"
"None," Cas confirmed. He looked back at Sam and Dean. "You've already met Gog and Magog."
"Yes," Sam said, blankly.
"They seem like very ... good... dogs," Dean said, helplessly.
"They're not dogs, Dean," Cas said earnestly, "they are Daemons." He pronounced it "daymons."
"Oh," Dean said. "I don't know what that is."
"Me neither," Sam added.
Kevin explained. "The Angels say God created Daemons along with the earth, as guardians of certain places, certain elements, or as wards against certain dimensional portals."
Sam had his hmm face on. He was taking notes in his head, Dean knew.
"God made dimensional portals?" Dean asked.
Kevin didn't say "duh" but it was written all over his face. He ignored Dean's question. "Daemons have always been neutral, except for a few who were worshipped as gods. But now, things are changing, one thing especially."
Kevin looked around, as if waiting for an expectant hush. Sam and Dean obliged him.
"Daemons are harboring demons," Kevin pronounced.
"And, some Angels," Cas added. "Myself, for example." He gave a grateful nod to Gog and Magog, who sat calmly listening near the conference table.
Sam sat up suddenly. "I get it."
"You do?" Dean said.
"The harrowing of Hell," Sam said, a light in his eyes that Dean hadn't seen there in a long time.
"Yes, Sam," Cas said.
"You can do it," Kevin said. "You're ready. And the Daemons will help."
Dean wanted to fight, he wanted to object, but he was overruled. The plan had sprung fully formed into Sam's brain, Kevin and Cas were on board, and Dean was outnumbered by a horde of tiny dogs.
"Beltane is in three days," Castiel said. "The time is ripe. The Daemons are ready. There is plenty of time for you to prepare."
"Awesome," Sam said, and Dean bristled but no one paid attention — except Rahab, who was sweetly licking his hand. It did make him feel a little better.
Preparations went well in the bunker. Castiel explained that the Society of Letters had always worked closely with (that is, been manipulated by) the Angels, so Cas found everything needed for Sam's purifications in the bunker stores. All the necessary herbs still grew, as if wild, in the secret gardens around the place. Dean hung about the bunker as Sam went through ritual baths, ritual cleansing, ritual shaving − even his hair received a ritual trim, as Delilah looked on. Dean swore she was laughing at him.
The seven little dogs no longer hid under the conference table. They trotted about like they owned the place. Castiel seemed able to converse with them, and Kevin regarded them as equals. Sam still treated them the same as always. Dean just felt uncomfortable, knowing he couldn't get past the fact that they looked like dogs and he thought of them as dogs. When they saved the world maybe he would learn.
At night the Daemon dogs slept in Sam's room as always, but now Dean was curious. He waited till everything was quiet, then casually walked down the hall, as if going for a drink of water. He stopped nonchalantly and peered in through Sam's door.
The dogs were arranged around Sam as he slept. The skinny little black dogs, Behemoth and Goliath, were at Sam's feet. He was lying on his side, with Gog near his right hand and Magog near his left. Delilah was curled up on his pillow, with Rahab and Jezzy pressed against his belly and thighs.
All the dogs stared at him with calculating chihuahua glowers. Dean glowered back, but then he nodded, and left the room. Not a dog growled as he left.
The powers of Beltane peaked at dawn, Kevin said, so the last night was short.
Castiel led the little group to the observatory.
"Watch closely, Dean, I think you'll find this very impressive," Cas said with a twinkle. Dean couldn't deny, he loved it when the nerdy-seeming Angel thought something was cool.
Castiel pressed several stars in the tiled star charts in a certain order. A grinding sound came from inside the wall and a door slid open, revealing a narrow, spiral staircase. Sweet, cool air flowed down into the room.
The dogs went first, trotting up the stairs: Gog, Magog, Behemoth, Goliath, Jezzy and Rahab. Delilah was so little that Sam just carried her. Cas followed Sam and Kevin followed Cas. Dean brought up the rear.
They emerged after a short climb on top of a tower.
"We're not in Kansas anymore," Dean said. "What? We're not!" he said to Sam.
It was patently true. The tower had emerged on a hilltop overlooking a broad plain.
"Dimensional portal?" Dean asked, and Kevin nodded. Dean didn't really want to wonder any more about just where they were. The night sky was ablaze with stars, more than Dean had ever seen, and nothing seemed familiar.
"Now, Sam," Castiel said. "The pentacle is already prepared."
