sometimes you need a story

SPN Fic: In a state of imaginary grace

dotfic — Wed, 12 Dec 2012 00:44:35 GMT

In a state of imaginary grace
Dean/Castiel | 1,000 words | PG | Coda for 8.07

a/n: Title from Modern English.

Summary: Dean’s not sure what he meant when he said to Cas in Purgatory, we’re going home, except he guesses he meant, in part, this.

They always make it up as they go anyway.

SPN Fic: Objects at rest

dotfic — Tue, 04 Dec 2012 00:59:05 GMT

Hey all, small logistical change at LJ, I'll be hosting fics at AO3 and x-posting from here. You are very welcome to comment on LJ (I know a lot of people prefer that).

Objects at rest
Sam, Dean, and Castiel | 1600 words | PG

a/n: Coda for 8.08. With hat tip to the work of Chuck Jones.

Summary: After the hunt, Castiel has a request: he wants to see more cartoons.

"This duck seems to have anger issues."

The Unusuals fic: Eye of the Wind

dotfic — Thu, 18 Oct 2012 11:32:21 GMT

Happy birthday to the fabulous innie_darling, who can always tempt me to try writing in new fandoms. Hope your day is wonderful! ♥

Eye of the Wind
Casey Shraeger, Jason Walsh | 1,400 words | PG

a/n: Written for innie_darling's birthday, beta by musesfool. Inspired by 1.07, "The Circle Line."

Summary: Walsh thinks that a ride on the Staten Island Ferry would do Shraeger some good. Shraeger isn't so sure.

It was just past 10 a.m. on a Sunday as Casey slouched in one of the plastic chairs of the South Ferry terminal, shoving her hands deep into the pockets of her jacket.

"I'm not sure this is such a good idea." She wondered if a third cup of coffee was a good idea, then decided it didn't matter, she should have one. Maybe even a cappuccino--it seemed like a cappuccino situation, with chocolate shavings.

Walsh grinned at her in an annoyingly calm way. "C'mon, it'll be fun. It's a boat ride!"

"I hate boats, Walsh."

"Yes, I know. That's why we're here."

Casey sighed, staring up at the sunlight shining through the glass panels of the terminal. Definitely a cappuccino, and maybe some biscotti. That was one of her better memories of high school, a group of kids gathered around a table someplace like Café Mozart, talking for hours, cramming themselves full of sugar, caffeine, whipped cream, and pastry.

"Sooner or later we'll be trying to catch a murderer and the case will require us to go on a boat," Walsh said. "I figured, maybe we can get you used to boats ahead of time so you won't have a nautically-induced meltdown while we're on the clock."

Stretching his arm across the back of the empty seat beside him, Walsh calmly tapped his fingers against the plastic.

"I won't have a meltdown," Casey said, eyeing the vendors in the terminal and trying to decide which one to buy her cappuccino from. "This is a waste of time."

"So, no big deal, it's a Sunday, you're taking a boat ride. There's no downside, here, Shraeger." Walsh said it so slow and easy, Casey almost felt comforted. There was something comforting about Walsh.

"Except boat," Casey said, standing up. "I'm getting a cappuccino and biscotti. Do you want anything?"

"Nah, I'm good."

She walked across the terminal, which had only a small crowd of waiting passengers, none of them in business wear because it was the weekend. Casey liked being out in the city when she wasn't on duty, just another face in the flow of it all, the day to day life, stuff that she'd been held remote from growing up, stuff she'd been taught had no connection to who she was.

"Okay," she said, sitting back down next to Walsh. "I got you a biscotti even though you said you didn't want one. Here."

Walsh took it, the paper wrapped around it rustling. He examined it as if it were a piece of evidence, turning it over in his fingers, then sniffed it. "Almond."

"I've got two chocolate if you'd rather…"

"Almond's good." He shrugged.

It was eight minutes to the next ferry. Casey poured sugar into her cappuccino and willed her stomach to stop jumping. Because yeah, the caffeine was such a good idea, this would be very calming.

She stuck the little wooden swizzle stick into the foam, watching the sugar sink and vanish.

A few minutes later they were in the line to board, Hudson River a wash of blue-gray beyond the windows. A gull flew low beyond the glass walls of the terminal. "This isn't such a good idea," Casey said, clutching the warm paper cup holding her cappuccino. The biscotti she'd just consumed sat heavy in her stomach, and she felt a little queasy.

The line moved forward, but Walsh put a hand on her arm, stopping her, letting people move ahead of them. "Hey, if you'd really rather not--"

Damn it, he looked so incredibly patient and concerned. Plus, he had a point. If she didn't prepare herself for being on a boat, at some point, it could affect her work.

"No, let's…it's ok, let's do this." She held up her hand and walked forward.

"The ferries are pretty big you know," Walsh said, catching up with her. "Big, wide, you barely feel any motion at all."

She side-eyed him. "Liar."

"No, really, unless you're out in bad weather--which we are not going to be. They're very stable boats, and the view is amazing."

They stepped onto the ferry, which felt like it was rocking. Casey gripped the backs of the rows of seats as she made her way to a seat as close to the center of the room as possible, in sight of the concession stand. She sat down and folded her arms as Walsh settled next to her.

Walsh picked up a newspaper someone had discarded on the seat, and started skimming the headlines. Then he paused to turn and stare out the windows on one side, then the other--he looked fleetingly like a little kid. "Man, I love the Hudson," he said. "So…is it water that disturbs you, or is it just boats?"

"Boats. Specifically, boats on water."

"Just checking." He nodded, and went back to looking at the newspaper while Casey cautiously leaned over to get a glimpse out the window, getting a pretty view of the water, shining in the sunlight, and the Manhattan skyline.

So maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

The boat shuddered and the engines revved. Casey twined her fingers tightly together in her lap.

As the ferry pulled away from its mooring, skyline sliding gracefully past the windows, Walsh reached down and put his hand, palm warm, over both of hers. He squeezed once and let go.

After a few minutes, Walsh stood up and stretched. "I'm hungry," he said. "You want a hot dog?"

Casey put her hand on her stomach. "No, thank you." She swallowed.

"Easy, Shraeger. Told you, big, wide boat, very sturdy." He touched her shoulder lightly. "I'll be right back." Walsh headed off for the concession stand.

A family sat opposite Casey's row, parents with a baby and a toddler. Probably visiting relatives on the island. On the other side, a college-age kid who needed a shave slouched in his seat, iPod headphones in his ears, nodding along quietly to whatever music he was listening to while he stared out the window. An old man in a suit and a fedora sat in the corner, napping.

Walsh returned, eating his hot dog in four big bites, licking mustard off his fingers. "We should try going outside."

"Outside?" Casey said, her voice rising to an embarrassing pitch at the end of the word.

"On the deck. The bow's the best place, great view. There's a railing and everything, I swear."

"I am on a boat. That's plenty." Casey patted the seat beside her. "Nice, solid seats. Kudos to the MTA on the seats."

"Okay." He sat down and stuck his shoe up on the seat, fixing the laces on his sneaker.

She thought of Banks, living in a bullet-proof vest.

"Maybe five minutes outside," Casey said.

"Great view, I'm telling ya." Walsh got to his feet and waited for her to follow.

The sun reflected off the water was almost blinding. Casey clung to the walls as she edged out onto the bow deck, and then wrapped the fingers of her left hand around the cold metal of the railing.

She felt Walsh's hand at the base of her back. "Just hold the railing," he told her, "and look at the pretty view."

"It's a very nice view."

Which it was, but being surrounded by this much water, way, way out in the middle of New York Harbor with Staten Island in the distance, was making her stomach lurch again. The wind rushed in her ears. Two elderly ladies with cameras also stood at the railing, neither holding on, looking as comfortable as if they were on solid land.

"A good cop isn't someone who's never scared," Walsh said, leaning his elbows on the railing and squinting against the sunlight. "It's someone who can be afraid, but keep a clear head and use their instincts."

They spent the rest of the trip leaning against the rail, not speaking, just the water and wind and the opposite shore growing closer.

By the time the ferry docked, Casey's stomach had settled.

They wandered around the terminal at St. George's, and watched the fish in the big tank, until it was time for the next ferry.

"Ready?" Walsh said, when it was time to board.

Casey curled her fingers into a fist and released. Her hands were steady. "Yeah. Let's go."

~end

This entry is also on dreamwidth: http://dotfic.dreamwidth.org/424539.html. Feel free to comment at either post.

Teen Wolf fic: Awaken

dotfic — Thu, 06 Sep 2012 11:37:44 GMT

Awaken
Kate Argent, Chris Argent, Gerard Argent, OFC, OMC | 1700 words | PG | preseries

a/n: Inspired by a piece of backstory Chris Argent mentioned in an episode. It's also a blink-and-you'll-miss-it crossover. Thank you to sistabro and twoskeletons because a lot of this is totally their fault and to sistabro for the beta.

Summary: There were things Kate didn't know. And then she did.

It was Mama who first put a crossbow in Kate's hands, showed her the right way to hold it, how to aim. She also nailed a target to the oak tree in the back yard of their old house, the one near enough the ocean that the air sometimes smelled salty.

"Good," Mama said after the arrow hit near the center. "Good, Kate." With her dark braid falling over one shoulder, Mama smiled wide.

"I'll hit the bulls-eye by tomorrow," Kate said. Chris already could, but she was better than Chris at other things even though he was older, and she'd be better at this too.

"Yeah, you probably will." Mama brushed the hair back from Kate's cheek, then handed her another arrow.

*

"That's it, son, and don't you slow down just because you get near the end," Papa shouted as Chris ran through the obstacle course.

Wind rippled the tall grasses of the field. The day was warm and sunny one minute, gray and cool the next, the sky half full of clouds. Kate zipped up her light jacket, smelling salt on the air.

Chris vaulted over the last fence and ran hard towards the finish line. Papa clicked the old stopwatch and held it up while Chris leaned over with his hands on his knees, breathing hard.

"Look at that, Kate, a new record." He jotted the number into the small notepad he kept in his jacket pocket. "Samuel, rest his soul, would be puce with envy," Papa muttered, pleased.

"I can beat it."

"You can try," Chris said dropping down and taking a water bottle out of his knapsack. He gave her a feral challenge of a grin.

"You sure can, sweetheart," Papa said. "Go." He jerked his head towards the starting point.

She didn't beat Chris's record that day.

*

The house carried secrets like a scent.

Sometimes men and women in dark clothes visited late, after Kate was supposed to be in bed. They'd go with Papa and Mama to the basement. Kate would get out of bed, pausing after each step to make sure the floor didn't creak too much, and make her way down the stairs.

The door to the basement was in dark hall wedged off the kitchen and there Kate would crouch in her pajamas, trying to listen. There was a locked room in the basement behind a metal door--only Papa and Mama had the key--and that was where these meetings took place in the dark hours. Kate couldn't quite bring herself to go all the way down to that door, but the sound of voices carried through a vent. She never made out specifics, only tone of voices--long talks that on some nights rolled into arguments. Then Mama's voice would rise above the rest, sharper than she ever was with Chris or Kate, and the others, including Papa, would go quiet to listen to her.

Chris caught her a few times, grabbing her arm, pulling Kate reluctantly back up to her room. Sometimes he'd tuck her in, and sit for a little while, reading to her.

"Stop trying to listen in," he said one chilly night as the tree branches scraped at her window. "There's stuff you don't need to know yet."

She had no idea what he meant by that, or why Chris got to know things Kate didn't. Chris thought he was so smart and big, but he wasn't at the secret meetings either.

Kate folded her arms and stuck out her tongue.

Chris turned out the light and left.

There were things in the dark, the shadow of branches turning into claws. Kate scrambled out of bed and turned on the nightlight, then quickly got back under the covers again.

*

The training course was old--a series of fences, water traps, and holes--and as far as Kate knew, the layout had stayed basically the same generation to generation. She grouped it in her head with the archery lessons, the gymnastics, the martial arts--the emphasis on fitness ran high in their family. Mens sana in corpore sano, Papa kept saying.

It was a few years until she broke Chris's record, but finally, she did.

*

When Kate was in middle school, Papa kept urging on her interest in science beyond the limitations of what her grade had to offer. Chris was taking physics and mineralogy at the big high school and on Sunday afternoons he'd show Kate whatever they were working on.

