Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5967865.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural_RPF
  Relationship:
      Jensen_Ackles/Jared_Padalecki
  Character:
      Jared_Padalecki, Jensen_Ackles, Jeffrey_Dean_Morgan, Original_Characters,
      Original_Animal_Character(s)
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Fantasy, Fantasy, Dark_Fantasy, Mpreg, Torture,
      Slavery, Animal_Traits, Milking, Alternate_Universe_-_Farm/Ranch,
      Forests, Psychological_Trauma, Unhealthy_Coping_Mechanisms, Talking
      Animals, Bottom_Jared, Top_Jensen, Graphic_Description, Violence,
      folktale_elements, Revenge, Supernatural_Reverse_Big_Bang_Challenge
  Collections:
      Supernatural_and_J2_Big_Bang_2015
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-02-10 Chapters: 1/2 Words: 8777
****** Quills ******
by compo67
Summary
     Quills provide milk for their farmers. For years, Jared has been
     happy as the youngest quill in Gray's barn. Mated with older quinn
     Jensen, the two live in comfort inside their pen. They never want or
     need for anything due to Gray's diligent care. One day, Gray doesn't
     show up. And the gate to Jared and Jensen's pen opens. When Jared
     walks through it, he has no idea of the journey before him.
Notes
     Beautiful art by the wonderful BlackBlueRose who was nothing but
     patient and kind with me. <3
     This is heavily inspired by "Over the Garden Wall," a mini-series on
     Cartoon Network.
See the end of the work for more notes

 
At sunrise, Jared nudges his pen-mate awake.
From the color of sweet berries grown by the creek to an impressive expanse of
strawberries and dandelions, the day stretches out and out and out. The day’s
potential brims over, bringing energy to their farm and its sleepy pastures.
High, luscious grass stirs from a gentle breeze, waving to the barn. If Jared
cranes himself in the correct angle, putting his chin on the very top of the
gate to their pen, he can spot the familiar outline of their fence on the
horizon.
The sweetest flowers bloom near the fence.
Jared’s quick, alert eyes trace out the rest of the farmland. Sunrise peels
away shadows from the main house, where Gray sleeps. He’ll be over to the barn
soon, not one for starting the day late. A tool shed and garage sit cozily next
to the main house. Sometimes, at night, smoke can be spotted drifting out of
the chimney in the house. Jared sighs against the wooden gate, his elbows
resting on the middle post. The barn stays warm no matter the season or
temperature. Even the most stubborn thunderstorms have never threatened the
barn’s secure, sturdy walls and roof.
But Jared can’t help to think how pleasant it must be to see the barn from a
distance instead of looking out from it.
A rumbling, ill-tempered voice disrupts Jared’s thoughts. The sound originates
from under a nest of quilts and hay, but soon lifts above them. A mop of tawny
hair wriggles free from bedding.
“Get away from the gate,” his pen-mate grumbles. “I won’t repeat myself again,
Jared.”
“You wouldn’t wake up,” Jared replies, remaining in place. “I tried.”
Scrubbing his face with one hand, keeping one eye on Jared at all times, Jensen
huffs. He sits up and stretches, followed by a mighty yawn that displays
strong, healthy teeth. His movements also allow for a view of lean, solid
muscle. Interest piqued, Jared loosens his hold on the gate.
“I was  sleeping .” Jensen doesn’t bother to brush stray pieces of hay off of
himself, meaning that he’s still entertaining plans that involve sleeping--not
running through fields or exploring a patch of shamrocks Jared discovered two
days ago. They taste okay on their own, but they’re missing something. “...you
need your rest--hey, are you listening to me?”
“You think the tulips would taste good with them?”
“What? What tulips? And with what?”
Jared turns, his cheek against his shoulder. “The shamrocks.”
Brow furrowed, Jensen holds his hands up. “What does that have to do with
anything I’ve been talking about? Now quit knocking against the gate before I
get up and make you.”
“You wouldn’t get up and make me,” Jared mumbles, pouting, slowly slipping away
from the gate. On all fours, he crawls over to the nest. “You’d have to get up
to make me.”
They’ve shared this pen since Jensen arrived to the barn. He was about Jared’s
age then and the pen was much smaller. Once Gray was sure they’d get along, he
moved them into Tom and Nancy’s pen next door for a few days. Jared watched the
entire process. Instead of three pens on the right side of the barn, Gray
changed it to two. He took out an entire wall, patched up the ceiling, and
fixed a few cracks in the floor before moving them in. There was more space for
Jared’s elbows and feet, which has always pleased him. Of course, there’s also
more space for Jensen’s grumpy moods.
“I’d get up,” the older quinn snorts, burrowing back into hay and blankets.
With a sigh, Jared plops down at the edge of their bedding. He picks at a few
straws of hay, turning from laying on his stomach to his back and to his side.
“If the tulips don’t work out, I guess I’ll try the marigolds.”
“Those make you sick.”
“Not really,” Jared mutters. “I just get a little queasy.”
“Fine, whatever, eat a rock for all I care--just come back to bed.”
Quills require exercise. While their pen offers ample space and comfort to move
around, nothing compares to the luxurious graze of grass and soft, yielding
soil against Jared’s feet. Hardwood floors don’t have dirt. Gray doesn’t allow
dirt in the barn. It might be nice to be clean from time to time, but without
dirt there are no flowers, no mud pies, no interesting, wiggling worms. The
heat from the floors is certainly welcomed on rainy, cold days, but it is
neither of those things today.
Restless, Jared rolls onto his back, legs up in the air, arms splayed out at
his sides.
“I wanna go out,” he complains, squeezing his eyes shut. “And you said you’d go
out with me.”
“I did not.”
“You did too.”
Jensen sits up again, this time less composed, the color of a tulip spread
across the bridge of his nose. He puffs his chest out and chews on his bottom
lip before huffing yet again. “Maybe if you came back to bed you’d see why I
want you back in bed.”
