It certainly involved more swearing and panic than I ordinarily employ during revision. Swearing and panic are generally reserved for first drafts.

In which Patrick Jane has a conversation with Death.

Title: Red Nightcap: The Nightminds Remix [link] Red Nightcap at FFN or [link] AO3

Author: MerriWyllow

Rating: T

Summary: Written for Paint-It-Red's Remix Challenge, based on tromana's "Nightminds". Crossover with Discworld. Spoilers for The Mentalist through 4.01. No particular Discworld spoilers.

"That was Malibu for you. Other small towns in America, neighbors brought casseroles for a new widower. Here they brought Schedule IV Controlled Substances."

Disclaimer: Disclaimer: I own so very little here, just a handful of original characters. I don't even own the idea for the plot. I certainly do not own either Discworld or The Mentalist or their regular inhabitants. No harm to either universe is intended, and I certainly shall take away no profit other than my own satisfaction.

Original Story: Nightminds, by tromana [link] at FFN

Grr Argh. Waiting is the hardest part. There is a week at least before the final deadline for the remix challenge, most everyone who signed up for it have begun posting. But no one has posted a remix of any of my stories. The writer I wanted most has already posted something else. The two I feared might draw my name have also posted. And only one of theirs was completely unreadable.

That leaves one writer whose work is excellent but who does not ship my ship (if she drew my name she at least has a few stories which are not particularly shippy to choose from), and one whose work is ok - well, variable, really, but averages out to ok - and who does ship my way.

Yes, this really is a Buffy/ Savage Love crossover It's gen, though. (God, that could get scary, huh?)

On my way back from dinner, after speaking at UC-Sunnydale, I saw a blanket in the hallway. Figuring it was left there by a friendly stoner, or someone who shared my abysmal housekeeping skills, I didn't say anything. Until the blanket moved.

"You Savage?" the extremely pale figure under the blanket asked. It had been a while since I had been accosted by a stranger with an accent, and I have to say, I enjoyed it a little, but it would have been better if I could have seen what this bloke(Because, trust me, this was a bloke) looked like. He might have had the same thought, too, because he mumbled something about it being "dark enough now" and cast his bed covering aside. His face was scratched and I thought "Of course, he wants to talk to me. Don't they always?"

"Yes, I'm Dan Savage. How may I help you?" My mother would have been so proud. Grammatical, polite, and no risk of foreign cooties. I was so Midwestern I barely recognized myself.

He stood up, and despite his tough look, all-black-wardrobe and suspicious dark stains on his form-fitting black t-shirt, he looked embarrassed. You never know who the shy ones are. He looked at the blanket instead of at me and said "Sorry about that. I'd never been to this hotel before and got in the wrong sewer, and this hotel has too many sodding windows."

"I understand." I felt that I had finally boiled my job down to its simplest essence. People say crazy things to me and I just say I understand. Even when I don't.

"Just because I want my soul back doesn't mean I should catch on fire, right?"
"Look, dude," I said, at the same time I wondered which bro-tastic catalog that greeting wandered out of.
"Spike."

"Nice."
"I picked it myself."

"Look, Spike, there's nothing wrong with being flaming. Even if it displeases the other guys in your Billy Idol tribute band." And then I thought "Savage, you elitist dick," and felt like I should take a special interest, because I felt all that Catholic guilt combining away with the rubber chicken in the dining room, banding together to ensure me a sleepless night. Damn it.

"What is it?" I asked gently. "Bondage gone wrong? Because it takes time, sometimes."
"Haven't you been listening? I've been out in the bloody jungle, doing these stupid...exercises, trying to get my soul back, and then I find out that the prophecy I'd been reading didn't say "wild" after all, but "Savage" and all I get from you is a lot of bollocks."

"You sound like my editor," I said, trying to make him smile.

"Are you very stoned?"

"Maybe later."

No pressure, but I added some chapters, since the novel rewrite is done, for the moment. [link]

I think this is the best thing I've written for the MMOM challenge. Friends."The One With The Man In The Boat." [link]

Because I know there are West Wing fans here. [link]

In honor of Garner, I'm reposting this.(it's short) Rockford Files/ Entourage. [link]

On my Redeem John Mission, this came out of nowhere (and that specific Ackles picture (posted in correct thread):

Bring It On

Sam comes barrelling into the room, remembering at the last moment to pull up sharply and not make any excess noise. They've hit an omen locus, a regional hotspot of sorts where not only is John Winchester planning to put down for a few months, he's called in other hunters (who he keeps clear or the kids, except Bobby, because that would be impossible) and set up an exterminator central. Sammy's as pleased as punch almost all the time about it, but today he's extra happy.