Chris's best friend in high school was a wiry, long-limbed kid named David who seemed to eat more meals at the Argent's than he did at his own house. He was on the basketball team with Chris, and unlike a lot of the high school jocks, he wasn't obnoxious to the younger kids. David called her "Katie" without her even hating it, which she should have, because she hated cute nicknames. She was just Kate. Somehow she couldn't bring herself to tell David that, and she enjoyed hearing his laughter in the old house, which was often too quiet.

The summer before Kate started high school, a massive heat wave pressed down on the county along with a rise in wild animal attacks. Mountain lions, the news said. She spent a lot of time at the local pool, let Tony Hitchens kiss her, and practiced archery, sweat sticking hair against the back of her neck, tickling.

That was the summer Kate found out what the basement meetings were about.

That was the summer when David showed up but his laughter and teasing didn't, and Chris developed dark circles under his eyes. The two of them seemed to spend more time together than usual, but instead of goofing off like usual did, they talked in low voices, always seemed to be hurrying off somewhere.

David was the one changing, but Chris was growing farther away.

*

At two o'clock in the morning, Kate woke to voices downstairs, hurrying footsteps. Her window framed the full moon, a bright luminous ghostly circle, an inescapable spotlight.

She got out of bed crept out into the hall, pausing after each step to keep the floor from creaking. The terrible sound of her brother's raw hoarse sobs drifted up from the family room. Mama sat with Chris on the couch, trying to soothe him, while Papa stood by the fireplace, jawline firm.

Finally, Papa looked up, and seemed to see her clearly despite the shadows.

"You can come down now, Kate," he said, as if he'd known all along she was there, known she'd been listening to for years.

She walked downstairs in her bare feet, wearing her sleeping shorts with little flowers all over them and favorite soft t-shirt. Her fingers trailed along the smooth varnish of the banister. It was as if she wasn't actually there, but watching some other girl named Kate, some other girl watching her big brother's hands shake.
"This is why there's a code," Mama said, smoothing the hair back from Chris's forehead, eyes on Papa.

"He did what had to be done," Papa said.

"We follow the code." Mama straightened her back, dark hair falling over her shoulder and Papa turned away first. Very few people could stare Mama down when she looked like that. "You did the best you could," Mama said low to Chris, as Kate gingerly sat in one of the wooden chairs. "You did all you could, it's not your fault." She took his chin in her hands and made Chris look at her. "You did your best, no one is blaming you. But we have a code for a reason. You understand? Chris--" she said, more insistently, as he only blinked, barely responding. "You understand?"

Chris nodded.

"What happened?" Kate asked when the dryness in her mouth would allow her to speak.

They all turned to look at Kate.

*

Chris once told Kate about how when Chris was little, before Kate was even born yet, their parents would take periodic trips. There had been this girl there who used to babysit him, the daughter of a friend of the family. She'd had bright yellow hair, but mostly Chris said he remembered how one night a bat had gotten into the house. Rather than panicking and trying to kill it, she'd calmly chased it out using a broom, without hurting it.

There's more than one way. There's a code for a reason, she'd told Chris. That was the end of the story--Chris had never told Kate what the girl had meant by it.

*

That awful summer night, Kate sat on the floor leaning against the bed while her brother tried to sleep. He was fitful. Mama'd closed the curtains against the moonlight but it didn't do any good.

Kate grabbed his hand as his breathing changed, rasping too fast in his throat as he woke. She held on tight and Chris squeezed back until his breathing calmed.

This thing that had taken away David so he'd never call her "Katie" and annoy her again, this thing that had destroyed her brother's heart--it deserved what had happened to it.

"It wasn't David anymore," Kate whispered, her hand still caught tightly in Chris's even though he'd fallen asleep. "You did your best."

Things like that should die, with their deceptively human faces. They were ugly liars. They should all die.

*

"Show me knife throwing next," Kate told Papa.

"Oh, sweetheart," Papa sipped his coffee, standing with her on the porch on a fall morning. "You've only just learned about what's out there, it must be a lot to take in. I'm not sure you're quite ready."

The mist rose from the lawn and the pines, chill as Kate imagined ghosts would be.

"I want to learn," she said. "I'm not some scared little girl."

Papa smiled a little around the rim of the coffee cup--a smile that somehow Kate felt wasn't meant for her to see. "All right, then." His expression grew unreadable again. "You know, your brother did what was necessary. There is a code, but that doesn't mean you don't do whatever is necessary to be done." He rested his coffee mug on the porch railing. "Survival, Kate. That's the key."

Kate nodded.

This entry is also on dreamwidth: http://dotfic.dreamwidth.org/423827.html. Feel free to comment at either post.

Teen Wolf fic: All Right

dotfic — Sat, 18 Aug 2012 14:01:40 GMT

All Right
Scott and Stiles | 900 words | PG | coda for 2x12

a/n: Thank you to nanoochka for the beta read.

Summary: Out on the lacrosse field, it was easier for Stiles to stop thinking.

Even if Scott was being Mister Cheating McCheaterpants, using small bursts of super-speed to block Stiles's shots at the goal, Stiles found himself more quiet inside than he had been in days, weeks, maybe months. He adjusted his grip on the lacrosse stick, trying to remember all the little things Coach had told them about placing his feet, about turning towards the goal, about where his hands should be to get maximum power. It was easier to stop thinking with the soft grass beneath his sneakers and the stillness on the field, only him and Scott with the woods behind them, the repetition of the drills. He wasn't thinking about Dad maybe getting hurt, or about body bags, the impact of Gerard Argent's fists, or Lydia's tear-streaked face.

On the next shot Stiles took, the ball hit Scott in the leg and bounced into the goal. Maybe Scott let it happen, maybe not, but Stiles wasn't going to think about that right now. He let out a whoop, lifting his stick in the air.

"Lucky," Scott said.

"It's called skill." Stiles lowered the stick and bounced in place a few times before he squared his feet, reaching for another ball. "Had enough? You getting tired?"

"What do you think?" Scott grinned, showing more than his human teeth, which always freaked Stiles out a little, but was also kind of cool, truth be told.

Stiles jumped his weight from one foot to the other, holding the stick low, cradling the ball in the string pocket. He noticed how Scott watched him, braced for the next onslaught. Yeah, an onslaught, because Stiles was just that awesome that he hadn't scored once in the past hour he and Scott had been out here. Okay, so Scott was cheating, but he wasn't using that much of his powers. Stiles remembered his Dad talking about the game, how he'd sounded the way he did when he talked about his favorite pro players, except he'd been talking about Stiles, which was kind of mind-boggling.

He thought of the fall of darkness as the floodlights shut off, the rough hands grabbing him, shoving him down into the dirt.

"You all right?" Scott straightened, peering harder at Stiles. The light was beginning to fade, a breeze scurrying up out of nowhere, sighing through the trees.

Stiles blinked. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

But Scott just stood there. He said, "You didn't cut your face, did you," a flat statement.

"C'mon, let's just practice."

"Stiles--"

"Shut up and guard the net."

"Okay," Scott said cautiously, stepping back. He swiped the back of his arm across his nose, restless as Stiles for a moment, before settling into the ready position, jaw gone tight.

Instead of getting another ball, Stiles hesitated. No way Scott was all right, even though he kept saying he was on the drive over here, going on about how Allison had been through some traumatic stuff and obviously needed room, no worries. Despite the freaky shit, there was something steady about Scott, always had been. It wasn't as if Stiles expected Scott to break apart without warning, but there was something heavier about him, eyes a little sadder, more guarded--which had started not long after Scott got bitten.

"You sure you--" Scott started.

"Let it go," Stiles muttered, giving his stick a few practice swings, the net brushing the grass.

There was no point telling Scott what Gerard had done--it was over, Stiles was good, his face healed. Stiles didn't want to be Lois Lane--and he figured he was probably the Lois Lane in this situation. Or, okay, maybe if anything he was the Jimmy Olsen. Allison would be the Lois Lane, really, except Allison could hit a target with her bow and arrow at fifty paces blindfolded and she had all those sharp knives. Allison was kind of like a superhero herself, and more than a little scary.

"Hey," Stiles said, swishing the stick back and forth again, "maybe no cheating with the wolfie stuff this time?"

"Hm." Scott put his fingers to his chin, all mock-serious.

"Scott--" It wasn't whining, Stiles was not whining, it's just that Scott looked way too amused. Stiles understood, despite the strange scariness of it, why Scott enjoyed that force inside of him, it had to be a rush.

Weaving around to maintain balance, Stiles tried to balance his lacrosse stick vertically, net up in the air, the base resting on his fingers. Coach wouldn't approve of this non-regulation use of equipment, but Coach wasn't there to see it.

"Okay, yeah, I admit, it's sort of fun--" There was that grin again, but then it melted away. "That's not why I'm cheating, though."

The stick wobbled and fell. Stiles bent over to pick it up. "Oh?"

"You have to work harder when I use the wolf powers--it's more difficult to get stuff by me, right? So it's…to help with practice. Y'know." Scott kicked at the grass with the toe of his sneaker and grinned, not the danger grin or the teasing grin this time, but the one that was the most Scott. "You scored a lot of goals in that game."

Stiles busied himself picking up the stick and a ball, his chest warm.

The breeze returned, rippling the grass. Scott's eyes went gold. Stiles braced his feet, drawing the stick back to shoot. He opened his mouth, and finally let himself inhale.

~end

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SPN fic: A Thousand miles behind

dotfic — Tue, 17 Jul 2012 02:35:47 GMT

A bit early--although it will be right on time for her--a very happy birthday to smilla02!

A thousand miles behind
Dean, Sam, Castiel, Risa, Chuck, various OC's; implied Dean/Risa and Dean/Castiel | 3,000 words | PG | End 'verse

a/n: Title from Bob Dylan. Written for smilla02's birthday to her prompt, so this is her fault. Thank you to sargraf for the beta.

Summary: It was his job to keep them safe, or to save them, whatever had to be destroyed or sacrificed.

It was one of their regular patrols, just him and Risa and Cas. The three of them had developed a rhythm, an effective routine without ever having specifically discussed it. Dean nearly always took point, Risa and Cas a short way behind him, spread out until they formed a triangle. Out here in the woods, the sound of their boots crushing the dead leaves, heavy weight of the gun in his hand, the familiarity of Risa and Cas's presence, their breathing behind him, he couldn't shut it all out or forget but he sometimes got close to feeling easy in his own skin.

The sun was low in the sky, autumn gold light glinting through the trees. It could almost be five years ago. That could be Sam's boot-steps behind him.

Risa was quieter than Cas in the woods, although Cas almost had the same level of skill in moving without a sound--they were both better at it than Dean, if you got down to it. But he was too aware of them for him not to know that Risa had moved up near his shoulder.

"What is it?" he said, voice low.

"Saw something." She jerked her head. "Two o'clock, past that boulder."

Dean gave a hand-signal to Cas, who didn't even bother to nod acknowledgment. He moved fast, practically disappearing against the trees in his army jacket and threadbare jeans as he circled around, pump-action shotgun raised to his shoulder. As Dean nodded at Risa, she started around the other way, while Dean kept walking, making his steps lighter and slower, his gun raised. The ground began to slope and the sound of rushing water greeted him.

The bird-call Risa gave for nothing here and Cas's answering call for the same bounced off the trees as Dean made his way to the creek beneath the boulder. In the distance he spotted an opening in the trees, a field. It was the edge of someone's farm once upon a time--the farmhouse, he knew, was falling down, empty. They'd cleared it of Croats months ago, killed the nest of them clean and fast. Pieces of old farm equipment lay in the mud at the edge of the creek. They'd been there so long they'd become a part of the scenery, as if they were natural, mud and vines claiming them with only the occasional sharp edge to show what they once were.

He made his way along the creek's edge, choosing his foot-holds sure and careful over the rocks. He smelled mud, a trace of skunk, moldy leaves.

The wind changed and the scent of unwashed bodies hit his nostrils. Dean spun and fired off one shot before two more Croats crashed out of the trees and leapt on him. They were both heavy, bringing Dean down. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he should've caught it sooner. Cas, that sonofabitch, he'd better be willing to shoot Dean in the head and make it quick if he got infected. Dean didn't care how much misery it caused him or if Cas's hand shook, he'd better do it.

Tearing, sharp pain in his leg as he landed made his brain go blank for a second.

It wasn't because of the Croats, snarling and grabbing at him as his brain cleared. He punched one in the stomach and rammed his elbow into the other one's throat, careful not to draw any blood. A line of pain, so sharp it was hard to breathe, crawled up his leg. There was no time to look and Dean rolled to avoid the Croats. He heard his jeans rip, felt his flesh tear open wider, but he was free of the Croats, rolling into the cold water before there was blast after blast from a shotgun. Lodged against a fallen branch, Dean lay on his back, the water soaking through the layers of his jacket and shirts. He looked up and saw Risa sighting down her shotgun, her face gone hard.