Exercise can be obtained by using other methods. Jared tumbles into their nest
and dives under the blankets. He ignores Jensen’s protests and attempts at
decency. It’s too late. Jensen brought it up and now he has to deal with the
consequences. Hay snaps and snips underneath them, while the blankets keep heat
inside. Jared’s elbows poke Jensen’s legs only a few times as they twist, turn,
and adjust. Eventually, Jared finds distraction settled between muscular,
freckled thighs. This is a different kind of sunrise.
Roused awake by the sight, green eyes lock onto Jared’s mouth, anticipating its
intent.
A great deal of care goes into the young quill’s movements. He’s often brash,
if a little clumsy. Most of that Gray attributes to Jared’s age; at seventeen,
Jared is still growing. Though he isn’t all arms and legs as he was two years
ago, he can’t always harness his excitement. And it isn’t often that Jensen
invites him into their bedding like this.
Under the quilts, something personal and private lingers between them.
It threads itself into the tempting rise and fall of Jensen’s chest. With lips
as sumptuous as clovers--in both shape and color--the quinn relaxes. This is an
invitation, an opportunity. And for four years, it’s been Jared’s privilege to
accept each and every one offered. Quinns mate quills. The fact remains simple.
Quills produce milk, sustenance for humans. A quill can produce milk without a
quinn, but the quality improves when mating is introduced. Jared knew he was a
quill from the time he was small and raised in a large barn with six times as
many quills as reside in Gray’s barn. Space was tight. Everyone was close and
yet no one spoke.
None of the quills or quinns in Gray’s barn talk much to each other, but Jared
knows their names.
Though his mind floats far, far away from his own name at the moment.
Jensen arrived at Gray’s in the middle of the night, at the end of a long, hot
summer. The air that night had been thick, humid, and spiked with the scent of
thunder about to roll in. Above the barn, the sky was tinted iron; and before
them was a quinn, enraged and wild, marks created by wrought iron on his back.
When it rains, Jared licks these marks, now scars.
Comfortable silence graces the barn, filling up space in its own intimate way.
The first lick comes almost as a shock to the older quinn. Jared enjoys the
control, snorting in satisfaction at the sight of the first of many sharp
inhales and trembles. He understands Jensen in most ways. There are gentle
mornings when instinct tells Jared it will be a good day to play; then there
are skittish nights he must understand that his pen-mate requires solitude.
Warmed by their nest, Jared relaxes, his own heartbeat slowing while his
actions inspire the opposite effect in Jensen.
Hay crinkles in response to Jensen’s left leg bucking and his hips tilting.
Jared smiles, all good nature, and flicks his tongue on the underside of the
quinn’s heavy, flushed cock. The fire and energy he tends to submits, yielding
everything--the timing, the pace, the depth. Loud enough for the quinn to hear,
Jared suckles on the twitching head, his hands splayed out over freckled,
robust thighs. They are the youngest of their kind in the barn. Knowledge of
their purpose sparks a shiver through Jared.
One day, when the time is right, Jared will carry their legacy.
In all their time together inside their pen, Jared has witnessed hundreds of
captivating qualities displayed by the quinn underneath him. Jensen makes an
admirable mate; he will no doubt make a beloved father.
Enticed by these thoughts, Jared works his mouth further down, breathing in
deep through his nose and concentrating his focus on the task at hand. He knows
how much Jensen likes this. It’s no secret between them. Of course the quinn
takes pleasure in mating, but this act stands out as something special. It
isn’t necessary. It isn’t required. It exists because Jared desires it. Jared
offered it; Jensen accepted. After a few somewhat clumsy and inelegant
attempts, the young quill could swallow Jensen down to the hilt with his mouth,
just like his hips. Over time, Jared added technique and playful teasing.
Jared moans around Jensen’s cock, adding to the steady sound of wind against
the walls of the barn.
Regal muscles tighten underneath Jared’s fingers.
With care, Jared seals his lips around Jensen’s cock, adding spit, dragging out
the process. He waits for each catch of breath, every voracious, throaty groan,
and keens in response to the tender hand patting his head. Jensen has never
once been rough.
Two scents mix in Jared’s consciousness--the sweet smell of fresh, clean hay
and the peppery aroma of his surrendering mate. Like climbing vines, Jensen’s
fingers lace through tousled strands of Jared’s hair. Eyes closed, Jared has
neither sight nor voice--nor worry. He latches onto blossoming whines, thriving
compulsion, and prolific, stinging thirst. Up and down, he work his mouth,
lips, tongue, and throat. He holds Jensen in his throat, deep and aching,
territorial in the nipping challenge of his teeth along sensitive skin.
Sighing, Jared pops off, smirking, licking his lips and meeting the jade-green
eyes of his quinn.
Luscious lips part on the edge of a fevered plea for more.
Jensen shatters their gaze at the sound of their gate swinging open. Alert and
protective, he shimmies out of the layer of quilts above them, hay barely
rustling from his instinctual movements. Jared snorts his displeasure and
murmurs, “It’s just Gray.”
From the surface, above their patchwork canopy, Jensen huffs. Jared shrugs off
the anxious energy pouring off the quinn. Gray has simply arrived to tend to
them.
“It opened on its own,” Jensen breathes, still as the barn walls.
“It couldn’t have,” Jared counters. “Gray?”
The call receives no reply, no familiar voice answering back. Only the wind
outside casts a lonely retort.
Frustrated, Jared tosses the quilts off and sits up. His eyes flash around
their pen, the gate, and their view of the barn. This must be a mistake.
“I heard no footsteps,” the older quinn hisses, displeased at Jared’s actions.
“And I gave you no permission to come out.”
Ignoring the complaint, Jared crawls off their nest, settling next to Jensen
for the moment. This view is not much better, though it affords him a closer
look at the gate. There it is, as mundane and boring as ever, with its
simplistic design and outside latch only Gray can touch.
“You just didn’t hear them.” Jared speaks with confidence, nodding to emphasize
his point.
Nudging their shoulders together, Jensen grumbles, “If he opened the gate, then
why isn’t he here?”
“Oh.”