Sam disrobed and lay down naked, spread eagle on the pentacle. They'd already explained to Dean that Sam had to be "skyclad" for the ritual, so Dean just went along, even though he thought at least a loincloth might have given Sam a little more dignity. Instead, he had dogs.
Just as Dean had seen before, the little dogs arranged themselves around Sam, but this time, Sam's arms and legs marked the points of the star. Gog and Magog sat at his hands, Goliath and Behemoth at his feet, Rahab across his belly, Jezzy across his thighs, and tiny little Delilah lay directly across the pentacle that marked Sam's heart.
"Dean," Castiel said sharply, at Dean's ear.
"Huh?" Dean said, distracted by the Angel.
He turned his head away from Sam to look at Cas, just as each little dog sank its fangs into his brother.
Sam gave a choked off cry of pain. Dean started, but Cas had his arm.
"It's okay, Dean — it's meant to be. Trust us," Cas said.
Dean felt the need to protect Sam rise up — but he knew how much Sam longed for this plan to succeed. He had to let it go forward, no matter how hard his instincts fought against it.
Sam's blood trickled down from the seven wounds. The one in his neck worried Dean the most, but he had to trust their allies. Sam was okay. He was chanting in Enochian the verses Kevin had taught him.
The blood trickled down into the deeply grooved pentacle. Dean twitched in horror, remembering Lilith's blood and the rising of Lucifer. It was similar in many ways, except his brother was still alive. Still alive, and able to survive this, Dean repeated to himself.
A strange, staticky feeling filled the air. Dean sank back to the edge of the tower, Castiel still gripping his arm. They stared at Sam, as the harrowing of Hell began to take place through him.
Dean couldn't process what he was seeing.
Demonic smoke was whirling up — from somewhere — and somehow, Sam was the gateway — but as it poured through him, the nasty, roiling darkness fell away, revealing something like clouds of energy and light which shot up into the sky and darted away in all directions. Dean had seen a hellgate burst before — but this — this was nothing but beautiful, sublime. The spiritual energy of the dead was revealed as the demon foulness was stripped away by its passage through Sam. Dean saw smiling faces blur into dazzling rainbow whiteness, as the demons transmuted themselves and were reborn into the destinations the Daemons of the world had prepared.
The brilliant stars in the sky above them faded as the metamorphosed demons sped off into the world and dawn approached. The light of the newly cleansed souls began to dim. Sam was still chanting, the little dogs licking at his wounds, miraculously still trickling, though Sam didn't seem to weaken.
Then stars began to fall, one, another, a handful, a spray of brilliant stars.
"My brothers and sisters — they're leaving Heaven," Castiel said, tears filling his eyes. Dean held onto him, knowing how homeless Castiel felt and for how long.
"It's meant to be, Castiel," Kevin said. "A new Heaven, a new Earth."
"Yes, of course," Castiel murmured, "the word of the Lord."
No one responded.
At last the sun peeped above the horizon, sending its beams of light up into the sky.
The night was over. The demons had gone, many Angels had fallen, and Hell was shriven, its gates forever sealed.
The little dogs licked Sam's wounds and suddenly Dean saw that his flesh was unmarred. He sat up, clean and whole, and smiling broadly.
"Dude, you need pants," Dean said.
"He could have mine," Cas answered, beginning to unbuckle.
"No, no," Dean said, stopping Cas. "It's okay. I wiped that backside enough, I can tolerate seeing it now and then."
"I've got a robe right here," Sam said, reaching out to pull it over his lap, dislodging Rahab.
"It's over," Kevin said, tears streaming down his face. "It's finally over!"
Dean reached over and pulled the young prophet into his arms. "You did it, man. You saved the world."
"Oh, my god," Kevin moaned, dissolving into sobs.
"Maybe," Cas said. "Maybe so."
The seven little dogs looked on, panting happily.
"Can we go back to the bunker now, guys?" Sam asked, climbing to his feet and pulling the robe into place.
"Let's," said Cas. "And let us drink more of Dean's best Scotch."
"Not a problem, man," Dean said, "not a problem."
Life settled back into a pattern at the bunker. The little dogs came and went at will. Apparently there were dimensional portals scattered all over the bunker if you knew how to open them, which Castiel and the Daemons did. Not much activity for Hunters out in the world, according to Garth, and Charlie wasn't finding much at all in the way of monsters. Maybe, Dean thought happily, he and Sam were finally out of a job.
Post-script.
One day, there was a pounding at the door.
The security camera showed a woman waiting beside the heavy doors, tapping her foot, arms crossed. Her face wasn't familiar, but the look in her eye was as she sized up the place.
