Take dead aim on the rich boys.

Heat Fic Summer Dear Author Letter

2020-04-29T01:11:05Z

Hello, Dear Author! I am so excited for this exchange! I feel like it was made for me! (Incidentally, if anyone's interested, signups are open until noon May 3rd.)

I'm requesting like 8 fandoms for this, so I'll try to keep this reasonably brief. Here are some general likes and dislikes:

Likes: Casual intimacy, fraught intimacy, hard-earned intimacy, competence, small bossy tops and big happy bottoms, messy friendships, kissing, cuddling, cyborgs, curses, magic, intimate platonic friendship, sex as character study, consent issues/negotiation under difficult circumstances (dub-con), difficult conversations (esp. about issues of reproductive autonomy), deep friendship + sex that doesn't = romance, deep friendship + sex that absolutely does turn into romance, hopeful endings, queer a/b/o or D/s dynamics, and subverted a/b/o or D/s dynamics.

DNWs: rape/non-con, extreme angst/darkness, unexamined power differences between characters/emotional manipulation, total fluff or crack, infidelity, un-requested non-canon ships, pregnancy fic, totally non-canon AUs like high school/college/coffee shop, etc, unhopeful endings.

I tend not to like the more traditional a/b/o dynamics, like that alphas are bigger than omegas or pushier or meaner, etc. but I'm not going to get super picky. Basically, as long as the power dynamics of the heat!fic are part of the story and not assumed/unexamined, I'm excited!

NOTES: sign-up is in no particular order, certainly not order of preference. Also, if there is a fic you've been dying to write that has nothing to do with the prompts below, write the fic of your heart (with my DNWs in mind pls) and I'm sure I will love it!! Also, if anyone wants to use these as prompt ideas for any fic, not part of the exchange, feel free :) I probably will.

1. Knives Out:

Marta Cabrera/in heat!Ransom Drysdale;
in heat!Ransom Drysdale/in heat!Marta Cabrera;
beta!Marta Cabrera/omega!Ransom Drysdale;
alpha!Marta Cabrera/omega!Ransom Drysdale

Look, it's entirely possible that the reason I'm invested in Ransom Drysdale is that he's Chris Evans and Chris Evans plays Ransom just WAITING and HOPING for Marta to fuck him up. I have no shame.

Give me Ransom released to her custody because his heat comes on in prison, and he needs help to make it through safely, and she's the contact he lists.

Or how about accidentally bonded Marta and Ransom?

Or he induces a heat and gets them bonded so they can't be separated, so he can't go to jail?

YUM.

Whatever you decide, Marta should be in charge, and Ransom should love/hate it. And/or they're both obsessed with each other and they both love/hate it. This ship is fucked up; it's fine if the fic is fucked up.

2. Spider-Man (Tom Holland movie:

Peter Parker/sp!Tony Stark;
Peter Parker/in heat!Tony Stark;
sp!Peter Parker/sp!Tony Stark

My favorite thing about these two is the balance of power, and how Peter asserts himself with Tony, when he's so much younger but with arguably more power. My second favorite thing is Peter's relentless optimism and resilience :) Given the chance to help Tony through something like getting dosed with sex pollen or heat, he would jump at it.
I'm especially interested in a Tony lives!Endgame AU where they're both a little older/wiser/more tired. (Please have Peter be over 18 but not older than 25.) Maybe Tony has had time to digest Peter's feelings for him, and Peter is resigned to the torch he carries.

3. Rogue One: A Star Wars Story

alpha!Jyn Erso/omega!Cassian Andor;
in heat!Cassian Andor/Jyn Erso;
omega!Jyn Erson/omega!Cassian Andor
; Cassian Andor/in heat!Jyn Erso

I have such deep Jyn x Cassian feelings, but I never had much desire to read or write fic for them because I feel like their canon arc is so perfect. But! Heat fic is the perfect opportunity to drag their story onto a different track. Or not! Feel free to have their encounter directly lead to their survival or make their end all the more tragic. Maybe they go through a heat together and bond because they know they won't survive their mission and they want to know what it feels like. (But then, whoops, they do survive!) Whatever you decide, just remember that Cassian is gorgeous in his sadness, and all will be well.

4. Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn):

In heat!Harleen Quinzel/Dinah Lance; sp!Harleen Quinzel/Dinah Lance; in heat!Harleen Quinzel/Helena Bertinelli

I really love how resilient Harley is and how brittle at the same time. For so much of the movie, she's hanging on by a thread, so I kind of really want to see how heat or sex pollen might push her over some edge and how Helena or Dinah would help her through that. We know she falls in love too easy/with the wrong people, so what does she do when faced with somebody who could actually be good for her?

5. MCU:

sp!Natasha Romanov/Steve Rogers; Natasha Romanov/sp!Steve Rogers; omega!Natasha Romanov/omega!Tony Stark; Natasha Romanov/in heat!Tony Stark; omega!Natasha Romanov/alpha!Peter Parker

Natasha Romanov is my forever-love, and I ship Tony/Nat and Steve/Nat like crazy because I deeply enjoy thinking about all three of them figuring out how to be Real People together, whether that involves romance or not. Basically my feelings for these three are: "Not Every Love Story Is a Romance." Heat fic is an opportunity to show just how far they would go for each other.
I threw in Peter/Nat because how fun would that be?!?!
Also, if you want to have this be a Saving-Nat or Bring-Nat-Back fic, go for it. I am, however, completely unspoiled for the Black Widow movie, and would like to keep it that way.

6. Elementary:

sp!Sherlock Holmes/sp!Joan Watson; sp!Sherlock Holmes/Joan Watson; In heat!Sherlock Holmes/Marcus Bell; In heat!Sherlock Holmes/Joan Watson; In heat!Joan Watson/Sherlock Holmes; In heat!Joan Watson/In heat!Sherlock Holmes

I'm getting caught up with this show right now (haven't seen S7 yet) and I am still so in love with the depth of Joan and Sherlock's relationship. They are another of my "Not Every Love Story Is a Romance" ships, so I would love any exploration of how a surprise or routine heat or sex pollen event (lol) fits into their lives. Are they completely thrown off because sex has never been part of their friendship, or does this fit in naturally as something they would do for each other? How does the dynamic change when it's Joan vs Sherlock who's affected? Also, I love Marcus, so feel free to throw him in if you like :)

7. Black Panther:

In heat!Erik Killmonger/T'Challa;
In heat!T'Challa/Erik Killmonger;
Alpha!T'Challa/Omega!Erik Killmonger;

Alpha!Erik Killmonger/Omega!T'Challa

By this point in my letter it will come as no surprise that I am all about the power dynamics with heat tropes, and probably no relationship is more about who's got the power than T'Challa/Erik. Making either one vulnerable to the other is just *chef kiss*. That said, I'm not about the straight-up non-con or hate sex. They're cousins, and they're both entirely convinced of their righteousness, yet they also recognize the righteousness of the other, much as it pains them. For these two, I'm most interested in how this changes their relationship--how it is damaged and/or healed.

8. Thor movies:

In heat!Thor/Valkyrie; sp!Thor/sp!Loki

I just really love the idea of Thor going to Valkyriefor help, and him seeing it as a perfectly viable, reasonable option, and her seeing it as this overwhelming gesture of trust, and maybe Thor already had a thing for Val, but he's Not Going There, because that's not fair, and Thor is King now, so he has to be fair, while Val quietly freaks the fuck out over how important this is to feel so trusted and valued, and her already-intense loyalty to Thor is ratcheted up to 9000. *ahem*
Also, Thor/Loki sex pollen, because why not. Maybe it's the kick in the pants they need to sort themselves out.

Revised friends-only post and policy

2017-07-08T21:32:47Z

Hello, friends, old and new!

As of now, I'm no longer f-locking my fic, but since I have yet to figure out how to mass-unlock fic, and I don't feel like going through all 210 entries and individually setting each entry to public, please just Let Me Know if there's something you're here to read. Like, was one of my Star Trek or Harry Potter fics rec'd somewhere? Yay! Tell me, and I'll unlock it. Want to read the rest of my Star Trek or Harry Potter fic? Double Yay!!! Leave a comment and I'll unlock them. :) Cool? Cool. And just know, I'm super excited you guys wanna read my stuff.

Edit: or, if you're a real person with a real journal and you want to be friends, I'm still happy to friend if that's just easier for everyone.

Also, note: All new fic gets posted to Ao3, though you need an account to view it. Carry on!

This is happening for a while

2015-01-19T02:00:43Z

Hello!

For the time being all my stuff is locked down. Talk to me in comments if you want access to fic!

SPN-J2-Xmas Fic: You Can Plan on Me, J2, 1/1

2013-12-20T22:46:57Z

Title: You Can Plan on Me
Author: june
Rating: Hard R
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Warnings: none
Word count: ~4,000
Notes: For stripytights for the spn_j2_xmas exchange! This was so much fun to write, I can't even tell you, and my first J2, as well! As always, a huge thank you to harrigan for her speedy beta! I was going to include which of stripytights's prompts/likes I drew from but that would spoil the story so, tralala, I'm not telling. Also, I'm crediting Bing Crosby for the lyrics below--the superior version, clearly.

Summary:
/I'll be home for Christmas
You can plan on me/

The snow comes down thick and heavy, now, blanketing the valley in white, turning the rusted corpses of the machines to harmless lumps. Jared perches on top of their own rusty lump and sips his spiked tea from a thermos. The whiskey as well as the hot liquid warm him from the inside out, even though his ass is still freezing and his toes have gone numb. He can’t stay out for much longer, not with this weather. But—Jensen’s late. Nearly a day late.

Finally jumping down, Jared makes his way over to the barn—a glorified lean-to made of scavenged pieces of armor and hull plating. Jilly the goat is chomping happily on the last of her feed. Doug and Marcia bleat at him, their strange black sheep tongues sticking all the way out.

“Bleeeeeeeeh,” Jared answers, sticking his tongue out.

The chickens, which he has not named because he intends to eat them, cluck at him from their roosts. Friendly girls, all of them, with no rooster to harass them.

With everyone in order, Jared shuts and locks the barn door, hoping that no coyotes decide to make Christmas dinner out of his animals. As the winters get harsher, more and more of them come down out of the mountains. With another sip of his tea, Jared slogs back to the house. Or the bunker—it looks less like a house, covered in snow. Before pulling the door shut, though, he casts one more look up the valley, toward the road between the mountains that will lead Jensen home—a road that’ll be buried by morning.

Humming an old pre-war Christmas song that has always made him sad, Jared shuffles inside, steps out of his half-laced boots and into his slippers before heading straight to the wood stove. Sparks shoot up the pipe as he pokes and prods the logs into a more vigorous flame. They’ve got lots of wood cut, but the high efficiency fuel pellets Jensen always brings back burn much longer and hotter.

Satisfied that their insulated little house is back on its way to warm, Jared heads over to his workbench and plops down onto the stool. He supposes it’s all right that Jensen is late. Fine, really, because Jared’s not quite finished with his Christmas present yet. Flicking on the jointed workbench light, Jared angles it to give him a bright spot on the table, lighting up the dark corner of their house.

He blinks on his Eyes as he picks up the glasses he’s making for Jensen. They ache for a moment as his genetically enhanced lenses zoom and focus on the final adjustments he needs to make. The glasses won’t allow Jensen to see the way Jared does, but the design is the same and they'll correct his vision where he needs it, prop up his failing eyesight for several more years, provide a mechanical crutch that he will hate for its necessity but hopefully appreciate.

Jared hums his Christmas song and does what he was born to do—fuss with pieces of tech until he understands them, until he can make them do what he wants.

*

The grind of the truck's gears and the fierce bite of its tread wake Jared from his doze, propelling him to his feet so quickly he nearly topples his stool. Jared remembers to hide the finished glasses amongst the myriad pieces of scavenged tech on the workbench just before he shrugs into his coat and steps into his boots. But with a screech of metal the door swings open and Jensen slips inside, along with a flurry of snow.

In the dim light of the main room, he can see Jensen cast a quick glance over their small warren to assure himself all is as it should be. Finally he looks at Jared, unwinds the scarf from around his face and shoves his hat off his head, depositing another layer of snow in the entryway.

“Hey,” Jared says, not bothering to mask how relieved he is to have Jensen home. “You made it—” He checks his watch. “—just before midnight.”

Jensen blinks at him, eyes dark and unreadable until he understands. His smile is small and secret. “I said I’d be home for Christmas.” He takes two steps to get to Jared and keeps going, pushing him back until he bumps up against the wall by the wood stove.

“I was coming out to meet you,” Jared says just before Jensen kisses him. Jensen does it with the singular concentration of a man who cannot be less than perfect at anything he attempts.

“I know,” he answers. “I wanted to surprise you, but the damn truck is so noisy.”

“It must drive you nuts not being able to sneak up on things and kill them like you used to, but that truck keeps us fed. It’s certainly not my farming skills.”

Jensen cradles Jared’s face in his big rough hands, thumbs gently at his jaw and cheeks as if he's forgotten Jared's face in the weeks he's been gone. Jared hasn’t blinked his Eyes off yet and he allows himself a moment to give Jensen a quick scan while he's distracted touching Jared's face and body. No frostbite, no blood, no torn clothes. Knuckles of his right hand bruised. Jared stops them with his own when they settle on his waist.

“You have any trouble? Your hands are—”

“No. We’re good—I made sure.” His smile is colder now. “I still get to do some sneaking up on things and killing them.”

Jared shivers, a host of complicated feelings playing havoc with his nervous system. If he looked carefully enough he could see them—wild sequences of fire and light jumping through him.

“Do you want presents now or in the morning?” Jensen asks, his demeanor shifting so quickly that Jared can only just catch the process, like the change from one application to another. Jensen looks at him now like he is ready to be home and out of his clothes.

“Both,” Jared says, shrugging his coat off his shoulders and stepping back out of his boots.

*

Their mattress sits in a cobbled together metal frame that creaks with any kind of vigorous movement. Jensen would prefer to have it on the floor, but their house is half underground, an old war machine dug in and insulated against the cold. They've tried to seal it as best they can, but bugs and sometimes mice and other critters still get in. In the event of critters, Jared doesn't want to be on the floor.

As a consequence, Jensen likes to fuck him as slow as he can to keep the frame from making a racket. Jared can't say that he really minds—until he absolutely fucking does.

“Come on,” he groans, arching his hips up, breaching himself on Jensen's fingers. “Aren't you gonna... don't you want...”

Shaking his head, Jensen curls his fingers and drags them out with impossible thoroughness and patience. Jared writhes and then laughs. “You fucking asshole. I see why they paid you the big bucks.” He gasps at a twitch of Jensen's fingers and makes a grab for his dick but Jensen swats his hand away and continues with his merciless torture.

“If only...” he starts, green eyes downcast.

Jared can guess his meaning. If only his talents had been used for pleasure. If only the compensation had been proportional to what he'd been ordered to do, to the pain he had caused, they would never have to worry about money again.

But any coherent thoughts he has on the matter of his and Jensen's past are flushed from his mind as Jensen zeroes in on his prostate and works him until he's a panting, shaking, sweating mess.

“You want to touch yourself, go 'head,” Jensen says, voice a little frayed witnessing Jared's pleasure. He may like to control the pace, but it is always Jared who undoes him.

Taking himself in hand finally, Jared gives a few easy tugs and is knocked sideways by the force of the orgasm that crackles through him, Jensen's fingers a constant agonizing pressure in his ass.

When he's finally wrung every last drop out of him, Jensen lowers Jared's legs enough to settle himself across his hips and from there, jerk himself off with quick efficient strokes. Jared has learned not to touch him during this portion of the evening, not even to ask. Instead he allows himself to rest in the afterglow, content to watch as Jensen watches him, as Jensen brings himself off. Jensen exhales a harsh breath when he comes and his lashes flutter—the only concession to his own pleasure he makes.

But this time Jensen curls forward after, leans down to press his head to Jared's. His hips work restlessly against Jared's stomach, slipping wetly in the mess they've both left. Jensen kisses him and says with absolute conviction, “I love you.”

Jared blinks at Jensen's too-close face, touches his back. “Yeah?”

Jensen nods.

“Me too. I mean—I love you, too, Jensen.” He wants to blink his Eyes on, try to determine why Jensen would say that now. What's different? Surely there's something observable.

But Jensen would know if Jared tried to examine him in that way. He'd know and he wouldn't like it.

He wonders briefly if Jensen said it as an experiment, to find out what Jared would do, how he'd respond, but he discards that possibility. Jared's the scientist, not Jensen. Jensen was treated like an experiment and a machine his entire life; he would never treat Jared the same way, even though—even though Jared could just as easily have been one of the scientists in Jensen's Program.

So he doesn't blink on his Eyes, decides instead that Jensen said what he did because he meant it. The simplest explanation is usually the best.

He holds Jensen close until his breathing returns to normal and he starts to shift and squirm, then lets him go so he can roll away. Jensen reaches down for a t-shirt and cleans them up with the same efficient movements as when he cleans their dishes or the game he kills for them to eat. He doesn't appear embarrassed by his admission, though he doesn't quite look Jared in the eye either.

Lying down again when he's done, he pulls Jared half across his chest. Jared goes without a fight, too pleasantly confused to mind being manhandled. He pushes one leg between Jensen's, tucks his arm snugly across Jensen's ribs and lets sleep suck him under.

