New fic The Horsemen of the Apocalypse
Title: The Horsemen of the Apocalypse
Author: Saberivojo
Characters: Dean, Sam and Bobby
Warnings/Rating: Gen.Some potty mouth...PG-13
Summary: . Cowboy!Dean, Cowboy!Sam and Cowboy!Bobby. And horses.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not getting paid. Just like playing with the boys.
Prompt:
alwaysenduphere asked for the below prompt and I thought it was so cool that I had to try.
I really want fic with Dean on a horse. I'd LOVE for it to be in an apocalyptic setting, but not necessary. An explanation of lack of impala would be an added bonus but not necessary, either
oxoniensis Fandom Free All is going on and I just had to jump on the wagon.
chemm80 Thanks for putting up with me. My lack of POV. You deserve a beta award. Like an an academy award except much much better. You are amazing. Of course any mistakes are my own.
Dean's booted foot slipped a little and he swore, frowning at the mound of horseshit at his feet. Yeah, actual horse shit. He scraped the bottom of his boot against a nearby rock, felt the slick mess scuff into the dirt. You had to watch where you put your feet these days.
When Dean had thought of the Apocalypse, this wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind. Desolation, bodies (it turns out there were less of them than he anticipated) dust, dirt and blood mingled into the ground these were expected. But horses?
One of the major drawbacks to the apocalypse in Dean’s opinion had less to do with the lack of toilet paper and more to do with where Dean usually parked his ass.
Damn he missed his girl.
No Impala. Could that be more fucked up?
She was parked under a tarp, in Bobby’s garage, drained of fluids, except for what was necessary, and winter proofed, waxed and as close to working condition as a car could be that would not run. He missed her like an amputated limb, but there was nothing else to do. So he was stuck with a horse named Bitch, with one blue eye and the disposition of a hungry cougar.
There was no gas; there was no alternative fuel. Communication was dismal. Cell phones were worthless. There were pockets of resistance, much like any war zone, but isolation was the norm and every man was for himself. Luckily Dad had drilled Morse code into the boys before they knew their ABCs. There was a type of pony express, but that was intermittent at best. Not their fault. Dodging demons made renegade Indians look like child’s play.
Dean gathered his reins up, slid his left foot into the stirrup and easily swung his right over the mare’s hips. She offered a crow hop in protest, but it was half hearted at best and then stood mostly still with only her ears pinned to her head in irritation. “Don’t you even think about it, Bitch.” Dean swatted her neck a little harder than necessary.
She cocked a hip and shifted her weight as if to say she was thinking about it sure enough, but decided against a full-blown rodeo.
Bobby chuckled low. “You could find a pile of shit if there wasn’t another horse around for 20 miles.”
“Very funny, Bobby. It’s good you’ve still got your sense of humor.”
“Humor I got, boy. But when that mare decides to pitch you into the nearest cactus, don’t come bitchin’ to me.” Bobby nodded at the one blue-eyed mare, who at the moment seemed content to stand quietly.
Bobby had a point. Dean and Bitch had an uneasy relationship at best. What her name was before, Dean didn’t know. But Bitch suited her. She kicked, bit and had been know to throw a rider just for just pissing her off. She proved it the first time Dean swung a leg over her saddle. He jabbed his left boot into her side and by Dean’s recollection it was little more than a love tap. Bitch exploded like a Molotov cocktail, corkscrewed up in the air and landed stiff legged in the dirt. Bitch went left, Dean landed right. Once she dumped his ass, she just stood there leaving the reins trailing in the dirt. No use expending extra energy. Job done.
Dean spent the first week riding her more with his ass in the dirt more than in the saddle. Bitch hated him, but she hated everyone so Dean didn’t take it personally, especially since the only thing that Bitch hated more than Dean was demons. So she was his personal EMF. Dean read somewhere that animals were sensitive to shit like that, but he never believed it until Bitch kicked a black eyed demon so hard that it knocked the son of a bitch out. As effective as Ruby’s knife.
So while Dean did not love his ass biting, kicking, blue eyed menace, he appreciated her value, and learned to deal with her idiosyncrasies. Dean had been known to slap her ass on occasion, when the yellowed teeth got too close to an important body part. Once he grabbed her ear and tugged her head down to give her a talking to.