A myriad of reasons, explanations, and causes trot through Jared’s mind,
however, none seem to fit. Each one sticks out like a rock tossed onto an
arrangement of flowers. Why wouldn’t he announce his presence in the barn, as
he does every day? Their play--even underneath the quilts--had never kept him
from greeting them. Jared cranes forward from his spot, hoping to see another
pen open and Gray inside it.
“Tom?” Jensen moves closer to the wall they share with their neighbors. Concern
and worry mark the older quinn’s face, He repeats the quinn’s name, the tone in
his voice matching the edge to the wind outside.
Without consulting Jensen, Jared approaches the gate. He does so with caution,
a kind of reserve he hadn’t possessed this morning. Peering up at the latch,
his eyes confirm it unhinged. One glance at the barnfloor and Jared smiles,
thumping his right hand on the ground in relief. Footprints lead from their pen
to the barn door. Gray was here. Something must have demanded his attention
before he could call out to Jared or Jensen, and since it must have been a
pressing matter, he didn’t have time to shut the gate.
Curious, Jared sniffs the gate, picking up a trace of sunflowers. Gray must
have walked through the field on his way to the barn. The footprints serve as
proof to Gray’s visit. Assured by the outlines of heavy boots, Jared presses
his forehead against the open gate.
“Jared!”
A pair of hands crashland on Jared’s shoulders, pulling him back in almost a
tumble.
“But I…!”
“No!” Jensen’s voice snaps out in a guttural boom. “We do not leave our pens
and you do not leave my sight.”
Pouting, the quill looks away, angry and put off by the quinn’s tone. If it
were up to Jensen, Jared would never be allowed to run outside in the fields or
paddle across the cool, inviting creek. He would never wake up before dawn and
therefore never see the sun rise each morning, lifting up and over swaths of
clouds until finally, it spreads out and covers their land in light.
Shrugging off the quinn’s hands, Jared kneels, arms crossed over his bare
chest. “He  was  here,” Jared scoffs. “His footprints are by the gate.”
To his credit, Jensen checks. He peers out, not once touching the gate.
Back inside their pen, the quinn shakes his head. “They’re pointing away from
the door.”
Silence passes between them. They each take their turns building stories in
their minds, only to have them crumble into mud. Jared crouches next to Jensen.
“It’s milking day,” Jared whispers, keeping his head down. “He always comes in
for milking day.”
“I know.”
“What if the barn door is open?”
“It isn’t.”
“But what if it is?”
“Then we stay here,” Jensen commands. “We never leave our pens without Gray.”
Arguing will get no further with the older quinn. Jared snorts and devises
another plan. He plods over to their nest and settles in once more, underneath
hay and quilts. “Close it,” he murmurs, curling up on his side.
After a minute staring at the unmoving gate, Jensen listens. He shuts it
closed, careful not to slam it. From the motion, the gate creaks and groans
back into place. Another minute slips past and Jensen joins Jared. However,
instead of facing the quill, Jensen lies down facing the gate. His scars on
display, Jared sniffles. Something feels wrong. It isn’t raining and yet he can
trace the jagged marks of iron on Jensen’s back.
“What did Tom say?” Jared maintains his voice barely above a whisper.
A statue of lean muscle, Jensen answers plainly. “Nothing.”
“Maybe they’re still sleeping…”
The wind outside almost carries away Jensen’s voice.
“Maybe.”
 
Quills are curious by nature.
They learn at an extraordinary pace, frequently seeking out more information.
This can, in younger quills, result in testing boundaries.
Jared’s arrival at the barn had been a relief from the crowded pens of the
auction house. The transition occurred more or less smoothly; it helped that
the older pairs were neither threatened or frightened of him. It was his place
as the youngest quill to one day achieve what they could not: give birth to a
foal. Jared understood it, the older pairs understood it, and Gray prepared him
for it. Quills require exercise--for the benefit of their minds as well as
their bodies. Jared had always been on the lankier side, but he was attentive
to Gray’s instructions. Gradually, Jared’s diet changed. More raw vegetables
were added to his daily feed; he was fed two apples at night and a portion of
sliced beets tossed in a light, shiny oil.
Gray measures and weighs every quill and quinn in his care three times a week.
With the exception of Jared and Jensen. He tends to them four times every week.
In addition, Jared always receives an extra milking, a habit that started last
year, after his sixteenth birthday. Gray said the extra milking was a sign that
Jared’s body was getting ready to carry a foal. When Jared asked why he
couldn’t do so then, Gray simply pat his head and replied in the same
straightforward manner he always had to Jared’s questions.
“You’re not ready.”
After hours of further questioning--or pestering, though that was Jensen’s
word--Jared convinced the older quinn to explain. Jensen extracted a promise
from Jared that after their talk, the quill would finally be quiet and go to
sleep. In true Jensen form, the delivery of this information was brief: quills
can often give birth to foals by the age of sixteen. However, kinder farmers
allow a foal to mature at their own pace, physically and emotionally. Gray,
Jensen stated, thought waiting was beneficial; it would lower the risk of a
miscarriage and any damage to Jared or the foal.
He had been ready then, though neither Gray nor Jensen really listened to him.
Gray kept issuing shots in Jared’s upper arms, once a month without fail.
An entire year older, Jared knows he is ready now.
And what better way to prove it than by being brave?
Inhale. Exhale. Deeper inhale. Longer exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Deeper inhale.
Longer exhale.
Jared suppresses a smile. Jensen’s breathing patterns are as familiar to him as
the patchwork on their quilts. There are two patterns Jared has studied the
most: sleeping Jensen and pretending to sleep Jensen. With the all-clear, Jared
soundlessly rolls off their nest. This is routine. There have been instances
when the younger quill has arisen, restless and energized two hours before
dawn. Two stern warnings from the older quinn necessitated the ability to leave
their nest without disruption. Jared would then play with the red rubber ball
in the corner of their pen, if it wasn’t lodged into the chink in the wall.
Crawling away from the slumbering quinn, Jared inches towards the gate.
