December 22nd excerpt:

Not a foot and a half from where he’d landed, someone was staring back at him, equally wide-eyed with shock. Never in his life, despite growing up knowing about the supernatural and watching, eventually helping, his father kill witches, werewolves and vengeful spirits, had Dean ever seen anyone quite like the little guy with the flame of red hair.

The kid couldn’t stand an inch over half a foot, if that. His skin was pale, hair so bright red it stood out against the background.

December 20th excerpt:

Stan’s frantic run stuttered at the tremble of the aftershocks of the hunter’s impact through the floor. He glanced over his shoulder at the sudden threat that had invaded their home, and regretted it immediately. He thought he’d been terrified before just feeling the tremors of each step of the hunters’ entrance, hearing their deep, rumbling voices that seemed to vibrate the very air and send shudders through the smaller man’s chest.

But looking back…

Just looking straight on, he could see enormous boots well past Nicholas’ shoes. Rugged jeans seemed to rise straight into the sky from them, and Stan didn’t dare look up to see who they were attached to.

December 19th excerpt:

Stan’s blood ran cold as it sank in. Hunters! Without question, he turned and ran full tilt, keeping to the wall as Nicholas stood to face the men who had barged into his home and dared take on a witch.

December 18th excerpt:

“Do you love me, Stan?” Nicholas asked, leaning down so his eyes were closer to Stan’s level.

“Yessir,” Stan answered without hesitation.

“And are you happy with me?”

“Yessir.”

December 17th excerpt:

Nicholas unscrewed the top and Stan braced himself, expecting the witch to pluck him out and put him down somewhere. But it never happened. Instead, the jar simply tilted on its side, and Stan slid around on the old handkerchief he used as a cushion and blanket. Only then was Stan, jar and all, placed on the desk in the study just off the first room.

“Rest now,” said Nicholas in a voice that would almost seem gentle if not for the ever-present rasp in his voice that always warned of danger. “You did well, my pet.”

Sneak Peek

The story continues for the Consulted crew in A Day of Duality!


Sam shifted in place as John stopped, blinking at the world around him. “Somethin’ wrong?” he asked blearily, pulled out of a daydream he’d fallen into during the walk.

Then Sam heard it too. A faint cry in the air, something easily overlooked. His ears pricked up, and he paid close attention to the back of his neck, alert for anyone other than John around the alley. “Sounds like someone’s hurt,” Sam said, glancing around. That didn’t sound like the call of an injured animal, and out in London that was less likely to happen.

“Yeah,” John agreed, stepping gingerly into the alley. For a voice to be that soft, one of two things had to be true. On the one hand, it could be an injured human in the far distance, in which case John would have to be incredibly careful with Sam.

No one would speak of it, but since Sam’s kidnapping all those weeks ago there was an enhanced sense of responsibility between John and Sherlock to protect their friends. There was a much greater risk to anything that ran the chance of Sam or Dean being seen. Other humans were always a wild card, especially strangers.

Then again, on the other hand, the voice could seem distant because the person it belonged to was a borrower, closer to Sam and Dean’s size.

John didn’t know which he dreaded more. Even so, something in him wouldn’t let him turn his back on someone who needed help.

Sam was attentive as John went, his ears tuned to the voice they’d heard on the wind. There was no sense that they were being watched, no feeling of eyes on him, so he frowned, wondering who could have called for help.

“Do you think–” Sam started, then cut himself off.

Down on the ground of the alley, he’d caught sight of motion against the ground. Just a flicker, but there.

Sam might have passed it off as a mouse hiding from John if he hadn’t spotted color.

Nudging John in the neck, Sam motioned at the ground. “Watch it, I think someone’s here.”

December 16th excerpt: 

Dean smirked, not above the chance to brag on his accomplishments. “I’m a tracker,” he said proudly, jutting his chin out. “So long as Sherlock gives me some idea what we’re searching for, I can lead him right to it. Just like I coulda told him, if he asked me, that one of his missing glasses is in the back of that cupboard pushed behind everything else, the other is mixed into his lab equipment, and the last is right above our heads.”

Pointing in time with each of his declarations, Dean indicated where all the missing cups were in the flat, and on the last, with his arm pointing overhead, he nearly stumbled over, losing his balance when the room went sideways.

Lestrade and Sherlock followed Dean’s finger in each direction he pointed. While Lestrade was confused by the final location, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the ceiling, knowing the glass hadn’t been left on the light overhead. That left the flat upstairs as the only remaining option, the place where John Watson slept. And evidently did more than sleep.

December 14th excerpt:

Lestrade couldn’t hold in a chuckle anymore, curling his fingers back to be out of reach of Dean’s little punch before relaxing them back down to the table. “Forgot about me, did ya?” he said knowingly, a little too entertained by Dean’s drunken movements and ready to catch him in case his balance gave out on him.

“Did not! ” Dean protested with his fists clenched by his sides. His shoulders bunched up, along with his leather jacket, as he stood there looking like a cat with its hair on end.

December 13th excerpt:

To say that Lestrade was bemused by all this would be an understatement. Now he was holding up two fingers. Evidently he couldn’t lift his middle finger as high as Dean wanted it independently, so the first one hovered just behind and above Dean. And while Lestrade was far from matching Dean’s level of drunk, his own whiskeys encouraged him to have a little fun.

Lestrade let his index finger curl in to gently settle on Dean’s head, mussing the teeny spike he’d styled it into.

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Artwork by @mogadeer!