“Bitch, you try to kick my ass again, and you are on your own.” He whispered that low, Sam didn’t need to know that he was negotiating with a fucking horse.
Bobby turned out to be a horseman. It should have surprised Dean, but it was Bobby for crisake. Sometimes that man plain scared Dean. Demonology, Japanese, spoke Latin like a Catholic priest and rode a horse like no one’s business. He sat a buckskin gelding aptly named Buck. Bobby rode easily and quietly, barely lifting a rein to get the old boy to work for him. Bobby amazed Dean routinely, but he did his best never to let Bobby know. Bobby liked nothing better than to show the boys up, prove to them the old man was not quite as old as they thought. Right now, hip canted a bit in the saddle, Bobby shifted slightly and Buck pivoted his hips around Bobby’s stationary leg. Bobby nodded at the figure of Sam leading a gargantuan horse by the reins as he headed in their direction.
Sam was walking toward Dean and Bobby. Sam’s horse was a bay gelding, bigger than Bitch, the horse’s big hips rolling with every stride he took. But the poor bastard had to be big to carry around Sasquatch, and Dean was used to looking up to his little brother anyway. The bay was called Marcus, a name he came with and seemed comfortable with. Marcus looked a little like he had some draft blood in him, Clydesdale maybe, or shire. With hooves the size of dinner plates and a disposition of a kitten, he was the exact opposite of Bitch. But despite his size, Marcus was quick and Sam managed to teach the horse all kinds of dressage moves. Sam explained that dressage was really equestrian movements that were originated during battles in the medieval ages. Something that disturbed Dean on multiple levels. How in the hell did Sam learn about horse training, and why did he feel it necessary to make poor Marcus do it?
Sometimes Sam’s geeky overloaded brain came in handy though because Dean learned the answer to that question early on in a horseback battle with demons. Marcus had reared up high on his hind legs and crushed the skull of a demon like an overripe melon and the demons suddenly found they had other places to be. After that, Dean even tried to see if Sam could teach Bitch a move or two but she would have none of it, of course. No, Bitch was more of a plain bitch than a warhorse. It turned out though that her shitty attitude was almost as impressive as Marcus and his freaky ass medieval jumping around the battlefield.
It was kind of funny if you thought about it. The end of days, Lucifer breathing down their necks and the demons were in just about the same shape as the good guys. Rules still applied. So they rode horses too. It seemed though that just like Bitch, most horses would rather have a human rider. The horses tended to panic more, or maybe just wanted to be anywhere else but carrying demon spawn so demons tended to be less efficient at riding. Or maybe they just didn’t care. But for whatever the reason, battles on horseback tended to end with the Winchesters ahead of the game.
So Bitch continued to be the snaky headed biting machine and Marcus used brute strength to crush their opponents. Buck simply galloped blindly and bravely into whatever Bobby asked him to.
“So Sam, which way?” Bobby queried. Sam scuffed his boot in the dirt, squatted down in the dirt, arms resting on his knees. “West. Maybe a day or two ahead of us.”
Dean humpfed. Damn if Sam wasn’t still doing the research. But Sam was killer with following trail. Dean liked to think it had nothing to do with the demon blood that pumped through his veins. But just like Bitch, Dean learned to trust his brother, follow his lead. And damn if that didn’t piss the shit out of him routinely.
“So are you gonna mount up and get the fuck movin’ or what? If they got a two-day start, even if we kick ass we won’t catch up for three days. Damn I miss the feel of my girl under me. This horse shit is well…. horse shit.”
Sam grinned, took of his hat and shoved back locks of long dark hair, plopped the hat back on with a quick swipe to his brow.
“Awe Dean, don’t worry, I am sure your girl is just fine. A little dusty maybe but unless someone got passed Bobby’s dogs, no one is fuckin’ in her back seat so give it break.”
For a moment Dean looked like he might just jump off Bitch and kick his brother’s ass. Right here on a dusty road to nowhere.
But Bobby decided to interject a low growl that so reminded Dean of his father that he stopped half swinging his leg over the horse.
“Boys, save it for demons. We are gonna have plenty of time to beat the shit out of something soon enough.”
