Your amazing guessing skills continue! One letter off the title once again, earning everyone a sneak peek at the continuation of Brothers Consulted with–

A Burglary at Baker Street


Dazed and bruised, Sam was operating wholly on instinct as he heard someone entering the flat. “You son of a bitch,” he slurred, weakly trying to push Mark’s arm from where it was braced to pin him down.

Instincts guided his other hand, and Sam’s fingers wrapped around a familiar hilt. One he’d always kept at his side, but never wielded against another person.

In a flash, Sam’s silver knife was at Mark’s throat, trying to force a stalemate.

“Let. Me. Go,” Sam said, his daze shaken off by the adrenaline that surged through his body.

Mark froze at the cool touch of sharp metal against his neck, but his arm remained firm against Sam. He’d had weapons pulled on him before, but he’d never let any of them get this close. Mark’s breathing quickened, tears pricking in the corners of his eyes with every rumbling step ascending the staircase just outside the flat door.

“I-I can’t,” he whimpered.

He shoved his knee into Sam’s stomach, releasing Sam’s collar to jump away from the knife. Tucking his chin in close, he lunged again to land behind Sam, quickly grabbing hold of his arms and twisting them behind his back. His grip on Sam’s knife-wielding wrist was firm, yet he hesitated to deprive him of it.

“Please stop fighting,” he begged, whispering in Sam’s ear as the human outside drew ever nearer. “I don’t want to hurt you. He will.”

Sam snarled, suddenly resembling Dean more than ever as he railed against the inevitable. Even if he escaped, he’d never get away before the human got there.

“Do whatever you want,” Sam growled. “My answer’s not gonna change. Let me go, you sonovabitch.”

Trying to twist away, Sam found Mark’s hold on him too strong. He needed another way out. His mind racing, his lips moved to shoot out more sass and keep Mark distracted.

“So, what is this?” Sam asked derisively. “You’d side with a human over your own kind? Sell us out– For what? Some extra food? ” He snorted. “You’re no better than a pet.” Sam slammed his head back on his last word, aiming to knock Mark out.

Mark flinched back to avoid that fate, unable to dodge a solid blow to the chin. His grip tightened as he reeled back against the books again, the machine attached to him digging sharply into his ribs. He rolled his jaw and winced at the pain blooming across it.

It still hurt less than Sam’s words.

“I don’t have a choice…” Mark’s defensive protest trailed off as the door across the room swung open. If the human overheard him speaking out, Mark would really be in for it.

A tall man in a dark suit and tan wool coat stepped in, his light blond hair slicked back and his cold grey eyes glancing up from his phone to dart around the flat.

“Ma-ark…” he called in singsong.

February 24th excerpt:

“Goddammit! ” he bellowed.

He twisted around to turn his glare on Dean instead. “Look what you’ve done now,” he hissed. He shoved at Dean’s shoulders. One leg tried to kick at Dean’s ribs. It fell short and foliage on the ground stirred from the violent motion.

“Fucking let go, you maniac!” A backhanded swing aimed for Dean’s head.

December 5th excerpt:

Dazed and bruised, Sam was operating wholly on instinct as he heard someone entering the flat. “You son of a bitch,” he slurred, weakly trying to push his arm from where it was braced to pin him down.

Instincts guided his other hand, and Sam’s fingers wrapped around a familiar hilt. One he’d always kept at his side, but never wielded against another person.

In a flash, Sam’s silver knife was at the man’s throat, trying to force a stalemate.

December 3rd excerpt:

“Ooh, nice one!” John snickered, his foul mood lightened in the presence of the Winchesters. Even when they were bickering or pounding each other into the floor, they both had a certain charm that was almost guaranteed to lift John’s spirits.

August 9th excerpt: 

The whirlwind of green came to an abrupt halt as soon as Logan hit the ground. Knights hovered in the air where they’d stopped, watching with some alarm as Dean took the advantage and held it. Many had already moved to the fringe of the formation after running out of darts, and some were backing away from the sight. 

Dean was vicious. Anyone would have a healthy respect for that look on his face.

Of course, respect or not, Bowman could see that Logan was knocked out, or close enough to it. But Dean kept right on hitting him, pent up rage fueling every powerful strike. A single blow like that would shatter a sprite and Logan had taken far more than just one.

True! Dean can be heavy-handed when either the situation calls for it or when he’s hot-headed and raring for a fight.

The difference here is if he does roughhouse with Sam, he could do permanent damage to his little brother, and put an end to what trust they’ve managed to scrape together. That said, I highly doubt Dean will ever win a fight in this method. The relationship between them is different in my AU than what’s on the Supernatural TV show.

On the other hand, Dean has absolutely no problem using his size against his enemies. Even Bowman, at first, had to deal with a harsher Dean than Sam anytime.


Future snippet to illustrate this:

“It wasn’t an offer,” Dean said simply. The defiant stance had no effect on his determination. “And if you don’t, you’ll just have to deal with the consequences. Simple as that.”

With a painful slowness, he curled the fingers of his hand inwards, boxing the man in. The little guy’s eyes widened and he tried to push himself away from the advancing wall. But his hands were small against even Dean’s fingertips, unable to hold them back.

Dean didn’t stop there. In short order, there was no sign that he had another human in his hand. All that was visible was Dean’s fist and the ring on his finger. The guy was completely clenched inside.

“Fuck! Let me out! ” the man bellowed, seething with the knowledge that a lot of his volume was lost to the prison encased around him. He writhed as much as he could in the extremely tight space, which didn’t say much. His arms were pinned at awkward angles to his chest and his legs could hardly move at all. Dean’s ring dug into his side mercilessly every time he shifted.

Without warning, Dean flipped his hand upside down so all that was holding the guy from dashing to the ground was Dean’s curled fingers. “This is a classic case of ‘be careful what you wish for,’ ” Dean said with a grin. His fingers loosened up a little so that the guy would be able to see the ground down below through the cracks.

With the constant struggles, Dean waited patiently until one of the man’s small legs happened into the space between his index finger and thumb. Seizing the moment, his finger pinned the leg against his thumb…

And Dean opened his hand.

(Name removed for spoiler purposes)

Fights depend on a number of things, including circumstances, moods, location, what’s happening… and sometimes it can be hard to predict what’s going to happen!

You might find it hard to believe, but for the most part, when I write, I simply design an idea in my head for a story, and then when I actually get to the parts I’m writing, the characters tend to do their own thing. So I don’t control when they get into fights most of the time. I can sorta see it coming, but there are cases, like with my character Walt, where it just happens.

He’s the first person where I’ve sat there going “pls pls don’t get yourself killed… that’s a hunter you just yelled at what even pls stop”

Nor are all fights rational…


“You son of a bitch!” Sam shouted at the top of his lungs. An eerie echo accompanied his voice, the vase distorting the sound waves before they reached Dean’s ears. “What did you do to my brother? He’d never do this to me, I know it!”

The echo of the same words hit Dean like a punch. “Sam…” His throat was dry and his voice hoarse. “It’s me. You’ve been with me all day, remember?” He was almost pleading by the end, wanting his little brother back.

Sam snarled angrily, punching the wall again. Any sign of his calm, collected demeanor was gone, washed away like a sandcastle when the tide came in. “Liar! ”