The quill noses the wooden piece that reaches his chest. He doesn’t dare touch
it with his hands. That would be directly disobeying Jensen. But say the rubber
red ball nudged the gate? After all, it’s only the slightest push…
Hushed, the gate swings open.
Dandelion sunlight pours from the three windows near the barn’s ceiling. There
might still be time for a quick run through the sunflower field. Or, at the
very least, some time to trot on the grass surrounding the barn.
Outside. Inside. Pen. Barn. Field. Outside. Inside. Inhale. Exhale. Deeper
inhale. Longer exhale.
Assured in his mission, Jared slips through the open space between the
outstretched gate and their stoic pen. He doesn’t question the latch. Thick
stripes of natural light charm him, promising enticing sensations of heat. The
clear, clean barn floor provides the perfect setting to stretch out, roll
around, and investigate his surroundings from a completely new and exciting
angle.
The quill starts over, crouched, on hands and knees.
At the front of the barn, he turns around, his back to the door, facing the two
rows of pens separated by one stretch of ground the color of pebbles at the
bottom of the creek. This must be Gray’s view. A thrill passes through Jared;
now he has a secret. Oh, he might tell Jensen, in time, but for the moment the
secret is his and only his. And though he treasures the notion, the quill
senses something amiss--Gray would never crouch or crawl. He always walks
upright. So, this couldn’t possibly be true to life.
Jared’s muscles coil in preparation. Just a few seconds. No more than that.
Holding his head high, Jared freezes, eyes wide. He looks over to his left,
where the slightest sound emerged. The barn door opened.
But how?
Nothing and no one stands in the wide doorway.
Spooked, Jared angles his right hand towards his pen. He was brave enough to
leave it, but instinct shouts at him to return immediately. Set on his
direction, the quill moves forward an inch. Though he hurries, commanding his
hands and legs to work, every motion lasts three times as long as if stuck in
sap.
Out of the corner of his eye, the red rubber ball tumbles past the barn door.
Gray!
The quill races outside. His long, conditioned legs rush him forth, past the
open door. Bronze light provided by the setting sun shimmers in greeting.
Grinning, Jared charges in the opposite direction of the red rubber ball. Gray
must have tossed it, which means Jared should retrieve it, but just this once
Jared must break the rules. Jared’s eyes search the space directly in front of
him, then to the left, then to the right, and then back to the barn.
Turning around once more, Jared lets out a whine. The young quill stands in
place with his shoulders slumped. Not even the red rubber ball can be seen.
A distant shout from the sunflower patch erupts across the grass and away from
the barn.
Two hands grab Jared’s shoulders.
“Jared!”
Shrieking, Jared bucks against the hands, squeezing his eyes shut in fear. The
hands contort his body, turning him around with an impatient shake.
“What are you doing?” Jensen growls. “Open your eyes.”
The quill’s heart rattles against his ribs, pounding at an alarming rate. He
throws his arms around Jensen, burying his face in the quinn’s neck, mewling a
plea for forgiveness. The barn door was open. Jared thought Gray would be out
here, and since the red rubber ball rolled past…
Visibly upset, Jensen snorts and places an inch of space between them, meeting
Jared’s eyes. “What are you talking about? Your ball’s been stuck in the wall
since last week. I told you I’m not getting it out of there until you let me
sleep past dawn.”
“I saw it!” Jared quips. “The door opened and I saw it!”
Doubt stares back at the quill. “Whatever you think you saw, forget it. Come
back inside.”
“But I…”
“No, not another word.” Jensen stands an inch taller, feet spread, chin tilted
out. The line of his jaw bounces. “Come back into the barn, Jared.”
Not about to be scolded like a foal, Jared breathes hard. He won’t be pushed
around by his quinn--today or any other day. If Jensen would only stop and
listen to what he has to say, instead of lecturing or grunting out what Jared
should or shouldn’t do…
Another shout cracks through the field.
Jared bolts.
 
The quality of a quill’s milk depends on a variety of variables. Farmers most
often refer to age, temperament, emotional state, and physical condition.
Fertile quills produce the highest quality of milk. Mature quills do not drink
their own milk, nor each other’s milk. Water remains preferable to quills above
anything else. Quinns can drink the milk from their own quill’s or another’s in
moderation or risk excess weight gain.
Farmers and their families enjoy quill milk.
A long time ago, longer than any living quill or quinn can remember, farmers
supplied their families with the milk of animals.
Milking should be conducted on a schedule. The process should be beneficial to
both quill and farmer.
Racing through fragrant juniper meadows, bounding over brush and rock, Jared
concentrates every ounce of focus into his body. He controls the muscles in his
legs, commands the beating of his heart, and conducts the rhythm of each rapid
breath. Barefoot, he covers his tracks, twisting and weaving through the
sunflower patch. Jensen can pick up his scent through the aromatics around
them, but it doesn’t have to be easy.
Jared is fast.
He can outrun Jensen and any other quill or quinn on the farm.
Sunflowers part for him. They bow and make a path where there was none before.
The patch glitters, resplendent in the brightest yellows, contrasted by the
purest blacks. Sunset does not dim them.
Further and further into the sunflowers’ ward, Jared listens, pleading for the
owner of the shouts to reveal themselves and their location. He cannot pinpoint
the direction of the shout without hearing its source again. Head up, posture
in correct alignment, the young quill exerts a large reserve of his energy to
run out of the sunflower patch and back out to the meadows.
Except, the patch does not end where it should.
He runs much farther than the memory in his feet. The patch should have ended
ten yards that way. Is it possible to be turned around? Could he have confused
himself in his hurry? But how many times has he timed the distance, measured
his steps…? He can’t be wrong. He was distracted, that’s all. Pushing the
sinews and tendons in his legs, Jared accelerates. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.
Exhale. For three seconds he closes his eyes. While scrutinizing every stalk,
petal, and rich mound of soil, desperation spikes, hounding after the beating
of his heart.
Gasping for breath, Jared stumbles out of the patch, skidding into a field of
shamrocks.
Sunflowers alert him of Jensen’s presence, rustling as the older quinn works
his way through the maze.