Dark clouds started to form at the edge of Dean's vision. The pain in his leg was less here in the water. He sank in further. Water spread over his nose, flowed across his mouth. He put out his tongue to taste it, ravenous with thirst, and choked, unable to breathe. Before he could struggle, or push himself up, hands gripped under his shoulders, a strong, fierce grip, almost angry in its intensity, hauling him to his feet so quickly Dean would've cried out from the abrupt renewed pain in his leg if he hadn't been so busy coughing.

His vision cleared and he saw Cas's face inches from his own, mouth pressed tightly closed and his eyes gone bright with rage, a color that made Dean think of the sky on a ruthlessly cold, clear Midwestern winter day. It could be years ago.

Risa waded into the creek to join them. She cursed at Dean as she slung his arm across her shoulder, while Cas supported him from the other side. The two of them guided him out of the water. Dean looked around to assess, and saw the bodies of the Croats lying downstream.

He tried to pull free of Risa and Cas's grip, to walk on his own. Risa jabbed him in the stomach with her fist, not too hard, but hard enough to make him stop struggling.

"Asshole," she muttered.

Chuck was one of the few people left in the world who knew Dean from before.

While Dean lay in his cabin with his injured legged propped up on an extra pillow Chuck had scrounged by bartering toilet paper, Chuck paced with a clipboard. The guy was rarely completely still.

"So it's going to take a few days to find the antibiotics for you. But I've got a lead. We can get them."

Folding his arms behind his head, Dean ignored the throbbing in his leg beneath the bandages. They'd made a cut in the leg of his jeans. He only had two pairs left now. "Chuck. Chill. It's only a cut--deep one but I've had worse."

"Okay, but Cas said you fell onto a piece of abandoned farm equipment, and it was rusted. There's tetanus or infection to be considered."

"Chuck!" Dean didn't want to deal with it right now with Chuck's anxiety and worst-case-scenario wisdom. "Go away."

"Yeah, yeah, fine." Halfway to the door, Chuck gave Dean a look, quiet exasperation over pity. Chuck was once Carver Edlund. He knew too many things. There was a set of books in a box in Chuck's cabin. At moments Dean wanted to break in, steal the box, and burn the whole thing. Other times he was glad the words existed.

His goddamned leg hurt like a sonofabitch even with some of Cas's painkillers inside him.

It wasn't that Dean didn't think Risa was capable of keeping the camp safe and running smoothly in his absence. Risa'd been the CEO of her own business before the virus got unleashed, and she was possibly the best shot in camp after him. Never even held a gun in her former life, and he'd once seen her take out four Croats, barely stirring a hair on her head.

But lying on his back, listening to the sounds of the camp, he could only stare at the ceiling of his cabin for so long before going completely batshit. He was no use to anyone stuck in his cabin with his leg propped up. Screw it. His leg throbbed and Jesus, it was kind of hot for a cool autumn day. He used the cane Chuck had left for him, got outside onto the porch and down the steps fine on his own. Steve and Annie spotted him as they walked by carrying boxes of supplies.

"Hey, boss, good to see you back on your feet," said Steve, with a military-issue nod. The kid had served in Afghanistan before the virus. Far too eager to get back into the line of fire, to prove himself, but he listened to Dean.

Annie was barely older than Steve, a former grad student who'd been working for her PHD in physics when the Croats took her entire family from her. She tilted her head, watching Dean as she and Steve went by, long dark hair pulled up into a messy knot, and this wasn't the first time Dean felt he wasn't fooling Annie a bit.

He got as far as the mess tent before the pain in his leg made him stop, unable to take another step. No no no--his skin was too warm, while his stomach went icy. He couldn't, definitely positively wouldn't, collapse out here where anyone could see him--they were counting on him. It was his job to keep them safe, or to save them, whatever had to be destroyed or sacrificed in the process.

Dean managed to make his way back to his cabin before he sank down onto the steps, shaking.

"Don't even say it." Dean raised his hand as Cas walked up to him and stopped.

Cas rolled his eyes heavenward, as if he might be asking his uncaring absent Almighty God-the-father to grant him patience, before he reached down and took Dean's arm, pulling him to his feet. Shaking off Cas's grip, Dean got himself into the cabin, hearing Cas's steps close behind him, before he fell onto his mattress.

Leaning his back against the wall, Cas sighed.

The room was spinning.

"You're an extremely annoying and stubborn piece of work, you know that?" Cas said.

"Takes one to know one," Dean muttered, closing his eyes.

He listened to Cas's footsteps on the cabin floorboards, moving away, then the shake of the chain of a canteen against metal before the steps came closer again. Dean opened his eyes and Cas handed him a canteen.

"There'd better be whiskey in here."

"No," Cas said. His eyes were sharp today. "Just water. Drink it."

Dean did, the slide of cold so very good down his throat.

He dozed, and when he woke up, Risa sat in the chair by the bed, boots propped up on the old army trunk Dean used. This wasn't the first time she'd been in his cabin as he slept, her face the first thing he saw when he woke up, although that hadn't happened as much lately, not as much as it used to--which was probably his fault.

"What's going on?" Dean asked, pushing himself up.

"Nothing interesting." Risa turned the page of the gun magazine she was reading. "Alan says you're supposed to stay off your leg and rest. You know, Alan? The camp medic, used to be a doctor before." She raised a sharp eyebrow.

"You forget how many wounds I stitched up myself, before?"

Risa kept her eyes down on the magazine as she turned another page, ponytail smooth, not a hair out of place.

"So you're here to guard me." He pitched his voice lower. "Anything else?"

She still didn't look up, but Dean caught the way she swallowed carefully before answering. "Nothing you're hoping for." She dropped the magazine onto the trunk and stood up. "Stay put," she said, and left him.

Chuck brought him some food, told him it would be another two days before the antibiotics were in hand. Alan came to check the wounds, put his tongue against his teeth, making a concerned clicking noise.

As darkness fell, Dean's fever rose. He slept in snatches. He got up to pee, almost fell if it hadn't been for the cane, and heard a voice mutter idjit so clearly that Dean turned to scan the dark cabin. No one was there. Sixth months now since they lost Bobby.

Dean relieved himself into the bucket someone had provided for him so he wouldn't have to hobble to the outhouse, then got back into bed, shivering as he pulled the blanket over his shoulders, thin layer of sweat covering the back of his neck, making his hands clammy.

He dreamed of the Impala, chrome gleaming, a younger version of himself driving, Sam sitting shotgun as they raced past a patchwork of gold and green fields.

Daylight made him squint. But it wasn't the light that woke him, but Cas rustling around in the cabin, putting a plate of food down on the army trunk--an apple, a few slices of bread, a granola bar that might be past the expiration date on the package but he'd eat it anyway. Cas handed him a canteen, the metal cold from the liquid inside.

"Dude, why do you never bring me whiskey?" Dean said, but he drank eagerly in deep, slow gulps.

"We're out of whiskey."

Dean choked on his next swallow.

"I'm kidding," Cas said dryly.

"You'd better be."

Cas's eyes were still clear today, although he reeked of some kind of freaky incense.

The day dragged. Dean thought he might go completely batshit insane if he had to lie there and do nothing for much longer. He sat up, deciding screw it, he could get around all right. He had the strong impulse to go to where he'd hidden the Impala after the last crash. He hadn't been to see her in years, he could clear off the vines and branches that covered her, remove the rust, put her back together.

"Hey, I really think you should stay put." Sam sat in the chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, fingers knotted. There was a deep crease of concern between his eyes as he watched Dean.

"Bite me," Dean said.

"You could've died," Sam said, a note of sharpness creeping in. "You could've turned."

"Well, I didn't, genius." Dean tried to sit up, but the room spun.

"Your cut's infected." Sam unknotted his fingers and touched the edge of the mattress, near Dean's exposed leg.

"It'll heal." He watched Sam, at the too-long hair falling over his eyes, the concern and impatience in the tension in his shoulders. "Oh, stop looking at me like that, Sammy, I'll be okay."

"I dunno if you will." Sam let out a long breath and pulled away. He leaned his elbows on his knees, scrubbed his hands over his face, let out another breath.

One of the camp dogs started to bark. A jeep rolled by Dean's cabin. Someone in a nearby tent laughed.

"You're not real," Dean said.

"No, I'm not."

"You're gone. Lucifer's wearing you to the fuckin' prom."

"Dean--"

"Why?" Dean pushed himself up. "Why'd you say yes?"

"I thought it was the only way. We had a plan."

"It was a stupid plan."

"I thought it would work. I really thought I could do it." Sam's eyes went bright with tears held back. His fingers gripped the edge of the chair arm. "But I failed. I think maybe--you should've been there."

Dean leaned back into the pillows again. "Anyway, you're gone. You're gone--and I don't know what to do, man. I don't--"

He blinked, and Sam had vanished, not even so much as a wisp of movement or color in the air to mark his presence--that for a few minutes, he'd been there, he'd been Sam again.

Risa and Chuck were arguing out on the porch. Through the window, Dean saw them, Risa gesturing angrily, Chuck holding his clipboard and making apologetic movements with his free hand. Risa grabbed him and shoved, making Chuck stumble back.

"Twenty-four hours, that's all. I promise you," Chuck said, before Risa turned away, the sound of her boots firm on the boards of the porch steps.

Michael, I'm right here, you sonofabitch, I'm ready to say yes. Can you hear me? I'm ready. C'mon. I'm right here. I don't know what else to do. Michael.

"Dean--"

Please please please. Michael.

"Listen to me."

Michael.

"Dean, wake up."

A hand, heavy with warmth, closed around Dean's shoulder. Dean jolted awake, his t-shirt drenched with sweat, the wound in his leg an aching, fiery dance.

"The angels are gone, you know that." Cas spoke with a dull, resigned sadness from the chair by the bed, keeping his hand on Dean's shoulder. They hardly ever talked about this, and when they did Dean felt, as he did right then, that whatever Cas was letting him see was only the tip of some infinite sense of loss beneath.

His gut twisted. "Yeah." He was glad, now, to be lying down, to stop struggling, to rest.

Cas's hand slid down from his shoulder and rested against the blanket near Dean's wrist. "I'd take this from you if I could. Your wound, this fever." He paused. "The rest of it. I'd bring back Sam to you."

They hardly ever talked about Sam, either. That was the first time in months Cas had said his name. The last time he had, Dean almost punched Cas for it.

In the darkness, Cas's fingers found Dean's, closing tightly around them. All the things they'd been through together, all the different things they'd been, or were now, to each other, it always came back to this in some form or another--Cas gripping tightly and Dean holding on back.

It was raining when Chuck walked into Dean's cabin holding a bottle of pills. It rattled as Chuck came over to the side of Dean's bed to carefully place the bottle on the blanket.

"Sorry it took so long," was all Chuck said. He hesitated, standing by the window, while Dean rotated the bottle in his fingers.

As Dean reached for his canteen, he said, "Thanks, Chuck."

"Feel better soon, boss." Chuck left, holding his clipboard the way Dean held a gun, the way Sam used to hold a knife. Somewhere in camp somebody needed cough syrup, or toilet paper, or warm socks, or a book they hadn't already read.

Dean took his first dose of antibiotics, then lay there listening to the hollow rhythm of rain on the cabin roof. The world had gone to hell; Camp Chataqua would go down too. But it would go down swinging, Dean would see to that.

~end

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Fringe fic: All is near and can't be touched

dotfic — Sun, 15 Jul 2012 14:54:46 GMT

Happy birthday to musesfool, who is among the shiniest of fic enablers. \o/ Hope your day is full of good surprises. ♥

All is near and can't be touched
Altivia/Lincoln, Astrid | PG | 1,500 words | set after 4x20

a/n: Title by Octavio Paz. Written for musesfool's birthday. Thank you to geckoholic for the beta.

Summary: It's confusing, but that doesn't mean they shouldn't.

I

The lake, for now, is frozen, a sheet of white and gray stretching towards the woods of Pennsylvania. Trying not to shiver, Lincoln hands Olivia one of two steaming hot cups of tea. He holds the other, warmth barely sinking through his leather gloves.

She sniffs the steam from the cup. "Mm, darjeeling." She takes a slow, deep sip. Face still too somber, after the loss of her partner.

