Sore Thumb || Meg and Lisa

Once, joints like this had been thrilling–full of rowdy people and men with no mailing addresses and enough alcohol for her to forget her last name. Now, not so much. Lisa couldn’t afford getting drunk in public (or anywhere, really) anymore than she could afford to lose the bottle of holy water that sat in her purse. Things were different.
She sat at the bar with a half-empty bottle of beer and a head full of thoughts. (Options. Dean. Nicole. Ben. Claire. So many people she loved in a profession that would ruin them.) There weren’t any real cases in the area… in fact, things were strangely quiet nearly everywhere she went.
She was probably just being paranoid.



“Jesus fucking Christ,” Meg breathed out heavily. She muttered it a second time running her hands up and down her face and then smoothed out the hair of her eyebrows. She laughed darkly but it was honest, throaty, and brought a few shades of rouge to her cheeks. Meg leaned against the table with her forearms and appraised the finally sitting Sam. “Fairies,” she said slowly, reaching for the pen, “those fuckers are real.”

In a thousand lifetimes, if someone had asked her would she ever come to such a point in her existence, she’d have broken every bone in their body and left them on some highway in Nevada. It was the worst kind of humor but she had found her breaking point and her state of being was simply laughable. A demon that didn’t believe in the devil, couldn’t find a niche in Hell, and found her greatest chance of survival in the world’s least applauded human. Pathetic. Hilarious in it’s own sick way. She sighed out heavily, gained composure, and sat up straight. 

Meg pushed her her dark curls behind her shoulders. “Big things, right. So in event of death I’m sure your angel pal, or ol’ Dean-o will swing you. If I go under I’ll just crawl out again. The formerly deceased can be treated to dinner  by the least deceased. Sound good? Good,” she smiled falsely, further exaggerating his over simplification of ‘higher stakes’. 

However the word collateral unnerved her. It felt heavy and uncomfortable in the back of her throat, she couldn’t quite form it on her lips. Weapons constituted the majority of Meg’s items -the prize of which was an untainted angel blade. A few outfits, some gossip magazines… a toothbrush. Nothing physical he’d be interested in. A real kick in the pants, if ever she had one; she’d just freed herself from the Lucifer leash but what was a demon without a cause to be bound to? 

That was the real fault line in a demon, they needed to serve a purpose. They were human souls sculpted into perfect servitude through agony and fear, so that they were so tainted no other creature considered them as belonging to a human. When a demon learned that the purpose it could serve was itself, it perhaps takes a step back towards being human but then places a target on it’s own back labeling for destruction. Unless the demon could garner support, such as Crowley had, they would end up like Meg. Hunted. Forsaken. It was no wonder they were so short lived, if at all. 

Meg was in fact the only demon she knew who was dumb enough to even try such a thing -no allegiance to anything in Hell, not Crowley nor Lucifer, or any other power hungry mongrel. 

“I am not a witch, never was, and my demon juice doesn’t cover limb reattachment…” she paused for a moment, flicking her gaze over his out stretched form. She didn’t exactly recall all of the extra size of him fondly, it was all so big and unruly. She couldn’t imagine him dancing with any real grace. “So you cut off a finger the best I can do is drive you to the hospital. If I have to ditch this body, how do you feel about red heads? I’ll also assume soul-out based on your tender, caring and ever so affectionate nature. Neglecting the whole demon blood thing Sam, you probably could have gone for sainthood,” she smirked at him again. It was meant to belittle him but the insults they hurled at each other were about as effective as hurling butterfly wings at one another. 

She pressed the pen to the hotel monogrammed paper. Her hand moved smoothly on the papyrus colored sheet.

Medical Assistance:

  • Both parties are responsible for aiding the other treat wounds of varying nature accrued on meat suits bodies as determined by the injured party.
  • Neither party will transport an objecting party to a hospital without expressed permission. 
  • Neither party will purposefully or knowingly harm or attempt to harm the other party.
  • If either party is in a position to prevent bodily harm from occurring  to the other party than that party must act to prevent the harm. Unless it would cause a greater injury to the protecting party. 
  • Infraction of these conditions may garner retribution of the offended party to a reasonable degree; excluding: exorcism, shooting of major organs, breaking of large bones or spine, and extended containment in a confined space.

