Oscar didn’t have anyone to admit it to, but he wouldn’t be ashamed to say he liked when the decorations changed in the motel’s main office. There was hardly room for anything in there among the papers and the coffee machine and the outdated, clunky computer, but somehow the elderly woman in charge found places to mark the season.
From paper bats and pumpkins on the bulletin boards for Halloween to a Christmas tree barely two times Oscar’s size on the counter next to the worn bell, she did her best to make the place cozy. The motel wasn’t new and shiny like places depicted on the motel’s many mismatched TVs, but she did her best.
Oscar, whose life was monotonous to a fault, loved it.
It had been a long winter. The walls were frigid, especially at night, and Oscar had spent more time out of his little home than he usually dared. He had to lean against the metal air ducts that ran through the motel, just to borrow some warmth at times.
The tiny flowerpots with colorful pipe-cleaner-and-paper flowers stuck in them signalled that the world outside must be thawing. Oscar knew flowers meant Spring, and he couldn’t be more relieved.
The lady who ran the motel had brought in a shoebox that morning, filled with the tiny, cheap crafts. The flowerpots were half Oscar’s height, and the flowers were just taller than he. They brought a splash of color to the drab office of the motel.
They wouldn’t erase the dustiness, or the water damage on some of the ceiling tiles, or the squeaky sounds from the vents creaking, but they cheered the space and one hidden watcher immensely. Oscar lingered by the vent near the floor and watched her bustle around to find places for her little crafts. He didn’t need to stay; he’d already made sure there were no whispers of pest control or remodeling in the motel. And yet, with every flowerpot that found its home in the office, Oscar’s spirits lifted just a little more.
The bell over the door released a weak jingle as someone entered. The manager’s shoes stopped in their tracks, and then with speed that always surprised Oscar, turned to face the newcomer. Oscar glanced across the floor, past the underside of the desk, and recognized the sensible shoes of one of the maids.
“Señora,” the maid greeted. “Room thirteen, I didn’t do it, I swear.” She sounded flustered and Oscar frowned.
The manager, who always looked more severe than she really was, interrupted before the frazzled maid could talk herself out of breath like she sounded like she wanted to. “Marie, what is it?”
“A-a hole in the wall, miss. I went to clean, and it was there already,” the maid answered.
“Oh, dear,” the manager muttered. There was a rustling of paper as she made space to set down her box of decorations and stepped around the desk. Unbeknownst to her, one of the mini flowerpots plummeted to the floor and landed on the carpet with a faint thump that only Oscar heard.
His lips parted as the two humans left the room to assess the damage in one of the rooms (he thought he’d heard someone getting angry in thirteen the other night) and left the office empty. Oscar stared out at that fallen flowerpot, the paper face of the flower angled forlornly towards the ceiling, and chewed his bottom lip.
Several long minutes stretched out with no change, before Oscar finally slipped out of the vent, dropping the inch to the floor in a deft crouch. He might only be a kid, but he was good at staying quiet and moving like a shadow in and out of the motel rooms.
He ignored the looming furniture and the cluttered papers that hung partway over the edge of the desk far overhead. Oscar darted out as quickly as he could to where the flowerpot had fallen, his lungs working fast in time with his accelerated heartbeat. He might be good at this, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t primed for danger.
Oscar wasn’t sure why he decided this, but when he reached the quickly-made little craft, he hardly paused to look it over. As soon as he got to it, he walked around to one side and placed his hands on the gritty orange side of the little clay pot to roll it along. The paper flower rustled against the floor as he went.
It was slower going, but Oscar pushed that craft across the floor towards his vent. He’d bring it home, and put it to use. He could take the pipe cleaner and the pot for something, he was sure, and he could keep the paper flower as it was. There wasn’t much in his home to decorate it, nothing but ratty curtains hiding the pantry and his bedroom.
He was less than a foot away from the vent, pushing the cumbersome flowerpot along as quickly as he could, when tremors in the floor sent his heartrate up again. Oscar glanced over his shoulder for only an instant before hurrying around the flowerpot and dashing back towards the vent.
He made it into the safe darkness just as that bell jingled again. Oscar whirled around to make sure no one was rushing towards the wall where he hid, his eyes wide.
His abandoned flowerpot still lay on the floor where he left it. Out away from the desk, it would be easier to spot, but the shoes that walked into view across the room didn’t belong to anyone familiar. They strode along and then the harsh ring of the call bell filled the room several times, echoing around weirdly. A guest.