*

He awakens to an empty bed and the sound of shoveling outside the house. Sunlight filters through the tinted glass of an old windshield cut and re-purposed into a window. Poking his head and shoulders out from under the blanket, Jared is relieved to find that Jensen got the wood stove going again so the house isn't freezing. Still, he hustles into his clothes, pulling on the insulated pants he's nearly worn through at the knee and layers of thermal shirts under his worn-thin wool sweater. He hopes Jensen got a chance to pick up a new one from their closest neighbor, Julie. The wool from Doug and Marcia hopefully offset the cost at least a little. Jared doesn't think he can farm, knit, and build—there are only so many hours in the day.

Stumbling out into the sunshine in full cold-weather gear, Jared has to shield his eyes from the blinding reflection off the snow. He of course didn't grab his snow goggles. But the second shovel leans up against the side of the house, waiting for him, so he grabs it and heads off along the path Jensen has already dug toward the snow-covered truck.

“I'm hungry—are you hungry?” he calls, as much to announce his presence in the sound-deadened snow-bound valley as to complain about the absence of a Christmas breakfast.

“I've got bacon in the truck—I just have to get to the truck,” Jensen answers from up ahead, out of sight behind a mound of snow.

“Hold on, I'm coming!” Jared rounds the corner at a dead run and plows straight into Jensen, wraps both arms around his waist and knocks him off his feet into a drift. Jensen lands with an 'Oof!' and Jared lands laughing before Jensen almost manages to force snow down the back of his coat. Shoving frantically away, Jared pulls Jensen up with him and with an apologetic grin, brushes the worst of the show from his hat and shoulders.

“So you managed to get out to Julie's, then. I was hoping.”

Jensen nods and returns Jared's gesture, brushing snow from his side and his ass. “She slaughtered one of her pigs and cured some bacon for you as a thank-you.”

“For what?” Jared starts shoveling out the back of the truck so they can get into the wagon bed. “She gives us meat and sweaters—those are two of the most important things I can think of right now.”

Jensen actually chuckles as he goes back to shoveling. “You built her new solar pads last year. She has electricity because of you.”

Jared snorts dismissively. “They just needed an upgrade. Spinning wool, though—that is complex.”

“It's animal fur—I don't see why you're so fascinated.”

“You're operating under the false assumption that what I do with the tech I build is more sophisticated than making the tread for the truck wheels or turning milk into yogurt.” Jared reaches the back of the wagon and begins to clear snow away from the latch and bumper. “You're assuming a fundamental distinction between tech and nature, when actually one is just as complex and as simple as the other. I can see the chemical bonds—I can see them change. They're more similar than different.”

“Which is why you make a lousy farmer,” Jensen concludes. “You're too busy watching the grass grow.” His voice comes from just behind Jared's ear and Jared turns just as Jensen pulls aside his scarf and presses a kiss to his jaw.

“Jilly likes me,” Jared murmurs, only a little offended. “She lets me milk her—she doesn't let you.”

“You've bribed her with food.”

“Quickest way to a goat's heart—didn't your training teach you th—”

“Jared, listen to me for a minute, all right?”

That stops him cold. Jensen looks up at him, his sober handsome face pinched in a frown.

“Before you open up the bed.... I ran across a bounty hunter on my way back from Julie's—City-funded, by the looks of it. All the bells and whistles.”

Jared tries to push his hand back through his hair, an old nervous tick that almost feels alien after so long. But he comes up against his hat and stops before he can push it off his head. “Shit. Had he been to Julie's? Did she seem okay?”

Jensen shakes his head. “She was fine and, no. She would have said if he'd been there. I would have been able to tell if she lied about it. He was following me, but he was looking for you. They're still looking for you.”

“How do you—”

“Because he told me what they would do to you when he brought you back to the City.”

Jared lifts Jensen's gloved hand, the one with the bruises. “So you punched him in the face a few times?”

“Before I killed him—yes. He—I was angry. For you. For us.” Jensen looks a little guilty, which Jared doesn't really get. Jensen saved them a lot of trouble. “I may have damaged some of the enhancements in his nose.”

Jared frowns. “So?”

Reaching behind him, Jensen yanks open the doors of the wagon, revealing his haul. And a body. “I kept him for you.”

Jared jolts hard at the sight of the body, bloody and stiff between pieces of sheet metal, mechanical eyes staring blankly up at them. “Shit, Jensen, why didn’t you just dump him?”

Now Jensen actually looks pleased—proud even. “I wasn’t sure what of his you'd want. I know you can use almost everything. Don’t worry—he’s frozen by now so you won't make a mess. And I left him here inside the wagon so the coyotes wouldn't drag him off in the night.” He smiles, small and hopeful. “Merry Christmas.”

Jared barks a laugh and climbs into the back of the truck, tentatively kneels down by the body. The eyes—cheaper mechanical knockoffs of Jared's—are in good shape. Jensen's right—any of the sensors in his nose for tracking are probably shot. But that doesn't mean Jared can't fix them or, even better, figure out how to duplicate and improve them. He's probably got some interesting enhancements in his ear canals, too. All the latest for bringing one of the City's most valuable assets back into the fold.

“He's got skeletal enhancements in his hands and forearms,” Jensen offers from the ground. “Probably in his feet and shins. He would have taken you down.”

Jared shivers as he pushes up a pant leg and confirms Jensen's suspicion. “Yeah. Good thing you got to him first. And, uh.” Jared brushes his gloved hands off on his pants. “Thanks. And Merry Christmas to me, I guess.”

He feels a little shaky jumping down from the bed—and bizarrely let down. A shot of adrenalin at the confirmation that he's still hunted by the petty lords squatting in their small fiefdoms knocks up against the foolish disappointment of realizing that Jensen got him a dead bounty hunter for Christmas. It's a useful present to be sure—one that will earn them good money when Jensen next makes the trek into the surrounding towns to sell what Jared builds. It's also a sign that Jensen is still willing to protect him after three years of freedom, three years out of his Program—that he still considers Jared worth protecting. The physical brutality of the strikes that caved in this man's nose is a testament to some depth of feeling. And then there was the 'I love—'

Jared pulls himself together with a shaky breath, unzips his coat, and reaches into an inner pocket for the glasses. He and Jensen are partners first, lovers second, and maybe friends a distant third. Jared isn't sure. Friendship is difficult to observe.

But he feels it as he hands over the glasses. He feels his connection with Jensen in a way that can never be accurately quantified or qualified. He feels it when Jensen unfolds the glasses and settles them on his nose, a skeptical but growing smile pulling at his mouth. They're made from a sturdy plastic derivative that won't get brittle with age or cold, the frames black and thick to hold the lenses that will alter themselves to accommodate Jensen's weakening eyesight.

“Merry Christmas,” Jared says, grinning helplessly. “They look good on you.”

Jensen turns slowly, looks out over the length of the valley to the bare trees covering the mountains on either side of them, and finally spins around to crowd back in close to Jared. He grabs Jared's open coat and holds the edges closed, kisses him with cold lips. “Thank you. These could save our lives. I couldn't—I almost didn't see that hunter coming up behind me. The damn truck is so loud, I couldn't hear him and if he'd—”

“It's okay.” Jared kisses him quiet. “You're good, now.” And this feeling—this is worth every night Jensen was away from him, every moment of fear that he might choose not to return. This is worth all the times that Jared has felt alone in the crazy thing they'd done—running away together, helping each other to escape. All of it is worth Jensen's happiness at Jared's gift.

“Hey, come on,” Jared finally prods. “Let's find that bacon and get some eggs frying. Did you get flour? I've got a little left. Enough for pancakes, I'm sure.”

“No—wait.” Jensen steps back, pushes the glasses up his nose. Jared will have to tighten them for him. “I have to give you your present first.”

Frowning, Jared turns to look at the dead bounty hunter. “What—but you already did. The hunter? He's great—months of stuff to work on. I'm gonna have to dig up a bone saw from somewhere, though.”

Jensen smiles at that, but then sobers, his expression falling. “You thought he was your present? You thought I'd give you a dead body for Christmas?”

Flailing for some answer that won't offend him, Jared eventually blurts the truth. “This is the first time we've done Christmas—the first time you've ever done Christmas. It's not bad for a first effort, trust me. But—” Jared rubs the back of his neck, a giddy feeling fluttering in his middle. “—why, what else did you get me?”

Moving Jared carefully out of the way, Jensen jumps up into the wagon bed. He avoids the dead hunter and goes straight to the back where he roots through a crate of odds and ends Jared looks forward to going through later. When he finds what he's after, he draws it out of the box with great care. Returning to Jared, he holds out a hardback book—a pre-war collection of poetry. Jared tips the book open, lets the pages fall where they will. They're love poems.

“I don't know if you like poetry,” Jensen begins, trying to catch his eye. Jared obliges him, though he feels wide open and undefended. “But I do know you like old things.”

Jared smiles, closes the book. “So do you.”

Jensen likes old things and new things, knowledge and experiences of all kinds. His Program engineered him with decreased empathetic impulses and an incredibly high pain tolerance, but they hadn't counted on his innate curiosity, ravenous appetite for cognitive stimulation, and infuriating stubborn streak. Jared would like to find Jensen's mother some day. Even if he can't forgive her for donating Jensen to his Program, he'd like to know the woman who left such a mark on him. Jensen was removed from her body before she had the chance to speak one word to him yet Jared can see her in his DNA, very nearly has a complete image of her in his mind.

Jensen clears his throat and Jared realizes he was staring again. He still does that, even after three years. “I could read some to you—now that I've got my glasses.” Jensen touches the frames, adjusts them again on his nose.

“You'd read me love poems,” Jared say, incredulity leaking into his tone.

“Only if you want me to.” Jensen backtracks so quickly it's almost as if he's stepped away, physically removed himself from the situation.

Jared takes a step closer, and since Jensen hadn't actually moved, they stand toe-to-toe. “I could probably die of happiness if you read me love poems.”

“Can't have that.” Jensen snatches the book out of his hand and gives him a sly smile—already forgiven—as he jumps back up into the truck. Hopefully this time he'll come back with bacon.

He returns with a wrapped package that smells like salt and smoke and Jared's mouth begins to water. “That bacon will put me at risk, too. You're going to have to keep a close eye.” Jensen brought him bacon and poetry—and Jensen loves him.

Jensen gives him one of his looks that used to be unreadable before Jared learned the language. He can read it now—bloody-minded determination. Jensen closes up the truck with a clang of old metal and herds Jared back inside.

Fic: Beasts of Blame (Sam/Dean) 1/1

2013-09-21T03:48:44Z

Title: Beasts of Blame
Author: june
Characters/Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: pg-13
Length: 8,236
Warnings:Ye Olde Unreliable Narrator Dean Winchester, very brief reference to underage wincest, ambiguous ending.
Disclaimer: Not mine--just for fun. Also, title and lyric are from Dry the River.
Summary: With Sam weakening every day after failing to complete the Trials, Kevin and Dean come up with a plan that might allow him to finish what he started—and this time he won't have to do it alone.

Notes: Finally participating in 8 Days of Wincest, just under the wire! So here's my Season 8/pre-Season 9 catharsis fic--there's talking, there's kissing, even some voicemail and samulet fix-it. My love letter to Sam and Dean. Thanks samdean_otp for hosting this great challenge!

/Just because we’re beasts of blame by nature
Doesn’t mean that you should carry it again/

Sam’s shouts woke Dean from his doze and sent him tumbling out of bed. On the way to Sam’s room he ran into Kevin, bleary-eyed and bitchy.

“He’s been doing this every night, Dean. It’s not getting any better.”

“You think I haven’t noticed? What am I supposed to do?”

Kevin blinked at that, as though waiting for the obvious to dawn on Dean. “Aside from letting him finish what he started?” he snapped when Dean said nothing.

He closed his eyes. “Kevin, don’t start with that—I will shove you through a wall. You got something useful—some way to help him and I’m all ears.”

Slipping into Sam’s room, Dean shut the door behind him without turning on the light. He didn’t need it—Sam glowed like a beacon in his sleep. He thrashed and cried beneath the blankets, hair stuck to his face with sweat.

“All right—it’s all right, Sammy, wake up. Come on, Sam.” Sitting carefully on the edge of the bed, Dean gave his brother’s shoulders a gentle shake. “Come on, you’re okay.”

Sam’s eyes flickered open and they shown with the fire that was slowly burning him up from the inside. “Dean?”

“Yeah, it’s me—I’m here. You’re all right.”

“Dean, I can feel—it’s getting worse. I can feel it getting worse.” He struggled feebly against the blankets tangled around him so Dean helped pull them free. He stripped Sam out of his sweaty t-shirt, too, let the air cool him off for a minute.

Just getting Sam out of the shirt seemed to exhaust him as he fell back. His insides were lit up, the shadow of his ribs standing out like a demon’s protracted death throws. “Jesus,” Dean muttered. It was getting worse.

“It’s not going to get any better,” Sam said, covering as much of his torso as he could with one thin arm. “Not until I finish. You have to let me finish.”

Dean shook his head, a familiar stubborn refusal. “Not gonna happen. Come on, you just gotta—you just gotta breathe, all right? Like we practiced. You just need to relax. Let it go.”

Without thinking, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to Sam’s forehead and another to his cracked lips. Sam made a sound low in his throat and his fingers clutched weakly at Dean’s arm. When he pulled back, he found Sam blinking up at him, searching his face for an explanation—why, after so many years, Dean would do that.

Dean didn’t have an answer, but he didn’t need one as the light beneath Sam’s skin flickered and dimmed, faded until they were left in the dark. Sam’s fingers stroked restlessly up and down Dean’s arm and his breath whistled through his chest.

“We’ll figure this out, Sam. Kevin’s working on a way to—”

“He’s not going to find anything. The only way out is through, Dean. The sooner you accept that, the sooner this’ll all be over. I just—I just want it to be over.”

Swallowing thickly, Dean could only shake his head. “Well, I’m not like you, I guess. I can’t—I can’t just let you go. Not wired that way.”

Sam’s huffed laugh turned into a cough. “Unbelievable,” he managed. “You are unbelievable.”

“What—”

“Get out of my room, Dean.”

Realizing how Sam had interpreted that, Dean rolled his eyes. “Come on, man, don’t be a—”

“Get the fuck out. I’m tired and I want to sleep.”

Dean sat back as Sam curled away from him. His bony shoulders shivered, vibrating the whole bed with the force of it, and Dean tugged the blankets back up around him to keep away the chill. “Yeah, all right. I’ll see you in the morning. Holler if you need anything.” Sam’s head shifted on the pillow in a nod, and Dean didn’t wait for anything else.

He found the hallway empty, Kevin’s bedroom door firmly shut.

Climbing back into his own bed, Dean tossed and turned. In the absolute dark of the bunker, memories resurfaced that he’d thought he buried long ago—memories tucked behind forty years of Hell. They slid from his mind back into muscle, inside his ribs, and down into his gut until it felt like they’d always lived there.

Fumbling together in their shared room, terrified of everything at first—Dad coming home, CPS, separation, Dad not coming home, Dean not coming home, running out of cash, Sam running off—kissing, biting, grabbing, and keeping until the pressure peaked and eased, until they could sleep in a sweaty tangle.

Then reckless and cocky, laughing into each other’s mouths, arms slung around shoulders, hands in back pockets, invincible and high as fucking kites on how good it could feel. Careening toward Sam’s eighteenth birthday, toward Stanford, at a pace that Dean didn’t recognize as deadly until Sam was gone—vanishing in the distance—and Dean was wrecked.

Dean rolled over for the thousandth time and jammed his hands up under his pillow. His hips worked restlessly into the mattress, his dick half hard as he thought about what he and Sam had been.

After Jess, Sam’s sharp edges had hooked into Dean like barbs. And, guiltily, he’d loved every second of it.

After Dad, Dean wasn’t ever letting go, signed away his soul to keep Sam with him, even if only for one more year. He could at least take that to Hell—no one was closer than Sam and him in those twelve months. The most gorgeous terrible mess Dean’d ever made. One they’d never recovered from.

And now Sammy lay alone in his room, filled to bursting with the righteous fury of a God that had long ago abandoned His work—a living weapon waiting to be detonated. Dean could see it all over him—he was ready to die and had been probably since completing the second Trial.

It’d been five years since they’d been together like that (forty-five years, two hundred and forty-five years) and Dean didn’t know how to let Sam go. They’d spent so much time at each other’s throats, so much time apart, so much time tearing strips out of each other—they would never get back what they had, and Dean still. Couldn’t. Let. Go.

Finally shoving a hand inside his shorts, Dean groaned into the mattress at the feel of his rock-hard dick. He was thirty-four years old with a hard-on for the memory of his baby brother, the brother who lay dying in the next room.

Spitting into his palm to slick himself up, Dean rocked his hips up into his hand, remembered the feel of Sam laid out underneath him, full of anger and fear and love, thought about Sam now, brittle and raw and determined. He came with a choked-off sound and exhaled through it, keeping quiet through the aftershocks. He cleaned himself up with a tissue, rolled over, and fell off a cliff into sleep.

*

“So I was thinking,” Kevin started, looking up from his newspaper.

“Yeah?” Dean sipped his coffee and massaged the headache already gathering behind his eyes. Sam hadn’t gotten out of bed except to use the bathroom in three days.

“Sam needs to finish the Trials.”