It was funny, Bobby wasn’t dad, didn’t demand the yes, sirs, and Dean knew that Sam didn’t want to kill him on a routine basis, but Bobby centered Dean in a way that John never could. Dean obeyed John. Dean seldom questioned his father. Dean loved John. But Bobby? …sometimes all it took was Bobby’s furrowed brow and Dean found himself paying a bit more attention. It crossed his mind that Bobby was soft spoken when he dressed them down or disapproved of a stupid move. But he was usually right about it too. Bobby had been known to shake his head and watch a free for all that John Winchester might have just waded in and started throwing punches to break apart.
Didn’t matter, Bobby was right. There were demons that needed killing and since the mode of transportation was less than desirable. Cleanin’ Sam’s clock would have to wait.
Sam effortlessly mounted Marcus with nothing more than a quiet jingle as Marcus mouthed his bit,
Dean adjusted his hat and slicker, missing his leather jacket with a pang… He glanced at the others too, and noted how they’ve changed. Just like Dean’s leather jacket was gone so was Sam’s hoodie. Both were replaced by outback split long slickers that protected him from rain. Bobby refused to drop the pig hat. Swore if he needed anything more than that he was throwing in the towel. Both Sam and Dean wore Stetsons that funneled the rain and even helped keep them cool in the stifling summer heat.
There were two holsters hanging low on all three men, more like old six shooters than the newer guns they were used to. Ammo was hard come by, so they needed a gun that could be reloaded with homemade rounds. Modified to be sure, with a little of this, a little of that, but it suited their new surroundings.
Dean shifted his weight and took a quick look over at the bedroll on Bitch’s hips. Then ran a mental list, weapon check, noticed the coffee neatly folded in a slicker, this might be the wild west, but fuck if he was going to live without caffeine. Shot gun, rifles and knives. Each man was responsible for his own supplies, but old habits died hard and Dean noticed Sam and Bobby’s shit too. Bobby carried the whiskey, and guarded it a little to close for comfort, but he swore it was for medicinal purposes only and if Dad had been a stickler for drinkin’ on the job, Bobby was the fuckin’ whisky police.
“You boys get drunk and miss some black eyed bitch and I will kick your asses myself.”
Dean believed him, from the look on Sam’s face, he did too.
Both boys were fine shots so they ate pretty well. Bobby barely needed to draw a gun to hunt but he liked cooking so Sam and Dean nabbed dinner and Bobby put it together. But they had all dropped weight. Game had very little fat and pie was few and far between. Gaunt might be a good word. Neither boy could have been called fat pre-apocalypse but every inch of padding had been converted to muscle. Dean looked at his brother as he rode just on his right. Guns slung low on his hips, Shoulders broad and muscular it made Sam look more like an Old West Gunfighter, which, when Dean thought about it ,was pretty much what they were. It was just the bad guys that were different.
And there were plenty of those to go around. So they hunted, Winchesters, Singer, Bitch, Marcus, and Buck, They covered a wide swath of the Midwest, moving into the western states, killing what they could and outrunning what they couldn’t. Running went against his crawl, Bobby called it a strategic retreat and told him to shut up and kick Bitch into overdrive. Dean would live to fight another day. And another day mean another day closer to Lucifer.
It was different, but not all that much, and every day another demon was killed, it put them closer to Lucifer and his demise.
They hunted together. Without the Impala and with little backup except 12 hooves and their normal small arsenal. They made a pretty good team.
There was nothing but the quiet shuffle of hoof in dust, tendrils of dirt filtering up into the air. The low creak of leather and the jingle of Bitch’s bridle, an irritating habit where she just periodically decided to toss her head, probably looking for something to sink her teeth into. They walked three abreast, Marcus, Bitch and Buck, heading into what appeared to be the remnants of a town following a two-day demon trail. Some things just didn’t change.
“Hey Bobby…With as much as Bitch hates demons, I wonder how she would react to disgraced and fallen angels?” Dean clucked to the mare and she moved off reluctantly into a slow jog. Buck and Marcus followed suit.
Bobby sniffed. He glanced at the china-eyed mare, who twitched an ear in his direction then farted. “Well, hell, who knows? She hates everyone else, I figure Gods own personal pissing post would be high on her list of people she would like nothing better than to take a hunk out of.” Dean laughed as Bitch turned her head toss to the right and tried to take a bite out of his leg.
“Yeah I figured as much.”
Lucifer didn’t stand a chance.