The management spotting him would be bad, but a guest would be worse. Guests could raise more hell than anyone, and the apparent hole in the wall in room thirteen was proof.
Oscar sighed, then turned away from the room. It wouldn’t do to linger on the flowerpot. He’d missed his chance at it, but at least he’d be able to see the nice springtime decorations if he came to spy on the office again.
As a matter of fact, there is one! Fairy Tales: Bowman of Wellwood is my ( @neonthewrite) story that is entirely stand alone from Supernatural or the Brothers Apart multiverses. The first collaboration that @nightmares06 and I worked on was A Lich of Sense, essentially a crossover of our two main storylines, so the Bowman (and his Jacob) in that story experienced all of the events from Bowman of Wellwood.
As for the second question, we will just have to wait and see as Brothers Apart progresses! 😉 But, if we remember from Lich, Dean gave Bowman a business card with his phone number on it, and someone has to dial the phone for that little sprite. He doesn’t have a phone of his own.
And, Dean and Sam have actually been in contact with Jacob since the end of Lich! Jacob… didn’t quite believe Bowman’s tale, so to prove himself right, Bowman had Jacob call up the brothers.
Timeline: Three years before Dean discovers Sam at Trails West
Lost, alone. A crack running up one side like a crevice in the earth’s crust, slowly crumpling to dust as the roots within wormed their way through, pushing aside the clay in search of fertile ground.
Alyssa didn’t know when the flowerpots had come to be, and had no way of knowing that years back, Bobby Singer’s wife had planted seedlings in them in the hopes of cultivating her own future garden. What she know was that the shade offered by the leafy fronds of the plant that was all-but-busting out of the earthen clay pot was cool, and it was far from the bustle to be found within the burrow.
More and more these days, she found herself wishing for her own space. The tunnels were dark and peaceful, but the children could always find her, her father always had more chores for her, and the others would wait for her to join in the weaving.
Breathing deeply, she leaned against the stalk of the mint plant. One woman’s dreams of raising her own herb garden had become Alyssa’s refuge. Before returning home, she would pack her small sling bag full of the aromatic leaves, and they would wrap minnow in them as they cooked, imbuing the flavor into the meat. It was a favorite of Alyssa’s, and she reached a hand up to stroke a fuzzy leaf that dangled over her head. So much that could be done with one little plant.
A shadow fell over her hiding place, and Alyssa grinned. She pushed a leaf out of her way, peering up to see a familiar face looking down at her plant.
The large dog that had adopted her home and family as his family, known as Rumsfeld to Bobby but only as ‘the dog’ to Alyssa’s people, not only knew about her hiding place in the crumpling flower pot tucked in a back corner of the junkyard, but also would lay out there with her, watching the grass wave in the breeze. He grumbled and settled down with a whuff, resting his head on his paws.
She had no idea how much time passed like that between them, but was startled out of her calm daydreams by a loud, harsh voice.
“Rumsfeld!”
Alyssa stumbled to her feet as Rumsfeld glanced over his shoulder. He yowled, the whine dying off his his throat as he looked back down at her. His large, wet nose pushed at her shoulder but she needed no further urging. She tore off a few leaves, and then grabbed the roots crawling out of the crack of the clay pot to scramble down.
“Rumsfeld! ”
The voice was growing louder. Alyssa whimpered and her face went pale, her small legs dashing as fast as she could muster towards the safety of the field. Human. Big, huge, stomping. So much more dangerous than the animals that made the field their home along with the small community of littles.
At least against animals they could defend themselves.
A low growl came from behind her, cutting off the human’s exclamation.
“What’re you doin’ out here, boy–”
The dog barked angrily, and Alyssa heard the scratch of his nails against the blacktop. The human shouted in surprise, and she couldn’t see what happened, but it sounded like the dog was chasing him off.
Reaching the grass at last, Alyssa disappeared into the field.
Dean was silent for a long moment. He very rarely tried to actively use the ability. Mostly it just happened. They needed food, and he would suddenly just know where to go. Questioning it when their lives depended on the ability seemed like looking a gift horse in the mouth.
As he focused, the prickles on the back of his neck began to grow more prominent. His surroundings dropped away.
It was like he was standing next to Sam once more, trying to hurriedly clear his mind and listen to Sam’s constant litany of ‘advice’ for how to do it.
With focus came clarity, and Dean found himself pointing before he realized his hand was moving.
Psychic freak, slipped into his mind and he angrily crushed the thought as he told Sherlock, “That way.”