“Kevin, how many times I gotta tell you—”

“He needs to finish them or he’ll be too sick to move. Or he’ll die.”

“We don’t know that yet.”

“He’s a ticking bomb, Dean.”

“Yeah, that part we do know. You said you were thinking—what about?”

“Well. What if his body just thinks it’s completed the trials? What if he goes through the purifying ritual, but it’s not on a demon?”

Dean scratched his head. “It wouldn’t work. If it’s not a demon, it wouldn’t work.”

“See—I don’t know.” Leaning back in his chair, Kevin crossed his arms over his chest. “Have you looked at him? I think he’s got, like, the human equivalent of Grace burning him up. It wants to come out and do what it was meant for. Plus, Sam is one of the most powerful human psychics in recorded history—no telling what he can do with what’s inside him now that it’s been there awhile. Why not try the exorcism on something else not quite as evil as a demon? Might still get some traction without all the tragedy after.”

“So, what, I go find a vamp? Purify a wendigo?”

“I wouldn’t.” Kevin shook his head decisively. “Nothing to purify. They are what they are.”

Dean’s stomach lurched and he quickly sat forward, coffee cup cracking against the table. “A human soul. Purify a human soul—it doesn’t meet the exact terms of the Trial, but it might still trigger whatever needs to happen inside Sam.”

“And since the ritual wouldn’t close the Gates of Hell, it might not kill him.”

Frowning, Dean wiped up a few drops of sloshed coffee with one of the Men of Letters embroidered napkins—because they had those. “That’s an awful big ‘might.’”

“Or, I mean, you could go medieval and cut him open and see if it just bleeds out. That was my second idea.”

“Yeah, that one’s already been crossed off the list,” Dean said with a humorless laugh. Standing up, he rapped his knuckles against the tabletop. “Thanks for the input, Kevin. Good talk.”

*

Dean started sleeping in Sam’s room. The proximity seemed to help with the glowing and even though Dean missed his bed, he slept better with Sam’s labored breathing in his ear, the fever-warm heat of his body at his back, or pressed tight against his front when Sam got chilled.

When Sam was lucid he touched Dean’s face, his jaw, and his neck like Dean was new, like he was Christmas. They kissed a little, when Sam wasn’t self-conscious about his morning breath or the stale sour smell every sick person had after awhile. The thing between them was tentative at best, something Sam didn’t quite trust.

Dean thought about risk and luck and weighed the likelihood that Sam would die if he tried the human purification ritual against the near certainty that he would if they did nothing. If Sam died like this, everything he’d gone through would mean less than nothing. It would mean that Dean had killed his own brother out of selfishness—even worse than saving him for the same reason.

*

On one of his good days, Dean propped Sam up in bed with a mug of chicken noodle soup. He sat next to him with his back against the headboard and crossed his feet at the ankle.

“Kevin has an idea, and I think it’s a good one. Wanted to run it by you.”

“Yeah?” Sam slurped his soup. “Whatcha got?”

“Maybe a way to get all that divine wrath outta you without killing you in the process.”

The mug stalled on its way to Sam’s mouth. “Pretty sure that’s not how it works, Dean. Complete the third Trial and game over—Gates of Hell close forever and I... well, you know.”

Dean shook his head. “Not goin’ down that road. This is like a... a bypass.”

“Okay, proceeding with this metaphor, where are we exiting?”

“The demon part.”

“Kind of an important part.”

“To closing the Gates of Hell, sure. To getting all this glowy mojo outta you—maybe not. So long as you purify a soul, you cross the finish line. Just maybe not the one we originally thought.”

Sam’s throat worked as he took a few large swallows of soup. He licked his lips, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “And what makes you think that would work?”

“Because we’re not meant to have that in us.” Dean reached over to touch Sam’s wrist, light flickering beneath the paper-thin skin. “It wants out.”

They sat in silence for awhile, Dean trying to exude the calm that Sam needed even though his heart thudded with anticipation, with hope.

Finally Sam took a slow careful breath, setting his mug on the nightstand. “All right, say we did this. I don’t think your average monster soul would work. I mean, they—”

“—are what they are. You’re right.”

“Nothing to purify because nothing’s really broken like it is for a demon.”

“That’s why we’ll go with a human soul.” Dean swallowed. “Mine.”

If Sam had the strength, he would have shoved himself out of bed and stretched to his full height to achieve maximum scolding power. As it was he sucked in a breath too quickly and started coughing, shaking his head when Dean spread a reassuring hand on his back.

“Think about it,” Dean said. “I’m the one who stopped you—I should be the one to help you finish the Trials. This way you’re not on your own, and no one else is in the line of fire.”

Drawing his knees up once he had his breathing under control, Sam folded his arms across them. “I dunno, Dean. We don’t know what this could do, what it could change. Maybe not the Gates of Hell, but something else, you know? And...” He ran a hand through his unwashed hair, eyes firmly lowered. “Have you thought about what it would mean for you?”

Dean fisted his hand in the blankets. He knew this would come up—didn’t mean he’d figured out the right thing to say. “The way I figure, I’m the perfect candidate. Got more sins on my head than anyone. Been hangin’ onto ‘em long enough.”

Sam exhaled sharply through his nose. “No, Dean. I meant—have you thought about the fact that I have demon blood in me, and after we do this... so will you?”

“Well, you said before that you thought the Trials were purifying you, too, so—”

“Yeah, and if you’re going by what I said while I was delirious? If that’s what you’re banking on—if you think that I’m—that I’m clean and that it’s safe now? Then—then—” His voice wavered and Dean rolled his eyes.

“Christ, Sam—”

“I will never be good or clean or right, but I was good enough to do these Trials until you stopped me. I was doing it—we were winning, but you still couldn’t—you still couldn’t—”

Dean was never so glad for another coughing fit as he felt the conversation slip into a tailspin.

Sam was supposed to be better. He was supposed to be the one thing Dean got right, the one good thing. He was supposed to be stronger and smarter. He wasn’t supposed to fall apart with Dean gone. He wasn’t supposed to turn into this. The fact that Sam still cared so much and hurt so much made Dean... it made Dean stupid with anger. It made Dean want to shake him or hold him down or just—get down on his knees and beg his forgiveness. Dean was supposed to make him strong but instead Sam was a mess. Dean had made him a mess.

“No, look.” Dean reached around Sam to grab the mug of cooling broth off the nightstand. “Drink some of this for your throat. And look at me, all right? Look at me. We are the only ones who can pull this off—you see that, right? I did—I did this to you, but I can fix it. We can fix it.”

Sam was glowing again, his hands and arms, his throat and sinuses. If Dean lifted his shirt, he’d see it like a heartbeat pounding at Sam’s ribs.

But Sam nodded, curling away from him back down onto the bed. “Okay. Okay, we’ll do it. Can you go for awhile? I need to rest.”

Dean wanted to touch him, wanted to reassure himself with the flare of Sam’s shoulder blade under his hand, but he didn’t feel like getting a weak-ass punch in the face so he didn’t. “Yeah, Sam. We’ll talk when you’re feeling better.”

*

With Kevin’s help Dean salted the windows and doors of the old church and painted devil’s traps where he thought demons might bottleneck and try to get through. The Trials were meant for the denizens of Hell—no telling what they might feel when the ritual got going. Even if Sam wasn’t following the instructions to the letter, Dean had a feeling using his soul for the exorcism would come pretty damn close. Hopefully not too close.

Dean had left Sam curled up in the back seat of the Impala, wrapped in blankets and sleeping while he could.

Inside, Dean laid out his favorite gun, Ruby’s knife, and a syringe. “Think his blood is gonna do anything to me—ritualistic or otherwise?”

Kevin didn’t look up from copying an angel-proofing symbol on the wall—one that might not even work anymore now that they’d fallen out of the sky. “If you weren’t both B+, I’d say it would put you in the hospital, but you are, so. No idea.” When he finished, he blinked smudged eyes at Dean. He still wasn’t sleeping much, trying to get a handle on the Angel Tablet dropped in his lap. “But I’ll have my phone on me if you need me to, I don’t know, call an ambulance or panic.”

“Got it.”

“And Dean... ”

“Yeah.”

“Let him finish what he started this time.”

“Kevin, if something happens to him—”

“He chose it. This is his path.”

Telling himself that shoving Kevin through the wall would make yet another hole to salt, Dean kept himself under control. He walked back out to the car and opened the creaky rear door. Reaching inside he shook his brother awake.

“Let’s go, Sammy,” he said. “It’s game time.”

Sam rubbed his eyes and managed to shove himself toward the open door where Dean hauled him the rest of the way out. He was dressed in multiple layers but that didn’t keep Dean from feeling every one of his ribs as he got an arm around him and they headed toward the church. He waved as Kevin took off in the Buick Dean had fixed up for him from Bobby’s old yard. He wouldn’t go too far, but far enough to be out of harm’s way should anything nasty show up to try to stop them.

Once inside, Sam tugged out of Dean’s grip and staggered toward the battered old confessional. This time, Dean kept his big mouth shut and retreated to the far end of the church, dropping down to wait in one of the pews. He was able to make out the soft murmur of Sam’s voice, low and haggard, and though he wasn’t close enough to overhear anything, Dean hummed some Sabbath under his breath to make sure. The idea that there was anything left for Sam to cleanse himself of was laughable, but this was not one of the rules they were willing to fudge.

Sam came out a minute later, arms hugged tightly around himself as he fought through another round of chills. Dean met him before he could take more than a few steps and guided him over to the nearest pew. “You good?” he asked, keeping his voice low—as if there was anyone around to bear witness to this. Christ, he hoped there wasn’t.

“Yeah, I’m good. Let’s get started.” Sam fumbled for the syringe where it lay on the bench next to him, but before Dean could ask if he needed help, he took a slow deep breath and steadied his grip. Solid as a rock, he stuck the needle in his arm and drew back the plunger. Dean swallowed the sick feeling rising up his throat and scooted closer, pulling open the collar of his shirt to give Sam a clear shot at an artery.

“So, uh,” he started, just before Sam reached for him, “we should make this as much like a cleansing ritual as we can, right? I was thinkin’ we, uh, we take this opportunity to say what we never said—speak now or forever hold your peace, you know?”

Sam lowered his eyes, the syringe full of his blood shaking a little. “Dean, I’ve already been to confession. More than once with you, actually. Not sure I can take eight more hours of it. We don’t play nice when it comes to our sins, remember?”

“Not your sins, Sammy—we’re here for mine, and if we’re gonna convince whatever’s in you to come out it’s gotta feel real. So. One thing we never said to each other for every hour we do this.”

Sam finally looked up and gave Dean a tired nod, standing to get a better angle. “Ready?”

“Yeah—do it.” Sam put a big hand on his shoulder, exhaled to stillness, and stuck the needle in. Dean twitched at the prick but waited until Sam withdrew to breathe.

Giving him a curious look, Sam dropped back onto the bench. “You good?”

Dean nodded before he was actually sure, rubbing his hand over the spot. He realized Sam was still watching him and dropped his hand to his lap. “What.”

“Well?”

“Hey, we’ve got a whole hour until round two—what’s the rush?”

Sam exhaled a laugh and leaned back in the pew. “Sure, Dean. I got my watch set. Wake me up when it’s time for the next injection.” He put his hood up and hunched further down, hands buried in the front pocket of his hoodie.”

“Wait—you can’t go to sleep on me yet!” Dean objected, sitting up straighter. “It’s not like I brought reading material or anything.”

“Then talk,” Sam said pissily, voice muffled by the collar of his sweatshirt. “Or I’m taking a nap.”

“Fine—fine.” Dean rubbed his hand across his mouth then put both on his knees. “Thought I’d—thought I’d start a ways back, you know? When shit started goin’ really wrong.”

“All right.” Sam didn’t look at him, only slouched further down the bench—though Dean thought maybe he sounded curious.

“I, uh, I wish. I wish I hadn’t stopped you taking that shot on Dad.”

Sam jerked in his seat like Dean’d goosed him. “What?”

“Back when we had the Colt. I’ve thought about it—had forty years to think about the pain we could have saved our family. If you’d have just gone with your gut, did what he asked you to do, you’d have saved him. And taken out the thing that killed you. And I wouldn’t have made that deal. None’a this would have happened.”

Sam’s mouth emerged from his hoodie, hanging open in shock. “Dean—there’s no way we can know that for sure,” he rasped. “And you’d never have forgiven me for killing him.”

“I knew—I knew Dad wanted to go out with that yellow-eyed son of a bitch. Finish the mission and leave us for good. But I—well, you know.”

“You wanted him alive, with us. No sin in that.”

“No, I just never learned how to let go.”

Sam hesitated, bloodshot eyes searching Dean’s face for a moment before he swallowed and looked away. “No sin in that,” he repeated, voice low.

*

At the prick of the needle an hour later, Dean shivered. When Sam was done, Dean massaged the back of his neck and stood up, needing to get his blood flowing again. The sun had set, leaving the church dark except for their camp lantern on the floor at Sam’s feet. Pacing a slow circle around the perimeter, Dean checked the salt lines and devil’s traps, though there’d been no sign of anyone since Kevin drove away.

As he walked he spoke. “Shoulda driven you straight back to Cali after Dad died. Shoulda seen right then what hunting was gonna do to us. You were all I had left, and to keep you in the life after what happened to him was selfish. I should have gone with you and gotten us out right then.”

Sam stretched an arm across the back of the pew and picked at a piece of splintering wood. “Wouldn’t have mattered. Yellow Eyes woulda come for me eventually. I was having visions—I wouldn’t have let you keep me from trying to help those people.”

Dean shook his head, rubbing his thumb over the needle bruise on his throat. “We shouldn’t have been hunting when we were that messed up.”

“Actually....” Sam cleared his throat. “After Dad was gone, I felt so guilty for how I’d left things with him—I wanted to hunt because that’s what he wanted us to do. I was the one who dragged you into it with those first jobs that Ellen gave us. I, uh, I felt like such a shit because part of me was relieved.”

Dean stopped his circuit of the church in front of Sam. “Relieved?”

“Yeah.” Sam looked up at him, face earnest, asking Dean to understand. “Relieved that he was gone. If I couldn’t have normal and I couldn’t have safe, then I wanted to at least have you.”

Huffing a laugh, Dean said the first stupid-ass thing that came into his head. “Glad I made it to your list, Sammy.”

“No, I—I knew I couldn’t pull you out of the life. Or at least, that’s what I thought—I could never get you out. My whole life all I wanted was you and me safe, but if I couldn’t have that, I at least wanted you to myself.” A smile ghosted across his haggard face. “Never did learn to share all that well. Not much of a surprise when you think about it—Dad never let us have anything, and you always gave me everything.”

“Yeah, never the right thing, though.” Dean had held on so hard that year, the thing between them growing more intense every day—as if it hadn’t already been enough to make his head spin and his gut churn with equal parts want and guilt.

Though it was nothing compared to where they’d be just a year later.

*

“That year before I went to Hell—when I dragged you all over the country—what I really wanted was to find someplace quiet, barricade the door and just—breathe the same air as you while I still could. Live in the same space, not let you outta my sight, keep you. Every second I could.”

He sat at the other end of the pew from Sam, elbows on his knees, not looking at his brother. His neck was starting to burn and he couldn’t be sure but he thought he felt a little weird, like all the shit that had built up in him over the years was broken loose and knocking around behind his ribs, bumping into his lungs and his stomach so he couldn’t really breathe and he thought he might puke. That, or this whole confession thing was making him giddy—nothing magical about it. Or he was just plain terrified. Who knew, really?

“We coulda done that, Dean. I wish we’d done that.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why I’m tellin’ you now—biggest regrets, and all. Kind of a kick in the teeth learnin’ we both wanted the same thing and were too chicken shit or too messed up to ask.” He could feel Sam’s eyes on him.

“Yeah.”

*

The first demon showed up just after Sam injected him a fourth time. It skulked around outside, not making any attempt to get past the salt. Waiting.

“That can’t be good,” Dean said, rubbing his neck.

“It means at least we’re not wasting our time. Something’s happening.” Light flickered restlessly at Sam’s wrists and throat and, Dean was sure, all through the rest of him underneath his clothes. But with it, Sam seemed to have more energy, able to sit up straight and even pace a little as the minutes crawled by.

With this latest dose, Dean’s stomach roiled and heaved at what he had to confess. He stood facing the demon, the devil’s trap and a thick line of salt between them, and toyed with the idea of launching himself at it. Killing something would be a good distraction.

But it was too much of a risk—he couldn’t leave Sam in the lurch. And the compulsion to speak his sins was growing stronger with every moment, bubbling up in him until he actually did stagger to a corner and vomit onto the floor, his stomach emptying itself in a steaming mess of fast food, whiskey, and bile.

Instantly, Sam was at his side, large warm hand on his back, concerned voice in his ear. “Dean—hey, Dean. Jesus, are you all right? Where’d that come from? Is it the blood?”

“’M fine,” he mumbled. “Just havin’ some trouble. Don’t wanna talk anymore.”

“It’s okay—you don’t have to. You can stop.”

“Yeah, I do have to. It’s working, Sammy, can’t you feel it?” Dean straightened, leaned tiredly into his brother’s greater height. “Tell me you feel something and it’s not just me losing my mind.” Sam’s shoulders curled toward him as he turned them away from the demon lurking in the doorway.