Addendum: If you are interested in some more, below is a link to a continuation.
saberivojo.livejournal.com/20968.html#cutid1
Author: Saberivojo
Characters: Dean, Sam and Bobby
Warnings/Rating: Gen.Some potty mouth...PG-13
Summary: . Cowboy!Dean, Cowboy!Sam and Cowboy!Bobby. And horses.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not getting paid. Just like playing with the boys.
Prompt:
alwaysenduphere asked for the below prompt and I thought it was so cool that I had to try.
I really want fic with Dean on a horse. I'd LOVE for it to be in an apocalyptic setting, but not necessary. An explanation of lack of impala would be an added bonus but not necessary, either
oxoniensis Fandom Free All is going on and I just had to jump on the wagon.
chemm80 Thanks for putting up with me. My lack of POV. You deserve a beta award. Like an an academy award except much much better. You are amazing. Of course any mistakes are my own.
Dean's booted foot slipped a little and he swore, frowning at the mound of horseshit at his feet. Yeah, actual horse shit. He scraped the bottom of his boot against a nearby rock, felt the slick mess scuff into the dirt. You had to watch where you put your feet these days.
When Dean had thought of the Apocalypse, this wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind. Desolation, bodies (it turns out there were less of them than he anticipated) dust, dirt and blood mingled into the ground these were expected. But horses?
One of the major drawbacks to the apocalypse in Dean’s opinion had less to do with the lack of toilet paper and more to do with where Dean usually parked his ass.
Damn he missed his girl.
No Impala. Could that be more fucked up?
She was parked under a tarp, in Bobby’s garage, drained of fluids, except for what was necessary, and winter proofed, waxed and as close to working condition as a car could be that would not run. He missed her like an amputated limb, but there was nothing else to do. So he was stuck with a horse named Bitch, with one blue eye and the disposition of a hungry cougar.
There was no gas; there was no alternative fuel. Communication was dismal. Cell phones were worthless. There were pockets of resistance, much like any war zone, but isolation was the norm and every man was for himself. Luckily Dad had drilled Morse code into the boys before they knew their ABCs. There was a type of pony express, but that was intermittent at best. Not their fault. Dodging demons made renegade Indians look like child’s play.
Dean gathered his reins up, slid his left foot into the stirrup and easily swung his right over the mare’s hips. She offered a crow hop in protest, but it was half hearted at best and then stood mostly still with only her ears pinned to her head in irritation. “Don’t you even think about it, Bitch.” Dean swatted her neck a little harder than necessary.
She cocked a hip and shifted her weight as if to say she was thinking about it sure enough, but decided against a full-blown rodeo.
Bobby chuckled low. “You could find a pile of shit if there wasn’t another horse around for 20 miles.”
“Very funny, Bobby. It’s good you’ve still got your sense of humor.”
“Humor I got, boy. But when that mare decides to pitch you into the nearest cactus, don’t come bitchin’ to me.” Bobby nodded at the one blue-eyed mare, who at the moment seemed content to stand quietly.
Bobby had a point. Dean and Bitch had an uneasy relationship at best. What her name was before, Dean didn’t know. But Bitch suited her. She kicked, bit and had been know to throw a rider just for just pissing her off. She proved it the first time Dean swung a leg over her saddle. He jabbed his left boot into her side and by Dean’s recollection it was little more than a love tap. Bitch exploded like a Molotov cocktail, corkscrewed up in the air and landed stiff legged in the dirt. Bitch went left, Dean landed right. Once she dumped his ass, she just stood there leaving the reins trailing in the dirt. No use expending extra energy. Job done.
Dean spent the first week riding her more with his ass in the dirt more than in the saddle. Bitch hated him, but she hated everyone so Dean didn’t take it personally, especially since the only thing that Bitch hated more than Dean was demons. So she was his personal EMF. Dean read somewhere that animals were sensitive to shit like that, but he never believed it until Bitch kicked a black eyed demon so hard that it knocked the son of a bitch out. As effective as Ruby’s knife.
So while Dean did not love his ass biting, kicking, blue eyed menace, he appreciated her value, and learned to deal with her idiosyncrasies. Dean had been known to slap her ass on occasion, when the yellowed teeth got too close to an important body part. Once he grabbed her ear and tugged her head down to give her a talking to.
“Bitch, you try to kick my ass again, and you are on your own.” He whispered that low, Sam didn’t need to know that he was negotiating with a fucking horse.