“Jared,” he calls out, distress apparent in his voice. His hand sticks out of
the patch first, followed by his head. Locking his sight on Jared, he muscles
out of the sunflowers, which grow thick and close together at the edge. “Don’t
run where I can’t see you.”
Clusters of delicate shamrocks tickle Jared’s ankles. He shakes his head,
snorting, and turns away from Jensen. “I heard him. I heard him here.”
Gray has never missed a milking session with any of the quills. It isn’t good
for them to skip sessions. Already, a tinge of pain wriggles its way into
Jared’s spine. Even on the bleakest, rainiest days, Gray would visit, often
spending more time than usual with each pair to ensure they had what they
needed. Their pens are always warm and dry. Gray changes their hay every three
days. With Jensen’s permission, he’ll sit on stool beside Jared’s milking
station and pet Jared as the machine works. Gentle hands have always brushed
his hair back, tucking it behind his ear, while a voice in a deep timbre
murmurs praise and adoration.
“We need to go to the barn, Jared.”
“Gray’s not there.”
“It’s going to be nighttime soon.”
“But Gray’s not there,” Jared insists, stomping his foot. “And I heard him, I
know I did.” The young quill trots forward, away from the sunflower patch and
the barn. Too many questions simmer in his mind. It sounds nice at first, to
follow Jensen and fall asleep in their nest again. They might even mate, and
Jensen knows how to hook him up to the milking station in their pen. Physical
relief tempts the young quill. Perhaps he could pick up the threads of these
questions tomorrow, at first light. Jensen could hold him closer, heated by
their quilts and hay, and perhaps indulge Jared with a few licks to his cheek.
Chin up, Jared continues walking towards the dense, abundant fields of grass
and flowers. Fencing rests not too far from where they are.
He can feel Jensen hesitate.
It will break a small piece of his heart to go alone.
Catching up, Jensen catches Jared’s hand, holding it firmly against his own. He
doesn’t say much, a welcome reprieve.
At the fence separating their farm from the forest, the quinn squeezes the
quill’s hand.
Helping Jared over the fence, Jensen murmurs, “Just keep your eyes open.”
 
Much does not need to be said between them.
They walk and walk through the forest, seeking the best possible footing, with
Jensen carefully lifting Jared up over rotten logs or thickets of thorns. Jared
pauses their efforts for a fraction of a moment afterwards, every time licking
Jensen on the cheek in appreciation. More than once, the quinn accepts each
lick, snorting softly in Jared’s hair.
Quinns possess better eyesight in the dark than quills. Jensen’s eyes adjust to
the indigo veil lain across the forest. The forest floor releases its heat from
the sun and turns cold quickly. With every twenty steps, trees impress upon
their surroundings, huddling closer and closer together, sending undisclosed
messages to each other. Branches sway without any wind. Trunks groan, both
distant and near. Curled leaves flounder to the ground. Stashed away in their
secret places, owls and squirrels stare out, still and static.
Their quest seems simple: find Gray and go back to the barn.
An hour passes. Jensen declares that he can no longer see the barn from where
they are.
Aged trees cluster around spindly, slender saplings. Crisp grass and leaves
crunch beneath their feet at the slightest pressure. Fortresses of vines and
thorns alter what could be pathways, rendering them impassable. Flowers take on
a different shape here, accustom to antique shade. And although life ripples in
patters throughout--in the trees and on the floor--it’s the stillness of it all
that disturbs the balance.
Jared presses on. His shoulders tilt, avoiding clumps of hanging moss. When his
footing slips over an unseen rock, Jensen’s firm grip on his hand prevents a
nasty fall. The quill can sense Jensen’s apprehension--of treading so far from
the barn and making their slow, clumsy way through the forest without the aid
of daylight. He can also nearly count the seconds until Jensen strongly
suggesting that they stop for the night. But why stop? That’s more time wasted.
Leaves crunch to Jared’s right.
Jensen is on his left.
He does his best not to scream, squeezing Jensen’s hand so tight that the quinn
takes a sharp inhale of breath. Both quinn and quill look to the right.
A flash of black--darker than any of the shadows, crevices, or thickets in the
forest--zips past.
Is it something dreadful? Something chasing them? A distraction? Or is it
something running away from something worse? Fear sluices off of Jared in
waves. He wanted to come out here. He ran after the ball. These are the
consequences of his actions. Why didn’t he listen to Jensen and return to the
barn?
Stopped for the moment, Jensen presses his hands against Jared’s face in a rare
show of affection.
It’s not that quinns lack emotion. All the opposite. It’s just that Jensen’s
affection wasn’t won easily, which made it all the more worth earning.
Nose to nose, Jensen’s close breathing slows Jared’s. He almost hums his words.
“Easy. Easy now.”
Nodding, Jared sniffles. He slips his hands over Jensen’s and allows himself a
tiny indulgence, a momentary pause. The second lips press over his he leans in
and accepts the kiss. More than that, the three licks to his cheek provide
delicate comfort.
Jensen listens to the forest. He stands tall, hands on Jared’s shoulders, and
nods that they can proceed.
Further and further into the thick of nature they walk.
The moon peers at them from high up, behind a flaxen shroud.
They reach a large, illuminated clearing--a perfect circle, swept level,
meticulously cared for.
In the middle, on a single, gnarled tree stump, a black cat sits. But it
doesn’t just sit, like cats should; it sits the way Jared or Jensen, or even
Gray, sits. It smiles. It displays its pointed teeth. Legs crossed, it taps one
claw from its front paw on the stump.
Corpses of field mice lay beside this cat.
“Don’t mind them,” the cat simpers with a purr. “They’re dinner.”
Jensen grips Jared’s hand, jaw set, intent on ignoring the mice, the cat, and
the clearing. They’ll go another way. They’ll go around instead of through.
“That will take you twice as long.”
Jared lingers, slowing down the pace of his step. Twice as long?
“Mmyes, more dangerous that way, too.” The cat chomps down on a mouse. Bones
crack. A squeak echoes, slithering into Jared’s ears. “You’ll run into Sitiv
for sure.”