Meg reread her writing which was much more formal than her typical slow drawl. The conditions seemed suitable enough in her opinion but Sam had decided to act as judge, jury and executioner so they could easily be revised. 

“Of course,” she smirked, “if that whole eye for an eye thing doesn’t float your boat I’ll gladly take an apology in the form of sexual favors or laundry services.” These weren’t legitimate options, Meg knew. She only had about three outfits that were usually washed in hotel room sinks and the only sexual activity they would be partaking in together was accidentally stumbling across a porno. Which was also an unlikely event. 

“No chance you’d want to be housemates,” Meg asked offhandedly bringing her gaze back to his. She shrugged lightly before he had a chance to really scoff at her, “I mean you don’t seam to be bunking down with anyone at the moment,” she tilted her head to indicate the obvious lack of company he had and had had, “promise not to touch your laptop or your peep on you in the shower.” She winked playfully and clucked her tongue off the roof of her mouth. For any other man it would have been seductive but there was little more than bitterness and resentment between Meg and Sam. 

“I know.  I met one.  Nasty little fuck.  Mended watches.  Ate people.”  That one at least, he remembered.  He also remembered Dean’s growing exasperation, annoyance and desperation at having to deal with his ‘soulless’ counterpart.  And that’s the only way Sam could think about it.  Oh, he knew it was him.  There were no excuses for the things he’d done. Everything was his choice, by his hand, at his whim.  But at the same time… It wasn’t.  It was almost as if another 'Sam’ had existed at the same time.  While his soul was trapped in the cage, this Sam - this 'creature’, cold and barren and simply self gratifying, just did as he wished.

–{ Anger, love, hate, joy, grief, happiness, sadness… It’s all the same thing at the end of the day, all lives in the same place and all feeds off the same passion - a fire that burns inside - flickering and fluctuating.  Growing into a raging inferno with the blazing heat of love or lust, or colder flames of white hot rage.  And it’s still there, but where it should be thrumming with warmth and emotion, it feels like static.  Like some kind of fault in the wire.  Just black space or white noise.  Something empty and hollow.  Familiar hands and a familiar face, actions barren of emotion.  Like some kind of arctic tundra - no life - just mile after mile of jagged rocks and ice plateaus. }

Because he remembered… Oh, so well… Just how easy it was.  The burden of any kind of emotional consequences suddenly gone.  Just form and function and nothing else.  Actions because of some inbuilt recognition of ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ - but no conscience to guide.  Just faltering memories and ‘going through the motions’.

And those memories were terrifying.  And just as thick with temptation.

~So in event of death I’m sure your angel pal, or ol’ Dean-o will swing you.

Sam just blinked and gave a small wry grin at that.  He was fairly sure that the whole 'back from the dead’ gig was getting a little old and there really wasn’t any reason for anyone to bring him back again.  He was pretty sure all of his chips had been cashed, all of his favours called in.  And he doubted very much that another stint in any 'afterlife’ would leave much of a soul to be saved.  It was barely holding together as it was.

This was the cost of giving your life to a cause though.  This was the risk.  The gamble.  The gambit.  And it seemed Sam just wasn’t always lucky when those bone dice rolled.  How many more times they would roll in his favour he had no idea.

“Not exactly what I was getting at.” He replied to her attempt to quash what she considered the 'high stakes’ they might be talking about.  Contrary to popular belief, 'death’ wasn’t something Sam was afraid of.  In fact, he truly believed that he was living on - quite literally - borrowed time.  As far as he knew, Death had a reason for bringing him back, and with the unfolding news about the attempt to open Purgatory, Sam was beginning to piece things together.  As far as he knew, this was supposed to be his last big play - and he was lucky to be here even for that.  Fate, or destiny or just plain dumb luck, had flung those fractured pieces back together once more.  There was one thing he was afraid of though–