“I—I don’t k now.” He looked a little panicked. “I think—maybe. I’m feeling a little better, but I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.”

“Think it might be because this is working better than we thought.”

Sam’s hand tightened in the back of Dean’s shirt. “Why? What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s what I didn’t wanna tell you.” Making his way back to their pew, Dean picked up a bottle of water Kevin had left for them. Rinsing his mouth and spitting, Dean had to admit the kid—while at times a bitchy pain in the ass—definitely came in handy.

Sam had followed close behind him and when Dean turned, he was still hovering—his giant, glowing, too-skinny brother. Dean licked his lips, met Sam’s eyes. “I told you I was the only one who could help you finish this.”

“Yeah, Dean.”

“That’s because you will never find a man closer to a demon than me.”

Sam instantly shut down, his expression shuttering like a house before a tornado. He stood perfectly still and didn’t even seem to breathe.

“I came...” Dean rubbed a hand over his mouth. “I came back wrong, Sam. If Cas hadn’t—if he hadn’t pulled me out when he did....”

Sam tucked his chin in a harsh nod and Dean knew—he knew the recriminations running through his brother’s mind, how much he still blamed himself for Dean going to Hell, but he couldn’t stop now that he’d started. And this was all on him, not Sam.

“Anyway, I might not have the eyes and my blood might not taste quite right, but I know... I know that I’m not the brother you knew before I did a tour in the pit. And that’s because of what I did down there. Not because you couldn’t find a way to bust me out.”

Dean took a slow breath. “When I came out, I was so sick inside, Sammy. I found out about you and Ruby, the exorcisms and demon blood, and I got scared you were gonna end up just like me. You gotta understand, I couldn’t imagine anything worse. So I used you to try and get that stain out. Thought if I could set you on the right track, I’d make up for some of what I did in Hell.”

From the doorway, the demon started clapping, it’s mouth stretched in a sardonic grin.

Dean’s jaw clenched and he turned away, looking to Sam for some indication of what he felt. His brother licked his lips and nodded again. “Thank you—” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “Thank you for telling me that. But you weren’t—you weren’t wrong about me. I wanted you to do—what you said you would.” Sam looked at him, eyes fever bright. This had become just as much about Sam’s sins as his own. Sam could never leave Dean out to suffer a punishment he thought he should share.

“I wanted you to put me down. I knew I was a monster. I felt like a monster—knew what I deserved. You came back and you were full of this... righteousness that I thought I’d had. But I was wrong. Never more wrong about anything. Nothing I regret more than that.”

Dean barked a humorless laugh. “That wasn’t righteousness—that was naked ugly fear. I was terrified you were in too deep, and I didn’t know how to look out for you anymore. I was scared I’d lost that—the one thing I’d always known how to do.”

“Why didn’t you? Why didn’t you do it, Dean?”

“I tried, Sammy, but you were—you were pretty set on Lilith, and I didn’t know until too late that she was—”

“No, I mean, why didn’t you kill me—like you said you would. After Ruby, after I started the apocalypse—why didn’t you?”

“Why didn’t I kill you?” he echoed. “When did I....” His mind raced and for a terrible moment, he wondered if he’d actually said that, if he’d actually lost himself so completely that something like that could come out of his mouth. He’d hit some lows—been so angry and betrayed that he’d said some seriously stupid shit, but—

“I just assumed you wanted me to clean up the mess I’d made. And I did—I fixed it. I jumped in the pit. And I guess it wouldn’t have mattered anyway because Lucifer would’ve just brought me back, but we didn’t know that then. So I thought, after you killed Ruby—I thought that’s when you’d—”

“That’s when I’d kill you?”

Sam shrugged, waiting expectantly.

“Dude, you’re outta your mind—I would never, ever say that.”

“Well, you did.”

“No, I didn’t. Whattya think all this is for, anyway? I’m trying to save you, Sam, not—”

“Sure, now. But back then, you—”

“Sam! I never said that. I think you’re just remembering wrong.”

“No, I’m not, Dean. You think I wouldn’t remember when my brother tells me he’s done with me, thinks I’m a vampire, and promises to kill me the next time he sees me? You think I wouldn’t remember that word-for-fucking-word?”

Dean couldn’t breathe for a second, and he would swear his heart froze up for the time it took him to recover from that one. “I think that you were in that Cage for a long-ass time, Sam, and good old Luci made you doubt all kinds’a things down there. Believe me, I know how memories get twisted around after a few decades and shit you think you know for certain—”

Sam shook his head. “Dean, I’ve felt like a crazy person for—a lot of my life, and I’ve been a crazy person for part of it, too, so please don’t try to make me feel that again. Please don’t ask me to doubt myself. I know what I heard. You told me, if I walked out that door not to come back and then you—”

“Then I called you to apologize, to tell you that we were brothers, no matter what. Right? You remember that, right?”

Sam’s eyes narrowed and he hesitated before answering. “No, in your voicemail you—”

“Oh, come on!” the demon shouted from the doorway. It’s meatsuit was a wiry guy probably in his twenties with an abrasive voice. Dean turned a murderous glare on it, but it only grinned wider. “You think an angel couldn’t fuck with your voicemail? You think Ruby couldn’t? You were starting the fucking apocalypse, man—Heaven and Hell were aligned making sure you did the deed. You think for one second that either side would let something like a voice—”

“Hey, would you shut up?” Sam snapped, not bothering to look over his shoulder at the demon. His eyes stayed locked on Dean, wide and hopeful.

Dean dragged a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Sammy, you spent the last four years thinking that I wanted to kill you?”

“Four years and two centuries, but who’s counting. If you say you didn’t leave that message then I believe you.” A smile tugged up one corner of his mouth and all this was worth it—just for that.

Dean looked him right in the eye. “I didn’t.”

Hiccuping a laugh, Sam tipped forward and hooked Dean around the back of the neck. He dragged Dean forward into a hard kiss, bit at his lips and licked into his mouth, pressed their heads together after and couldn’t seem to stop grinning.

*

An hour later, two more demons crowded around the door, jostling with the first to get a look inside.

The high from clearing the air with Sam had run out as Dean’s insides burned with his next confession.

“You know, I tried to get my amulet back—called the motel first chance I got to tell ‘em where to look for it. But they never found it. It’s gone for good.” He looked up. “Unless you....”

Sam took in a slow breath and nodded. “Yeah, I picked it up. Couldn’t part with it like that.”

Dean’s heart surged in his chest. “Well—where is it? You still got it, right?”

Meeting his eyes, Sam shook his head. “I was wearing it when I said ‘yes’ to Lucifer. Was hoping it’d help me fight him, but it didn’t. He left it on because he thought it was funny. It went in the pit with the rest of me. It’s gone, Dean—I’m sorry.”

Dean looked away. “You don’t need to apologize, Sammy.”

*

Sam hadn’t stopped pacing in probably twenty minutes. He seemed to thrum with energy now, his skin shiny with sweat and glowing with divine wrath just underneath.

Reclining in one of the pews, Dean felt shaky and brittle, like he might fly apart if Sam even looked at him wrong. He felt raw and kind of ecstatic. He knew his next confession and it didn’t frighten him like the last ones—the worst was over. They could finish this.

Sam tangled his fingers in his hair and tugged. “It doesn’t make sense, Dean. None of this makes sense.”

“What doesn’t?” Dean asked, propping himself up on one elbow.

“How is this working?” Sam gestured at Dean. “I asked Crowley how he felt after I injected him with my blood, but he didn’t always answer. He didn’t have to talk—he didn’t want to. It was like pulling teeth. But you’re—you hate talking. I’m doing this to you, aren’t I.”

Dean shoved himself up to sitting. “What you’ve got in there was supposed to close the Gates of Hell, Sam. Probably isn’t much you couldn’t do, right now. That head of yours has always been a little freaky.”

“Yeah, Dean, that’s what terrifies me. They know something big’s gonna happen.” He pointed to the small crowd of demons milling around outside.

“Hey, I don’t get to say this often, but—don’t worry. All right? We’re close. Next injection in, what, fifteen minutes?”

Sam nodded and dropped down next to him on the bench. “Yeah, and you haven’t.... Do you not want to? Are you trying not to want to?”

“Nah. Just—this one kinda rolls into the next and I didn’t wanna have to wait.”

“Yeah, and?” Sam waited, knee bouncing up and down.

“Probably the first one’a these where I was mad at you for a good reason.” He watched Sam steel himself. “You had no business sendin’ me to Lisa and Ben.”

Sam looked down, shoulders sagging, and nodded.

“They deserved better than a depressed, grieving alcoholic with every demon still topside looking to drag him to Hell.”

“But—” Sam cleared his throat. “You loved them—she was your dream girl.”

“I was a goddamn disaster and they didn’t deserve me turnin’ up on their doorstep. The drinking, the nightmares, the paranoia—all I did was put them in danger and break promises. Should never have asked that of me, Sam.”

“Wanted you to be happy,” he murmured. “And loved. You loved them. I remember—before I got my soul back, I remember thinking that you loved them. Before I jumped in the pit, that was all I’d wanted for you.”

“Yeah, well—”

“After I got my soul back, it was different. I wanted to be with you so bad—I could hardly stand it.”

Dean paused, whatever he’d been about to say flying from his mind. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” A genuine smile tugged at Sam’s mouth. “I didn’t remember Hell, didn’t remember what I’d done without my soul. Just knew that I was out and you were okay and we were together—wanted to fuck around in the Impala, in Bobby’s spare room, any motel we were in. Wanted you all the fucking time. It was ridiculous.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Lost my nerve. You were so freaked about the Wall and about Lisa and Cas. I couldn’t do it. I was scared it’d been too long, that you would push me away.”

Dean couldn’t argue with that logic. He was a mess after Death put Sam’s soul back and erected the Great Wall. And it’d been so long since they’d trusted each other for physical comfort—he couldn’t honestly say what he would’ve done if Sam had come onto him.

He knew now, though, reaching for Sam and fisting his hand in his flannel shirt. Sam had shed the hoodie awhile back and as Dean pulled him closer, he couldn’t take his eyes off the sheen of sweat at the base of his throat.

They’d said their peace and whatever was happening inside them seemed to be satisfied for the moment. Dean exhaled against Sam’s mouth and tipped his chin forward into a kiss that brought jeers and catcalls from the demons outside. He put his hands in Sam’s hair and said quietly, just for him, “Get that next injection ready. Let’s finish this thing.”

*
8120
The inside of Sam’s arm was mottled with needle marks and bruising, and Dean’s neck felt about the same. He felt tugged along, like Sam was magnetic north or the Pied Piper or his fucking salvation, but he wasn’t afraid. For all he knew, their hearts would explode when Sam put his bloody hand over Dean’s mouth and recited the exorcism that would clean out his soul and release whatever weapon had made its home inside Sam.

In hour seven, Dean couldn’t honestly say he cared—so long as they left together.

The demons had managed to break the salt line but in the push to get through, they were stuck in the traps. They’d get out before long—that many together could work some pretty serious dark mojo. When that happened, Dean wasn’t sure he’d be able to put up much of a fight. He felt like he was barely clinging to his own skin, like the past seven hours had slid a sharp blade just beneath the surface and surgically detached his inside from his outside. He was only just aligned now. One good shove and he’d separate. Into what, he had no friggin’ idea.

They’d moved to the floor, Dean’s legs sprawled open, Sam’s back a solid if bony heat against his. “After your wall came down,” he started, “and we lost Cas and then Bobby....” He drifted in that time for a moment, calling up the smell and taste of a whiskey hangover, the feel of a muddy trench coat and a blood-soaked baseball cap in his hands.

“Yeah, Dean?” Sam prompted.

He sucked in a slow breath.“We—we were all that was left and I didn’t know how to ask anymore.”

“Ask for what?”

Dean nudged Sam’s shoulder with his own. “This. What we used to do—what we were.”

“Why couldn’t you ask?”

Shrugging, Dean reached back and grabbed clumsily at Sam’s arm, catching his sleeve. “Same reason you couldn’t before—too much goin’ on with you. You couldn’t tell whether you were topside or in Hell. Last thing you needed was my sorry ass.”

“Probably woulda helped, actually. Nothin’ more real than you and your sex faces.”

Dean laughed, surprising them both with the sound. It rumbled low in his chest and echoed off the empty walls of the church. Sam’s laugh joined it and the very foundations seemed to resonate with the sound.

Which was weird.

“You feel that?” Sam asked. “That’s not normal, is it?”

“I thought you were doing it.”

“I don’t think I am.”

The ground began to hum and shudder beneath them, dust drifting down through the light cast by the lantern.

“It’s the demons,” Sam said. “They’re working together to break the traps.”

Dean tried to stand up but a wave of vertigo sent him pitching sideways into the front pew. The room spun until Sam helped him to lie down again across the bench. “Sorry, Sammy—don’t think I’m gonna do you much good in a fight.”

Glancing at his watch, Sam shook his head. The glow under his skin shown through his shirt now. “It’s still another half hour before I can do the last injection.”

“Don’t think those traps are gonna hold that long. It’s okay—I think we’re ready, right?”

Sam loomed over him, radiant and terrifying. “I don’t know. What if it doesn’t work?”

The ground lurched beneath them, followed by the crack of splitting beams. With no further hesitation, Sam grabbed the syringe and shoved it into his arm one last time. Dean winced as blood welled up to the surface and then tipped his head back as Sam knelt down next to him. “Ready?” Sam asked.

“Do it.”

He felt the sharp ache of the needle, too rushed to be careful, and the burn of Sam’s blood entering the artery. Tossing the syringe aside, Sam grabbed Ruby’s knife and sliced it across his palm.

They knew the second the traps gave as a wave of malevolent shouting abruptly crushed inside the church. Sam grabbed him by the back of the neck, bloody hand about to close over his mouth, when Dean snatched his wrist away, held it back so the blood dripped onto his chest.

“Dean, what—”

“There’s one more—there has to be eight, right?”

“Dean, there’s no time—”

“Sam, when I got back from Purgatory, you were scared of me. I was angry—I was furious with you— and I scared the shit outta you, and I’m real sorry about that. I was angry at the wrong things and I’m sorry I scared you, Sam.”

Leaning down, Sam pressed a sloppy kiss to his mouth. He tasted like ozone. “It’s okay.” Another quick kiss. “It’s okay.”

Then Dean had a mouth full of blood and a hand covering half his face, cutting off all his air. He expected Sam to shout the words to the heavens, expected his voice to boom over those of the demons scrambling to reach them, but instead Sam leaned close and said them right into Dean’s ear, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus... Hanc animam redintegra... Lustratus... Lustratus”

Dean’s eyes widened and he choked on the liquid in his mouth when the demons swarmed over the pews and the first one reached for Sam.

His brother didn’t look away from him, his eyes like comets until some silent countdown inside him ended and they shrank to pin-pricks of light.

The air went perfectly still—a silent inhale—before exploding out from Sam’s body in a wave of cleansing fire.

The demons were incinerated on the spot, but it didn’t stop there. Sam arched above him, muscles seizing in a rictus of pain or ecstasy—Dean couldn’t tell which—the blaze of light around him so blindingly bright that Dean had to turn his face away.

A force crackled through him like a tide, sweeping everything ahead of it in a devastating flood of raw power. He couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t move but when Sam finally collapsed on top of him, it didn’t matter. Sam’s hand fell limp from his mouth and Dean blinked dazedly at the ceiling before slipping under.

End.

Fic Masterlist! (Finally!)

2013-09-15T17:28:38Z

Hey, I've only been here six years, maybe it's time to put my fic in a place that's a little easier to find. It's going to take a while for me to get all this up, but eventually I'll have it organized chronologically by fandom. As of now, all my SPN and Harry Potter fic is listed. Whee!

Snow White and the Huntsman

The Magpie Queen (AO3) -- My first ever hetbigbang! 'Happily Ever After' is not the end of the story. When Snow White stumbles upon a curse Ravenna left for her, she struggles to hold onto not just her throne, but her humanity, relying on her huntsman to keep her feet on the ground. Art by the lovely hiddencait.

Let Me Be Your Weapon -- comment fic from here.

Pacific Rim

We Are the Reckless -- When Yancy died, Raleigh's voice was torn out of him. When she was nine, Mako's was stolen by the kaiju. Together, in the Drift, maybe they can get them back. R Mako/Raleigh.

Cable Knit (AO3) -- The bond between pilots has to be one of absolute trust. Mako and Raleigh don't get the greatest start on that count. From the kink meme prompt: Mako finds Raleigh hooking in Sitka and buys him for a night before revealing she's there to recruit him back into piloting. R Mako/Raleigh

Supernatural

A Silver Vision (Come and Rest My Soul) -- A written thing for this beautiful art from a_biting_smile--how it came to be that Anna got Dean knocked up. PG-13 Anna/Dean (het mpreg) Part of The Mark Death Made 'verse.