"Dad! Sir! Dean has a permission slip that needs to be signed."

Dean rounds on Sam, coming in seconds after because he had to have the Impala parked properly, whereas Sam had actually jumped out of it while it was still moving in his glee. Without his father there, Dean would have promptly shown Sam how keep away was done, and noogied the high holy hell out of him afterwards, but there, father was sitting at the dinner table with all his research materials covering it and the boys know perfectly well that standing at ease is their only option.

"Why is signing permission slips suddenly my job?" John doesn't look up from the lines he's drawing across the city map.

"You said we could do what we want as long as it doesn't interfere with hunts, we are still keeping up with our training, and staying below the radar, right?" Sam's rote recitation is breathless—not with exhaustion from the run from the car, but with excitement.

"Exactly. And this is fine, so Dad doesn't need to see it. Sorry to bother you, sir."

That got John's attention. He turns and looks suspiciously at his sons, Sam at 13, all hands and feet, and Dean at 17, coming into his manhood, strong and capable.

"Really? I know you wouldn't dare mess with training or hunting, Dean, so what do you want to do that might get us noticed? You need a slip for running naked through town square?" His gaze bores into each of them.

"Cheeerleading, sir!" Sam is doubling over with laughter, whereas there's a hard blank stare written all over Dean's face and he's now standing to attention. Sam doesn't know it yet, but John does well—that's what he does to avoid blushing.

John leans forward to grab the slip of paper from Sam, who's so excited he is torn between keeping it and giving it over.

"Cheerleading? Explain yourself."

"I promise it won't get in the way of hunting, sir, and it's extra training, really—it's very strenuous..."

"And the radar part of it, men cheerleading?"

"I'm not the only boy in the group though! I mean, I would be the third. Totally under the radar. They've had boys in the squad for years."

"So you, Dean Henry Winchester, hunter of the supernatural who can take out a werewolf at 100 feet in low light wants to stay after school to..."

"Toss girls in short skirts in the air sir, sorry for interrupting, sir."

"Apology accepted, son. Argument well made, even if you skipped the part with the two other guys in tight pants."

Sam's pouting now. "HE'LL BE A CHEERLEADER."

"This one I'll sign myself—what does my signature currently look like, anyway?" He scrabbles for a pen in a normal colour. "UNDER THE RADAR, BOY. I don't want to hear about anything scandalous. Training still gets done, dinner still gets put on the table, you're on any hunts I need you for, and I want you to study some extra Latin pronunciation to boot."

Dean only misses a couple team practices and no games, and between Bobby and Sam John is dragged to see his son perform just the once. He's left cold by the music and the rhythm and the entire sporting event, but he's impressed with the physicality and is definitely going to make changes both to their normal training regimen and some of their fighting sequences based on what Dean can now (continued...)

( continues...) do.

After the game, home win, lots of high fives and hugging and cheering later, Dean waves at a lean, scruffy boy his own height and jogs over to his family.

"Good work out there, son. What you've learned shows a lot of promise."

"It was cool, " Sammy admits, abashed. The whole spectacle had him riveted, and once it was established he couldn't get Dean into a skirt, the teasing dropped off dramatically.

The scruffy boy runs over and it's easier to tell he's the winning QB. He plants a wet smack of a kiss on Dean's cheek and slings a happy carefree arm around his shoulders.

"Hi, I'm Castiel..." he starts, pulled up short by the incisive stare of the elder Winchester.

"Uh, about under the the radar thing, Dad, Sir, I think we are still kind of okay?" Dean volunteers.

"It's true John—if the most talented cheerleader didn't date the quarterback, something would be up." burred Bobby.

Sam is agape at how he'd been played for something way more important than teasing about skirts and John is clearly rehearsing his "There are going to have to be RULES. SO MANY RULES." for the drive home.

"Nice to meet you, Castiel." John knows exactly how much pressure to apply to stop just short of intense discomfort, and Castiel doesn't blink an eyelid. Well, at least he's got that going for him, John mutters to himself.