–{  Failure.  Letting them down again.  Not just Dean - but everyone who was back.  His parents.  Adam.  Jo.  All of them.  Falling at the last hurdle. Letting them down.  And he would do anything.  Give anything - already had and would do again, if it just meant that they would be safe.  that they might have even the slimmest chance of finding some sort of happiness… Some kind of peace– }

“I don’t need you to fix me, Meg.”  Sam’s voice was a little droll, though he did pull the paper toward him when she’d finished writing.  In all honesty, it wasn’t his body being broken that was the main concern… It was the final unravelling of those last few strings.  The only things holding him together. and they were faltering.  Though he did look up and fix her with another solid stare at the mention of an un-souled host.  

“That would be preferable now.”  He replied, clearly not referring to the 'redhead’ option.  There was a way.  To get the soul out of the body.  To let it go.  Something Sam had considered during his time being soulless.  Something he’d planned for at one point.  And it was bitter irony that the things he would have used to rid himself of said soul, were also being employed to keep it stable now.  To try to stave off the seizures.  To attempt to keep him as grounded as possible.  And it would be a mercy.  Though he didn’t know how far 'mercy’ stretched when it came to a demon.  Not very - he guessed.

“It’s something I really think you should consider.  And… You should also know.  It’s… Possible.  And there’d be none of the issues with that problematic 'name’ business either.  Without the original host present…”

“You want to bunk here?  I didn’t think demons slept.”  Though he knew Ruby had, on occasion.  It was more a preference than a real need.  He spoke while grabbing another pen and jotting down a few more things onto the paper, amending the neatly scribed words.

Potential traitor or not, he was not going to discourage grace under pressure.  It was something the hunter held in high esteem, even in his enemies.  It made the struggle more engaging by adding an element of pressure with the lack of concrete facts.  A good poker face and a mocking grin were two of the most effective weapons in anyone’s arsenal.  Even in the hands of an amateur, which Meg was by no means.  

There were few that he could rely upon.  Fewer still that he put any amount of faith in.  Trust.  However tenuous it may be.  Not something that was given easily.  Though time and time again Meg had proved her worth.  So perhaps she was deserving of it.  Or… A degree at least.  There was never complete trust.  Because she’d also shown that she was more than willing to deal harm in the name of her 'cause’.  Riding Sam’s skin and murdering.  Setting her hellhounds upon them in Carthage - killing Jo, Ellen by proxy.  

“Fine.  Consider yourself in for half the board.  Don’t touch my shit.  And no hogging the bathroom.”

“Now.  If those terms are agreeable, you want me to sort out the mess you’ve made of your body already?”

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream || Meg & Jo

Jo swept the last of the detritus from the Roadhouse floor, leaning wearily on her broom. It had been a busy night and a couple of guys had stayed far later than she would have liked, nursing their drinks from last call until theirs was the only table left to clean, the only chairs not stacked up to make cleaning the floor easier. She’d let the rest of the staff go once their final patrons had gotten the hint and moseyed out the door, finishing the rest of the cleaning herself. 

Putting the broom back into the storage closet, she double checked the locks and clicked off the lights, heading to the stairs leading up to her apartment by memory and touch. Her fingers grasped the cool handle at the top of the stairs, nimbly sliding her key into the lock and entering her small apartment. Instinctively, she bent and checked the devil’s trap under the rug in the entryway then pulled the door closed, locking it behind her.

She bother with any lights until she got to the bathroom, the sudden change making her blink rapidly. Jo shucked off her clothes and started the shower, letting the hot water soothe her tired muscles. When she was clean, she wrapped herself in a towel, brushed her teeth, and headed to her bedroom. A glance at the clock on the nightstand told her it was nearly 3am and she groaned, drying her hair viciously with the towel before pulling her brush through the damp tangle. She tugged a pair of panties over her slim legs and dropped a t-shirt that was at least 4 sizes too big for her over her head before collapsing into bed. 

It didn’t take long for her to fall asleep, on her side wrapped around her pillow, damp blond curls spilling out behind her. Since being brought back, Jo’s sleep was often fitful, full of memories and things that go bump in the night. Tonight was no exception. 