He nods towards the lake. "Anything happening?"

"Nope. Still just ice."

They stand side by side amid the recording equipment drinking their tea, and wait for the frozen lake to boil.

II

Astrid somehow gets her hands on some coffee. She won't tell them how, but she slips Olivia and Lincoln each a small amount, making them swear not to tell a soul, her gaze aimed at the floor of a hallway at Fringe headquarters. She's smart and kind, this Astrid, as was the one Lincoln knew in the other universe, yet completely different.

A few days later Olivia comes in with a thermos, doesn't mention what's in it.

It's been an unusually dull week of paperwork. Lincoln remembers Olivia--the other Olivia--warning him about the things that might be difficult to accept. Paperwork helps center him, it's calming, but he finds himself wishing there were less of it.

"C'mon." Olivia perches on his desk, holding the thermos, playful curve on her lips.

"Where?"

"Lunch. Now." She slides off the desk, walking off without looking back to make sure he follows. He tries not to watch the confident sway of her hips.

They buy sandwiches from a vendor in the park, and Olivia pours coffee from the thermos into plastic cups.

Lincoln's almost forgotten how coffee tastes, and the flavor stirs a cascade of sense memories of the place he left.

III

Two other agents are already down. The snarls of the mutated…thing bounce oddly off the concrete of the warehouse, making it hard for Lincoln to get a bead on where it might be--the thin beam of his flashlight isn't much help. Lincoln turns slowly, aiming his weapon, ignoring the stickiness and trickle of blood on his arm, where the sleeve of his jacket's torn.

"'Liv?" He says.

"I'm one floor below you," she answers over the comm.

Lincoln steps with care over the debris and cracks in the floor, that odd, acidic, slimy scent reaching him. "I can…smell it." He swallows, tasting something sour. "I think it's up here."

"I'm on my way." Olivia sounds a little out of breath. He distantly hears rapid footsteps below him and to the left, where the stairwell is.

He shoots the thing, right before Olivia arrives, racing towards him. His heart's going freight-train fast as he lowers his gun. His flashlight catches Olivia's face, how the tight set of her jaw and hint of fear in her eyes changes to relief as she spots him. She nudges the monster's corpse with the toe of her boot. "Nice shot," she says, with satisfaction. Then she notices his arm. "You all right?" Her voice goes sharp. "It scratched you?"

"No, scraped my arm against a piece of metal while I was dodging it earlier."

She takes his arm in strong fingers, gently pushing back the sleeve of his jacket to see. "We'll get you patched up. And then--" she turns her back on the monster, the goo spreading in a pool around it, and touches Lincoln's shoulder. "I'm hungry. You hungry?"

He's not, but it's Olivia. "Sure."

After the medic bandages him, they eat slices of pizza and sodas, sitting in Olivia's car.

IV

"So." Olivia sits at her kitchen table, barefoot, wearing cargo shorts and a black tank top, and lifts another forkful of linguini. "You seem pretty good in the field."

Her eyes track Lincoln across the table, assessing, evaluating with curiosity and no heat, but he feels himself flush slightly. He takes a quick swallow of water and turns back to the food she's made for them. "Things are a little different here, but I'm adjusting."

She watches him a beat longer, then turns back to her plate. Lincoln lets out a breath. It seems he's passed some kind of test, been found acceptable--he doesn't know for sure, if she compares him every moment to her dead partner, if she thinks about how much he looks like him, but he sure can't shake off thinking about the other Olivia, the one he can't ever have, while this one is tantalizingly close, yet not the same. He is not him and she is not her, and Lincoln should just eat his linguini and keep his eyes off the glimmer of light on her red hair, stop noticing the way she's been grinning more often lately, and at him, without the little hesitancies she showed for a while, because, he supposed, he was a ringer for her dead partner.

"Things are getting better." Her fork scrapes against the plate. "More places that were ambered get reclaimed, every week. They think some of the blighted crops could come back, too."

"While we deal with killer rabbits. Mutated monsters. Frozen lakes that boil within seconds."

"Aw, that's nothing. C'mon, Lincoln." She wrinkles up her nose in amusement. "You've seen scarier stuff than that in Fringe Division back in the other universe."

"This is true." Lincoln images what Danzig would've made of all this, of Fringe Division, of towns frozen in amber, of monsters and killer bunny rabbits and goo, how his brows would shoot up and then maybe he'd have a great story to tell his kids. There are too many ghosts. Lincoln pushes his pasta around on the plate, twirling it onto his fork.

She's gone too still, too quiet. "You regret it?"

"What?"

"Choosing here."

"No, and I didn't exactly belong there, either. Or I did, but apparently I was some different version of myself that wasn't supposed to be. Over here, I have a better shot at becoming something I choose."

V

The glow of Olivia's tiny emergency light burns between them. Dirt smudges her face; she sits with her back against the stones. Lincoln sits with his shoulder a few inches away from hers. Both of them are unhurt except for a few bruises--they were lucky.

"How long did they say?" Lincoln asks. The air of the cellar is cold, smelling dank.

"Not long. Forty minutes." She touches the comm on her ear, as if it's reflex, reassurance, then lowers her hand, turning towards him. "You saved those people."

"We saved them."

Olivia keeps staring at him, examining his face in the pale light. He feels she's trying to learn him, discover a feature she missed before. Before he's quite sure what's happening, she puts her fingers gently to the side of his face, and leans in until her mouth is warm and soft over his. Lincoln's hands move up, sliding through her hair as he kisses her back, before he even knows what he's doing, falling into the warm solidity and realness of her.

She shifts, sliding onto his lap so she's straddling him, their tongues sliding across and around each other's and his hands move to trace along the line of her back, over her jacket, holding her closer with her knees on either side of his thighs.

He pulls away, his hands falling to rest on her hips, near the weight of her holster. Lincoln wears his weapon in the same fashion--he would prefer that either way, but also he's careful because he knows the other Lincoln had a strong preference for using a leg holster, "We probably shouldn't, Liv," he says, slowly, not wanting to say it. "There's too much that…it confuses things..."

"I agree," she answers, her breath warm against his cheek. "That doesn't mean we shouldn't." She moves off him, returning to her spot next to him against the stone wall. He misses the weight of her.

They sit quietly, listening to water drip somewhere. Lincoln stares up towards the jagged hole in the wood floor far above their heads, the place where they fell. He hears movement beside him, catches Olivia hugging herself with one arm across her chest. Lincoln finds her hand without looking, wraps his fingers around hers. She squeezes back, dirt-stained skin to dirt-stained skin, and lets go a few seconds later.

Lincoln's stomach growls, sharply and loudly in the stillness, and Olivia throws her head back and laughs.

"What?" He protests, chest tight with what feels oddly like joy. "It's been six hours since breakfast."

Stifling a chuckle, she pulls out an energy bar. "Here." She tosses it to him and he catches it. "Only have the one. Unless you've got yours still…"

"Ate it last week, forgot to pack another one." Lincoln peels back the wrapper, then breaks it in half. "We'll share."

They eat, knees bent and bumping together, as they wait for rescue.

Lincoln's never felt so at home before in a place that isn't.

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Now's the time, the time is now

dotfic — Sat, 30 Jun 2012 19:34:27 GMT

Hiatus of Dean Love: Ramble On
[Click on the image to go to the meme.]

Banner courtesy of smilla02

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SPN fic: Reaching for the spark

dotfic — Wed, 27 Jun 2012 23:44:15 GMT

For those interested, here are the original tumblr posts with the image prompts for the ficlets I've been posting lately.
They plan to pick you clean was posted here (Dean and Castiel)
Like light the quick dreams run was posted here (Sam)
In the silence was posted here (Dean and Castiel)
The Victor Henriksen ficlets here, here, and here.

Reaching for the spark
Dean/Castiel | 1,500 words | R | coda for 7.23

a/n: Title from Civil Twilight. Written to a visual prompt and first posted to tumblr here.

Summary: Dean and Castiel take shelter from no ordinary storm.

The storm starts with a hot wind that springs up suddenly, toying with the edges of Dean's jacket and Castiel's trenchcoat. Large, visible bolts of lighting dart against a sky growing progressively darker, turning a color Dean could only describe as some weird-ass purple. Purgatory has no normal weather patterns, far as he can tell. It rains for thirty seconds, it stops; the temperature is all over the place; the sun doesn't shine much, and when it does it's a pale, washed out circle that generates weak shadows. There's no moon at night, only a whole lot of blackness and a few stars.

The lightning bolts grow more frequent.

Castiel flinches.

Together they stare up at the sky from a shallow ravine in the forest, while the hair on the back of Dean's neck stands on end and his skin itches. It's almost hard to breathe, the air thick with electricity, a faint burning scent that's familiar from many fierce midwestern storms he and Sam saw growing up, only moreso. Dean's never been scared of thunderstorms, not really--Sam used to be, until he reached high school maybe. They used to sit under a blanket with a flashlight, taking turns reading aloud from whatever book Sam chose.

He hopes Sam knows, in his gut, that Dean's alive.

The trees rustle fiercely, and it could be wind, or it could be something else. Dean glances over at Cas, at the flashes of light playing over his face, edging the familiar shape of his jawline, mouth, nose.

"We have to get under cover, now," Cas says roughly, shoulders and back in hard soldier lines.

There's dozens of lightning bolts in the sky now, some of them staying too long, sinuous and bright, and while there's no thunder, there's something else, a freaky low hum, or more like a rumbling in the air.

"Son of a bitch." Dean knows he's standing there like an ass, gawking upward, but his brain can't seem to get a grasp what he's seeing.

The lightning bolts aren't just lighting bolts. Dean would swear they're…alive. He makes out a head, mouth open, trailing light, the snap of a tail, the skeletal shape of wings.

"Dean!" Castiel's grip is tight around Dean's upper arm now as he shouts over the wind, and Dean feels heat from each finger through the layers of his jacket and shirt. It's been like that more and more, Dean hyper-aware of Cas, and he's not sure if he kind of actually enjoys it a little or it's a comfort or if it's frightening, or all of that at once.

Castiel lets go and they run along the ravine, bright flashes from the sky making the trees seem to move. Or maybe they really did move--Dean doesn't have the time to figure it out. As Cas ducks under an overhang of rock, Dean follows, and the dimness within is welcoming after the bright flashes outside.

The sound of their breathing reverberates strangely in the cave-like space. Dead leaves cover the floor, a smell of dampness but nothing decayed. Cas crouches, staring out into the ravine. The flashes of lightning throw his shadow against the rock above them.

Dean sits next to him, knees drawn up.

There are a couple of flashes brighter and closer than the rest and Cas flinches again. Dean remembers the way Castiel scurried back, shrinking against the wall of Sam's room in the asylum, eyes wide and terrified as he stared at nothing, and Dean twitches his shoulders to throw the memory off.

"Hey," Dean says quietly, reaches out, almost touches Castiel's knee, thinks better of it. "So. How come you haven't been going all bees and monkeys on me?"

Cas keeps his gaze forward, towards the ravine. The rumbling grows deeper, and Dean's hand goes to the grip of his machete, as if a machete would be any use against some friggin' flying lightning monster.

"There's no room for it," Cas says, his tone flat, abrupt, and more edged than a blade. It makes Dean's chest ache. After a moment, Castiel's gaze finally slides over to Dean. "I believe you know how that works," he adds, saying it more gently than Dean knows what to do with. Castiel turns away again.

They wait out the lightning creatures. It's chilly in the cave and Dean dozes, then jerks awake to discovers he's sitting a foot closer to Cas than he was before.

The next time Cas flinches, Dean puts his palm against his back, the fabric of the trenchcoat smooth against his skin, warm from Castiel's heat beneath it. When Cas doesn't pull away or seem to object, Dean leaves his hand there for a while. Eventually the bright flashes ease off, replaced with lightning that might just be ordinary lightning. Rain begins, a fierce, quick torrent that fills the air with a rush of sound. Sideways rain, visibility down to less than a foot, with telltale thumps of hail. They draw back further beneath the overhang until they're sitting with their backs against the rock wall, heads almost brushing the ceiling.

There's regular thunder now instead of the strange growling rumble. Dean tenses at particularly a particularly loud boom-crack while Castiel's whole body jerks. He's halfway up into a battle-ready crouch before Dean's fingers circle tight around his wrist. He feels the frantic race of Castiel's pulse under the warmth of his skin.

Everything stops, and then Dean pulls.

