Pack up your troubles

 It's been 84 years, but I've done it. I've updated Liberty Bonds. 

When I started writing the chapter I lived in England. Now I don't. In the interim I've had health problems and.....other things going on. It's a miracle it exists at all! (Though to be honest, that can be said of literally anything I write. Writing, for me, is about as easy as performing surgery on myself.) 

Here's an excerpt from "Dear Old Pal of Mine", which is chapter 8:

A darkly bristling presence brushed by Dean’s leg, leaving a trail of brimstone in his nose. The Hellhound. He quenched the desire to slit its throat. He had to keep eyes on the demon in front of him, the one wearing that shifty-looking meat suit and conspicuously expensive cravat. He heard a heavy wuff as the Hellhound settled at the base of the throne, causing a tremor to travel through the floor.

“Good girl, Juliet,” the demon—Crowley—said in a gentle voice. It made Dean’s skin crawl.  Maybe it was the atmosphere in this place, or the smell, or something else Dean couldn’t define, but a memory threatened to climb up out of his throat in the form of a scream. All at once he heard Alistair (a name he hadn’t said to anyone, not even himself, in years) crooning similar words in a similar tone into his ear.

“Do pay attention,” Crowley said, sounding bored, as he stepped onto the dais and sat.

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Trust me, you got every ounce of me and my knife’s attention.”

Crowley smiled at that. “Kurdish, is it? Very rare. I saw you, ah, fondling it.”

“Cut the crap,” Dean said. “You said you had intel?”

Crowley made a show of examining his fingernails. “I said I’d like to make a deal. It’s kind of my forte.”

Dean stepped forward, and a quiet growl rose up from the ground. “You said yourself, I’ve dealt with some of your thugs before. You know how well that ended for them.”

“Mm,” Crowley said, nodding, still smiling. “I also know how well it ended for you.”

Dean smiled back, the kind of smile he’d learned in Hell, and the Hound at Crowley’s feet grew quiet. “Yeah, how did that end? Oh, wait. With me topside and them dead.”

Crowley turned serious. “Don’t try my patience.”

“Tell me what you want, and I’ll tell you how many pieces I’m gonna carve you into.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “There’s no rack in Hell as torturous as the grammar you just used on me.” He sighed. “But fine.” He stepped down from the throne and walked toward Dean. “As I said: you keep the celestials out of my hair, even the, hm, charismatic one, and I’ll tell you who’s after Juliet here.”

You can read from the beginning here.
Tags and Warnings: Dean/Cas, minor Dean/others, minor Sam/Jess, Sam/Eileen; World War I, angels, blood, trench warfare. Rated M.