Tugging on Jensen’s hand, the young quill silently begs him to stop. Jensen
snorts and pulls Jared forward. His answer is still no. Absolutely not. Gray
has never allowed any other animal inside the barn. They don’t need a cat
because there are no mice. Cats--and any other creature outside their barn--are
not ever to be trusted.
Fur as dark as midnight and glossy like the moon gleams from the dead center of
the clearing. The cat speaks in a higher pitch, taking its time pronouncing
every word. “Too bad then, since you’ve made up your minds. I have a present
for the little one.”
“Cats cannot talk!” Jensen snaps at it. In frustration, he lets go of Jared’s
hand, motioning towards the stump. “Why would you want to listen to it?”
Before Jared can answer, the cat hisses, almost spitting at Jensen. “How do you
know  cats can’t talk? Have you ever asked one? Have you ever invited one
insssside to get out of the freezing cold?” Not a scrap of mouse hangs from its
mouth. On the other side of the cat, the one not occupied by the corpses of
mice, laid an ivory handkerchief.
“Please,” Jared blurts out, taking a step forward. “What do you have for me?”
The grin unleashed from obsidian cheeks practically shines. Tapping its
extended claw against the stump yet again, its canary-yellow eyes show a
distinct interest. “I can’t very well give you your present from all the way
over there.”
“You’re not serious--Jared?” Jensen takes half a step, hand outstretched.
Looking over his shoulder, Jared responds, “I am.”
“And you’re going the wrong way.” The cat crosses its legs, leaning back on its
contorted throne. “Too far into the forest and you’ll run into Sitiv. That’s
for certain.”
Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Deeper inhale. Longer exhale. Each step builds
the unease stirring in the young quill’s chest. Not a single leaf or blade of
grass lies inside the clearing. Even the trees that grow around it refrain from
stretching their branches over it, going so far to grow in such a way as to
avoid the spillage of their shadows.
Within an arm’s length of the cat, Jared notices that some of the mice--only
some, not all--are still alive.
“Oh,” the cat says, almost sweetly. “I don’t deliver messages myself. Nasty
business, those things. Now go on, listen. Then you may have your present and
I’ll even help you out a little.”
Jared bites his bottom lip. He finds his voice, though it sounds watery to his
ears. “In exchange for what?”
“That’s good progressssss. I like you.” The cat tosses an unfriendly glance in
Jensen’s direction. “You’re nice. So I tell you what, little one. When you get
back, let me in when it rains.”
“Why?”
“I,” the cat scrunches its nose as it speaks, “ hate  the rain. It messes up my
fur.”
It makes sense to Jared. He wouldn’t enjoy being in the rain either. And their
conversation was taking up time. “That’s fine. I’ll let you in.”
“Excellent!” With its right paw, the cat nudges one of the mice closest to it.
“Now, listen.”
Small, silver, and round, the field mouse stands upright. It coughs and clears
its throat before squeaking:
In the white room with black curtains, near the station.
Blackroof country, no gold pavements, tired starlings.
Dawnlight smiles on you leaving, my contentment
I’ll wait in this place where the sun never shines
Wait in this place where the shadows run from themselves.
Bowing, the mouse takes its former place.
The cat pats its head and meets Jared’s eyes. “I’m not so bad, I promise. But
everything has an end. You’ll see. And when you do, don’t be afraid of them.”
With the handkerchief, the cat picks up Jared’s present: a gray, polished rock
the size of a few pellets of feed. “Don’t let anyone else touch it.” It drops
into Jared’s palm, surprisingly heavy. “It won’t work the same.”
Then, just like it said, the cat provides Jared with instructions on how to
proceed after the clearing.
“How do you know where we’re going?”
“Where you’re going?” The cat begins licking its right paw. “Some things I
jusssst know.”
Taking Jensen’s hand, Jared starts off, this time in front.
 
Silver horses ran down moonbeams in your dark eyes
Platform ticket, restless diesels, goodbye windows
I walked into such a sad time at the station
As I walked out, felt my own need just beginning
I’ll wait in the queue when the trains come back
Lie with you where the shadows run from themselves
At the party she was kindness in the hard crowd
Consolation for the old wound now forgotten
Yellow tigers crouched in jungles in her dark eyes
She’s just dressing, goodbye windows, tired starlings
I’ll sleep in this place with the lonely crowd;
Lie in the dark where the shadows run from themselves
 
Forests rot.
Everywhere, constantly, something in the forest undergoes the silent process of
decay. The sweet scents of berries ripening melds with the odor of
deterioration. Nighttime neither hastens nor slows this process. Pieces of
writhered branches fall at their leisure, creating thumps and echoes through
the forest, answering some inaudible call.
“It changes color, Jensen.”
“No it doesn’t.”
“It does!”
“You think it does.”
“I know it does. Back by that tree with the moth it was gold. Now it’s silver.”
“What tree with what moth?”
“I saw a white moth on a tree.”
“That could have been any tree, Jared.”
“How do you know?”
“...fine.”
“It was a pretty moth.”
“What’s that thing do, anyway?”
“The cat didn’t say. I just know you can’t touch it.”
“Hmph. Cats are nosy.”
“Those poor mice.”
“Speaking of, aren’t you hungry?”
“Don’t make me eat a mouse.”
“Do I look like a no good cat to you?”
“I just don’t want to eat a mouse.”
“I’m not going to make you eat a mouse.”
“Okay.”
“Well?”
“Oh. No. I’m not hungry.”
“Tired? Maybe you should rest.”
“A little…”
“We can rest.”
“So soon?”
“You need to rest.”
“Will you sit with me?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t want to sleep though.”
“Who would want to sleep in a place like this?”
“The cat does.”
“Let’s not talk about the cat anymore, please.”
“I want to know how it chopped down that tree.”
“It didn’t… what did I say about the cat?”
“I didn’t get to eat my shamrocks.”
“They’ll be there when we get back.”
“I hope so. Look! Now it’s gold.”
“Huh. So it is.”
“What do you think Sitiv is?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re tired, Jen.”