Who really begins it, Dean's not sure, but a moment later Castiel's mouth is on his. There's nothing hesitant in the way both of them are grabbing, reaching, straining closer. There's probably no room for this here either--but tell that to the way Dean's fingers dig into Castiel's hair, the flood of heat, the way Castiel's palm is now pressing against the skin of Dean's lower back, up under the layers of jacket and shirt while his other hand clenches around Dean's thigh.

It's been years since they've done this, and once upon a time Dean would've told himself it was only the comfort of skin on skin (fast and furtive, no lingering after), and hey, Cas was easy on the eyes, Dean was all for experimentation, especially with an apocalypse and the archangels breathing down their necks. He could tell himself now it was purgatory, which crawled with things that wanted to tear them to pieces, where even the goddamned sky wanted a piece of them.

That doesn't explain why exactly, during this scramble of lips, tongue, teeth, hands, Dean's having some kind of freaky replay in his head of Cas walking into that lake with his arms spread wide. The stifled, hollow ache Dean kept feeling all year with Cas gone, where pushing it away only seemed to make it hurt worse, like pressing on a cut, flares back to life. It fades as Dean puts his lips to Cas's neck, licks and sucks at the skin, heat and pressure building at his groin, rush of rain in his ears.

Dean wriggles himself out of his jacket and takes a second to glance towards the ravine, checking to make sure there's nothing creeping up on them. He catches Cas doing the same, right before he grabs Dean's shoulders and shoves Dean flat on his back. Cas's full weight is on him, straddling him as he grinds down, his trenchcoat gone.

They can't afford to do this, Jesus it's impossible to think, it's dangerous, but their momentum carries them. Castiel's fingers fumble with the button and zipper of Dean's jeans, while Dean kisses him, tongue insistently finding its way into Cas's mouth, as Cas lets out a small whimper. The hospital-issue white pants are easier to pull down before Cas lowers himself along Dean's body, and they slot into place as if they've been doing this all along, as if they never stopped. They move together, finding a rhythm. Dean's hands go beneath Cas's t-shirt, tracing the curve of his back, then around to trace over the taut muscles of his abdomen, mapping the shape of his ribs, his chest, relearning territory he knew once. Their breaths are sharp and fast, almost as loud as the harsh rain.

Dean's pretty sure the words Cas gasps out aren't English, but somewhere in there, Dean catches his own name, warm against his ear. The friction and slick heat, the taste of Castiel's skin, the sureness of his hands, sends jolt after jolt of want through Dean. Cas's body shudders as he comes, head thrown back with Dean gripping his hips to steady him, before Dean follows, one syllable, Cas, breaking roughly from him before their muscles go slack, limbs twisted together.

After, Cas remains still in Dean's arms a moment. His mouth brushes along Dean's jaw before he pushes himself up to roll off, palms flat on the ground on either side of Dean's shoulders. Fast and furtive, no lingering after--Dean reaches up and stops him, holding him there with his hands on either side of Cas's face. Dean leans up to kiss him, slow this time.

The kiss ends, and Cas gives Dean a small, quick, lopsided smile before he draws away. Dean lets him go, reaching for his jacket while Cas produces his trenchcoat.

Near the entrance to the overhang, they crouch to watch the thick wall of rain, Cas's hand not too far from Dean's against the damp rock.

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SPN Fic: They plan to pick you clean

dotfic — Thu, 14 Jun 2012 02:07:34 GMT

*waves* Another Purgatory ficlet because I cannot seem to *stop*. (Note these were all written to image prompts on tumblr, although I haven't been linking back to the images, maybe I should have?)

They plan to pick you clean
Dean, Castiel | 535 words | PG-13 | coda for 7.23

a/n: Title by Metallica. For destina, happy birthday!

Summary: Dean is not going to let himself get eaten by some freaky shit in Purgatory.

They've been walking without rest, Dean ignoring the ache in his calves and his back and how gritty his eyes feel from needing sleep. The misty air smells faintly of what he's pretty sure is wet fur and hint of the metallic sweetness of blood. He and Cas have managed to keep going through scenarios that remind Dean of the last fifteen minutes of nearly every flippin' horror movie he's ever seen. Cas says they have to keep moving, to stay ahead of those things that rustle in the trees, slither under the dirt, reach out for them, some things that know his name and know Castiel's.

Dean's in the lead, with Cas walking a half step or so behind him. When Dean glances back, Cas has his head turned to watch the forest behind them. When Dean looks up the slope again, his steps falter.

The house rises up before him where nothing but trees stood before. It's a few feet away, small and white with a dark thatched roof and bare branches crawling up its walls.

"Hey, check it out," Dean says, and glances back at Cas again.

Castiel's several yards down the hill, turning slowly, back rigid as he watches the sky. He still flinches sometimes, or slips into the random-ass evasiveness that makes Dean's stomach clench, but not often. Not now, as he watches for whatever those giant winged things are, probably--nothing Dean could identify from any hunt, journal, or book he's ever known. Too ancient for any living hunter to recognize, Cas explained.

A few breaths, a few heartbeats of still silence before Castiel's concentration and focus snaps and he barks out, "Dean!"

It's instinctive, how Dean immediately reacts, spinning around. His machete is only half-drawn from its sheath as the branches wrap tight around his arms, jerking him towards the house. He stumbles.

The wall of the house ripples, heaving inward, as another branch detaches, lashing out to go lighting-quick around his torso. Dean keeps his hand on the grip of the machete, trying to draw the blade free, twisting and struggling. Sam would kick his ass six ways from Sunday, twice, if Dean let himself get eaten by some freaky shit in Purgatory. The wall continues to bow inward, surface going moist. Another branch slides up his chest, over his shoulder, around his neck.

Familiar hands grip him and Castiel shouts something that might be Enochian. White-red light flickers along the branches as their grip on Dean lessens enough he can yank himself free. Cas shoves Dean away before the branches snap forward again, converging to wrap around Cas's neck. Another one circles his body, pinning his arms. They pull him towards the little house as Cas digs his hospital-issue sneakers into the dirt and tries to gasp out words.

Dean's got the machete free, and brings the blade down through the branches, one after the other. Some dark substance sprays out, staining their clothes, hot where it touches skin. Freed, Cas grips Dean's shoulder--right on the spot where the hand-print scar used to be--and touches two fingers of his other hand to Dean's forehead and the world spins before they're on a high rock overlooking a river tinted a rusty red, the sky a cold silver.

Finally giving way to exhaustion, Dean sinks to his knees, gripping the machete with the blade stained dark. Cas kneels beside him. Together, they rest.

This entry is also on dreamwidth: http://dotfic.dreamwidth.org/421042.html. Feel free to comment at either post.

SPN Fic: Like light the quick dreams run

dotfic — Tue, 05 Jun 2012 11:46:01 GMT

Like light the quick dreams run
Sam Winchester | 722 words | PG | coda for 7x23

a/n: Title from Conrad Aiken.

Summary: The strongest theory Sam has is one of the possibilities he doesn't want to be true.

Sam has no idea where his brother is.

"You know, you should probably get some sleep," Garth says at the end of his voice mail message.

Seated on the scratchy old couch in the cabin, Sam puts down his phone and rubs a hand over his face. There are half a dozen books Sam hasn't even opened yet, and a box on the floor containing some copies of the ones from Bobby's burned library. The old man's notes are written in the margins, and Sam's throat tightens as he takes a set of papers out the box and spots the familiar handwriting. He's been holed up in the cabin for five days now, searching for anything, the smallest scrap. He's been through all the lore on leviathans twice, has passages memorized. The strongest theory Sam has is one of the possibilities he doesn't want to be true, because that--the thought of it is just too big.

Sam's lost track of how much sleep he's had in the past five days--a few hours here and there, maybe.

He gets an email from Charlie, a link to a bittorrent file containing scans of some very old, very obscure stuff. She doesn't ask him how he is, but she ends the email promising "more TK."

The cabin's chilly, the sun long set. With the lamp burning nearby, he's in an island of pages, notes, laptop, the musty scent of old volumes and wood smell of the cabin, and the panic that keeps threatening to boil over, burst out of his chest.

With a heavy volume open on his lap, Sam falls asleep.

He starts awake what seems like moments later to find the cabin door is open to the night, only something's wrong. Instead of it being clear and cool the way it was when he dropped off, curls of mist hover in the door, the air heavy. There's no wind; he doesn't remember hearing the door bang, has no idea how it got open. Sam sets the book down and gets up. But instead of closing the door, Sam steps out on the porch in his bare feet, jeans and t-shirt.

The woods that surround the cabin are gone, mist swallowing them, and the trees seem wrong too--a lot larger, far more twisted. Sam takes a step closer to the railing and sees the cabin is now at the edge of a ravine he doesn't remember being there before.

There are shapes moving in the mist, sinuous forms that fade in and out of visibility. The glow of red eyes emerges and fades, with low growls and a thin high wordless call that makes gooseflesh form along Sam's arms.

"Dean?" He says, tentatively. Sam goes right to the railing, grips the wood hard, and yells this time into the mist. "Dean!"

Sam shouts his brother's name for a long time and gets no answer.

"Castiel?" He tries finally instead, uncertain, more quietly.

But there's only the mist and the glint of red eyes. Sam's not sure why he did that--part of him wants to stop believing. He's not angry, but sometimes he can still hear the strange cracking sound inside his head when Castiel touched his forehead in that alley. Except Castiel came back, and he fixed what he could, and while Sam's not sure what to think any more, the one thing that's keeping the panic from breaking loose is the possibility that wherever Dean is, Castiel is likely with him. They were both closest to Dick Roman when--whatever it was happened.

Sam wakes to the sound of the text alert on his phone. The cabin is cool, the door closed, the book resting open on his lap, his cheek against the couch cushion. His heart's hammering in his chest. Sam fumbles for the phone and sees he's been asleep for hours.

Did u eat? Jody wants to know.

Just about to, he texts back. There are cans of soup in the cabinet and leftover pizza in the fridge.

He refrains from asking her if she's heard anything. She would tell him if she had.

Sam heats up the soup, stirring it with one hand and reading pages of notes with the other.

Sam thinks he knows where his brother is.

He just has to figure out a way to get him out.

This entry is also on dreamwidth: http://dotfic.dreamwidth.org/420644.html. Feel free to comment at either post.

SPN Fic: In the silence

dotfic — Wed, 30 May 2012 12:22:11 GMT

In the silence
Dean, Castiel | 570 words | PG | coda for 7x23

Dean holds his machete up and away from his body as his boots skid down the loose mud and dead leaves of the slope. He finds a pool of water at the bottom and crouches, wiping the blade against the wet leaves to clean away the blood before he carefully sheathes it. The scrapes on his skin sting as he cups his hands in the cold water, bends his head down to sip from his palms, then splashes more water over his face. Droplets fall from his unshaven chin, making little concentric circles in the pool.

The little splashes are too loud, and Dean strains to listen again to the forest around him, for the rustle of claws against the earth, unnatural rushes of wind, for grunts, snarls, slithers, howls, silences that shouldn't be there.

When Cas appears a few feet away, trenchcoat, hospital-white shirt, and shoes too clean against the mud, Dean doesn't startle. He knows the difference between the beat of Castiel's wings and every other sound in this place.

"There's a pack of wendigos two miles to the South," Cas says. Dean's not exactly sure how to tell which direction is which in this place; there's a wan, weak disk of a sun that rises in one direction and falls in another to mark the days and fine, whatever, even if that's not East and West as Dean understands it, it makes things simpler.

Getting to his feet, Dean tries not to think about what Sam's doing right that minute. The small stab in his chest is worry or homesickness, both at once, something threatening at the edge of panic, which won't do Sam any good topside. He wipes his hands dry on his jeans. "We'd better keep going then."

They start walking side by side, following the streambed. Dean scans the trees above them, peering into the mist, listening. Always listening.

"Dean…" Cas says, with a note of hesitation.

"Yeah?" Dean's still got his eyes on the trees, looking for wings.

"Are you all right?"

"This whole situation sucks bigger than a Hoover the size of a dam, Cas. What kind of question is that?"

Cas inclines his head a fraction, a trace of his recent shyness of conflict showing, although that hasn't stopped him any from ripping the heads off hydras and smiting vampires--not that the creatures die in this place, Dean knows, they're already dead, but he and Cas sure do find a lot of creative ways to incapacitate and damage them, at least temporarily. "I meant that within the context of the situation," Cas ventures again.