Bobby turned out to be a horseman. It should have surprised Dean, but it was Bobby for crisake. Sometimes that man plain scared Dean. Demonology, Japanese, spoke Latin like a Catholic priest and rode a horse like no one’s business. He sat a buckskin gelding aptly named Buck. Bobby rode easily and quietly, barely lifting a rein to get the old boy to work for him. Bobby amazed Dean routinely, but he did his best never to let Bobby know. Bobby liked nothing better than to show the boys up, prove to them the old man was not quite as old as they thought. Right now, hip canted a bit in the saddle, Bobby shifted slightly and Buck pivoted his hips around Bobby’s stationary leg. Bobby nodded at the figure of Sam leading a gargantuan horse by the reins as he headed in their direction.
Sam was walking toward Dean and Bobby. Sam’s horse was a bay gelding, bigger than Bitch, the horse’s big hips rolling with every stride he took. But the poor bastard had to be big to carry around Sasquatch, and Dean was used to looking up to his little brother anyway. The bay was called Marcus, a name he came with and seemed comfortable with. Marcus looked a little like he had some draft blood in him, Clydesdale maybe, or shire. With hooves the size of dinner plates and a disposition of a kitten, he was the exact opposite of Bitch. But despite his size, Marcus was quick and Sam managed to teach the horse all kinds of dressage moves. Sam explained that dressage was really equestrian movements that were originated during battles in the medieval ages. Something that disturbed Dean on multiple levels. How in the hell did Sam learn about horse training, and why did he feel it necessary to make poor Marcus do it?
Sometimes Sam’s geeky overloaded brain came in handy though because Dean learned the answer to that question early on in a horseback battle with demons. Marcus had reared up high on his hind legs and crushed the skull of a demon like an overripe melon and the demons suddenly found they had other places to be. After that, Dean even tried to see if Sam could teach Bitch a move or two but she would have none of it, of course. No, Bitch was more of a plain bitch than a warhorse. It turned out though that her shitty attitude was almost as impressive as Marcus and his freaky ass medieval jumping around the battlefield.
It was kind of funny if you thought about it. The end of days, Lucifer breathing down their necks and the demons were in just about the same shape as the good guys. Rules still applied. So they rode horses too. It seemed though that just like Bitch, most horses would rather have a human rider. The horses tended to panic more, or maybe just wanted to be anywhere else but carrying demon spawn so demons tended to be less efficient at riding. Or maybe they just didn’t care. But for whatever the reason, battles on horseback tended to end with the Winchesters ahead of the game.
So Bitch continued to be the snaky headed biting machine and Marcus used brute strength to crush their opponents. Buck simply galloped blindly and bravely into whatever Bobby asked him to.
“So Sam, which way?” Bobby queried. Sam scuffed his boot in the dirt, squatted down in the dirt, arms resting on his knees. “West. Maybe a day or two ahead of us.”
Dean humpfed. Damn if Sam wasn’t still doing the research. But Sam was killer with following trail. Dean liked to think it had nothing to do with the demon blood that pumped through his veins. But just like Bitch, Dean learned to trust his brother, follow his lead. And damn if that didn’t piss the shit out of him routinely.
“So are you gonna mount up and get the fuck movin’ or what? If they got a two-day start, even if we kick ass we won’t catch up for three days. Damn I miss the feel of my girl under me. This horse shit is well…. horse shit.”
Sam grinned, took of his hat and shoved back locks of long dark hair, plopped the hat back on with a quick swipe to his brow.
“Awe Dean, don’t worry, I am sure your girl is just fine. A little dusty maybe but unless someone got passed Bobby’s dogs, no one is fuckin’ in her back seat so give it break.”
For a moment Dean looked like he might just jump off Bitch and kick his brother’s ass. Right here on a dusty road to nowhere.
But Bobby decided to interject a low growl that so reminded Dean of his father that he stopped half swinging his leg over the horse.
“Boys, save it for demons. We are gonna have plenty of time to beat the shit out of something soon enough.”