"Little backup, Cas?" Dean asked. Sam was in the library as usual, cross-referencing the records.
"Okay," Cas said, backing up.
Dean rolled his eyes and opened the doors.
"You gonna stand there staring, Clarence, are you gonna invite me in?" the woman drawled with a smile.
Castiel's jaw dropped, and then he held the door wide as the woman easily crossed the devil's trap to stand beside them.
"I got this one, Dean — I think it's a pizza delivery!" Cas said with a smile.
The former Angel and the former Demon rejoiced together in a heartfelt hug while Dean looked on.
"You can teach an old dog new tricks after all," Dean thought with a smirk. Life was good.
author:
fannishliss5000 words
rating: PG
pairing: None
spoilers: broadly season 8
sammessiah Anti-Christmas gift for immortal_jedi
Note: this may resemble a crack premise, but readers have confirmed it's not really a crack story. I hope you enjoy!
---
Dean couldn't believe what he was hearing.
"Seriously?" He'd already said it two or three times, but "Sam? Seriously?" just kept coming out.
Sam's lips were pressed into that thin little line, his jaw jutting, his eyes narrowed and glinting.
Two trials done, Sam badly weakened — and now this?
"I just—" Sam started, then he tried to take a deep breath, let it out, and start over. "I just, I mean — think about it, Dean."
"I have been, Sam, I been thinking about nothing else for the past year since we found the damn tablet," Dean swore.
"Dean—" Sam whined. He couldn't help it, Dean knew — after a lifetime of Dean exerting authority over Sammy as the eldest, Sam always reverted to the little brother voice when distressed.
And Dean couldn't deny that Sam was distressed.
"You think too much, Sammy," Dean said. "Quit it. We do our goddamn jobs, make sure you stay in one piece somehow, and then we let it go."
Sammy turned him the saddest of all puppy dogs eyes and Dean hastily looked away. "I can't let it go, Dean. Not — not this time."
Sam and Dean had both seen Hell firsthand— but they'd been lucky. They'd got out. And now they were trying to seal Hell forever. Dean got it-- of course he did. More than a few demons had sold their souls with good intentions — did they really deserve eternal torment? But more, Sam had argued, did any soul deserve an eternity in Hell?
Going after Bobby had left a mark on Sam. Bobby's innocent soul should have gone straight to the pearly gates, but instead it had been condemned to the fiery depths. There was no justice. Dean had known that, deep inside, for a very long time — but Sam still insisted justice was possible. Hope ruled supreme in Sam's bleeding heart. He dreamed of finding a way to save the demons — demons!
Dean groaned, and shook his head.
"We gotta shut the gates, Sam," Dean said wearily. "We don't have a choice. We gotta do this thing — you gotta do it. You don't have the luxury of some pie in the sky dream, like you can single-handedly save all those souls. No one could. Not you — not, not Cas—" Dean's voice shook a little — "maybe God, if he'd ever show his tail from out of whatever rabbit hole he spiralled down... but not us. We got one job left — you do the trial, and I help you do it, the end. Finis."
Sam glared at Dean balefully, and gave one hmph, but said no more.
"You're gonna do that trial, man," Dean said warningly, shook his finger, and the topic was closed as far as he was concerned.
Next morning, Dean opened one bleary eye when Sam got back from his morning run. The motel room door eased silently open, and Sam lurched in, doubled over, clutching at his stomach and making for the bathroom.
Dean sat up, swung his feet over, and followed Sam toward the bathroom: no such thing as privacy between brothers after all.
"What the hell, Sammy," he complained. "You sick, you gotta tell me. We finally got your strength back up, now you're out pounding the pavement, it's no wonder you can't...."
"Grl grl grl grrrr ark! ark ark! Grrrrrr ark!!!"
"Jesus Christ!" Dean yelled, backpedalling, as a tiny ball of pure demonic fury poked its fangy, black-eyed face out of Sam's open hoodie.
Sam was clutching a teeny tiny little white chihuahua, so angry and so horrible that Dean didn't even know whether to shoot it, stab it, salt and burn, or just grab the thing with tongs and hurl it back out into the parking lot and triple lock the door.
"Shh, shh — it's just Dean — he's my brother, okay? Shh." Sam was actually trying to soothe the horrid thing.
"What the hell is that?" Dean shouted, still flailing and trying to come up with some idea of a proper response.