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you say?”
“I got used to it.”
The quinn looks away, up at the canopy, where the trees hide the stars.
 
No matter how far they walk, daylight never returns. Neither quill nor quinn
know if they are pressing further into the forest or traveling in circles. They
try to mark trees, drop trails of twigs or leaves, but their markers always
disappear.
After a long length of time, the young quill admits to the quinn that he is in
pain.
Who knows how many hours or days have passed since his last milking. Out in the
perpetual misty forest there are no milking stations. No cozy beds of hay and
quilts. No red rubber ball to kick around as distraction from the ache in his
feet and the uncomfortable fullness in his stomach. The forest floor yields no
warmth or give. And perhaps worst of all, they have no neighbors.
Jensen offers to milk Jared while they take another rest, this time by a
collection of moss and vines at the base of an old tree. The young quill
sniffles and pouts as he considers the options. In the barn, if things were as
they should be, Gray would knock on their gate and make eye contact with Jensen
before entering. Then he would walk over to them both, no matter where they
were in their pen, hold out his hand, and gift gentle, soothing pats on the
head. Under Jensen’s watch, Gray would then lead the quill over to his station-
-two horizontal wooden posts covered in sheepskin. One post is for Jared to
rest his head and arms on, the other for his knees. In position, Gray would pet
Jared’s head again, card his fingers through his hair, and murmur compliments.
Not once had the machine hurt Jared.
Under Gray’s hands, everything was done with care. He would do that now, even
in the darkest of places. And while Jared trusts Jensen to do the same, the
materials aren’t right. Leaves and twigs cannot be turned into a proper milking
machine. With build up, Jared would need a few hours on the machine; something
neither Jensen’s nor Gray’s hands could manage.
Perhaps the worst part, Jared knows, is the lack of container for his milk.
It would all go to waste.
That notion too unbearable to consider, Jared insists on continuing. If they
are walking in circles then they have to reach the clearing again somehow. And
if not, then surely they would hear another shout, or have some indication of
Gray’s location.
Trotting side by side and hand in hand with the quinn, the younger quill keeps
his free arm wrapped around his slightly distended middle. Occasionally, he
feels a pulse from his lower stomach, a sting that spreads pain throughout his
body. He would never waste milk. Never.
The sound of voices snaps Jared out of his head.
“Not there,” Jensen whispers. “Let’s not go there.”
“But they might have seen Gray.”
“That’s going too deep.”
“We’re in deep enough,” Jared counters, chin up despite his pain. “Please.”
Jensen takes in a measured, deep breath and nods. “But don’t let go of my hand.
Not for a second.”
“Same goes for you.”
Advancing on the voices, they take care to keep their footsteps light, avoiding
twigs and thorns. In Jared’s closed palm, the stone shifts from a milky silver
to a vivid gold.
Old and young trees stretch to form arches above a stone wall. Each stone fits
its place, selected for their round, solid shapes. Unlike the rest of the
forest, neither moss nor vines grow around or on the wall. It is orderly. It is
stable. Not even a cobweb dusts the surface. The wall stands to Jared’s hips,
wrapping around in a circle, broken by only one entrance.
Kneeling at the ledge, close as they dare, the quinn and quill take their
chance.
The bleached, naked bones of quills and quinns past dance to a sedated tune.
Alabaster skeletal figures rattle, knock together and clatter. Moonlight bathes
them. Elegance never eludes them. Empty, ebony eye sockets stare out,
accompanied by the neutral expression of skinless faces. Effortlessly, their
jaw bones open and close, singing out in voices deeper than the roots of the
oldest trees.
The Devil is a window filled with fancy clothes.
Behind the words soar moans and wails.
Where are you going to run? Where do you think you’re going to hide? What makes
you think you’re slick enough to take old Satan for a ride? No matter what you
do… our old friend Mephistopheles stays just ahead of you.
Hand in hand, the skeletons drift off in pairs, floating towards mounds of
clean hay and weathered slabs of black stone.
The Devil never rests come day, come dusk, come dawn. You compromise and wind
up sold in parts.
Oooooohhhh...
So don’t it strike you funny when you look him in the eye…
The Devil looks a lot like you and I.
One second after the last word, every porcelain frame rotates.
Bulbous eye sockets fixate on Jared.
Every instinct implores--scream! Scream and run! Don’t listen to another word
of their somber song, it isn’t a message meant for him, he has no business
here, none at all…!
Staring back, the young quill remains kneeling, without any scream or shriek
slipping out of his mouth. He cannot move. He will not move. No, because he
remembers what was said to him before: everything has an end. Don’t be afraid
of them.
This is an end.
It is by no means perfect or without pain.
The skeleton closest to the young quill sails forward. Its neck rotates on its
shoulders like a half moon, causing its jaw to shake back and forth. Again, it
does this, and again, and again, until it stops in front of Jared and halts all
movement.
No, is what it said. Not the right place to look, but the right place to
listen.
Out of the corner of Jared’s eye, the red rubber ball bounces past, hurtling
into the forest. The skeleton at Jared’s place lifts up an arm and points--in
the opposite direction.
Eyes watering, Jared shakes his head, turning to face Jensen.
Jensen, who no longer kneels next to Jared.
Vanished.
Gone.
As are the skeletons.
 
Pulverizing the ground beneath him, Jared gallops at speeds previously thought
impossible. Bending, leaping, dodging, swerving, and plummeting into
incomprehensible obscurity--he never stops. Not for breath. Not for fear. Not
for doubt.
He had pictured it differently. He had dreamt of an early morning, nudging
Jensen’s shoulders and licking his cheek. And if that didn’t work, then he’d
simply snort into the quinn’s ear and then bite on the lobe to tug just a
little. After the usual facade of frowns and grumbles, Jensen would pin him
down and butt their foreheads together. Maybe some teasing. Or a compliment.
Maybe something like he could almost see Jared glowing already. And then the
tug of the quilt, the fragrance of fresh hay. It would start like a game. Who
could kiss and win? Who could resist the longest? Tie. A good tie. Kisses. More
licks. Jared’s hands on Jensen’s scars. Jensen’s hips in between Jared’s legs.