It was funny, Bobby wasn’t dad, didn’t demand the yes, sirs, and Dean knew that Sam didn’t want to kill him on a routine basis, but Bobby centered Dean in a way that John never could. Dean obeyed John. Dean seldom questioned his father. Dean loved John. But Bobby? …sometimes all it took was Bobby’s furrowed brow and Dean found himself paying a bit more attention. It crossed his mind that Bobby was soft spoken when he dressed them down or disapproved of a stupid move. But he was usually right about it too. Bobby had been known to shake his head and watch a free for all that John Winchester might have just waded in and started throwing punches to break apart.
Didn’t matter, Bobby was right. There were demons that needed killing and since the mode of transportation was less than desirable. Cleanin’ Sam’s clock would have to wait.
Sam effortlessly mounted Marcus with nothing more than a quiet jingle as Marcus mouthed his bit,
Dean adjusted his hat and slicker, missing his leather jacket with a pang… He glanced at the others too, and noted how they’ve changed. Just like Dean’s leather jacket was gone so was Sam’s hoodie. Both were replaced by outback split long slickers that protected him from rain. Bobby refused to drop the pig hat. Swore if he needed anything more than that he was throwing in the towel. Both Sam and Dean wore Stetsons that funneled the rain and even helped keep them cool in the stifling summer heat.
There were two holsters hanging low on all three men, more like old six shooters than the newer guns they were used to. Ammo was hard come by, so they needed a gun that could be reloaded with homemade rounds. Modified to be sure, with a little of this, a little of that, but it suited their new surroundings.
Dean shifted his weight and took a quick look over at the bedroll on Bitch’s hips. Then ran a mental list, weapon check, noticed the coffee neatly folded in a slicker, this might be the wild west, but fuck if he was going to live without caffeine. Shot gun, rifles and knives. Each man was responsible for his own supplies, but old habits died hard and Dean noticed Sam and Bobby’s shit too. Bobby carried the whiskey, and guarded it a little to close for comfort, but he swore it was for medicinal purposes only and if Dad had been a stickler for drinkin’ on the job, Bobby was the fuckin’ whisky police.
“You boys get drunk and miss some black eyed bitch and I will kick your asses myself.”
Dean believed him, from the look on Sam’s face, he did too.
Both boys were fine shots so they ate pretty well. Bobby barely needed to draw a gun to hunt but he liked cooking so Sam and Dean nabbed dinner and Bobby put it together. But they had all dropped weight. Game had very little fat and pie was few and far between. Gaunt might be a good word. Neither boy could have been called fat pre-apocalypse but every inch of padding had been converted to muscle. Dean looked at his brother as he rode just on his right. Guns slung low on his hips, Shoulders broad and muscular it made Sam look more like an Old West Gunfighter, which, when Dean thought about it ,was pretty much what they were. It was just the bad guys that were different.
And there were plenty of those to go around. So they hunted, Winchesters, Singer, Bitch, Marcus, and Buck, They covered a wide swath of the Midwest, moving into the western states, killing what they could and outrunning what they couldn’t. Running went against his crawl, Bobby called it a strategic retreat and told him to shut up and kick Bitch into overdrive. Dean would live to fight another day. And another day mean another day closer to Lucifer.
It was different, but not all that much, and every day another demon was killed, it put them closer to Lucifer and his demise.
They hunted together. Without the Impala and with little backup except 12 hooves and their normal small arsenal. They made a pretty good team.
There was nothing but the quiet shuffle of hoof in dust, tendrils of dirt filtering up into the air. The low creak of leather and the jingle of Bitch’s bridle, an irritating habit where she just periodically decided to toss her head, probably looking for something to sink her teeth into. They walked three abreast, Marcus, Bitch and Buck, heading into what appeared to be the remnants of a town following a two-day demon trail. Some things just didn’t change.
“Hey Bobby…With as much as Bitch hates demons, I wonder how she would react to disgraced and fallen angels?” Dean clucked to the mare and she moved off reluctantly into a slow jog. Buck and Marcus followed suit.
Bobby sniffed. He glanced at the china-eyed mare, who twitched an ear in his direction then farted. “Well, hell, who knows? She hates everyone else, I figure Gods own personal pissing post would be high on her list of people she would like nothing better than to take a hunk out of.” Dean laughed as Bitch turned her head toss to the right and tried to take a bite out of his leg.
“Yeah I figured as much.”
Lucifer didn’t stand a chance.
Addendum: If you are interested in some more, below is a link to a continuation.
saberivojo.livejournal.com/20968.html#cutid1