"Dean! It's a puppy, Dean, god!" Sam answered, back in whiny little brother mode. Dogs had always done that to him, reducing Sam from full grown man, mister logical, super hunter, to a pudgy seven-year-old who just wanted a puppy more than anything else in the whole wide world. Dean had always been the one who'd had to enforce Dad's rules, so that meant even now, decades later, he bore the blame for dashing Sam's hopeless childhood dreams.
The despicable little dog was trying to look at Dean like he was a smallish link of Jimmy Dean sausage, greasy and ripe and a good-sized bite for a dog whose whole body could fit in a coffee cup.
"Where the hell did you find that thing, Sammy? And don't even think about keeping it," Dean scolded.
"Dean! It's cold and wet out there. I heard her whimpering, and then she tried to follow me, on her tiny little legs!" Sam's eyes were so big now that Dean couldn't even understand how he was managing it: the helpless pleading, the yearning for justice, the indignant crusade for compassion. If Sam had ever been allowed to actually finish the law degree he hadn't even begun, he would have been one amazing defense attorney. He was incredibly righteous and sympathetic and seemed to have the benefit of every argument.
"Wait-- she?" Dean said.
The little she-dog was growling in her throat snarling up at Dean with pure hatred in her eyes.
"Son of a--" Dean began.
"Ark! Ark ark ark!" the little cur interjected, furious once more.
"Dean! Shush!" Sam reprimanded. He covered the little dog's entire head with one gigantor hand -- even though he was only aiming for the ears.
"Sam -- " Dean began, in warning tones.
"No, Dean. I found her, I'm making the decision," Sam said.
"The Hunting life is not fit for a dog," Dean started, then shook his head as he realized what he'd actually said.
"No argument there, Dean," Sam said, his sharp little teeth showing as he gloated over Dean's failure to score the rhetorical point.
The chihuahua stopped barking, trained her huge watery eyes adoringly on Sam, and showed her sharp little teeth in a smile that exactly matched.
Dean felt his dislike of the dog step up a degree to wary distrust.
The little dog's jaws relaxed into a doggy grin, her tongue came out and she began to pant, smiling at Dean in triumphant satisfaction.
"I think her name is Delilah," Sam said.
"I gotta hand it to her if she gets you to cut your hair," Dean allowed.
Sam rolled his eyes and went to dig an old duffel out of the trunk of the Impala. They needed that sort of thing for lugging this and that -- tools, artifacts, severed monster parts -- they didn't always want to use their very best, or even second or third best duffels.
"Dude, you've got a puppy purse," Dean chided. He didn't know if he was more disgusted or more secretly gleeful about the blackmail power.
Sam refused to give Dean the pleasure. He just lined the bottom of the duffel with a few torn up holey old socks and a bloodstained towel from several hotels back, settled Delilah gently in, and sat back to see how she liked it.
She looked back up at him with patently worshipful eyes.
Dean frowned. "Don't get too attached," he started up.
"Not another word," Sam warned.
Dean kept his mouth shut but glared at the dog, pointing two fingers at his eyes and then at her. She just panted and glared right back.
As much as Dean hated to admit it, the little dog proved to be no trouble at all. She settled right into her duffel, never made a mess, never barked (unless Dean was trying to yell at Sam) and ate whatever Sam fed her. By the time they finished their Hunt and went home to the bunker, Dean had grown so used to Delilah that he almost forgot to chide Sam about dogs in the car.
Delilah vanished into the depths of the bunker. Dean hardly knew she was there. She slept in Sam's room. Sometimes he heard the click of her tiny claws as she followed him around. She had a nest under the conference room table in a cardboard box and one of Sam's most dilapidated old hoodies.
No more progress was made toward the third trial, and they still hadn't heard a peep from Kevin, or from Crowley, or from Castiel, or really, from anybody, except that Garth called in fairly regular and Charlie had taken to posting coded messages to Sam on her blog, which Sam had a fun time breaking.
A Hunt came up, and Sam put Delilah in a kennel for a few days so Dean didn't have to go alone. The little dog whined and pleaded and barked and cringed, but Sam refused to relent. It did Dean's heart good to see that Sam hadn't gone completely soft. He threw one last glance over his shoulder at Delilah as they left, and he was surprised at the twinge it gave him to see the little dog's paws pressed up against the bars of her kennel.
Just a day or two, Dean told himself.
A day or two turned into five before they'd nailed it — literally — a woodnymph, and not, Dean complained, the sexy kind; instead it was the kind that crept up on innocent campers in the middle of the night and sent down tap roots that sucked its victims dry by morning. A nail gun and blessed iron ten penny nails did the trick, and the woodnymph was just another shrub in another forest.