The Most Special, the Most Lonely -- This is for annie46 from this years spnspringfling! R Sam/Kevin

A Mobius Strip -- Here is my contribution to round 4 of spn_cinema for the film Looper! R Sam/Dean

You Were a Meg -- It's probably not even the worst thing that ever happened to her. Or. Demons need friends, too.
For geckoholic at the megexchange on DW. R Meg/Squeaky

Memory Foam -- for salt_burn_porn. Waking up in the mornings is not easy. S8 R Sam/Dean

The Upper Peninsula -- When Castiel appeared in her kitchen, weak and sweating, Meg was maybe glad to see him. "I need a place to hide," he said. "And I'm pregnant." PG-13 Meg/Castiel (het mpreg)

We Were Both the Werewolf -- For porn battle! Though this is not very porny. Mostly, it's my attempt to think through 8.10, where both characters were at. My conclusion--they were in pretty different places. PG-13 Sam/Amelia

The Sting -- In order to keep Dean from putting Sam's soul back, Sam just has to make his body uninhabitable. Having sex with his brother should do the trick. A re-imagining of Appointment in Samarra. NC-17 Robo!Sam/Dean (dub-con)

I'd Come Home Forever -- Sam gets work fixing up a house in Independence, MN. Half the reason he goes is for the symbolism. My first spn_j2_xmas! For mollyamory. R Sam'n'Dean

Down on His Saddle, Low to His Knees -- He'd been topside about a month when his body started to break down. It was like whatever that Castiel guy had done had only been temporary.This is a timestamp for Let Me See the Mark Death Made. PG Anna/Dean

God Save the Human Cannon Ball -- In nearly every major religion, and in all the lore he can find on the subject of Purgatory, the living can influence the fortunes of the dead through prayers and offerings. And Sam's sure Dean isn't even dead, so, piece of cake. All he has to do is make the right offering. It only takes seven months -- and 29 years. A post-Season 7 AU, and a story of past and present heroism.
My 2012 samdean_otp minibang with FANTASTIC art by the indomitable petite_madame. R Sam'n'Dean

Let Me See the Mark Death Made -- After forty years, he doesn't remember pizza or Latin or even what it means to be an older brother, but he at least thinks he knows Sam. A re-imagining of "Lazarus Rising." For spn_summergen.

Morning Shift -- He awoke each morning with the desire to do right, to be a good and meaningful person, to be, as simple as it sounded and as impossible as it actually was, happy. And during the course of each day his heart would descend from his chest into his stomach. - Jonathan Safran Foer
This fic belongs in the Swing Shift 'verse as a prequel to that fic, though it's not necessary to have read it. PG-13 Sam'n'Dean

It's Like This -- Falling from grace during the zombie apocalypse is a bitch. For zombi_fic_ation. PG-13 Castiel & Anna

I Saw a Life and I Called It Mine -- Dean Winchester punches Nancy's V-card--she's ready to be well rid of it. And after nearly sacrificing her virtuous heart for her friends, she's ready for a new definition of virtue, too. I'm answering my own prompt from over at obstinatrix's porn meme because I'm tacky like that. NC-17 Nancy/Dean/Sam

I'm Doing Just Fine Hour to Hour, Note to Note -- Set post 7.7. I wanted to write catharsis fic that was still a little prickly, as I think the mess they were in was a bit too easily resolved in "The Mentalists". Also, title from Elliott Smith "Waltz No. 2. This was my spnspringfling fic for candygramme! R Sam/Dean

Come Pick Me Up -- Dick's poisoning of the food supply forces Sam and Dean to go gourmet. It's not a disaster. PG Sam'n'Dean

Above My Brother, I and Tangled Spines -- "Okay, wiseass, time for a haircut. You look like a highland pony." Or, a history told in bus station and motel bathrooms. Written for springkink for my own prompt—haircuts and grooming. PG-13 Sam/Dean

Can I Be Saved (Without Having Shame) -- It's not the end of the world, but when your world has a population of three, it sure as hell feels like it. Set pre-series, when the kids are in high school, through Stanford-era with alternating POVs. For queer_fest. Gen – Sam, Dean, John (Dean/omc, Sam/omc, reference to Dean/Cassie Robinson)

Swing Shift -- Sleep is for the weak. And Dean. PG-13 Sam/Dean

Jo-Bird -- When they go on the road together, she drives. Set in the "My Heart Will Go On" 'verse. R Jo/Dean/Sam

What Comes Is Better 'verse -- Always a girl!Sam/Dean (organized chronologically)
Girl Talk, With Dean Winchester -- John would have foisted The Talk off on him, anyway.
This is a hoodie_time wishlist fic for skyofisis! For the Wish: "Anything with Dean dealing with issues pertaining to raising girl!Sam. Eternal love will be rewarded to any fics having to do with Dean managing the squicky enigma of periods and/or girl!Sam's puberty or development." PG-13
Romance, AR, Is for Lovers -- insmallpackages fill. Winchester Christmas fic.
I Know Places (We Can Go Babe) -- Sam has spent her whole life with Dean at her back, knowing he's there to look out for her. At least once, she wants him to feel the same. NC-17 (pegging)
What Comes is Better -- Orgasms help with cramps, so. It's a no-brainer. NC-17 (period sex)
That Girl With the Face -- As if being a Winchester weren't hard enough, Sam sometimes has this problem where she thinks she's hideous. Having her head shaved in the hospital didn't help. Set post-7.17 PG-13
All the Things You See -- 'Watch out for Sammy.' 'Look out for your sister while I'm gone.' 'Keep an eye on Sam.' His whole friggin' life had been one giant sight metaphor. PG-13

Supernatural RPF

But Where Would They Live? -- Part 1 and Part 2 Julie works in the MonSer housing office. Jensen is her newest case--and friend. PG gnome!Julie/mer!Jensen

Dark Angel

By Thy Help I'm Come -- "Even though we were made, we're still real. We deserve real things just like everybody else." For jam_pony_fic's 12 Day's of Dark Angel. PG-13 Max/Alec

Hold My Life -- Just because he was her 'designated breeding partner' didn't mean they were actually compatible or that they could be friends. Just because they had a shared past didn't mean they had anything in common. Until they were and until it did. For the a_b_o_ladies ficathon. R Max/Alec

Harry Potter

If It Were Up to Me (I Would Leave It Up To You) -- Despite the fact that he's newly employed at Hogwarts, Cedric receives an invitation from Harry to the Eighth Year Halloween bonfire. Against his better judgment, he attends. With Luna in charge of his costume, what could go wrong? For samhain_smut. The fic is a kind of sequel to I'll Just Begin Again and is in the same universe as If the Walls Were too Thin .

The Boxers -- As much as this place had hurt and frightened him in the past, he could never remove himself from it completely. Its walls were his bones. For wizard_love. R Draco/Luna, Harry/Hermione

I Don't Even Wish For Snow -- They were finally their own family in their own home. But then it was Christmas. For smutty_claus. R Harry/Hermione

Make Up My Bed -- Porn Battle R Harry/Hermione

I'll Just Begin Again -- When given the chance to try again, to fix what's gone wrong, Cedric takes it. For samhain_smut. Links to Dreamwidth and to AO3. Companion to If the Walls Were Too Thin. R Harry/Cedric

Hold Me in a Perfect Square of Sky -- "If I could stop you there. 'Having adventures?' Any kind of adventure? You're going to need to be more specific." For samhain_smut. R Draco/Luna

She Put His Vorpal Sword in Hand -- For the girlsavesboyfic fest. PG Luna/Harry

If We Could Each Do One Thing Draco/Luna, pg-13, 1200 words for igrockspock. Draco and Luna have a conversation in the dungeon about opportunity and about snogging. Luna is ready for both.

You Were Gorgeous Severus/Minerva, pg, 218 words for kellychambliss. Severus says goodbye to Minerva, reflects on her fabulousness.

The Clever Ruse and the Lunch Break Hermione/Luna, r, 5000 words originally posted at hp_femsmut International Day of Femslash challenge.
This was my first serious attempt at telling a love story between two women, and it was incredibly rewarding. I've never been a femslash reader, but Hermione and Luna are two of my favorite characters, ever, so it was a wonderful challenge to write them together.

We Can Sort It Out, Or Not Harry/Luna, r, 2000 words for porn battle. Luna visits Harry on a lonely day in November, draws on him with sharpie. (Quite possibly my favorite of the bunch. I want to write a Harry/Luna epic someday.)

If the Walls Were Too Thin Harry/Cedric, r, 5400 words for Humpfest 2011. Harry travels through time and space, has a romance with Cedric Diggory. Companion to I'll Just Begin Again.

Do I Need to Paint You a Picture? Harry/George, r, 1200 words for isabet. Harry and George sweat together on the roof of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.

You Are a Fever -- For remix redux 9. PG-13 Minerva McGonagall/Rolanda Hooch

If You Cannot Take the First Step -- Hermione and Luna practice at (mild) teenage rebellion. For springtime_gen. PG

I'm Not the Kind that Likes to Tell you -- A love story in five courses, one engagement party, and eleven years. For wizard_love. R Harry/Hermione

Two Boys Living -- For the HARRY POTTER NON-CANON SHIPS COMMENT FICATHON. Harry/Cedric

Luna Lovegood's evidence of the impossibility of true love. -- For the HARRY POTTER NON-CANON SHIPS COMMENT FICATHON. Harry/Luna

I Would -- Brilliant corderoy child. Harry/Hermione

I'll Kiss You (gonna corner you and not let you go) -- Halloween Party bathroom sex. NC-17 Harry/Hermione

Magic Crazy as This -- This is what friends do for each other. This is why we need them. For het_idcrack R Harry/Hermione

Divergent

We Are Made Whole -- Porn Battle PG Four/Tris

Star Trek Reboot

Winter-Over -- In Antarctica, winters last seven months. Written for the kirk_sulu Holiday Exchange! R Kirk/Sulu

SPN Fic: A Silver Vision (Come and Rest My Soul) Anna/Dean

2013-06-22T12:04:06Z

Title: A Silver Vision (Come and Rest My Soul)
Author: june
Characters/Pairing: Anna/Dean
Rating: pg-13
Warnings: well, mpreg
Word Count: 1900
Notes/Summary: It's Annaweek on tumblr and seeing as I love Anna more than lots of real people I know, I thought I'd participate. I've been wanting to write a thing for this beautiful art from a_biting_smile so here it is--how it came to be that Anna got Dean knocked up.

Note 2--I like to think that this takes place in The Mark Death Made 'verse but it's totally not necessary to have read those to get this.

Note 3--I have big exciting news that I need more time and space to gush about so--look for big exciting news in the next few days!!!

The vial containing her grace shattered on the ground—raw energy flooding out and curling restlessly along the barn floor and around her feet.

"Cover your eyes!" she shouted. "Cover your eyes!" It called to her, sang of power and joy and justice, but Anna's human heart broke. In the instant before her grace burned its way back inside her, she remembered her first sleepovers and the horror of school dances, Saturday Night Live and her roommate's Gilda Radner impression, bagels from Montreal and crashing her bicycle. She remembered making out with her first boyfriend for hours with no pressure to go further and she remembered Dean's skin under hands, bruise-soft and brittle as old bone.

Her eyes lifted to his and she saw that, despite her warning, they were open and on her. Anna looked away and sucked in a slow breath, drawing her grace up in a writhing cloud around her body.

But then a funny thing happened—it didn't stay. It circled restlessly around her throat and then left her. She watched in alarm as her grace seemed to fall again—like a shooting star, only this time with far less distance to cross. It flared and burned away both Uriel and the demon who had come for her, then landed in an explosion of light and heat—right where Dean stood.

"No!" she cried even as Dean's own shout of surprise was abruptly cut short. Through the terrible glare, she saw him drop to his knees, saw Sam throw his arms up to protect his face against the burning light, then watched as Dean curled forward, arms wrapped around his middle.

When the light had faded enough to see clearly, Anna found that Dean was—glowing. Her grace, rather than settling in the throat like it should have, flickered low in Dean's belly like a pulsing heartbeat.

Instantly Sam stepped between them, filled with the righteous anger of the protective younger brother way out of his depth. "What just happened?" he demanded. "What did you do to him?"

Anna took a hesitant step closer. "I—I don't know. I thought I would get my grace back and become an angel, just like we planned but—"

"That's not what happened," Sam barked, stating the obvious. "Did you make him like them?"

"No." Castiel's voice surprised them as he emerged from across the barn. He'd been clear of the blast radius but as Anna tensed, it was clear he had no intention of harming her just then. He came to them now, his head cocked to the side and his eyes narrowed in concentration. "Dean is not an angel. If Anna's grace had entered him as it was supposed to have her, he would have been killed instantly."

"Then what—"

"I'm okay," Dean said, finally speaking. He was still on hands and knees, but when he reached out for Sam, he came to his feet easily enough. He looked all right, Anna decided, which should have been impossible considering that he had her grace inside him somewhere. He kept one hand on Sam but his slightly bowed legs were steady.

Castiel, ever the curious and abrupt one, stepped right up to him and pressed a hand to his abdomen. Dean reacted instantly, shoving Castiel's hand and turning his body away from him. "Whoa, back off—you don't just touch people there," he said, voice a little rough, a little afraid. He'd backed away from Sam, too, and now both hands hovered uncertainly over his glowing stomach. He looked between Anna and Castiel, seeking an answer, but she could only shrug.

Castiel frowned, eyes still narrowed. "This is very strange," he said. "It should not be possible."

"What is it?" Sam asked, looking frustrated enough to start swinging.

"Dean is pregnant."

From behind them, Ruby snorted a disbelieving laugh and Anna looked up to see her pushing herself to her feet, still looking ragged. "Is this a joke?" she asked. "Some Immaculate Conception bullshit? Because I can assure you, there's nothing immaculate about him."

Castiel's lip curled and he didn't look at Ruby when he answered, eyes fixed on Dean. "I do not joke, and in any case, I would not about this."

"What is it?" Dean asked, and Anna could see him trying to push courage in front of his fear. "Is it another one of you douchebags?" His chin jutted out in challenge, but Castiel only shook his head.

"No. It is human—a human female. It is also gestating rapidly. If nothing is done, you could give birth in as little as six weeks."

"'If nothing's done?'" Dean echoed.

"You're not doing anything to him," Sam said, putting one big arm in front of Dean.

Anna took a step back, letting their argument swirl around her. The fact that Castiel was arguing at all and not snatching her and Dean away gave her some hope. He was curious so he was indulging the humans. Or maybe he was simply so starved for interaction with a species that felt things, he was willing to draw out the conversation. Either way, Anna took advantage of his distraction. She took the jack-knife from her pocket – the one Dean had given her when he said he had to give her up for Sam – and cut deeply into her forearm. Pain rippled through her as she dipped her fingers into the gash and quickly painted the symbol for banishment onto the floor.

As she completed the symbol, she felt eyes on her and looked up to see Castiel squinting down at her, the corner of his mouth pressed in what might have been a smirk. Was he allowing her to finish? Not waiting to find out, she pressed her bloody palm to the floor and completed the banishment, the barn once again flaring full of bright light as he disappeared.

When she'd blown him far enough away, she rose to her feet, swaying slightly from blood loss. Dean was already by her side, ubiquitous bandanna pressed to her arm to slow the bleeding. "We need to talk," she said.

Dean wrapped an arm around her waist as he helped her over to a hay bale. "Yeah, we do."

"And we need to hide. I can rest in the car on the way to somewhere not here."

She could hear the smile in Dean's voice. "Fine, just don't bleed on the seats."

"Oh, so those other bodily fluids you were okay with."

He actually chuckled at that and pressed a quick kiss to her temple. "That goes under the 'talk later' category."

*

Back in Bobby Singer's panic room, Anna stood with a can of spray paint, shaking it idly. She remembered who she was now, knew her language, knew a bit more about what her human body was capable of. Still, her human brain could only recollect so much at once, so it felt like she was dragging the symbols for protection and concealment out of the deepest recesses of her mind. It had had been over twenty years since she'd used them—all of her human life, and only a moment of her celestial existence.

An existence that was lost to her now, probably forever. Or for however long she could make this human life last. Maybe it'd be longer than average, endowed as she was with a few angelic perks.

Finishing with the spray paint, she turned to where Dean sat on the cot, his back propped up against the wall. She offered a nervous smile and he returned it just as shakily. He'd stopped glowing, but hadn't moved his hand from his abdomen since they'd left the barn—he'd even driven one-handed.

"How do you feel?" she asked, coming to sit next to him, and perching carefully on the edge of the cot.

"Weird," he answered readily enough. "Hijacked."

"I had a pregnancy scare when I was eighteen," she volunteered.

"You?" he laughed. "The preacher's daughter?"

She shrugged. "He was in a band."

"Mm." Dean nodded as if he understood, though she could tell he was mocking her.

"And he was a tool," she sighed.

"But you weren't actually... "

"No, I wasn't."

"Do you really think I am? Am I really...?"

"Knocked up?" He nodded, mouth twisted in a crooked smile. "I don't know, but I don't think Castiel was lying. I could—I could check for myself?" she said, sliding a little closer.

Hesitating only a moment, Dean scooted down the wall a bit and then lifted his shirt to his armpits. Anna reveled in her very human admiration of his torso and was selfishly grateful that she'd been spared the return to a life she had left behind without regret. But what had she done to Dean's life?

He jumped when her fingers brushed his belly and she looked up quickly, an apology on her lips. But he only shook his head. "It's okay, sorry," he said. "Cold hands, that's all."

"Yeah," she said. "They've always been like that. Or, I mean—"

"I know what you mean."

Spreading her palm and fingers on his abdomen, she sucked in a quick breath. "It's there," she said quickly. "My grace is there, inside you—I can feel it."

"What, like that tree in the field?" he asked, brows drawn together.

"Yes," she said. "Pure creation."

"But it's not a little tree in there."