The shouts might as well have fallen on deaf ears for all the good they did. Dean glared out the bars of the cage he and Sam were trapped in, wanting nothing more than to sink his silver dagger into something.
Anything.
But no. They stayed stuck, with no way out and no way to find help. The woman whose rough handling had injured Sam casually thumbed through a magazine, waiting with her captives and ignoring them as though they didn’t exist.
Dean supposed he should be grateful they still even had their knives. After escaping that hexbag and finding their way to other humans, the brothers had tried to find help to reunite them with their father. Instead, they’d found capture. It had happened so fast that he never got a chance to draw his blade before he was tossed in a cage next to Sam.
Sam, who was out cold, one arm hanging unnaturally.
“Okay, Sammy,” Dean said, lowering his voice and trying to hide his desperation. “I’m gonna take care of this for you. Nice and easy, just like dad always says, right?”
Sam didn’t respond, his breathing ragged. Dean prayed the woman hadn’t hurt his brother when grabbing him from the ground. She was so big. There was no telling what kind of damage she could do to them.
Dean took hold of Sam’s arm and said a quick prayer under his breath. “One, two–“
Before saying “Three,” he quickly pulled, the arm shifting back into the socket. Sam shrieked, the ten year old’s body writhing in place as the arm took its rightful place. Dean wrapped his arms around Sam, trying to comfort the younger child while glaring at the woman outside, tears clinging to his eyelashes.
She would dote on her miniature tenants to the max. Leaving out smaller treats for bitty hands, biscuits and sweets. John might have to get her to tone it down, but she definitely won’t hold back when the holidays roll around. She’s such a sweetheart, the bros certainly wouldn’t go hungry or needy with her around.
And she certainly wouldn’t hesitate to scold Sherlock if she finds out he’s been rude.
Originally prompted from this post. This is another update on what Oscar’s up to in the Brothers Together AU. In this short, he’s about 18 years old.
Oscar was almost ready to doze off, but he forced himself to stay alert. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down in such a precarious spot. Even now, the shadows on the nearest wall shifted and moved with the humans in the room, humans that were only steps away from his hiding place at the most.
He stood behind the TV, feeling the constant buzz of electricity while someone on the other side of it reported the weather for the afternoon. Dust piled up there, on the surface of the dresser where no one usually bothered to look. It gave Oscar a better view of the table nearby, but it wasn’t as safe.
He usually waited down on the floor, underneath the dresser. In all of the motel rooms, under the dresser was the safest place. He was out of sight, and even the maids never had occasion to look down there.
Today, though, was special. Even the humans kept it marked on all of their calendars.
Oscar didn’t understand what it meant or why they celebrated it, but Thanksgiving came without fail every late fall, and he’d learned to capitalize on it as much as he could. With winter looming close and snow on the ground outside already, he needed to stock up on as much food as he could. Thanksgiving and the holiday close on its heels, Christmas, were the best opportunities for Oscar to gather supplies for the cold months.
They meant food and lots of it.
Food like the arrangement sitting barely a foot away from him, a salad tray crammed onto what little space the TV left on the dresser. Cheese, crackers, cucumbers, and carrots were within view just from there, and he could have sworn he saw tomatoes.
Fresh things were a rarity in the Knight’s Inn. Oscar would have to eat them quicker if he managed to snag some, but they would be worth it. He could store almost everything but the cheese to make it last.
Of course, he couldn’t make it out there just yet. There was a pair of humans across the room, watching the weather report absently. They had yet to return the lid to the food tray after sampling from it, but they hadn’t left the food unattended either. If Oscar tried for it now, he’d be in their line of sight.
A shudder ran down his spine. Oscar had only ever been caught once, and he couldn’t afford to risk letting it happen again. Next time, he might not find himself in the grasp of the one friendly human he’d ever meet.
Dean Winchester was long gone. Oscar hadn’t seen him or his younger brother Sam in ten years. Back then, they’d been torn away from him before he had a chance to even try to follow. They were unique, and he’d let them slip away by sleeping in one morning.
He was grateful for one thing. Oscar had made it to eighteen years of age, and he still had a spark of hope in his heart. Ten years hadn’t quite erased them from his memory, and when he found himself in need of cheering up, he could imagine Sam wandering into the walls to visit him in his house. Talking to him while he worked on his sewing, or coaxing him out into the open to visit Dean.
They were his only friends in the whole world. Oscar couldn’t remember what they sounded like, and their faces had become hazier in his memory every year, but they were still there. They’d always be there.