Dean expected the little chihuahua to pitch a fit when she saw Sam again. But he never expected what came next.
In the kennel where there had been one little tiny white dog, there were three dogs: Delilah, a slightly larger brown chihuahua, and a third black and white chihuahua almost the size of a regular dog.
"There's been some mistake," Sam said. "I only boarded one dog, Delilah — the teeny one."
Sam blushed as Dean mockingly mouthed the word "teeny" at Sam from behind the kennel guy's back.
"That your signature?" the guy said, pointing.
"Yes," Sam allowed, frowning.
"Three dogs listed here — Delilah, Jezzy, and Rahab," the guy read off.
Sam's eyebrows didn't know which way to go apparently. He looked to Dean for help.
Dean was nonplussed. Delilah was Sam's problem. Now he had two more chihuahuas to deal with, which, somehow served him right. It might be fun to watch Sam crash and burn after giving Dean so much grief for so many years, just for enforcing Dad's no dog rule. Let Sam drown in a floodtide of snippy little girldogs. Dean wouldn't clean up after any of them, either.
Dean smirked an evil grin to himself as he pictured Sam on hands and knees, cleaning up some foul-smelling Jezzy prezzy from underneath a heavy piece of Men of Letters furniture.
So they stopped on the way home at a big box store and bought more dog food, and that was Dean's tacit acceptance.
The three little dogs were slightly more noticeable in the bunker than one had been. They still all slept in Sam's bedroom and made their nest under the conference table, but sometimes at night, Dean woke to find himself alert— the click of dog toenails echoing through the ritzy marble halls. He never saw anything amiss in the morning, and none of the dogs snarled at him anymore, but they watched him, and blinked, and it was a little creepy, but he wasn't gonna let himself get spooked by twelve pounds of dog all told.
A lifetime of Hunting made Dean a confirmed night owl. He didn't see the point of getting up with the dawn when his work was all about the things that Hunted by night, and law enforcement officials were so much easier to coerce by the time four in the afternoon rolled around. He liked to stay in bed until ten or eleven in the morning, especially now he had his own bed, complete with memory foam, and no one was going to pound on the door at noon to be paid up for another day.
Sam was different. He liked civilian hours. He liked to get up at the crack of dawn and run through the first light of day. He liked the crisp air and the solitude, the feeling of getting the day going right. Sam had ideals and dreams. His ordeal in the pit had reinforced all that — his Stanford habits had all come back full force the year he spent with Lucifer shouting inside his noggin — desperate for the touchstone of normal, Sam had wed himself to running, healthy eating, regular bedtimes — it was like living with Mr. Rogers, Dean thought, but he didn't complain. He didn't feel any need to deny Sam his little comforts.
So one morning, Sam came in a little late from his run. Dean tossed over and buried his head under the pillows, the sound of doggy toenails echoing in the hall outside his room.
"Keep still in there," Sam whispered to the dogs, and more doggy toenails followed him back to the conference room.
Too many doggies, Dean thought to himself. The thought wouldn't go away. It chased Dean out of bed and into his dead guy robe. (They'd laundered it a dozen times by now, but too late, the name had stuck.)
Shaking his head, Dean left his room and crossed down the hall to Sam's. The door was ajar. Dean poked it with a finger.
The door swung inward —nothing in Sam's room but darkness. But Dean's spidey sense was still prickling. He stepped further into the darkness.
The darkness looked back at him with four glittering eyes.
"Holy mother of crap!" Dean yelled, skittering back out into the hall.
Sam came pelting back from the conference room, skidding to a halt as Dean cowered back against the wall outside his room. His eyes darted guiltily from Dean's panic-stricken face back into the darkness of his room.
Two identical little dogs stepped daintily out, their toenails clicking on the marble. They were solid black and skinny and looked exactly alike. They stepped up to Sam, circled his feet, and sat down in front of him, blinking back at Dean.
"Dean, meet Behemoth and Goliath," Sam said without preamble.
"Wow," Dean said, still getting his composure back. "Where...?"
"They followed me home. These guys are fast as lightning," Sam said. The two skinny little dogs dipped their heads modestly.
"What about the names?" Dean asked.
Sam shrugged. "I dunno, they just come to me, I guess." Sam patted Dean awkwardly on the shoulder as Dean straightened up and tried to regain his dignity. Sam turned and went back to the conference room, the two little black dogs trotting at his heels, like a shadow.