"No," she said, smiling. "Those are human cells." Quickly sobering, she drew her hand back. "What do you wanna do?"

He replaced hers with his own, rubbing his broad square palm against his belly. "Beats me. I'm still stuck on how it happened in the first place. The way I remember it, we inserted tab A into slot B just like it said on the instructions. How come you're not the one with the bun in the oven?"

"Angels don't reproduce the way humans do," she said with a shrug. "Even with this human body, I'm not sure I actually could get pregnant. You and I were joined and... I guess my grace was drawn to the potential in you rather than me."

Dean bit out an ugly laugh. "Right. Because when you think 'Dean Winchester,' you think 'divine incubator.'"

"You are a righteous man," she said quietly.

His mouth pressed tight and he looked away. "Yeah, maybe I was. But you know what I am now—what else is in me besides an angel baby."

Reaching for his hand, she felt warmth flush through her when he twined their fingers together and held on tight. "You are a creature of two worlds, like me."

"I'm not like you," he said. "I'm not good like you."

"Then what does this mean?" she asked, placing their joined hands over his stomach. "What does it mean for you, Dean?"

He twitched a shrug that may have been a shiver. "What if it's a monster?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"I don't think it is."

He looked up at her, naked hope written across his handsome face, and her heart beat wildly in her ribs.

"Maybe this is how I make up for what I did—for what I am. Maybe this is how I make it right."

"There's nothing to atone for, Dean," she said, leaning her forehead against his temple. "What happened to you—it wasn't your fault. Please believe me."

He turned just enough so that their lips were nearly brushing. "Anna, it's what I have to believe—I chose to get off that rack. This can be my choice, too."

The warmth between them welled into an ache of emotion in her throat, one of terrible sadness for what he had endured. But the hope on his face was real.

She nodded slightly and felt humor in his grin as he spoke. "So, which is it do you think—are you the baby-daddy or am I?"

Anna laughed and drew her knees up onto the cot so that she could curl against his side. "Maybe there's a book on it. I could get you a parenting book, if you want."

"Nah, I'll just add it to the gift registry."

SPN Fic: I Know Places (We Can Go, Babe) NC-17, 1/1

2013-02-24T18:15:51Z

Title: I Know Places (We Can Go, Babe)
Author: downjune
Characters/Pairing: Girl!Sam/Dean
Rating: nc-17
Word Count: ~3100
Summary: Sam has spent her whole life with Dean at her back, knowing he's there to look out for her. At least once, she wants him to feel the same.

Notes: Time for more porn! No particular reason! Here are some of my bulletproof kinks, all of which you will find within: awkward imperfect sex, finger fucking, pegging, girls who top, laughter during sex, emotions! This, like all my girl!sam stories, takes place in the What Comes Is Better 'Verse! This takes place in S2, just after "Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things."

Also, listen to this marvelous song while reading! Sometimes, Sam and Dean are romantic, okay?

I know places we can go, babe.
I know places we can go, babe.
The high won't fade here, babe.
No, the high won't hurt here, babe.
-Lykke Li

Sam could see that her brother was losing ground, was losing himself with Dad gone. And, as much as she hated to admit it, so was she. Where Dean had measured his own worth by his success or failure to carry out Dad's orders and be the man Dad wanted him to be, Sam had lived her life in defiance of John's expectations. Without that immovable force to push off of, she was drifting without anchor. Especially with Dean so fucked up.

And after that psycho Gordon Walker, after the zombie fiasco at Greenville Cemetery that landed her in the hospital with a broken arm, they needed something to knock them out of this tailspin.

Hunting wasn't going to cut it; drinking just made Dean sloppy and maudlin; talking got them exactly nowhere. So Sam made some personal time for herself, her laptop, and a wifi connection and went to work. Sometimes, all Dean needed to pull him out of a slump was a present. This was one hell of a slump, though—so no ordinary gift would do.

*

It took some maneuvering on her part, and a detour along an interstate that they usually avoided because of all the cop traffic, but within a week, Sam had what she was after. And Dean was watching her sidelong, curious in spite of his depression and belligerence. Curiosity, she could work with.

"You're bein' awful weird, Sammy," he said grudgingly, as if he really didn't want to take the time to notice. "That was a sex shop you just came out of—you know that, right?"

Clutching her package against her chest, Sam slanted a look at her brother as he rolled back out onto the highway. "Yes, Dean. Believe it or not, sex shops aren't just for horny dudes. Girls like sex shops, too—especially when shopping for their girlfriends."

He flushed a little, like he always did when she alluded to her years with Jess. Sam had some very fond memories of their purchases—all of which had been reduced to lumps of melted plastic and silicone in their burned up apartment.

"You got a girlfriend you're shoppin' for?" he asked, and the hint of jealousy in his voice sent a curl of anticipation through her stomach.

"No, this is for you, actually. I mean, for us. But mostly for you."

"Yeah?" He was definitely interested, now, sending longer glances at the wrapped box she held. "Is it a porno? God, it's been ages since we watched porn together. You always find the good ones, don't you, Sammy." His smile was tentative, an offering, and Sam grinned back in answer.

"Somebody's gotta have decent taste between the two of us. But, no, it's not porn."

"Then what is it?" he asked, drifting onto the shoulder a bit as he craned to see again.

"Watch the road," she said automatically, then let the box rest in her lap. "You find us some place private and I'll show you."

He gave her a searching look, managing to keep the road in his peripheral vision. "Look, I know I haven't been—I haven't wanted to, with you, lately. It's just, I've been feeling so fucking—I don't know, man."

"Helpless? Angry? Lost? I'm right there with you, Dean."

"I know you are, Sammy," he said, looking forward again.

He didn't say anything after that, but when he turned off at the next exit, Sam smiled into her shoulder so he didn't see how relieved she was.

At the first motel they came across they booked the room for the night, and even though it was only a little past three, they checked in and shut themselves inside—closed the blinds and locked the door. In the dim glow from around the shades, Dean shrugged out of his jacket and stood between the two beds, his shoulders tense. He watched Sam with a kind of manic energy as she dropped her duffel in the corner, like whatever she had planned was going to turn everything around for them.

His faith in her was startling and, she worried, misplaced.

"Get on the bed for me, Dean," she said. When he started to undo the buttons of his shirt, she stopped him with a hand over his. "Clothes on. Put your hands under the pillow."

Eying her skeptically with a faint tilt of his mouth, he obeyed, shoving back until he could stretch out comfortably. Then, doing as she'd told him, he reached his arms over his head and pushed them up under the pillow.

She started at his feet, unlacing his boots with hands that she had to consciously keep from trembling. Her arm ached in its new cast, but she still had pretty good mobility in her fingers. "You nervous, Sammy?" he asked, his voice a little rough.

She nodded, a quick jerk of her chin. "Maybe. M'gonna take care'a you, Dean. So just, just let me...." Pulling his boots off by the heel, she let them thunk onto the floor. She peeled his socks off next, worked the fingers of her good hand up under his jeans to his calf. She scratched through the hair on his shin and then climbed up over top of him, knelt straddling his thighs to undo his belt.

"You always—always look out for me, try to keep me safe even when it means hurting yourself, hiding your hurt from me." He lifted his hips as she tugged his jeans down, kept his eyes on her as she spoke. "So I wanna do right by you for once." She scooted backwards so she could get his jeans the whole way off before she unbuttoned his shirt. When she kneed up onto the bed again, Dean watched her hungrily, seemed eager for her to keep going. "Want you to let go for awhile. Gonna make you let go."

Sliding her hands up the length of his arms, she pulled them free of his sleeves. Then she guided him up so that she could tug his t-shirt over his head, murmuring, "Arms up," in his ear. He shivered and did as she asked, pressing a light kiss to her breastbone through her tank top after he'd pulled free of the shirt.

When she pressed him back down, he went willingly. "How?" he finally asked. "What're you gonna do?"

Finally hooking her hands into his black boxer-briefs, she tugged them down over his full cock. The head bumped heavily against his belly and she inhaled at the sharp twinge of desire that jolted through her at the sight of him, at how beautiful he was.

"I wanna fuck you," she said in a breathy rush. "Will you let me?"

Reaching down by the side of the bed she pulled out her package and ripped off the brown paper she'd had it wrapped in. Inside the box was a gorgeous sky blue strapless dildo, the very best a fraudulent credit card could buy. The silicone was firm but flexible with an anatomically accurate dick and a bulb that would fit inside her.

Dean exhaled a nervous laugh when he saw it. "Jesus Christ. You wanna put that thing in me?"

Sam knew she was blushing. "In both of us, actually, and only if you want to."

He nodded, which wasn't really good enough, but was a start anyway. "Do you, uh, do you need to rinse it off first, or whatever?"

"Oh. Oh, yeah, good thinking." Backing up off the bed, she left Dean there to go to the bathroom, running the dildo under warm water and using those few seconds to try and calm her fluttering insides. Since Dad... well, since he'd been gone, they'd messed around almost every night. But not the way they had before she went away to school, and not like before Dad died. It was ugly, what they were doing, and even if it felt good, even if Dean slept wrapped around her so tight she could hardly breathe, Sam still felt like they were punishing each other for what had happened. And she didn't want to do that—not when they were all they had left.

When she got back, she laid the dildo next to her brother while she stripped out of her clothes. She noticed that Dean couldn't seem to stop staring at it, eyes shying away to her and then back.

"It's okay—we don't have to if you don't want. It's not like I actually paid for the thing."

Dean shook his head. "Shut up, Sammy, and fuck me with your big blue cock before I lose my nerve."

She laughed, the tension momentarily easing between them as she rooted in the box to find the bottle of lube she'd also bought. Then she climbed back on the bed and between Dean's legs when he spread them for her. "Is it—is it okay if I touch you first?" He nodded and bent his legs up so his feet were flat on the bed. "I've never done this before; have you done this before?"

Dean smiled faintly at her rushed words and shrugged. "Sort of."

"It's kind of a yes or no question, Dean."

Rolling his eyes, Dean mumbled, "Fine. Yes, there was this girl. She wanted to, and I said yes because, well—"

"Because you're you," she supplied.

"Yeah, but we stopped part way in because I didn't want her touching me there. But that's not—I'm not worried with you, okay?"

She nodded, feeling really good about that, feeling like this had been the right move for them. But she was still nervous when she trailed her slick fingers down behind her brother's balls to his ass. She'd touched him there before but never as purposefully as she did now. He jerked a little at her touch and she looked up, met his wide eyes. They were dark in the bad light, but he nodded to her, licking his lips, and she pushed inside. He was smooth and warm and tight and she spent several minutes just touching, carefully adding a second finger, and feeling her way around until she found what she was after. When she crooked her fingers against his prostate, he exhaled a sharp breath like she'd punched him.

"Okay?" she asked, meeting his eyes again.

"Yeah. Yeah, do that again, Sammy," he said, laying his head back and finally relaxing around her fingers. Pressing and massaging more firmly, she watched Dean unwind in front of her. His pale skin flushed pink and then glistened with sweat as he arched and squirmed on the bed, the sounds that came out of him hitting her right in the gut. By the time she felt like he was good and loose for her, his cock leaked steadily against his stomach and he was almost boneless. He looked at her from beneath heavy eyelids and squeezed them shut when the stimulation got too intense.

Watching his response was addictive. She'd never felt this powerful, not even when she had his cock in her mouth or when she road him. This was a new kind of power—reaching into him, prying him open and finding the hidden places that made him come undone.

"You have to—want you inside me, Sammy, or I'm gonna come."

"Okay, Dean," she said, pulling out of him, her voice soft, almost reverent. "Yeah. Jesus, you should see yourself. You look incredible." His smile was quick and distracted, his eyes tracking her hands as she picked up the dildo.

Slicking up both ends, she slid the bulb inside herself first, her muscles fluttering and clenching around it. There was an angled tip that was supposedly for her g-spot, but she didn't feel anything particularly earth shattering as she knelt up closer to her brother and angled the dick against his ass. "Ready?"

"Yeah," he nodded. His knee bumped against her shoulder and he pressed his heel against her lower back and, looking down at him, Sam felt a possessive swell of love so powerful that she had to lean forward and kiss him first, even though the dildo bounced awkwardly between them. He craned up to meet her, catching her by the back of the neck as she licked into his mouth.

"Love you," she said. "I love you, Dean."

He nodded, forehead rocking against hers, and didn't say it back. But that was okay. He was very careful with that word—it didn't mean he didn't feel it.

Straightening up, she pressed the dick up against him and guided it inside, pushing her hips forward in steady firm pulses. Dean's eyes were closed, his brows drawn together in a frown of concentration until she was all the way in, the dildo firmly seated inside them both.

Sam took a few seconds just to breathe. Even though it wasn't her own flesh inside Dean's body, or his inside hers, they were still connected. The small shifts of muscle he made moved the part that was in her and the idea of that more than the physical sensation made her feel like she was already close to coming, like if he just breathed the right way, she'd trip over the edge.

When she felt like her head was clear enough, or as clear as it was going to get, she angled Dean's legs up a little further and tried to find a rhythm. It was a little awkward at first because she had to clench her internal muscles to keep the thing from slipping out and a few times she had to reach down and reposition it so the little ridge in front of the bulb bumped against her clit. But once she had that figured out, she wrapped her arm around the back of Dean's leg and let her hips move in the way that felt most natural.

"That feel good?" she finally asked, looking up the length of Dean's body to see him watching her while she fucked him.

He shrugged and offered her a ragged grin. "Like watchin' you more than anything. That dick looks good on you, even if it is blue."

She laughed at that, the bulb almost slipping out again, which only made her laugh harder. "Shut up," she giggled. "I'm loosing it, down here. You can't—you can't just say things like that."

But then Dean was laughing, too, and Sam felt like everything was falling apart despite her best efforts. Reaching up with her broken hand, she grabbed Dean's and put it on his cock. "Touch yourself. I wanna make you come, Dean. I wanna see you."

And he listened to her—reached for the lube and dribbled a bunch into his palm before grabbing his dick and working it nice and slow. They both moaned and Sam bit a kiss into Dean's thigh.

She worked her hips more steadily, clenching inside and rolling up. With that rhythm, the tip of the bulb rubbed more firmly against her g-spot and with the clit stimulation, she was getting it inside and out, a push and pull that was making her insides shudder and twitch. Dean jacked himself and the sight of it and of her moving in him was so sweet and hot that she felt she would break apart if this lasted too much longer.

"Are you close?" she asked. "Because I—I'm..."

"Yeah, Sammy," he said. "Go for it, baby."

"Want you to feel good, Dean. Wanna take care of you."

"You do. Fuck, Sam, want you to come. You look so good."

She laughed breathlessly at his words and how they never failed to light her up. She felt her orgasm building and cresting, unspooling through her as she held onto Dean and tried to keep driving into him. Crying out, she hunched forward and rode it out, not realizing she'd tucked her chin to her chest until she felt Dean's hand on her cheek, scraping the hair from her face.

Gasping for breath as she came down, she pulled the dildo out of them both and before Dean could ask what she was doing, slid her fingers back inside him. He jolted and cursed and then arched as she rubbed firmly against his prostate again.

"Come on, Dean," she breathed, leaning her head against his drawn-up leg.

"Fuck, Sam, I—" His body snapped tight for one perfect moment and his ass clamped down on her fingers as he shouted, voice almost panicky, and came in thick heavy pulses across his stomach and ribs. He gasped and twitched and finally went loose on the bed as Sam crawled up over top of him to kiss him, holding herself up on arms that shook. Dean put both his sticky hands in her hair and she didn't even mind.

Before she flopped down on top of him, though, she snatched a tissue from the bedside table and cleaned him up, wiping him down as best she could with only the one. When she'd tossed it on the floor, Dean wrapped both arms around her and held her close against his chest, their naked bodies pressed together from head to toe. She tucked herself under his chin and wedged her good hand underneath his back.

After a few minutes of drowsy silence, Dean's voice rumbled from his chest, "I think I like it when you get toppy."

Sam huffed a laugh. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, and it was pretty obvious you liked swingin' that dick around."

"Maybe I'll just start wearing it around under my jeans."

Now it was Dean's turn to laugh, a rough snort that made his chest jump under her. "I dare you."

"All right, I will."

"I double dog dare you. I triple dare you."

"All right, I will."

Still laughing, Dean rolled them over, taking most of his weight on his elbows. And even though Sam had liked screwing her brother into the mattress, she still really liked the feel of him sheltering her with his body—his solid ribcage and broad shoulders like a seawall. That would never change.

Just so long as he felt the same way about her. She wrapped her arms around his middle and cradled his hips between her drawn-up legs. "I got you, Dean," she said.

Kissing a trail up her throat, Dean rubbed his nose against her jaw and cheek like a cat and said, "I know. Don't worry, Samantha; I'm not goin' anywhere."

SPN Fic: The Sting (Robo!Sam/Dean), nc-17

2013-01-16T22:50:38Z

Title: The Sting
Author: june
Characters/Pairing: Robo!Sam/Dean
Rating: nc-17
Word count: ~4,000
Warnings: DUB-CON.Except, not really. But kind of. Also, bareback, prostate milking, forced orgasms, dry orgasms, and bondage. Yikes.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not even a little bit.
Summary: In order to keep Dean from putting Sam's soul back, Sam just has to make his body uninhabitable. Having sex with his brother should do the trick. A re-imagining of Appointment in Samarra.