There's a flutter and a thin shriek high in the trees. Cas's gaze snaps upward, every muscle tensing, and for a moment he becomes part of the uncanniness around them, while Dean puts his hand on the grip of the machete. After a moment, there's the okay kind of silence falling back into place. They keep moving.

"I guess," Dean says. He doesn't look as Castiel's face, keeps his gaze on the trees. He picks his words carefully, not sure how much he wants to say but also kind of needing Cas to know. "I'm not strapped down this time." And that's all. No wait, there's one more thing. "Plus I've got you watching my back."

Cas doesn't say anything, only moves a little closer to Dean as they walk along the streambed, while the air around them waits to pounce.

This entry is also on dreamwidth: http://dotfic.dreamwidth.org/420544.html. Feel free to comment at either post.

SPN Fic: 3 ficlets about Victor Henriksen

dotfic — Mon, 28 May 2012 13:54:30 GMT

Hey, guys! Hope everyone's enjoying the long weekend, which has been excellent to me so far. Am still hiatusing from LJ/DW, but have been writing some ficlets. These 3 are about Victor Henriksen, which might become part of a longer AU 'verse and I have a Dean and Castiel post-season finale snippet which I'll repost here soon. ♥

Reassignment, Roadside assistance, Old spirits
Victor, Jo, Ellen, Dean | 800 words | AU | set during S3 and between S3/S4 | Mention of canon character death.

a/n: Written for Victor Henriksen week on tumblr.

Summary: After spending a long time protecting people one way, he couldn't turn from adding another.

Reassignment

Victor left his jeep at the side of the road, taking his rucksack and his shotgun with him. He went slowly along the dirt track, listening, the air heavy with the scent of mud and old wet leaves, sounds muffled.

The past few weeks, he'd been noticing the scars on his side less and less. They still itched. Also, right now, maybe because of the damp, a dull ache flared every time the rucksack brushed against his side. By the time the Winchesters and that smart-mouthed demon showed up like the cavalry in the last reel of one Gramp's favorite old movies, sharp blades and shotgun blasts, Lilith had plenty of time to toy with Victor.

He still wasn't sure why she'd let any of them go.

The ache was a part of him now, nothing too bad, nothing to keep him from this wacked-out new job. There was more than one kind of monster in the world. After spending a long time protecting people from them one way, he couldn't turn from adding another.

He stopped, boots sinking into a patch of mud. Whatever was out here, it'd killed six people already.

No more, though. Not on Victor's watch.

Roadside assistance

Sweat tickled down the back of Victor's neck. He reached around to wipe it away with his fingers, shading his eyes with his other hand against the blaze of sunlight. The sky was an in-your-face shade of blue, but the road--it was a dull brown line that ran away into nothing.

He wiped his sweaty hand on his jeans and fished his cell phone out of the front seat of the jeep.

Dean would never let him live this down. Victor would have to endure references and jokes and that goddamned smirk while Sam tried hard not to laugh. Not that Victor begrudged the kid that, with the shadows behind Sam's eyes as the weeks ticked by, the year sliding away from them, Victor finding it harder not to punch Dean across the jaw.

Victor pressed the speed-dial for Dean's number.

"Victor?" Dean answered on the first ring.

"Stabbing that weird beast thing twice in the light of a full moon didn't do jack-all."

Dean started laughing.

"Oh, you think this is funny?"

"Yes, Victor, I do."

"So how do I kill it?"

"You're asking for my help?"

Well, who else did Victor have he could call, really.

"Yes."

Old spirits

Victor stepped over a broken line of stones that marked where a door once stood. Beyond the chain-link fence, he caught a glimpse of blonde ponytail and dark green shirt as Jo moved carefully, checking the remains of the South wing. Unlike Ellen, who offered Victor a bone-crunching hug when they'd all met up to go after this haunting in the ruins of an old hospital, Jo held back from him. Friendly enough, but with a hint of wariness: he was the law, the authorities, The Man. Even if he was among them now, Jo was having none of it.

The lights on the EMF meter Bobby sold him flickered to red as the device squealed.

"Got something," he called out, before the cold curled around him, his breath growing abruptly visible in the hot sunny day. Victor shoved the EMF into his knapsack and raised his shotgun to his shoulder.

A transparent figure garbed in white, eyes hollowed shadows and skin ashen, appeared in front of him.

Victor fired and the spirit dispersed.

Jo pulled her body easily over the fence and dropped to the broken ground on the other side, while Ellen came running from the next room over.

"Well, at least we know they're definitely here," Ellen said, watching the lights on her own EMF meter.

"My guess is that sicko buried the bones of his victims somewhere in the foundations." Victor rummaged for the notepad where he kept his notes. Every page carefully dated and organized, with earmarks to divide it into sections. Dean used to tease him about it.

In his career at the FBI, Victor'd seen a lot of horrible things, the signs of the violence humans perpetrate on other humans. But not even his first sight of a dead body had affected him like seeing Dean on the floor of that house, chest torn into bloodied strips, with Sam hunched over his brother, sobbing. Victor'd had to breathe slowly and deeply to keep from vomiting, caught deer in the headlights while it was Bobby who finally moved forward and went to Sam, started dealing with things.

No one had heard from Sam in over a month.

"Hello?" Jo waved her hand in front of Victor's face.

Victor realized he'd gone silent, Ellen and Jo still waiting for him to finish.

"He confessed to the murders but wouldn't ever tell anyone where the bodies were--it's a way of maintaining control," Victor went on. "He'd want to bury them here, the place where he spent most of his life."

He suspected Jo's quiet hardness had something to do with Dean being gone as well, but if she was grieving, she kept it inward, while with Ellen it just was; she'd tear up in front of Victor once in a while, her whiskey voice going rougher than usual, before she shook it off, unashamed but unwilling to dwell.

"We should head for the basement," Ellen said. "Entrance is there."

"Okay." Jo nodded. "Let's do this."

This entry is also on dreamwidth: http://dotfic.dreamwidth.org/420240.html. Feel free to comment at either post.

SPN Fic: Millstone

dotfic — Thu, 26 Apr 2012 22:41:57 GMT

Millstone
Jo Harvelle, Rufus | PG | 1,000 words

a/n: Set during S4. Makes use of a bit of hunter information revealed in S6. Written for my spn_30snapshots table, prompt #19, and for joweek on tumblr. Beta by maerhys.

Summary: She knows this isn't the worst thing she'll ever face.

There's something nasty in the sewers of New York City.

Not that this is news to Jo, or anything that snopes.com hasn't already debunked. The problem is that whatever it is that doesn't actually exist in the sewers of New York City isn't staying in the sewers like a proper urban legend. It's crawling out and snatching small dogs and it even went after a six-year-old child who was playing close to a storm drain in a city park in lower Manhattan.

The hunter grapevine's a tricky beast, and by the time Rufus calls her to tell her about the sewer monster and finds out that she's still in Albany and therefore the hunter nearest to the job, it's hard to tell what really happened. Rufus says a lot of screaming, and by the time the cops showed up the parents had pulled their child to safety, while a bystander said they saw either a slimy tail or most likely a piece of rope.

"Civilians don't know how to give a useful observation worth a damn," Rufus says. "Anyway, Moishe Campbell's got his hands full with this haunting on the Staten Island Ferry, so…"

"A sewer job." Jo makes her voice extra sweet as she leans against the hood of her car. She's parked by a stream beneath an overpass, birds singing in the trees, peaceful as all get out. "Gee, thanks, Rufus, you shouldn't have. You're too good to me."

"Save the lip, young lady."

Jo knows this is far from the worst thing she's faced or will face, and she knows Rufus knows that she knows it. It didn't take her long after she struck out on her own to learn that the weight's easier for all of them if they act like there are better options. They pretend the grime and blood and stink-holes they often crawl through to kill some evil bastard are just a routine pain in the butt rather than something to be grateful for because if a hunter's doing it, it means they're still alive.

She reaches the city in a few hours and parks her car way over on Tenth Avenue. The scents of car exhaust and hot dogs greet her as she walks towards a more populated area, headed downtown. Here, she's just another girl, joining the swift flow of pedestrians, just another college kid with a backpack and her hair in a braid. Never mind the knife strapped to her ankle, out of sight inside her left boot. Never mind the shotguns in the trunk of her car or that her fingernails are still dirty from the last hunt, crap she can't figure out how to wash off yet.

At the park where the kid almost got snatched, Jo crouches by the storm drain, which rests at the base of a brick wall. The faded colors of a very old advertisement for a pharmacy show against the dull red.

She glances around to make sure no one's looking, then takes out her flashlight and aims the beam down into the opening. There isn't much to see--wet trash, dead leaves--but there's a path cut through the debris, a curving line as if something went through there recently.

Turning off the flashlight, Jo stands, shading her eyes against the sun. At the far end of the park, four high school kids play basketball beyond the chain-link fence. They shout to each other, leaping to make a basket, oblivious.

She's never been like that, can't remember not knowing that there were things that lived in the sewers, in closets, in cellars, in woods, in old houses, in graveyards, can't remember not knowing that just because it looks safe doesn't mean it is.

* * *

With the waste stench filling her nostrils, even with a cloth tied over her face, Jo raises her shotgun to her shoulder. The lantern she's set on the cement floor makes the trickle of water shine and reveals the long, slime-slick thing that crawls along the channel.

It's got tentacles. Jo gags silently, tightens her grip on her shotgun, and fires. The thing writhes, splashing, as Jo steps back.

Before she climbed down through the sewer access hatch and went down the ladder, Jo had considered calling her mom, just because. Just in case, one last time. But she didn't--better if she just made damn sure it wasn't necessary to call.

The creature turns, rushing at her using its stubby, reptilian legs to propel its body. Jo fires again, pumps to discharge the shell with a puff of smoke, and this time the creature jerks to a full stop, twitching with the glimmer of dark blood joining the gleam of water on its skin.

"Ew," Jo says, her voice muffled by the cloth, but still echoing down the tunnel. "Gross."

She lowers her gun, picks up the lantern, and walks back to the ladder where she left the duffel bag. After dousing the lantern and putting it and the gun away, Jo hitches the handle of the bag over her shoulder and begins to climb the ladder.

The pain in the ass clean-up hardly seems necessary; eventually some city worker will find the corpse. The blogs will go apeshit with rumors of mutant albino alligator fish snakes in the sewers, Snopes will debunk it again, and a week later everyone will forget.

Topside, the sun's setting over the Hudson. She blinks, adjusting her eyes to the brightness, and tugs down the cloth.

She texts Rufus. Got 'em.

A few minutes later he texts back Never doubted you.

Her chest goes a little warm at that--Rufus is usually sparing in his praise, that is to say, he hands it out like someone's stealing his last bottle of whiskey and it's an affront to expect him to let it go.

Jo sits on a low wall facing the river and watches the sun go down, and she almost doesn't even notice the smell on her clothes. Here, she could be any girl.

This entry is also on dreamwidth: http://dotfic.dreamwidth.org/420018.html. Feel free to comment at either post.

SPN Fic: Came in from the wilderness

dotfic — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 11:42:17 GMT

Came in from the wilderness
Dean, Sam, Castiel | PG | 900 words | coda for 7.17

a/n: title from Bob Dylan. Thank you to zatnikatel for looking this over.

Summary: Castiel finds a place Lucifer can't follow.

It’s fourteen days since they left Castiel in the asylum. Dean watches Sam closely, does what he can to make sure they stop a lot for sleep, watches as the shadows under Sam’s eyes lessen. He cuts Sam’s hair for him while Sam squirms and protests the same as he did when he was twelve. There are times when Dean thinks Sam is going to be okay, it’s over, but Sam’s a little too quiet, still doing a little too much staring off into the middle distance for no good reason.

It’ll never be over.

Dean keeps catching Sam shooting him these looks, these little status checks, while Dean tries not to think about how much he craves the burn of whiskey down his throat and tries to pretend he doesn’t notice Sam hovering. The nightmares that were bad after Castiel walked into that lake, that grew worse after Bobby was shot, ramped up into more vivid flashes of color and array of images. It’s Cas walking into the lake over and over, Bobby lying in a hospital bed hooked up to machines in a spotlit room with a black void around it, and Sam on the asylum room bed as his body crumbles like ash, a reflection of his crumbling mind.

It’s always a relief to wake up and see Sam whole. Even if Bobby’s still gone. Even if Castiel’s stuck with the devil in his head.

The dream tonight is more pleasant, something he’s dreamt before. He’s sitting in a chair on the dock by a lake, the surface of the water rippling under soft wind, the morning sunlight making it sparkle. The fishing pole in his hand pulls slightly as something teases at it.