"This place is going to the dogs," Dean muttered to himself, then chuckled, and broke out grinning to himself at random for the rest of the day.
Sam was up to five dogs now, and Dean was sensing a pattern. He couldn't put his finger on it. The dogs were well-behaved. But really. Five chihuahuas in under a month? What were the odds? There was nothing in the lore about chihuahuas. Black dogs yes, but not itty bitty ones that weighed less than a bag of flour.
Sammy was looking good, too. The horrible dark circles were fading back from under his eyes. The tight, gaunt look to his cheekbones had relaxed. And he wasn't swaying like a punchdrunk old boxer anymore. Dean couldn't really chalk it up to the dogs — but he didn't have a better explanation, except maybe time and rest. Dean was feeding him up as well as he knew how — and he guessed cheeseburgers and chili con carne had put some color back in his little brother's cheeks. The little dogs made Sam smile, and that wasn't nothing.
Things were quiet for a while in the bunker. Garth checked in, no new Hunts had come down the pipeline. Things were quiet everywhere. The calm before the storm, Dean couldn't help thinking.
Then, finally, in the middle of the night, a pounding came at the doors of the great hall, as Dean liked to think of them. He and Sammy had each other's back as Sam checked the outside surveillance camera.
It was Cas, and he had Kevin, and there were two more chihuahuas with them.
Dean, boggled, opened the doors and let in his Angel, a Prophet, and two solemn chihuahuas, perfect mirror images of each other, one black with tan markings, one tan with black markings.
"Dean, Sam — may I present Gog and Magog," Castiel said, gesturing to the dogs.
"Hi," Sam said, waving his fingers, as Dean struggled to wrap his mind around it all.
"So, uh, I guess — all dogs go to Heaven?" Dean said, feebly.
Castiel looked shocked. "I should hope not. I've been on the run from Heaven — if not for these two, I'd never have made it — nor would we have successfully retrieved Kevin from the clutches of Crowley."
"Retrievers," chuckled Dean, and then he coughed when Sam and Cas and Kevin just stared at him. The two burly chihuahuas, much bigger than any of Sam's, gazed on with implacable eyes.
"We're ready to complete the third trial," Kevin said, and Sam went stony-faced and balky.
Dean stood up a little straighter, as he always did when Sam got stubborn.
"Sounds like a good reason to sit down at the conference table," Dean said, ushering Cas and Kevin out of the foyer, "with liquor." He had the strongest urge to offer to take Cas's coat — it had never happened before, but Dean had never had a home before to welcome Cas into.
"Thank you, Dean — and I'd very much like to taste the Scotch as well," Cas said, shrugging out of his trenchcoat and offering it to Dean with his blue eyes warm and comforting.
"Sure thing, Cas," Dean said, and he brought out what he figured was a hundred year old bottle.
After they'd all sat down, and Dean had poured, Kevin started to talk.
"The Daemons are key," said Kevin, gesturing around. "It's awesome you guys already made contact."
"Huh?" Sam and Dean said.
Kevin stared, shook his head, and looked at Cas. "They have no idea, do they?"
"None," Cas confirmed. He looked back at Sam and Dean. "You've already met Gog and Magog."
"Yes," Sam said, blankly.
"They seem like very ... good... dogs," Dean said, helplessly.
"They're not dogs, Dean," Cas said earnestly, "they are Daemons." He pronounced it "daymons."
"Oh," Dean said. "I don't know what that is."
"Me neither," Sam added.
Kevin explained. "The Angels say God created Daemons along with the earth, as guardians of certain places, certain elements, or as wards against certain dimensional portals."
Sam had his hmm face on. He was taking notes in his head, Dean knew.
"God made dimensional portals?" Dean asked.
Kevin didn't say "duh" but it was written all over his face. He ignored Dean's question. "Daemons have always been neutral, except for a few who were worshipped as gods. But now, things are changing, one thing especially."
Kevin looked around, as if waiting for an expectant hush. Sam and Dean obliged him.
"Daemons are harboring demons," Kevin pronounced.
"And, some Angels," Cas added. "Myself, for example." He gave a grateful nod to Gog and Magog, who sat calmly listening near the conference table.
Sam sat up suddenly. "I get it."
"You do?" Dean said.
"The harrowing of Hell," Sam said, a light in his eyes that Dean hadn't seen there in a long time.
"Yes, Sam," Cas said.
"You can do it," Kevin said. "You're ready. And the Daemons will help."
Dean wanted to fight, he wanted to object, but he was overruled. The plan had sprung fully formed into Sam's brain, Kevin and Cas were on board, and Dean was outnumbered by a horde of tiny dogs.