Notes: Okay! So, normally I stay well clear of dub-con and non-con because I love consent! But this prompt from the spnkink_meme called to me and let me twist the trope around into something that fit with my kinks and squicks. And this is kinky! Probably the kinkiest thing I've written, since Girl!Sam/Dean period!sex. Thus, I am both proud and nervous posting this!

Dean woke up tied to a table. He woke up with a splitting headache. He woke up with a couch cushion underneath his hips. He woke up with no clothes on.

Maybe he should have led with that.

Glancing around the room, Dean wasn't surprised to find that he didn't recognize it. No natural light filtered in from anywhere; there was just the glare of an exposed overhead bulb and a desk lamp in the corner--where Sam sat meticulously measuring ingredients for what looked to be some heavy spellwork.

"You're up," Sam said without turning around.

"I'm horizontal, actually," Dean grumbled back, his voice rough. Clearing his throat, he tried for a bit more of an authoritative tone. "You wanna tell me what I'm doin' tied to a table?"

"In a sec. Gotta finish this before we start. So just, uh, hold on."

Dean's eyebrows rose and he smiled tiredly up at the ceiling. "Apologies. Take your time."

They were definitely in a basement, the basement of someone's house, rather than a business. He was actually on an old pool table, he realized. That was felt under his bare back. His ass was propped up on the edge and his legs were... yes, they were chained together at the ankle. They hung off the end of the table, and the awkward position was killing his back, so he tried to curl up onto the table. But his arms were tied so tightly he didn't have enough room to roll onto his side.

"I would have done this face down, but if the spell's gonna work, I guess we have to be looking at each other. I gave you a pillow so the edge of the table doesn't dig into your back."

"Yeah, it's clear my comfort is really what you're after." Dean craned his neck to see Sam stand up from the work bench and turn to face him holding a clay bowl full of something liquidy and red. "So, this is...."

Sam blinked at him, surprised. "This? This is to keep you from putting my soul back. I thought you'd have figured that out."

Rolling his eyes, Dean let his head fall back on the table. "Yeah, well I wanted to hear you say it."

"I've gotta spoil this body, make it uninhabitable. Incest does the trick, as it turns out. Guess souls don't like brother-fucking, which is a little prudish if you ask me."

"No offense, Sam, but no one in their right mind would ask you."

Sam set the clay bowl down between Dean's arm and his body, the edge just touching his ribs. It was cold as ice and he shied away from it by reflex. "What is that?"

At the foot of the table, Sam was stripping out of his clothes with crisp efficient movements. "That is to seal the soul out. You get some, too."

Dean figured if he had to he could get his legs around Sam's throat and choke him until he passed out, but his hands would still be tied and Sam would wake up eventually and then he'd be pissed. Really, any physical violence Dean could manage from this position, short of killing his brother, would only lead to more trouble. His hands were really fucking well tied.

"Oh yeah? Why am I so lucky?"

"Well, you're the one who wants to put it back in, so the spell spoils you, too. Incest is a big no-no, I guess."

"What do you mean, 'spoils?"' He clenched his hands into fists, his fingers cold from the ropes cutting off his circulation. "Am I gonna lose my soul, too?"

"Not sure, actually," Sam said, scooping some of the stuff out of the bowl and painting it down his own chest in a glaringly red line. "But if you do, consider it a favor. You'll be much better off."

Sam looked down at his chest as he shaped the red goo into sigils over his heart, down his breastbone, at the base of his throat, and across his stomach. When he was done, he leaned over the table and did the same for Dean, fingers steady and confident as they covered his skin in icy red.

"You don't seem angry," Sam finally said, meeting Dean's eyes for only a moment before he returned his concentration to Dean's throat. "I thought you'd be angry."

Dean huffed a laugh and shrugged the best he could, given how tightly his arms were tied. "Nah, it'd probably be better if I didn't care so much about you. I mean, what the hell, right? Make us better partners, I bet."

Sam gave him a hard disbelieving look and Dean returned it. "I'm tired'a mourning you, Sam," he finally said. "Tired'a caring so damn much about everything you do. So if you wanna cut your soul off and you can cut mine out in the process, I'm not gonna stop you."

Sam hesitated another second. "Do you think this spell is more or less likely to work if the fucking is consensual? Because I feel like you probably shouldn't be too into it, you know?"

Dean laughed in spite of himself and said, "Sam, trust me when I say, I would give just about anything to not have you nail my ass to this table for the reasons your about to."

Sam grinned his ugly not-Sam grin and slapped Dean's hip, leaving a smudged handprint. "That's what I like to hear. Oh, and don't worry, I'm clean. I'm not gonna give you anything. You're good, too, right? Haven't seen you get laid since Lisa."

"Yeah," Dean answered. "Yeah, I'm clean as a whistle. Ready to be spoiled."

"And I've got... " Leaning out of view, Sam came back with an enormous bottle of lubricant and plunked it on the table.

"Good to see you've thought this through." Dean's voice got a little tighter without him meaning for it to and he forced down the panic bubbling up in his chest.

"Butt-fucking without lube is just bad form, Dean. Someone as uptight about their heterosexuality as you--"

"Could you just wash that red shit off your fingers first?" Dean interrupted, rapidly losing patience and nerve. "Even if this ends with me minus a soul, no one wants an infection from demonic face paint."

Straightening, Sam looked down at him with an odd half-smile. He exhaled a short laugh. "I see why he likes you. I hope you're not too different after this. I mean... I won't care if you are, but it'd still be kind of a bummer. Objectively."

Clamping down on the hysterical noise that wanted to claw out of his throat, Dean swallowed hard and said, "We gotta work on your pillow talk, dude."

He heard Sam walk across the room, then the rush of a utility sink and the sound of Sam working soap between his fingers. Eventually the water shut off and Sam was back at the table, freezing cold wet fingers gripping Dean's legs and pushing them up without preamble.

"Fucking christ," Dean gasped, his entire body shrinking away from his brother. But Sam was ruthless, ducking under Dean's chained ankles so that he stood snugly between Dean's legs. Sam bent him up so his heels rested against Sam's shoulders and his ass was spread wide open. There was the snap of the bottle cap, then Sam's cold dripping fingers pressed into him and started to work him open--clinical and blank as an exam. Dean grunted at the blunt intrusion and closed his eyes.

Sam's fingers weren't warming up, and it felt very strange to have them stay cold inside him, prodding and pushing.

"Look at me, Dean," Sam said, his voice flat and commanding. "You have to look at me for this to work."

"Why, 'cause otherwise I'm gonna forget you're the one doin' it?"

"I think so," Sam answered, and Dean's eyes snapped open. "I think you have to acknowledge it, know it's me. No pretending."

"Yeah, well, we're not fucking yet, so just gimme a minute, all right?" Dean shut his eyes again and this time Sam let him. He took slow deep breaths until the tension in his body released and his skin tingled with oxygenated blood. He tried as best he could to focus inward, to collect everything he was feeling into a concentrated clean knot of emotion. He couldn't afford to be messy; they only had the one shot at this.

When Sam's fingers slid out and were replaced with the heavy weight of his dick, Dean couldn't keep himself from trying to squirm away, tension winding back through him as his heart began to pound in earnest. But Sam just gripped his legs and shoved the rest of the way in. All the air left Dean's lungs in a rush at the feel of being pried apart, but he couldn't seem to draw any back in. It didn't hurt, exactly, not in the way that Dean experienced pain, but the invasion was uncomfortable and impossible to ignore.

"Look at me, Dean," Sam said between his teeth and Dean obeyed, eyes locking with his brother's. Sam's hips worked in perfectly even strokes, made soft slapping sounds against Dean's ass that echoed strangely with the basement acoustics. At least he'd used plenty of lube, Dean thought, even as he continued to feel absolutely nothing but a cold heavy weight splitting him open.

Sam kept up the brutal pace without making a sound and without breaking a sweat. He didn't seem to be enjoying himself, either, given how much Dean knew he liked sex with women. A frown of concentration gave him a narrow pinched look. And eventually Dean felt Sam start to go soft. He changed the rhythm, rolling his hips at different angles, but Dean could tell he was losing his erection.

"This not doin' it for you?" he asked, voice mocking.

"Shut up," Sam said, breaths coming quicker as he tried to keep it up.

"You wanna know what I think?"

"Not really."

"I bet I have to like it. I bet you have to make me like it."

Sam's hips stilled and his palm slid idly down Dean's thigh as he considered this. "Yeah?"

"Yeah--you've gotta look at me, too. Acknowledge me. No pretending." He felt a kind of spiteful satisfaction echoing Sam's words back to him. Though of course Sam didn't seem phased.

Nodding absently, Sam watched his own hand as it smoothed across Dean's torso and brushed against his soft dick. Then he flipped his hand over and ran the backs of his knuckles up and down the inside of Dean's thigh. "I have to get you off?"

"You can try," Dean smirked.

When that not-Sam smile twisted his mouth up at one corner, Dean almost sagged in relief--before Sam dripped more lubricant onto his fingers and grabbed Dean's cock like he owned it.

Sam's big callused palm worked him over with swift cruel strokes until Dean felt the blood begin to pool in his groin, until he felt his own breaths kick-start. "That better?" Sam asked, and his voice sounded mean. Dean nodded but couldn't seem to put any words together to make a complete thought. "If you've gotta like this, I'm gonna make you hate it."

Dean ground his teeth together and then jerked when Sam pulled out and shoved his fingers back in. Only easing up a fraction on Dean's dick, he twisted and scissored until Dean felt a firm nudge against his prostate. Suddenly finding himself a full participant in the proceedings, Dean tried to arch on the table, but could only push against Sam's shoulders. He did that, hips lifting and stuttering as Sam found that spot again and again, triangulated, and then stayed there. He didn't let go of Dean's dick for a second and Dean felt like everything was about to fly apart.

Forcing himself to take a few deep breaths, Dean returned to that one solid space inside himself, that knot of focused emotion. He closed his eyes and held onto it even as his body tightened and tightened and prepared for release.

"You ever had anyone do this for you, Dean?" Sam asked and Dean's calm was instantly derailed again. "Lisa ever milk you dry? Bet she liked to watch you lose it."

Dean bit his tongue and didn't answer, which only made Sam grin and work him harder. Sam's long fingers stroked him inside and out until Dean felt the last shreds of calm and control scatter. The sensation of having to piss washed through him in a terrifying wave and then orgasm crackled after, forcing his head back, a shouted curse punching out of him. It almost felt like he was pissing, but when he managed to look, it was just spunk coating his brother's fist--a steady stream of it. His shout trailed into a moan that he couldn't stop any more than he could stop what was happening to him. Sam's fingers pushed and rubbed and Dean hadn't ever felt this helpless. He felt like his insides were melting and dribbling out into his brother's hands.

It didn't stop. None of it did. Sam kept up the pressure until Dean's voice broke, until he felt wrung out and abused. And it didn't stop then, either. He could feel Sam's dick bumping up against him, fully hard again, but Sam wouldn't stop touching him.

Dean was breathing so quickly he'd gone a little light-headed, his lips and fingers tingling. There was a cooling mess on his stomach and the sigils painted on his chest had finally warmed to body temperature, though Dean hadn't noticed when--or when Sam's fingers stopped feeling like ice on his skin.

"You gonna fuck me, yet?" he managed to gasp out, but Sam only shook his head. Dean was relieved to see he looked at least a little frayed around the edges--a flush staining his chest and neck. "No?"

"No," Sam finally grunted. "M'gonna make you...." He trailed off and abruptly bent down to nuzzle and mouth at Dean's dick. His fingers stayed where they were inside him, but then Sam's mouth was on him, sucking and swallowing his soft prick like he was parched. He sucked and swallowed until it wasn't soft anymore. Sam made soft humming noises that traveled up Dean's spine and settled in that calm space Dean was somehow fighting his way back to. Dean held onto those sounds and he held onto Sam's flushed skin and he held onto himself.

He held on until he couldn't again. Sam sucked him off and fucked him with his fingers until Dean was back riding the edge of the precipice, pleasure cutting through him so sharply it was close to pain.

Pulling off, Sam gripped Dean in his fist again and brought him the rest of the way over. "Look at me," he said, voice rough. "Look at us." Dean managed to open his eyes as he shuddered into his second orgasm, eyes dropping to the angry red head of his dick as a few drops of pale fluid spilled out. After the first one, he didn't think there could be anything left to wring out of him, but as he twitched and jerked through it, Sam managed to find reserves Dean didn't know he had. He groaned as that bizarre need to piss flared ahead of a final long blurt of spunk, the pressure from Sam's fingers agonizing.

"Shit. Shit, Sam, I can't--" Head lolling on the table, Dean stared at the floorboards overhead and tried not to pass out.

Finally slipping his fingers out, Sam looked up at Dean with red-rimmed wild eyes. Dean had only a second to suck in a quick breath before Sam surged up onto the table and pushed back inside him. His dick was huge and hot, and so were his hands, and so were the sigils painted onto Dean's skin.

This is it, he thought. This is it. It's now.

Sam bent him in half to get at his mouth, tongue and teeth demanding entrance. Dean opened up and let Sam kiss him, let Sam grab at his face and hair. He let Sam beat at his body like a storm until the friction was too much and tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. "More," he croaked, "we need more...."

He felt Sam nod against his throat and back off with a grunt of apology. A miracle in itself. When he dumped what had to be half the bottle of lubricant over himself and Dean, Dean almost laughed. A smile flickered across Sam's face and Dean thought, I know you.

When Sam slid back inside, the noise was sloppy and loud, as was the sound that came out of Sam's mouth. He groaned low and unsteady, biting at Dean's jaw and thrusting in a haphazard wild rhythm. Between them, the sigils started to burn, burn and burn until they felt like a brand. Sam cried out in pain and Dean said through clenched teeth, "Let me touch you, Sammy. Wanna touch you--please."

Nodding, Sam leaned up over Dean's head and grabbed something from the top of the table. A moment later the sound of a blade biting into wood freed Dean's right hand, then his left. The knife clattered on the floor and Dean rolled his shoulders in relief, lifting his arms to cradle Sam's face. Sam looked at him with wide disbelieving eyes. "What did you do?" he asked. He pulled Dean up to straddle his lap, huge arms holding Dean close as his hips rolled up, lifting his brother almost to his knees.

Dean shook his head, looked down at where their bodies were joined. "Think you can make me come again?" he asked, pushing one of Sam's hands down to his half-hard dick.

In a daze, Sam nodded, circled his thumb and first two fingers in a loose hold. When he started to jerk Dean off again, Dean held back a whine of discomfort, retreating one last time inward to the place where everything was quiet and there was only one thing in three worlds--in Heaven, Hell, and on Earth--that mattered.

I'm here, he thought. I'm here, Sam. I'm right here.

Sam surged up into him and cried out again. Dean could feel the heat of the sigils burning into his brother's skin and when he opened his eyes, they were glowing, sinking in. Looking down at his own chest, the same thing was happening to him, sealing the deal.

"Dean, I'm--"

"Come on, Sammy. You can do it, come on."

"I can feel--it burns, Dean. It hurts."

"I know. I know it does. Just--"

Trying to distract him, he circled Sam's fingers with his own. He stroked himself until he was right there again, until he felt like he could burst right into flames. Sam pressed his forehead to Dean's, looked down at their joined hands. "Can you? Can you--again?"

"Yeah--keep. Keep--fuck." Ducking his head, he curled his shoulders against his third orgasm, a dry hitching shudder that burned and forced a small desperate sound out of him.

Sam groaned and released him to wrap both arms around Dean's middle and fuck up into him with a few final hard thrusts. "Fuck, Dean. Dean."

Hands shaking so bad he could barely control them, Dean held onto his brother as his whole body tensed and his hips stuttered up. Sam let out a strangled shout, pain and pleasure mingled together, though it mostly sounded like pain to Dean.

In the silence that followed, Dean pulled Sam closer and tucked his little brother's head down against his shoulder. Sam's breath came in ragged sobs, his broad back shaking with them. "What did you do?" he asked again.

Not wanting to say, wanting to guard the truth, Dean tried to keep it in, but the words fell out anyway. "That spell wasn't to seal out your soul."

"What was it?" Sam's voice was ragged, exhausted.

"It was a curse," Dean said, tipping back far enough to see that the sigils had already scarred--soft pink ridges across their skin. "I, uh--all I had to do was curse you with a soul and a... a friend could march right down to the Cage and get it."

"Huh," Sam answered, his breathing and heart rate settling. Blinking a few times, he ran his fingers along the sigils carved into Dean's stomach, dipped down to touch the mess sticking in his pubes.

"Huh," Dean echoed. "So, uh, how're you feelin', anyway? Everything good?" He felt stupid and slow, fucked to within an inch of his life.

Sam's gaze turned inward for a moment before he shrugged. "Fine. Not really all that different--just, more. Maybe."

"Really? No--no Hell memories? The Cage?"

Shaking his head, Sam shrugged again. "No, there's nothing different about my memories; it was just this gradual... like, filling up. But, thanks. I feel--I feel better."

A thread of fear and borderline panic wound its way up Dean's spine as he looked for evidence of change in his brother. There had to be more that just...'more.' His soul would be shredded after over a century in Hell. There were risks to bringing it out; he might never recover from where he'd been. That was the whole reason why Dean had included himself in the curse, why they were both cursed with Sam's soul. But where was it?