“Hello, Dean.”

There’s Cas standing next to Dean’s chair, wearing the hospital-issue scrub pants and t-shirt.

This is a dream, so the fact that Cas can’t be there, that Cas is at that moment enduring Lucifer badgering him in his head while he waits in an asylum, seems moot.

Better not to think about where Cas really is right then.

“Hey,” Dean says, his throat tight. He swallows and then turns his attention back to his fishing line, the thin transparency that slices the air.

When Castiel doesn’t say anything, Dean glances over at him. He hasn’t moved, his shoulders tense, back straight, hands at his sides. It’s as if he isn’t sure what to do with himself, how to stand, where to be.

This is a dream, so Dean plays along. “Maybe you should relax,” he says. “Grab a chair. Sit down. Sun yourself, you look a little pale.”

Just like that, another canvas chair appears beside Dean’s.

“I wasn’t sure…” Cas begins, making no move towards the chair. He frowns at the water as if it’s confusing in the way some of Dean’s music is or some of the things Dean says are. But it’s just water. “I wasn’t sure if I should be here, if it was okay to be here—“ He draws in a shaky breath.

“Cas, what’re you talking about?” Dean lowers the fishing rod and shifts in his chair to see Castiel better.

“I couldn’t be here unless you were willing. But after everything, I want to be sure—“

“I don’t understand. What do you mean here?” The hairs on Dean’s arms go up, breeze sweeping over him. The dance of sunlight on the water continues as if nothing’s up, nothing has ever happened, anywhere.

“This is the only place where I can’t see or hear him any more,” Castiel says.

“Lucifer?”

“My consciousness, some portion of my grace, is a visitor inside your consciousness. The part of me holding the remains of Sam’s wall and Lucifer’s hallucinations is elsewhere. I can’t sever myself from myself. But if I’m here, I can shut it off for a little while. Mute it, as it were, the way you might turn down the volume on a radio. Only for a short while--I can’t stay too long.”

Dean’s grip tightens around the handle of the fishing rod. “So you’re actually here, in my head? This isn’t a dream?”

“It’s partly your dream.”

“Oh.” There’s a silence. Dean has a feeling like something in the air might pop if he breathes too hard. “What did you mean, you wanted to be sure? Sure of what?”

“That it’s…that it’s okay with you that I’m here.”

“Yeah. Yeah, Cas. It’s okay.”

Cas keeps standing there at the edge of the dock, the wind ruffling the hem of his t-shirt, the loose folds of his pants, and his hair. The tension has gone out of his stance, yet he still doesn’t move.

“There’s another seat here, in case you hadn’t noticed,” Dean says, and gestures.

Castiel sits, slowly, keeping his back straight.

It’s Dean’s dream, in part at least, so in the next blink Castiel holds a fishing rod in his hands as well. The angel stares down at it, startled. A cooler appears on the dock between them, the lid open, containing bottles of good beer nestled in ice.

“Have some beer, I’ll teach you how to fish.”

Reaching down, Castiel takes one of the beers, then finally leans all the way back into the chair. “Thank you, Dean,” he says, and Dean knows it’s not for the beer or the rod.

“You uh…you can come back when you need to.”

Castiel turns to face Dean across the cooler, beer bottle in his hand. “All right.”

They sit quietly together, listening to the water lap against the dock.

~end

This entry is also on dreamwidth: http://dotfic.dreamwidth.org/419266.html. Feel free to comment at either post.

Meta rec

dotfic — Wed, 04 Apr 2012 12:55:53 GMT

The concept of True Fannishness™ is childish, ultimately. It’s simplistic. It’s cruel. It turns fandom into an exclusive club for no valid reason: only to make things easier and more comfortable for the people who were there first.

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PDFs and epubs and things

dotfic — Wed, 04 Apr 2012 00:54:52 GMT

Have not fallen off the edge of the earth *waves*. Things have been busy in all kinds of ways.

The SPN fic coda I posted this morning isn't actually the only fic I've done since December 2011, although it might look like that. In the months between then and now there's a 22,000 word chapter of spn_redemption (despite swearing up and down big bang length fic couldn't happen from me, no way, can't do it, nope...and then that happened. Um.) It's the second fic I've done for Redemption Road (the first was already x-posted here a while back). You do kind of have to have read the rest of this co-authored fanfic series for my chapter to make sense, but here's a link anyway: Through the Fire.

In case you were thinking of reading and hadn't had a chance yet, the PDF and e-reader formats for chapters 1-10 are available here. For those not familiar with it, Redemption Road is a group effort, co-created and co-authored fanfic AU of SPN season 7 that's Team Free Will, Dean/Castiel, and Sam&Dean. I'm biased, so I guess I can't actually rec it, but I do flail a lot over the chapters the other writers on the project keep turning out. *g*

***

In other PDF and epub fanfic news, the fabulous liptonrm put my SPN gen Recoilverse bundled into one package in epub, mobi, and PDF formats. This was a series that started because I wondered why Dean turned around in the Pilot episode (before I'd seen the deleted scene that explained it) and it sort of kept multiplying. (The premise is that Dean and Sam have an odd psychic link whereby Dean can sense Sam's fear. The fics ran pre-series to S3 before I stopped).

Which, y'know, in retrospect that premise grows a lot scarier when I think about applying that to the later seasons of SPN. O.o

This entry is also on dreamwidth: http://dotfic.dreamwidth.org/418731.html. Feel free to comment at either post.

SPN Fic: The Black Cord

dotfic — Tue, 03 Apr 2012 12:01:09 GMT

The black cord
Castiel, Lucifer, Dean, Meg (slight Dean/Castiel) | PG | 2,100 words | coda for 7x17

a/n: Written for the lovely murron's birthday. Thanks to mclittlebitch for her help, and to zatnikatel for the beta read. Title is from Jane Hirschfeld. This fic also makes use of lines from William Blake.

Summary: There are ways to shout down the devil.

"You don't seem very glad to see me." Lucifer's voice is soft, mouth drawing down. He leans against the wall near the bed.

Castiel clenches his fingers around the edge of the mattress, the coolness of the sheets, and states flatly, "You aren't real."

"Keep telling yourself that, little brother." He pushes himself away from the wall and shrugs. "That doesn't change the fact that you can see and hear me."

As Lucifer moves closer, Castiel doesn't draw back; he keeps his back straight and moves his gaze away from the semblance of Lucifer's human vessel towards the door. Sam and Dean walked through it minutes, hours, days, or weeks ago. He blinks and Lucifer is standing right over him, reaching a hand out as if he would touch Castiel's face. Castiel does draw back this time, moving his body up the bed until his back hits the metal frame.

After a small noise of regret, Lucifer says, "We're alike, you and I. Rebels both. Once I hoped you would see my side of things, support me."

Keeping his eyes on the door, Castiel refuses to respond.

"Yes, ignore me all you want, but you know that I'm right. You were always wanting to ask questions, weren't you, even if it took you a long time to work up the guts to do it. Our Father wasn't always right." His voice grows softer, more bitter. "Michael, of course, never got it. Devoted as a puppy." Lucifer trails his fingers over a crack in the wall, picks at the chipped paint. "You aren't listening to me, Castiel. I paid attention to you when most couldn't be bothered, barely looked at you, saw you as nothing but a small bird of the lower orders. It amused me greatly when you were the one who threw the Host into chaos. You really should listen to me."

The smoothness of the sheet under Castiel's hand grows cooler, the metal of the bed's frame going icy through the thin cotton of the t-shirt that covers his back. Castiel's breath shows in the air, thin wisps of warm vapor. He starts to shiver as frost forms on the window frame, creeping over the glass. The memory of Dean's face, framed against such a window, some cabin where the Winchesters were squatting with Lucifer and the armies of Heaven searching for them, comes to colorful life. Dean turns, facing Castiel, saying something sharp, fixing Castiel with a hard questioning gaze; Castiel never brought them good news in those days. Never brought them good news afterwards either. For a moment Castiel's body warms as he slips into the memory, the smell of the musty cabin, the junk food and coffee the Winchesters subsisted on, Dean's faded shabby army jacket as familiar to Castiel as Jimmy Novak's trenchcoat. The way Dean offers him a cup of coffee, saying he knows Cas (Castiel used to find the diminutive insulting, but soon grew to like hearing Dean say it) doesn't need it but maybe he should drink it anyway. The way Dean's fingertips were warm as Castiel took the paper cup from him.

Cold tightens his chest, wracking through his body. The floor of the hospital room has lines of ice in it like veins. He shouldn't be able to feel chilled this way, not now. Emmanuel sometimes did, although never as much as Daphne. Emmanuel never knew he wasn't supposed to be cold, and when she found him near the lake he was shivering.

Lucifer kneels beside the bed, head tilted to the side, an expression of detached pity on his features.

"We're alike," he says again. "You're the width of a thin gold thread away from me. A fraction too far in any direction and you'll go over, Castiel. You think you're more righteous than I am? Your motivations are the same. Funny how I'm the bad guy here."

Castiel scrambles off the bed as Lucifer's head goes up, startled at the sudden movement. Pulling at the mattress, Castiel yanks it free, the straps that hold it in place snapping beneath his strength, exposing the metal springs beneath. He finds a sharp edge of metal and scrapes the underside of his arm along it, drawing blood.

Lucifer lets out a soft huff of breath, a laugh. "You know that won't work on me. Still, points for trying, you always were a tough bastard."

Crouched on the floor, Castiel hesitates with blood dripping from his fingers, his heart racing. Yes, it won't work. He let himself panic. It won't happen again. Still it seems important to make the gesture. He draws the banishing sigil with swift, decisive movements, then slams his palm angrily against the wet symbols.

There's a flash of light and a stab of hope in Castiel's gut but Lucifer doesn't vanish.

The door opens, a voice shouts back into the hallway, there are running feet, hands on him, someone wrapping a bandage around his arm, guiding him over to the bed. He struggles. The orderlies strap him down while Lucifer starts singing in a loud, emphatic voice, "And did those feet in ancient time/Walk upon England's mountains green… -- so self-righteous, weren't you. Did you ever get your bow of burning gold? Or just that angel sword you used to kill your own brethren?"

"Clarence," a familiar voice says, smooth and amused, "what you were trying to do there?" He blinks and recognizes Meg's pale face, dark brown hair pulled back neatly. She glances down at the circles drawn on the floor in blood. Her touch on his arm is oddly gentle. Meg seems pleased about something, eager. "Well, aren't you the little scrapper."

Lucifer stands at the foot of the bed now. His head jerks when he spies Meg, eyebrows rising as if he's pleased to see her.

"She's loyal, this one," Lucifer says. "She'll be true to you as she was to me."

Castiel turns his head away, but Lucifer keeps singing, And did the Countenance Divine/Shine forth upon our clouded hills…, voice soft now, pervasive, tendrils of it twining through Castiel's mind, brushing against his grace.

*

Lucifer watches him. Doesn't speak, but watches, moving to the left, then to the right, studying Castiel.

It's worse than when he's talking.

Castiel has had enough of Lucifer. He unfurls his wings. They're heavy on his back now, feeling stiff and tight, brittle and unclean. He's not even sure they work any more but he vanishes from the room in the asylum, finding himself in a clearing in a forest, air sharp and sweet with pine. A bird sings above his head, a lilting note. For a brief moment, he has peace.

A moment later Lucifer appears before Castiel again, pursing his lips as he imitates the bird song.

With a resigned sigh, Castiel returns to his room in the asylum. He sits on the bed with one knee bent beneath him, facing the wall while Lucifer keeps whistling.

He stops whistling. "Hey, want to see my wings?"

Castiel flinches before he can help himself, while his brother moves closer to the bed.

"You remember, me, don't you?" Lucifer says, drawing close, too close, before white light starts to burn beneath the semblance of his vessel's skin, webs of illumination that grow ever brighter. Castiel turns away before the light explodes outward.

If he turns back Castiel knows what he'll see. He keeps his gaze on the wall, the crack in the paint.

"Aw, c'mon. You showed me yours, I'm showing you mine. Look at me."

"No."

"Look at me. Castiel, turn and face me." Lucifer's true voice makes the window glass shatter outward. There's ice crawling up the walls. "Look at me," he says again, the heat and light pressing against Castiel's skin. His voice grows thunderous. "Look at me, look at me, look at me—"

"Cas."