"Beltane is in three days," Castiel said. "The time is ripe. The Daemons are ready. There is plenty of time for you to prepare."
"Awesome," Sam said, and Dean bristled but no one paid attention — except Rahab, who was sweetly licking his hand. It did make him feel a little better.
Preparations went well in the bunker. Castiel explained that the Society of Letters had always worked closely with (that is, been manipulated by) the Angels, so Cas found everything needed for Sam's purifications in the bunker stores. All the necessary herbs still grew, as if wild, in the secret gardens around the place. Dean hung about the bunker as Sam went through ritual baths, ritual cleansing, ritual shaving − even his hair received a ritual trim, as Delilah looked on. Dean swore she was laughing at him.
The seven little dogs no longer hid under the conference table. They trotted about like they owned the place. Castiel seemed able to converse with them, and Kevin regarded them as equals. Sam still treated them the same as always. Dean just felt uncomfortable, knowing he couldn't get past the fact that they looked like dogs and he thought of them as dogs. When they saved the world maybe he would learn.
At night the Daemon dogs slept in Sam's room as always, but now Dean was curious. He waited till everything was quiet, then casually walked down the hall, as if going for a drink of water. He stopped nonchalantly and peered in through Sam's door.
The dogs were arranged around Sam as he slept. The skinny little black dogs, Behemoth and Goliath, were at Sam's feet. He was lying on his side, with Gog near his right hand and Magog near his left. Delilah was curled up on his pillow, with Rahab and Jezzy pressed against his belly and thighs.
All the dogs stared at him with calculating chihuahua glowers. Dean glowered back, but then he nodded, and left the room. Not a dog growled as he left.
The powers of Beltane peaked at dawn, Kevin said, so the last night was short.
Castiel led the little group to the observatory.
"Watch closely, Dean, I think you'll find this very impressive," Cas said with a twinkle. Dean couldn't deny, he loved it when the nerdy-seeming Angel thought something was cool.
Castiel pressed several stars in the tiled star charts in a certain order. A grinding sound came from inside the wall and a door slid open, revealing a narrow, spiral staircase. Sweet, cool air flowed down into the room.
The dogs went first, trotting up the stairs: Gog, Magog, Behemoth, Goliath, Jezzy and Rahab. Delilah was so little that Sam just carried her. Cas followed Sam and Kevin followed Cas. Dean brought up the rear.
They emerged after a short climb on top of a tower.
"We're not in Kansas anymore," Dean said. "What? We're not!" he said to Sam.
It was patently true. The tower had emerged on a hilltop overlooking a broad plain.
"Dimensional portal?" Dean asked, and Kevin nodded. Dean didn't really want to wonder any more about just where they were. The night sky was ablaze with stars, more than Dean had ever seen, and nothing seemed familiar.
"Now, Sam," Castiel said. "The pentacle is already prepared."
Sam disrobed and lay down naked, spread eagle on the pentacle. They'd already explained to Dean that Sam had to be "skyclad" for the ritual, so Dean just went along, even though he thought at least a loincloth might have given Sam a little more dignity. Instead, he had dogs.
Just as Dean had seen before, the little dogs arranged themselves around Sam, but this time, Sam's arms and legs marked the points of the star. Gog and Magog sat at his hands, Goliath and Behemoth at his feet, Rahab across his belly, Jezzy across his thighs, and tiny little Delilah lay directly across the pentacle that marked Sam's heart.
"Dean," Castiel said sharply, at Dean's ear.
"Huh?" Dean said, distracted by the Angel.
He turned his head away from Sam to look at Cas, just as each little dog sank its fangs into his brother.
Sam gave a choked off cry of pain. Dean started, but Cas had his arm.
"It's okay, Dean — it's meant to be. Trust us," Cas said.
Dean felt the need to protect Sam rise up — but he knew how much Sam longed for this plan to succeed. He had to let it go forward, no matter how hard his instincts fought against it.
Sam's blood trickled down from the seven wounds. The one in his neck worried Dean the most, but he had to trust their allies. Sam was okay. He was chanting in Enochian the verses Kevin had taught him.
The blood trickled down into the deeply grooved pentacle. Dean twitched in horror, remembering Lilith's blood and the rising of Lucifer. It was similar in many ways, except his brother was still alive. Still alive, and able to survive this, Dean repeated to himself.
A strange, staticky feeling filled the air. Dean sank back to the edge of the tower, Castiel still gripping his arm. They stared at Sam, as the harrowing of Hell began to take place through him.