It started innocent enough, Jo and Ellen back in the original Roadhouse, Jo no older than 13. She was complaining about her teacher, who’d taken Bill’s iron knife from her when it fell out of her backpack and telling her bother how she’d broken into her office to steal it back. 

“Joanna Beth, you shouldn’t be bragging about that! I don’t want you bringing that knife to school and I certainly don’t want you breaking into anything!”

“But, mom!” the young girl protested, “it was DAD’s. I had to get it back." 

"And now you have to leave it at home,” Ellen insisted in a voice that left no room for argument. 

Jo huffed and stormed off, turning her back on her mother. As she was walking away she thought she heard a faint growl behind her, making her blood run cold. She turned around to see the Roadhouse gone, her mother leaning against a counter of a hardware store with a bloody blonde woman slumped against her side. 

                                                                          Is that me?

Ellen looked at something invisible, the source of the growling, and muttered, “You can go straight back to hell, you ugly bitch.” Her finger pressed down on a button and an explosion ripped through Jo’s vision as a scream tore from her throat. She tried to run forward but it was too late, the explosion whitewashed her vision, leaving her blinking in a vast white expanse that slowly turned into an open field. No. Not a field. A cemetery. In the distance there was a figure of a woman, her hair was dark but her features indistinct. Jo started running, feet slipping in the wet grass.


The Handbasket Report - Special Edition

So, the guy who’s name we shall not repeat but who we understand to have been a troubled soul with substance abuse problems becomes, posthumously, by dint of an Ottawa Citizen headline editor’s lazy sensationalism, a quotable commentator on foreign policy?

And on the same day, CBC Radio, in a 9:00 PM Eastern national news broadcast, gives over almost a full breathless minute to a report that Harrison Ford grounded his vintage single engine airplane on a golf course in Venice, California. Do you know how long a CBC Radio national news broadcast is?

This has been a Special Edition of The Handbasket Report.

to-hell-in-a-hand-basket-deacti asked:

I got it from agnes

“What am I supposed to do with this, anyway?” Lisa sighed heavily, running her fingers through her hair and eyeing the statue. It had been a birthday gift from her aunt Libby, bought somewhere in South America and… quite frankly… creepy.

“Use it as firewood?” Meg offered mildly, though a smirk quirked at the corners of her lips. “Or a sacrifice to one of the gods? Which of the Greeks did Hera threw off the cliff? Helios?“

She snorted, throwing the demon a bemused look. “Hephaestus. And I can’t. That’s just rude…" Still, the firewood option had its merit—Meg’s sarcasm notwithstanding. She had a feeling the well-oiled piece would go up faster than a torch, leaving nothing but more-tasteful ash on the carpet. “I can’t.” She reiterated. 

The smirk bloomed larger. “You were thinking about it.“

"I was thinking about how bad of an idea it was." 

"Sure thing, Braeden.” Meg replied knowingly, pushing out of her chair to walk around the offending decoration. Everything about her posture screamed but you were thinking about it, from her flickering eyes to her too-straight back. 

Still stumped, Lisa groaned and put her face in her hands. “But what should I do with it?“

"Give it to someone else,” came the reply, tone strictly full of obvious and amusement. “Regifting does wonders for the soul.“ 

Now that was an idea… Laughing to herself, the mother looked at her not-so-temporary roommate—surprisingly, a product of Sam and Dean’s insistence that neither of them stay alone for too long. “Like you’d know.”

Mocking offense, Meg looked at her companion pointedly. “And you said burning it was rude.“

Lisa just laughed.



Well there goes plan A… well what are you like seven? I could definitely be your babysitter! Fine… well since you’re a wee little lad too we’ll go out and Dean can be our one gay Dad. He’ll be Batman, you can be an oompaloompa and I’ll be my regular fabulous self. 

What the hell is this? Why are you two suddenly midgets?

I’m not a midget goddamnit!  I’M TEN.

Well… Physically. 