Slick. Tight. Heat. Arching. Stretching. Pleading. No shots in the quill’s
arms. No holding back. Nothing but the tender, relentless pounding of his
mate’s cock buried deep inside him. Looking up and licking Jensen’s chin,
shuddering in pleasure, begging for more. Exhilarating abandon. Scorching
urgency to be marked, to be mated, to carry Jensen’s foal. To make Gray proud.
To make the entire barn proud. Claimed and held close. Sweating, fevered, and
ravenous for everything his mate had to give. There. Right there. Fingers
fisted in tawny hair. Freckled shoulders creating a muscular home, all-
encompassing and never ending. Breaths hitching. Hips bucking. Jared’s cock
spurting the one spray of milk meant for this and this only. Jensen groaning at
the sight, biting into Jared’s shoulder and leaving the most exquisite brand.
More. More. More. Everything. Twitching. Releasing. Filled up. And again. Once
more. Pounding, thrusting, one more time, just once more…
Silver and gold. Silver and gold. This is the passage of time. Two hundred and
seventy days. Nine months. Silver and gold. Silver and gold. Inhale. Exhale.
Shallow inhale. Ragged exhale. This is not the pattern of Jensen sleeping. It
is not the pattern of Jensen pretending to sleep.
Fluid as the sweat rolling off his skin, Jared rushes.
He chose the opposite way.
One day, he will join that quill. And Jensen will join Jared. It will happen to
them. It will happen to Gray. It will happen to the burgeoning pain in Jared’s
abdomen. It will happen as it must happen. There are some things he knows and
some things he does not. There is no reason to be afraid of either.
A little further.
His lungs expand and eyes clear. The rotation of the earth makes sense. Because
now, against a stone wall on the very edge of the forest, Jared can see Gray.
Sitiv roars behind the quill. It eclipses everything in its path. It formulates
torture and craves profit. Howling, bellowing, it thrashes Jared’s shadow,
slicing permanent, jagged scars into its back. More. It wants more. It wants
everything Jared has to give and more. Always more. Pierced and hooked, Jared’s
shadow succumbs, torn and lost to Sitiv.
It lusts after agony. It eats the shadow, swallows it whole, unmistakable by
the sound of slurping and gnashing. Monstrous. Thirsty. Greedy. Drink, drink,
drink.
Jared keeps his eyes open.
For the moment he crashes into Gray.
 
The young quill in the largest pen wails in misery.
Eyes rolled back, the body and the spirit wrench against their iron chains.
Searing, excruciating pain blasts through his spine, igniting shock. The
screams become shrill bleats rising and rising in pitch. His shoulders heave
forward following a vehement jolt of trauma between his legs. Half blind and
confused, Jared sobs from the virulent spasms in his hips. Pressure inflates
inside him until it threatens to pop. No amount of breathing will stop it. No
amount of pleading can return him to the forest.
“Stay down!” A foreign voice slams into the quill’s eardrums. “I said stay
down, all of you!”
Slipping on blood-soaked, filthy hay, Jared’s knees quiver. Something isn’t
right. Something is happening to him and it’s wrong.
His stomach lurches.
A heavy weight rests on his neck.
Shadows play out what he cannot see. One figure lunges towards another. A
shout. A growl. The thud of a heavy object on the hardwood floor.
The sound of a whip cracking and Jensen crying out.
For a few short seconds in time, Jared’s vision clears. He takes things in one
at a time, as he sees them. Iron chains him to his milking station. The machine
is on and nothing but blood slips through the line from Jared’s cock. And
below, looking at himself, rests the mound of a quill heavy with foal.
He’s giving birth.
And he’s dying.
Milked for two hundred and twenty seven days without reprieve, without rest,
without once being unchained. Milked dry. Used up. Skeletal like the quill who
pointed opposite the rubber red ball.
Moaning, Jared resists the dark spots around his eyes. The foal lurches inside
him, dropping, but sitting low in his pelvis, dangerously stuck.
Jensen emerges from the shadows reflected on the pen wall.
His hands fly to Jared’s face where they land for only a second. They flutter
over to Jared’s wrists, using keys to unlock the chains.  
“Hold on,” Jensen pleads, “just hold on.”
There should be an answer here.
Jared sees three things: a stone peeking out from under the milking station,
the object that fell, and a shadow creeping up the pen wall. Surging up, Jensen
collides with the shadow’s physical form. It’s not enough, but there are some
things Jared just knows.
The stone is a bullet.
And a bullet goes inside a gun.
Finger on the trigger, Jared aims from his place on the floor, bleeding out,
the foal fighting against his body, and his eyesight failing. Two hundred and
twenty seven days. The red rubber ball. It lured him outside the barn, where he
was caught and held hostage by Sitiv. Sitiv, a farmer he had never seen before,
who held the gun to his temple and ordered all the quills and quinns in the
barn to behave or Jared’s brains would be blown out of his pretty little head.
Sitiv, backwards for vitis, responsible for the poisonous vines wrapped around
Gray.
Sitiv who milked the other quills in the barn to death. Sitiv who worked every
quinn to death. Except for one. Just so that particular quinn could watch his
quill give birth to his foal--and then watch them both die.
Two hundred and twenty seven days of torture.
Bang!
And it ends now.
Sitiv’s blood splatters on the gate to Jared and Jensen’s pen.
It’s sunrise.


End Notes
     PHEW.
     Can we show some love to my amazing artist, Blackbluerose? Please
     leave some love for them in the comments. <3 An eternal thank you to
     my betas: mcdanno28, rieraclaelin, and E. Thank you for the brain
     storming, the editing, the counseling, the support, and the kicks in
     the ass when needed.
     Just like last year, you'll have to wait for an epilogue. It'll be up
     in a few days, after i get some rest. :) This is a really... out
     there fic, so ask questions! Leave comments! Send hugs! Thank you for
     reading!
      
     Songs: White Room by Cream and The Devil by Mary Lou Williams.
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