Dean couldn't process what he was seeing.
Demonic smoke was whirling up — from somewhere — and somehow, Sam was the gateway — but as it poured through him, the nasty, roiling darkness fell away, revealing something like clouds of energy and light which shot up into the sky and darted away in all directions. Dean had seen a hellgate burst before — but this — this was nothing but beautiful, sublime. The spiritual energy of the dead was revealed as the demon foulness was stripped away by its passage through Sam. Dean saw smiling faces blur into dazzling rainbow whiteness, as the demons transmuted themselves and were reborn into the destinations the Daemons of the world had prepared.
The brilliant stars in the sky above them faded as the metamorphosed demons sped off into the world and dawn approached. The light of the newly cleansed souls began to dim. Sam was still chanting, the little dogs licking at his wounds, miraculously still trickling, though Sam didn't seem to weaken.
Then stars began to fall, one, another, a handful, a spray of brilliant stars.
"My brothers and sisters — they're leaving Heaven," Castiel said, tears filling his eyes. Dean held onto him, knowing how homeless Castiel felt and for how long.
"It's meant to be, Castiel," Kevin said. "A new Heaven, a new Earth."
"Yes, of course," Castiel murmured, "the word of the Lord."
No one responded.
At last the sun peeped above the horizon, sending its beams of light up into the sky.
The night was over. The demons had gone, many Angels had fallen, and Hell was shriven, its gates forever sealed.
The little dogs licked Sam's wounds and suddenly Dean saw that his flesh was unmarred. He sat up, clean and whole, and smiling broadly.
"Dude, you need pants," Dean said.
"He could have mine," Cas answered, beginning to unbuckle.
"No, no," Dean said, stopping Cas. "It's okay. I wiped that backside enough, I can tolerate seeing it now and then."
"I've got a robe right here," Sam said, reaching out to pull it over his lap, dislodging Rahab.
"It's over," Kevin said, tears streaming down his face. "It's finally over!"
Dean reached over and pulled the young prophet into his arms. "You did it, man. You saved the world."
"Oh, my god," Kevin moaned, dissolving into sobs.
"Maybe," Cas said. "Maybe so."
The seven little dogs looked on, panting happily.
"Can we go back to the bunker now, guys?" Sam asked, climbing to his feet and pulling the robe into place.
"Let's," said Cas. "And let us drink more of Dean's best Scotch."
"Not a problem, man," Dean said, "not a problem."
Life settled back into a pattern at the bunker. The little dogs came and went at will. Apparently there were dimensional portals scattered all over the bunker if you knew how to open them, which Castiel and the Daemons did. Not much activity for Hunters out in the world, according to Garth, and Charlie wasn't finding much at all in the way of monsters. Maybe, Dean thought happily, he and Sam were finally out of a job.
Post-script.
One day, there was a pounding at the door.
The security camera showed a woman waiting beside the heavy doors, tapping her foot, arms crossed. Her face wasn't familiar, but the look in her eye was as she sized up the place.
"Little backup, Cas?" Dean asked. Sam was in the library as usual, cross-referencing the records.
"Okay," Cas said, backing up.
Dean rolled his eyes and opened the doors.
"You gonna stand there staring, Clarence, are you gonna invite me in?" the woman drawled with a smile.
Castiel's jaw dropped, and then he held the door wide as the woman easily crossed the devil's trap to stand beside them.
"I got this one, Dean — I think it's a pizza delivery!" Cas said with a smile.
The former Angel and the former Demon rejoiced together in a heartfelt hug while Dean looked on.
"You can teach an old dog new tricks after all," Dean thought with a smirk. Life was good.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-05-06 02:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-06 08:50 pm (UTC)I wonder if I should label it as fool's crack. :) I like to start off with a crack premise and then write a real story. SPN really lends itself to that. :D
no subject
Date: 2013-05-06 10:56 am (UTC)I love all these different versions of the third trial we're getting through fic!
no subject
Date: 2013-05-06 08:47 pm (UTC)Have you seen the scary videos of angry chihuahuas? Apparently they bond very strongly to one person and growl horribly if they feel their person is threatened.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AKGPvul8FXc
:D
I can't wait for the third trial. Edlund's ep rocked. I love that all the trials are really about the Harrowing. We may actually get Sammy as Demon Messiah by the end of this series.... of course there will be some terrible price as well, but YAY!
no subject
Date: 2013-05-06 08:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-06 08:44 pm (UTC)