The bed creaked somewhere beyond the TV and Oscar flinched. He almost missed one human voice asking “You almost ready to go?” as one of the humans stood up.
A sleepy mumble was the only reply, and Oscar took a moment to calm his startled heart while there was a rustle of bedcovers and another creak. From the look of the shadows on the wall, one human had stood. The other had flopped over on the bed entirely, too comfortable to go.
There was a heavy sigh, a voice tinged with annoyance that sounded so much scarier from a giant human. “Fine, a few more minutes, but once I get out of the bathroom we’re going. Your aunt hasn’t seen you since last year.”
Oscar waited for a reply, but none came. The human that spoke walked across the room, his shadow stalking along the wall. When the bathroom door clicked shut, Oscar took his cue.
He edged towards the side of the TV hastily. One surreptitious glance around it showed that another human had indeed buried themselves in the covers on the bed, an ornery stand against going anywhere for Thanksgiving. Why they’d want to avoid such a feast was beyond him, but Oscar didn’t question it. Instead, he darted out into the open.
Leaving a hiding place always came with a burst of adrenaline that threatened to steal his balance away. Oscar had to fight to keep focused, and he did by fixing his eyes on the food arrayed in front of him. He’d waited for the day all year.
He skidded to a halt at the edge of the sampler tray and immediately grabbed an entire cracker from the top of the pile. He knew the routine; they never missed stuff like this. His other hand was already dragging a baby carrot closer before he set his bag down to start loading it up.
He had a spare bag that he used for days like this. It was larger than his usual cloth sling, but not as easy to carry. He had more room to stuff the cracker and carrot inside, and then stand up for a small piece of cheese to go along with it. Oscar worked fast, never taking more than one of any kind of food on the tray from what he could reach. He even managed to tug free a few small sprouts from a tuft of broccoli.
Next, he threw the flap over the top of his hoard of food and hoisted it up. His cloth shoes scrambled against the dusty dresser top as he turned and darted back to his hiding place in time for the bathroom door to swing open once more. He’d made it.
Oscar grinned and imagined showing off his haul to his friends. Sharing Thanksgiving with someone would be nice for once, but Oscar only had his memories to join him at his table once again. Despite the loneliness that stretched out behind him and on forever in front of him, he was grateful at least for that.
“Oh, well that clears everything up,” Dean said, sarcasm heavy in his voice. Out of all the times he’d seen Sherlock pull that one on John, he’d somehow never expected to have it turned around on him.
After being plucked out of the cupboard without warning and then told he was going to be training, also without warning or any way to prepare, this was shaping up to be quite a day already.
“You’ll have to refresh my memory,” Dean said, his gruff little voice as firm as ever and speaking with a level of authority that his size contrasted with. “Seems I have a difficult time recalling conversations I was absent for.”
Another one from this post and sent in to @brothersapart. This one is most likely Fairy Tales canon, though I don’t have a specific time for it to be set.
Reading Time less than 5 minutes
Camping had a rugged charm to it that couldn’t be replaced. Jacob always enjoyed a chance to hike out to the middle of the woods where he could relax and ignore the outside world for a while. He could sit in his clearing and watch the blue sky give way to yellows and purples before finally allowing a black stage for the stars.
Sleeping under those stars, glancing up before he drifted off to spot a shooting star streaking across the sky. Dozing off at last to the gentle sound of the breeze in the canopy. Dreaming peacefully and hoping the following day would bring a visit from his best friend.
Waking up with a small green shape right in front of his eyes that wasn’t there before.
“Jesus-fuck!” Jacob stammered, flinching back while still wrapped up in his sleeping bag. The small shape fluttered backwards, just as startled as he was, and Jacob squirmed to free his arm from the sleeping back.
“Thanks for deafening me!” Bowman complained, his snarky voice reaching Jacob as he freed a hand to drag it down his face.
“Thanks for … you were like an inch in front of my face, dude,” Jacob pointed out exasperatedly.
Bowman fluttered into the air and flew in a lazy circle around Jacob’s head now that the human was awake. “You must have walked up after I finished my patrols for the day yesterday,” he pointed out. His tone suggested that he was perfectly aware of the rapid subject change, and didn’t care.
Jacob sluggishly swatted a hand at Bowman in mock annoyance, aiming to miss. “Yeah, didn’t expect a wake up call is all.”
“I’m just generous like that,” Bowman shot back, a chuckle in his voice.
Brothers Apart 