White: 3 facts about my personality

  1. I am stubborn to a fault. If I decide I’m going to do something, I don’t care if the rest of the world is against me, I’m going to do it. 
  2. When I’m stressed, I clean. Cliche? Maybe, but it works for me.
  3. It takes a lot for me to get attached to someone. I tend to keep people at an arms length until they prove they’re actually going to stick around. 


Well there goes plan A… well what are you like seven? I could definitely be your babysitter! Fine… well since you’re a wee little lad too we’ll go out and Dean can be our one gay Dad. He’ll be Batman, you can be an oompaloompa and I’ll be my regular fabulous self. 

No… M'ten… I was just… Short for my age.  Shuttup.

I’m not a ‘wee little lad’.  I’m almost thirty.  And I’m stuck in a freakin’ time warp.  I’m not going to be anything!  I’m staying right here.  You can go and terrorise the neighbours and make yourself sick on candy if you want to.  

I have no idea when this will wear off, and 'popping’ back to normal size with nothing but a bucket of candy to cover my… Dignity… Is just gonna end up with me getting arrested.



It had been a long time since Sam had just stood and looked at the sky.  He’d long since stopped casting his eyes upward.  Looking toward the ‘Heavens’ for elusive answers, or offering prayers to a deity who had apparently abandoned them all a long time ago.

Of course - he wasn’t naive enough to thing that Heaven was 'up’ and Hell was 'down’ and who the fuck even knew where Purgatory was?  Off to the side somewhere?  And maybe Limbo was in the back of a closet along with the mothballs… Yeah, right.  They were just theological 'directions’ for the alternative realms.  Ones that existed outside this heavy and constant third dimension.

The sky was a wash of water-coloured hues today.  Blues, purples, small splashes of pink as the sun was making it’s way over the horizon - soon to be plunged into darkness with the stars peeking through where they could.  

There weren’t many clouds.  

There would be a lot of stars tonight.

Hazel eyes drifted down to the place where the sky touched the Earth, far off in the distance.  An illusion of living on a sphere–

–{ because of course the sky touched the Earth everywhere on it’s surface, though it didn’t have quite the same impact as looking off to that defining line… }

And it was a comfort.  

Because for all the Cage was a confinement… A prison.  It was one without boundaries.  An infinite distance.  Just blackness, stretching onwards and upwards.  Oh, there were walls, but they were not the things that contained.  It was a separate place.  Looking up made Sam dizzy, as there was nothing but blackness above.  No clouds.  No stars.  No ceiling.  Just a sense of bone chilling, boundless 'nothing’.

This was one - of the many - tiny things that Sam used on a daily basis, just to persuade himself, to reassure himself… That he was no longer in that place.  

That he really was here…

That he was… 


to-hell-in-a-hand-basket-deacti asked:

How's the old coconut been since your vacation? Your meat suit was fun before, I wonder what it would be like to rattle around in there now. No chance your open for visitors short stack? -hugs and kisses <3

The long locks of hair cascading down her back, the slight sway of her hips as she moved… Sauntered… Shifting like a snake.  Well, well… This was an interesting turn of events.  “Meg.”  He said, his tone in that single syllable light enough to be a genuine greeting if it weren’t laced with utter contempt.

“No.  No chance of a second ride.”

If he’d really had a choice in it, Meg would have been out of that meatsuit as fast as he could spill the exorcism from his mouth.  But he wasn’t stupid.  That same smug grin, the lazy drawl to her tone, it just made Sam’s skin crawl.  No, he might not be one hundred percent up top right now, but at least it was only him inside his skin.  He wondered for a moment if there was anything left of the former host of Meg’s vessel.  He couldn’t see why not though, trapped in the confines of her own mind, smothered and held down by a foul toxic cloud of black smoke, the demonic presence.  He doubted very much there was any hope for her though, she’d been Meg’s meatsuit for years, so even if he could yank the demon out, the girl would have more than a little PTSD from what Meg had done while in possession of her body… That’s if she survived at all.  And Meg would just smoke off to inhabit another body and start the same cycle of dis-assembly all over again.

“Why don’t we cut the crap, my dance card is already full and your name isn’t on it, and you just tell me what the hell you want?”