"Look at me look at me look at me look at me--"

"Cas, hey man, you with me?" That is not Lucifer's voice. There's light all around, too bright to see anything, and Lucifer's true voice blends with the new one. "Cas!" Dean says, sharp and angry, and Lucifer's voice goes quiet, the light dying.

There's Dean, standing in the doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he can't decide whether to come in or not. In his other hand he holds several objects, rectangular and small, as well as some kind of electronic device.

Lucifer, back to the semblance of his human vessel, now stands by the table watching Dean. His mouth slants into a mocking little smile. "Oh, look who it is. He actually remembered you were here. That's really sweet."

"We, uh…" Dean walks into the room. "Me and Sam found a hunt in the area. I mean, it was this haunting, it happened to be about twenty miles south of here and so I thought might as well…Cas?"

Castiel meets Dean's gaze, takes in the familiarity of hazel-green eyes. "Hello, Dean."

"How're you holding up?"

"He might not really be here," Lucifer points out. "Or he might be." He laughs.

"I'm alright."

"Sam'll be up in a minute, he went to get you some donuts. We know you don't actually need to eat, but…anyway, I brought you something." He comes closer and puts the items down on the mattress. "Old Walkman, found it in a thrift store, it's a lot like the one I had when I was a kid. I'm loaning you these." He nudges the rectangular objects closer. There is writing on the side in a bold, blocky hand. "They're cassettes, so be careful with them, all right? I don't have back-up copies and it's two of my favorites. You let the player eat the tape and I'll tie your wings into knots, got it?" Dean says it fondly, and Castiel manages a small smile for him, ignoring Lucifer.

Picking up one of the cassettes, Castiel turns it over in his fingers, looking at Dean's bold lettering on the tapes, wondering if Dean looks at the symbols Castiel used to draw in a similar way, finding the lines oddly fascinating in their own right simply due to their shape. They mean something but are also aesthetically pleasing. He understands these tapes are things Dean must value from the note in his voice when he says he has no replacement. The idea that this might be the point, that Dean wouldn't be giving the cassettes to him in the first place if he had spares, makes Castiel's chest go tight.

"Figured you could listen to these and maybe use 'em to drown out the devil. Sam says he's pretty chatty. Ace of Spades is probably your best bet. Just fast forward until you find something you like, it's all pretty badass." Dean takes a breath and seems to realize he's still talking. He shuts his mouth and his jaw tightens before he adds, "wish there was more I could do."

Castiel looks up from the cassettes to Dean's face again.

"It won't do any good," Lucifer says. "You can't block me out. Think about him all you want, listen to his music, but it won't work. We're family, the only kind that matters."

"Thank you, Dean," Castiel says calmly. His fingers tighten around the plastic.

Dean rubs his thumb across his chin, still staring down at Castiel.

"Don't look at him, look at me, Castiel, angel of Thursday." Lucifer unfurls his wings, only a fraction of the full extent of their true span, the darkness of their shadow-form spreading over the walls, the ceiling, continuing to grow, capable of consuming the entire building. "You think he'll show you the loyalty and love I can? Look at me." Lucifer's voice increases in volume until it echoes, filling Castiel's head, turning from human to the true voice of an angel again, yet Dean doesn't even flinch. The sound isn't really there, even while it crawls around Castiel and into him, inescapable, pressing on him.

He can't help it: Castiel winces. The sharp breath Dean draws in is inaudible to him but he sees the quick movement of Dean's chest, how his eyes widen. Dean seems too small outlined against the visible darkness of Lucifer's wings, yet sturdy and immovable.

"Cas!" He watches Dean's lips move, but can't hear him.

Dean leans over, resting his hands on the mattress on either side of Castiel. He puts his mouth close to Castiel's ear. You deserve to be saved, he whispers.

This time, the words cut clear and sharp, drowning out the devil.

~end

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There seems to be a lot of food in this post

dotfic — Mon, 05 Mar 2012 23:35:57 GMT

chiiyo86 wrote me a delightful Fringe fic -- A Time for Baking -- in which Peter and Olivia make croissants in Walter's lab. <3<3<3

In other delightful things, here, have a link to a video of Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki mashing their faces into Jensen's birthday cake at Burbank Con. Jensen started it!

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White Collar season finale

dotfic — Wed, 29 Feb 2012 04:15:21 GMT

Someone else saw that, right? DID YOU SEE THAT? That is probably the best finale they have ever done.

Let me just, first, because I didn't get to watch last week's episode until right before I watched the finale: last week when Peter told Neal the story about his arm injury and having to quit playing baseball and how Peter concluded on "and I never would've caught you." CAN YOU FEEL THE LOVE DKDJALAS:JFa Peter is just so damn glad the twists and turns brought this person into his life. ♥♥♥

And the finale...so there's Peter, and first it was if he testifies in favor of Neal's commutation, Kramer gets Neal working for him for life and Peter loses Neal (and Neal never gets the chance to be his own person), and then they found a way around Kramer. But Kramer found a way around them and then it was Peter either lets Neal go, free and clear or Kramer gets Neal forever and oh my god that moment on the steps with the subverbal conversation where Peter was telegraphing to Neal that he had to run, and Neal gets on a plane and leaves dkafjdl;sagkl;dja;kj

So Peter sets Neal free in order to set him free but for that to happen now Neal has to leave and Peter has to LOSE NEAL which was the thing Peter was afraid of IN THE FIRST PLACE.

*breathes*

This shoooowwwwwww.

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Fringe!

dotfic — Sat, 25 Feb 2012 15:19:27 GMT

YOU GUYS I HAVE ALL THESE FRINGE THOUGHTS AND FEELS.

So. Tell me what you thought of that ep in the comments and we'll theorize and have emotions and go omg what at each other. I'm both relieved at that ending and also very sad and yet I had the same worries and I really like that Peter stepped up and did that. Season 3, it haunts us all so very much. Not sure that's the right decision for them either--it still might really be his Olivia, but I mean from the character standpoint, not the viewer standpoint, it seems better if they don't hook up right now, because of the terrible damage that could happen over the what if it's not really his Olivia.

Again I'm waffling on my it's a whole separate timeline theory. What if it's the palimpsest Walter talked about? But what if it's a whole separate timeline? I DON'T KNOW! *FLAILS*

So...it's all September's fault, setting off this whole chain reaction of events? Oh, September. ;__;

YAY SEASON 3 NEVER SHOULD'VE HAPPENED IS ACTUALLY IN THE CANON. LOL I heart this show. (I did enjoy S3 but it was traumatizing).

Anna Torv was extra excellent in this episode, the subtleties in her responses throughout and oh wow Anna Torv your face. Blair Brown rocked it as well.

Olivia you sneaky BAMF.

Should I admit how much I enjoyed Peter being used as a hostage with a knife held to his pretty, pretty throat while Olivia goes psi-powers ballistic to save him? "You told me to turn on the lights." *shivers* I KIND OF LOVED THAT A LOT OKAY and omg the scary Olivia Dunham stare alone is a force not to be messed with.

So...I think that the episode actually made sense and September's story made sense.

*cue moping because 4 weeks of hiatus*

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Fringe 4.13 picspam & theorizing

dotfic — Sun, 19 Feb 2012 18:29:00 GMT

So far this season continues to play with the blue-red-yellow-green, spots of color that seem over-saturated and stand out. It's been too emphatic for me to think it's not deliberate. For reference, see my Fringe 4.01 color picspam. 4.13 had a lot going on with that.

Caps by killmotion

As usual, Walter's lab seems to be a space where the color theme stands out. People's homes, or the assisted living place in this episode, seem more "neutral"--there is a lot of color but not as pointed.

Peter's surrounded by blue here. Blue shirt, blue wire, blue lights, the blue on the computer monitor. There's a spot of green on the back of that machine, and by Olivia's head there are those big dots of red and orange (amber). If blue is the color associated with the original Over Here, and red is the original Red Over There, and amber is the place the show is in now, with the green accent for the Observers...okay maybe I'm just rambling. Green seems to be an Observer color (see the 4.01 picspam).

While Olivia is in neutral colors--her shirt and suit are sort of an olive blue-green (and olive...for Olivia?) while there are red/green/blue/yellow wires coming out of that device on her head.

Olivia looks awfully relaxed and perky for someone sitting under what looks like a mad scientist version of a hair salon dryer.

I'm not sure what's going on. Still going with there being another timeline. Since this Olivia was dosed with cortexiphan, maybe the ability brought out was picking up on the brain waves of blue!verse Olivia. Then again, maybe there is no amber!verse and this is the original blue!verse and the cortexiphan is allowing Olivia to regain her true memories. Peter's in the right place, everyone has changed around him. Or he's in the wrong place but home is bleeding through. And how long has this Olivia been dosed? Is this why she dreamed about Peter? What about Walter seeing "the man in the mirror"--is Walter hyper sensitive because it's his son? Did Peter project strongly as his consciousness was trying to find home? (I'm rambling again).

How much do I love that Walter makes tea using a bunsen burner and a beaker? Also the blue jar of liquid stands out, plus the blue flame of the burner.

Color scheme--green mug, amber-ish tea, yellow honey bear, amber honey. (What even is that ceramic thing?)

As with the lab, the colors jump out at Massive Dynamic as well. Lots of blue (and white) at Massive Dynamic. Hmm.

There's also that field of blue from the storage locker door behind Olivia when she's talking with Peter about how he makes her feel.

At the gas station, there's an awful lot of yellow and green.

We've seen the show do this before with green/yellow against a car window.

And now Peter's face is bathed in green light. Right after he and Olivia both decide it's really her. But there's this reminder of the Observers. Seriously, if Peter had been bathed in blue light I might've felt less on edge about it.

And of course, it ends in tears and Olivia disappears, and we're left with real!Nina and Olivia held captive in some grim-looking room somewhere. Olivia and Nina will be bringing the sneaky escapes, asses kicked, and heads knocked together in 3...2...1...

Also there's the white-blue security room and those red, red, red cortexiphan vials.

*adjusts aluminum foil hat*

Okay Fringe. Where are you going with all of this?

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The Friday shows (no spoilers)

dotfic — Sun, 19 Feb 2012 02:03:02 GMT

Oh hi, I'm still lurking about!

Here's the Fringe promo for next week (with spoilers for the ep that just aired at the link). So are we really? Are they really? Do you think they'll give us what the tagline promises?

As for the promo itself, dkafjdsla;kgja;lkha;fjs

In general Fringe continues to surprise and delight me. Last week's felt like a vintage Fringe ep, only not, because it was very much S4 emotionally and situationally. I loved the show doing callbacks to itself. This week, I need to watch it again but I really enjoyed it and oh dear. OH DEAR. IS IT NEXT FRIDAY YET.

Having apparently infected a number of people around me with Fringe squee and now they're watching it too *cackles with glee* I feel it's high time I squeed over Nikita. Which keeps getting better and better--season 2's intricate game keeps ratcheting upwards and the characters and emotional dynamics are all gripping. It's a character-driven plot-heavy spy thriller show. The characters are all smart, strong, competent, badass, flawed, and layered, especially the women, who tend to drive the story. The ratings are tiny. WHY ARE THE RATINGS TINY, IT IS SO GOOD.

Supernatural: I really enjoyed this week's ep. A lot. I watched it twice. It's not the only S7 ep I've enjoyed but the track record has been extremely spotty (understatement) for me this season.

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Chuck!

dotfic — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 14:24:42 GMT

Tonight the Chuck series finale airs!

I feel sad seeing it go yet pleased it's ending strong. 5 seasons is an excellent run. It's also consistently been my happy place. There was one arc I was doubtful on but it was followed by episodes that were doing exactly what I'd wanted to see a tv show do that shows rarely do. In fact I have to rummage in my brain pretty hard to think of a show that's accomplished what Chuck accomplished. A few came close but were derailed by forces beyond showrunner control (or by shows falling apart the way they do). Also the Chuck ensemble: delightful, every one of them. And I happen to think the women on Chuck are pretty amazing, strong and layered. Ellie Bartowski and Sarah Walker! ♥

LOL and Best Buy is ruined forever. I keep calling it the Buy More by mistake.

BUYMORIA!

Feel free to squee at me over the show in the comments (now is not the time to share your thoughts on what's wrong with Chuck).

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LJ/DW

dotfic — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 21:13:47 GMT

For a whole batch of reasons, I'm going to be cross-posting everything from dreamwidth and am letting my paid LJ account expire this year. Comments are remaining open at both locations. ETA: also so it's clear, am going to keep reading both places (although I have some logistics to work out so I don't read the same posts twice).

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