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.




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.