Title: Four Directions Harder To Swallow Than Most Could Have Gone In But Didn't

Author: Silverkit

Summary: The title pretty much sums it up.

Warnings: Deep fried crack with fries on the side...and a little slash

Ratings: PG-13

Author's Note: It's totally not weird to write AUs for your AU! Thanks go to my beta Sam_Can_do_it

I'm trying to clean out some of my folders. Think of this as a kind of a bonus feature...

Another one of Silverkit's favorite characters could have found him first…

Sam found his way behind the counter and broke eight glasses before Dusa, only three weeks into her job as bartender, could stop him.

"I'm sorry, boss," she said. Her 's' were stretched thin like a piece of taffy, and the dozens of snakes that covered her head in place of hair joined in and elongated the hiss even further.

Sam had dropped to his knees, and was grinding glass pieces into the floor, slicing his palm open and letting the blood run.

Three of the vampires at the bar twitched at the smell of a fresh meal.

"Gentlemen. Ladies," Lorne said, with a quick shoulder pat to the closest vampire. Her game face was already in place. "Let's all keep our tongues in our mouths. How about a free round of fresh O positive? On the house."

The brood of blood suckers sat back, and the vampire with the game face went back to looking human and bored.

"I'm making stardust," Sam whispered in Lorne's ear when the green demon took Sam's bleeding appendage into his hands. Dusa appeared at his side, and handed him the aid kit.

"Make it quick boss," Dusa hissed.

"Come on, kid," Lorne said gently. He held Sam's bleeding hand high in the air. "Keep calm for me. Don't flip out now. Please not now."

Sam blinked, and tilted his head with a smile which Lorne reflected back.

"There we go," Loren said, softly. "We'll get you fixed up, have Dusa make me a sea-breeze and pretend this isn't the third time this has happened."

"There are too many pieces," Sam mumbled. "I can never put them all back together."

"Would you like to swing on a star?" Lorne sang softly, as he bandaged the cuts. "Carry moon beams home in a jar, and be better off than you are…."

Sam and Connor could have had a much different relationship...

"You don't look much like Daddy."

The vampire ran her pale hand down Connor's shoulders. The moonlight made her skin as white as bone, and her black eyes burned into his face like smoldering coals.

"You're like a willow weed. You bend at the slightest breeze." she sighed. "Daddy was like a hurricane. Always uprooting the trees."

Connor growled, and jerked away from her hand. His chains rattled at the movement.

"I miss, Daddy," she said mournfully.

She moved across the room, her long skirts rustling like waves of crimson with every step. The vampire Connor had been hunting earlier in the night watched him from the shadows, and when the female reached him she ran an apprising hand down his chest.

"You tried to kill my wishing star," the vampire continued. "But don't worry. I know how you can make it up to him."

The younger vampire was impossibly tall. When he leaned forward, fangs bared, Connor kicked out trying to knock him away, but the teeth had already sunk deep into the flesh of his neck.

"You can let him break you open, and create a meteor shower out of the pieces."

There Could Have Been Slash!

When Connor was seven his favorite movie was 101 Dalmatians. He could recite the animated classic by heart, and had driven his parents close to insanity with his insistence that the film be played again, and again, and again until even his sisters, dog lovers though they were, staged a revolt that ended with him relinquishing control of the VCR. It was a nice memory, even if it had been crafted by a demon.

"My nose is froze," Sam grumbled. The youngest Winchester pressed his feet against Connor's jean clad leg, and a chill sunk through the denim as Sam carefully maneuvered a pair of sharp scissors around the square of folded blue paper in his hand. "And my ears are froze. And my toes are froze."

"We're not at that part yet," Connor said, his fingers encircling Sam's ankle. The temperature in Palo Alto was in the low nineties that night, but Connor draped the tattered stretch of sleeping bag that hung over the back of the couch across Sam's legs anyway.

Sam muttered something unintelligible, and ignored the plight of Perde and Pongo in favor of his project.

The light from the T.V. washed the two young men in white-blue tones and Connor sank further into the already drooping couch cushions. The joy of watching 101 pint sized puppies scamper across a snowy landscape made several knots in his chest loosen and stretch out. He was afraid of everything it seemed as of late; of getting his favorite pizza topping or pouring his favorite breakfast cereal or reading his favorite book. He knew it couldn't possibly be healthy to be afraid of different kinds of Poptart flavors, but he was unable to squash the one burning question that lingered behind everything he thought he'd once enjoyed. What if every aspect of himself, every bit of information that made him Connor was different now that his real memories were back?

The steady snick of Sam's scissors added to the movies soundtrack, and a long line of thin blue paper began curling in the Sam's lap.

Connor could cope with the nightmares, and he could deal with the superpowers, but the thought of having to relearn every part of himself, every like and dislike, every opinion, made him feel tired and beaten even as he sat safe on the couch in his apartment.

A flood of yellow light filled the room and wrapped itself around Connor's shoulders like blanket when the front door opened. It was gone in a click, and the lock slid into place.

"Hey Sammy."

Dean smelled like cigarette smoke, cheap beer and leather. The truce they'd made over the last few months was still as fragile as spider silk. Dean trusted Connor not to kill Sam while he went out and did whatever it was he did that brought in his share of the rent and grocery money, and Connor trusted Dean not to take off in the middle of the night with Sam. It was a little uncomfortable to admit that the trust mostly came from Sam rolling his eyes whenever Dean eyed Connor suspiciously, and because the one time Dean had tried to take off in the middle of the night Sam had outright refused to leave without Connor, but a start was a start.

A solid hand landed on his shoulder and Dean leaned over the couch. "What the hell are you watching?"

In the dark, Connor shifted in his seat. Something flipped inside his stomach.

"My favorite Disney classic," he responded. "Care to sit?"

Dean circled the couch and lifted Sam's feet. He plunked down between the two of them, and grinned when Sam grumbled about Dean's rearrangement.

It wasn't a new feeling, this rush of heat or the hyper awareness that made Connor feel more like he was sitting next to a flame instead of a human being, but it was the first time the feelings had occurred without the assistance of the female gender, and whatever coils of anxiety had been massaged away by the movie were tightened again.

"Hold these," Sam insisted, and pushed the scissors at his brother. Grabbing the points of his paper construction, Sam pulled his arms wide to reveal a line of blue paper stars, each one of them connected to the other at the tip.

"Where did you learn how to make that?" Dean tapped his brother's creation gently and the line fanned back and forth.

"Harmony." Sam looked down at the eight paper stars that stretched from one hand to the next. "She had fangs, and her unicorns were very chatty."

"Dude," Dean poked Connor in the ribs, and Connor felt all the warmth in his face rush for lower areas. "Did you know about this?"

Reaching across Dean, Connor snagged an edge of the sleeping bag and pulled it over his lap.

"No, it's a recent development."

There could have been more tattoos…

"Hold still," Lindsey said between gritted teeth.

The desert heat made the inside of the hut stifling and sticky. Sweat soaked through Lindsey's plaid shirt, and ran into his eyes. The salt of it stung his eyes and made him swear. He stopped his project, and laid the needle to the side.

The work was only half done, and if Eve hadn't brought this with her insisting that he could be useful (never a bad idea to have a possible antichrist in your corner) he would have tossed the kid out the door and let the desert snakes have him.

No breeze came across the sand, and the suffocating heat made even the walls seem like they were sweating.

Lindsey poured another shot of whiskey into the stained glass and handed it over to the kid.

A stubborn set to his jaw, and the kid glowered at him. "Alcohol thins the blood."

He thought about forcing it down the boy's throat, but instead grabbed the glass and let the liquid burn down his throat.