"So... I guess you got to Balthazar before I did," Sam said. "The spell I got was the one you gave him."

"The one I gave him, actually," came a familiar voice from the basement stairs.

Both Sam and Dean turned to see who had walked in on them, and Sam angled himself toward Dean to try and give him some cover. Which was sweet considering, so far as Dean could tell, he still didn't have a soul. His sluggish brain was not getting past that. He couldn't even care that he and Sam were naked in front of Death—the oldest creature in the universe. But, he supposed, Death saw everyone naked at some point or other. Maybe everyone was always naked to Death.

"Angels don't deal in Soul curses," Death said, seemingly oblivious to Dean's post-sex internal rambling. "They're something of a specialty of mine, as it happens. And I got quite the bargain, this time. Two souls, one curse."

Sam touched the sigils scarring both of their throats. "You're cursed, too?" He looked Dean in the eye and Dean found that he couldn't look away. He could feel Sam's confusion, his baffled affection, his curiosity. He couldn't feel a soul anywhere. "Why would you do that, Dean?"

"Because you'll die without his help," Death answered. "You won't be able to function after what this soul has endured." With that, he opened the black bag he had at his elbow and blinding blue-white light flooded out, forcing both brothers to shield their eyes.

"Dean, I don't want that for you," Sam said, eyes turned away from the brightness of his soul. "I don't want it. The curse is for both of us—I can feel it." He touched Dean's chest, the tender scar tissue over his heart. "It's enough."

Dean covered Sam's hand with his own. "No, it's not," he answered. "All or nothing deal, I'm afraid."

"If I don't take the soul back, what happens?"

"Everything you feel now will trickle away until you are as you were--a malicious, dangerous shell of who you were meant to be," Death said. His eyes glazed over, as if he were looking at something they couldn't see. "There's work to be done, yet. And as you are, you're not fit to do it."

"Will we be okay?" Sam asked, not looking away from Dean. And this time Death seemed to take the hint that the question was not for him.

Dean searched his brother's face. Sam had been right—there was 'more' of him now. Dean had done his part, binding as much of Sam as he could remember into that curse and burning it into his skin. Sam's affection and trust were there. But it wasn't all of Sam and it wouldn't stay. There was still an emptiness in his eyes that only a soul could fill. "We'll be fine, Sammy."

Sam regarded him with an expression that Dean could only call 'skeptically trusting,' before he pressed his forehead to Dean's and let out a shaky laugh. "All right, then let's wrap this up. My dick is sliding out of your ass and I have to piss."

Dean made a face and then gave Death the go-ahead, signaling at Sam's back with the hand still holding him close. "There are parts of this you that I might miss," he confessed as Death came the rest of the way down the basement steps, moving like smoke instead of a man.

Sam was about to answer, a smile curling his mouth, when Death loomed behind him. The room glared blindingly bright and blisteringly hot. Sam's smile disappeared and his eyes caught fire. And then Dean felt the soul sink back in like acid.

End.

SPN Fic: Girl Talk, With Dean Winchester (pre--girl!Sam/Dean)

2013-01-11T21:58:51Z

Title: Girl Talk, With Dean Winchester
Author: downjune
Characters/Pairing: Girl!Sam and Dean (pre-wincest/gencest?)
Rating: pg-13
Word Count: 1933
Disclaimer: Not mine, not even a little
Summary: John would have foisted The Talk off on him, anyway.

Notes: This is a hoodie_time wishlist fic for saint_sentiment! For the Wish: "Anything with Dean dealing with issues pertaining to raising girl!Sam. Eternal love will be rewarded to any fics having to do with Dean managing the squicky enigma of periods and/or girl!Sam's puberty or development."

So, yes, there is some period talk. Chronologically, this fic comes first in my girl!Sam/Dean verse. And I've wanted to write a 5 Things fic for this verse for awhile, so consider this 1 and 2 in a 5 Conversations about Sex list. :) I hope you like this, saint_sentiment!

1. Sam did a pretty good job hiding it for as long as she did, but there were very few secrets to be kept when you lived out of a duffel bag with your dad and your big brother.

Dean was shoving clean clothes back in Sam's bag when he found them--a box of tampons and a bag of pads. Tiny ones in little pink packets.

"Fuck," he said to the empty motel room. Sam and Dad were out registering her at the high school so Dean was on laundry duty, washing their mountain of dirty clothes now that they'd landed in a new town. "This is not something you want to know about your fourteen-year-old sister."

Stuffing the rest of Sam's clothes in, he resolved not to think about it. Sam obviously had the situation in hand. Health class and sex-ed existed for a reason. If she were having any trouble, she'd come to him for help.

But as they settled into their digs outside Johnson City, TN, Dean couldn't quit thinking about it, couldn't keep himself from worrying that he should say something, sit her down for the Talk that he knew Dad would eventually foist off on him anyway. Sam was fourteen and, yeah, she hadn't really grown into her legs yet and her ribs showed and her hair was always a wreck, but Dean thought she was gorgeous, and guys -- especially fourteen-year-old guys -- were awful, so.

He resolved to sit her down and hash all this out as soon as they had some time to themselves. She'd be mortified if Dad were around. But if she could stitch up a gash on his butt cheek -- an incident she was never going to let him live down -- and they could laugh about farts and snot and other bodily functions, then they should certainly be able to talk about periods and sex. Dean was way too cool of an older brother to be intimidated, and Sam was just too cool of a kid, full stop.

Thus bolstered, Dean seized the opportunity when Dad hit the road on a job near Lexington, bought his sister a milkshake at the DQ, and parked them at a picnic bench to have the Talk.

"So... Sam, you know you can come to me if you need anything, right? Like if you have any questions or..."

Jesus christ, how had he ended up using the exact same opening as the one John had given him? That talk had been terrible. And Sam was giving him the eyebrow, which meant that he'd blown it.

"Dean, was that seriously your opening to the Talk? That was pathetic." She looked like she might start laughing.

"Oh, come on!" he whined. "It's harder than you'd think. How would you have started?"

That turned out to be exactly the right question to ask because Sam, being Sam, took it seriously. She sucked on her milkshake and tried to run a hand through her hair. When her fingers got tangled, she frowned and gave up.

"I would say... 'Don't listen to what people say about you because fuck those people.'"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, that's a good start. You, uh, you got guys givin' you a hard time?"

Sam shrugged. "A couple. They're just jerks."

"You got--you got any guys that aren't jerks?"

Sam snorted a laugh. "Yeah, right. Guys are gross, Dean. They smell and they're either totally goofy or totally mean."

Dean relaxed and sucked hard on his own milkshake to keep from grinning. "Sounds like a great attitude. You nurture that one, Sammy--cultivate it. This was a good talk; I'm glad we sorted you out."

"The girls, though. The girls are meaner," she said, softly enough that Dean almost didn't hear. He could picture those girls--they were the same in every school he and Sam had been to.

"Yeah, they can be pretty vicious."

"I just want them to like me. I wanna be able to talk to them."

"Give it time, kiddo. It gets easier."

"For you, maybe," she mumbled. "You can talk to anyone. Girls love you."

Leaning across the table, he punched her arm. "Well then, you just follow my lead. And if you say the wrong thing, fuck it. We'll be gone by the end of the month anyway."

She looked up at him and nodded, mouth twitching up into a faint smile, utterly trusting. For a moment he felt a little reckless with just how much she trusted him. He felt a twinge of jealousy that Sam would want to be close to anyone other than him. They didn't need anyone else.

Then her smile slid into a smirk. "So... did you want me to tell you about my menstrual cycle? I'm not sure you can report back to Dad that we've had this Talk until I tell you."

Mouth falling open, Dean's voice stalled in his throat. Which of course she took to mean that he wanted her to continue.

"It's pretty gross, you know. And for at least two days, it feels like I've got pliers shoved up there. I bleed for five days straight and don't die, which is totally badass if you think about it. And the blood is all clotty and thick and it smells different than when you get torn up on a hunt."

Lurching to his feet, Dean almost tripped backwards stepping back from the picnic table. "Soundslikeyou'vegothatwellinhand,let'shittheroad,Sammy."

2. The summer after she turned sixteen, Sam bought a dress. It was gray and sleeveless and made of stretchy knit material. It hung to her knees, flaring out from just above her waist. She'd picked it up on a Goodwill run, and it wasn't anything special, but the skirt showed off her long legs and spun out when she twirled, which funnily, she liked to do because she knew she could get a smile out of Dean.

The dress looked good on her he decided—-especially when she wore her shiny red Doc Martins. He wanted to tell her but he realized she only wore it at a certain time of the month, when the bathroom trash flilled up and the Advil disappeared. He knew how much she liked to be complimented on the way she looked, but when he got a clue as to why she wore the dress, he wasn't sure she'd appreciate it.

One day, he found her with the dress on, curled up in bed with a pillow pressed to her abdomen and her forehead creased with pain. When she spotted him in the motel room doorway, she moaned pitifully and hid her face.

"Sam? You okay?"

"No," she bit out, voice muffled.

"You take anything?"

"Yes, I took something, Dean."

Coming over to the side of the bed, he carefully sat down next to her. Right away, like she'd been waiting, she wrapped herself around him, arms circling his middle, forehead pressed tight against his side.

"I feel like shit," she said into his shirt. "It's only getting worse."

Dean pressed his hand to her back and stroked gently down her spine. "What can I do for you, Sammy?" he asked. "Just tell me what I can do." His sister almost purred when he pressed a little harder right over her lower back. "What do you need?" he asked again.

"You're not gonna like it," she said, breath damp through the thin material of his t-shirt.

"If it helps you, I'll do it. You know I will."

Sam nodded, squeezed his middle tighter. "I, um. I wanna go on the pill."

He could feel her holding her breath and forced himself to let go of his own. "Birth control?"

"It doesn't mean I'm having sex, Dean."

"No, jesus, no, I know," he said too quickly, wincing as his voice got a little frantic sounding. "But Dad would kill you."

"You'd kill me," she added. And Dean could hear a question in her voice.

He thought about that for a second and finally put his hand on her hair, rubbed her temple with his thumb. "No, I wouldn't. Long as you let me threaten the bejeezus out of him, I trust your judgment."

Shifting around enough that she could rest her head on his thigh, Sam laughed. "Thanks, Dean, but um, you don't have to worry about any guys. You're the only good one I know."

Dean grinned at that, felt heat seap down from his chest to warm his whole body. He had the wild desire to roll her on top of him and make declarations of unending devotion, but she probably already knew them--she was a smart kid. And he'd never been very good keeping that kind of thing off his stupid face, anyway.

"So--," she started, sounding uncomfortable again. "There's a Planned Parenthood downtown. Could you--could we--"

"You want me to take you?" he asked, feeling absurdly flattered. She had a fake ID saying she was eighteen. She could go on her own.

"Yeah, if you don't mind. I don't want to go by myself the first time."

"Yeah, course, Sammy. Let's hit it--we can get you fixed up by supper time." When she pushed herself up from his lap, he stood up and brushed her too-long bangs out of her eyes, pressed a quick kiss to her forehead.

*

They were living on the edge of Milwaukee, so it was a bit of a haul into the middle of town, but the traffic was all headed in the opposite direction, commuters fleeing back to their safe suburbs. Sam sat in the passenger seat with her knees drawn to her chest, her dress tucked up between her legs so she didn't flash anyone. She pressed her forearm into her lower belly and Dean had to remind himself that he was already doing what he could to help her, that anything else would cross a line they were already dansing around.

Still, he wanted to put his hand there, to feel out the shape of her organs, ease that ache with his touch.

*

He parked the Impala around the corner from the Planned Parenthood and Sam hovered by his shoulder while he fed the meter. When he nodded toward the building, signaling that he was ready to go, Sam looked down at his hand where he still held the car keys and then back up.

"Say you're my boyfriend, okay? It'd be weird if you said you were my brother. Wouldn't it?"

"I--" Flustered, he cleared his throat. "I'm pretty sure they respect your privacy at these places. You don't have to say anything you don't want to."

"So I can say anything I do want to," she answered, tilting her chin up in challenge. "We'll be gone from here within a month. And I think it'll be easier this way."

"...Okay, Sammy," he finally said, "whatever you want." Then he hastily pocketed the car keys when she reached for his hand and threaded their fingers together. She set off down the sidewalk and he kept pace, glancing sidelong at their joined hands and the way her shoulder pressed warm along his.

As they waited at the back of the line to sign in at the window, he put his arm across her shoulders and rested his chin on the top of her head. She slung an arm around his waist and leaned against him with most of her weight. And even though he knew she felt pretty bad, this, what he was doing for her, felt really good.

Insmallpackages fills!

2012-12-14T16:46:38Z

Here are a couple fills I did for insmallpackages which is still going on, and is very cool/low key!

Fill Number 1

Genderswap art and/or fic! Supernatural or Teen Wolf, always-a-cis![opposite from current gender] or changed from a spell, or anything else! It doesn't matter!

Girl!Sam/Dean Christmas fluff, which should surprise exactly no one :)

Dean got the call just as he was handing over the cash at checkout and, because it was Dad, he juggled the bag and his change so he could answer instead of letting it go to voicemail.

"Dean? Get your sister together—we've got a job down in Arkansas. A New Year's Eve killer."

Frowning, Dean shoved the change into his pocket, holding the phone between his shoulder and his ear. "Yes, sir. When're you comin' back?"

"I'm halfway to Romance already. You and Sammy be down by tomorrow night. We'll meet up and take care 'a this thing."

"Romance?" Walking back out to the car, Dean made a face.

"Yeah, hell of a name."

"Dad, uh, you know tomorrow's Christmas, right?"

There was a moment of heavy silence, then, "Dean. You and Sam are both too old to be hung up on missin' a holiday. We've got a time-sensitive case."

Rolling his eyes from the safety of 500 miles away, Dean hung on the line. When his father heaved a sigh, he cracked a smile.

"You get down here by dinner, and we'll go out."

"Sammy'll like that."

"You drive careful. Roads'll be slick."

"Yes, sir."

"Tell your sister I said merry Christmas."

"Yes, sir."

*

Dean high-tailed it back to the apartment, barely remembering to stop for a day-old newspaper so he could wrap Sam's present. Christmas had just been bumped up a night so he had to work fast. On the way, he picked up dinner—all his and Sam's favorites from the local Chinese place. By the time he rolled into the driveway, the car smelled awesome and his heart was thump-thumping in his chest.

It was a second story apartment so he took the stairs two and three at a time, fumbling for his key on the landing. When he finally made it inside, he caught sight of Sam on her way into the bathroom. "Heya, Sammy," he called. "I got dinner, and Dad called."

"Wonderful," she said, not bothering to shut the door the whole way. "Don't tell me—Christmas is canceled in the name of hunting down Santa Claus who's actually a mean old wood elf.

As he walked past on the way to the kitchen, Dean heard her shuffling around, then the sound of her peeing.

"You're not far off."

Her reaction was swift and furious. "Ugh! Are you serious?"

"Sorry, kiddo. He said we could go out tomorrow night if we made it down in time."

More shuffling and then the toilet flushed. "Yeah right. Nobody's gonna be open except fast food. Just like every year."

The sink ran for a few seconds and then she yanked the door the rest of the way open, startling when she found Dean standing right there in the hall. She flushed a little, smiling and nervous. Her hair was up in a sloppy knot, and she wore a gray hoodie that had been his eons ago, back before he'd declared them uncool. The cuffs were ratty and stained light brown with old blood. Her jeans were her own, and they hugged her thighs more tightly, showing off the lean muscle she'd developed from cross country and three years of training with Dad and with Dean. She looked fucking fantastic.

It'd been three weeks.

Three weeks since she'd come into his room, said she couldn't sleep out of earshot of him, and then asked him if he ever thought about fucking her. She was terrified and fearless all at once, sick with worry and brash like only she could be. Three weeks since she crawled onto the bed and kissed him, shaking like a leaf with hands like ice. Three weeks since he folded back the blankets and let her slip inside with him.

They'd slept together as kids, but that had ended years before. And they always shared rooms in motels. It was only in this apartment, in a dumpy suburb of Muncie Indiana, that they had their own rooms. Sam was in her senior year and Dean took on local hunts while Dad went all over in the truck.

They'd been messing around for three weeks and Dean was stupid over it. Fucking giddy. He was smiling like a dope all the time, and his guts regularly gave him fits just thinking about her curling around him, touching his sides and his throat, kissing his face like he was something perfect and beautiful.

"I thought we should have Christmas tonight. Whattya say?"

She was almost as tall as him, 5'10" easy. He liked looking her right in the eye. She liked it, too.

"You got Chinese?"

"Yeah, like ten pounds of food, seriously."

Her eyes lit up and she grabbed his hand, dragging him into the kitchen after her. When he came up behind her at the counter and fit his arm snugly around her waist, he felt like the luckiest guy in the continental US. He'd been to all forty-eight states; he could say it with confidence.

*

They ate in front of the TV, their feast spread out on the coffee table between them. They watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer and made fun of the vampires exploding into dust at the touch of a stake to the heart.

When they were too stuffed to eat anything else, they sat on the floor and kissed until their greasy lips were wet and swollen, Sam's chin and cheeks red from his stubble. She knelt above his lap, straddling his hips, so that he had to tip his head back to see her face.

"We're gonna have to be careful after tomorrow," she said, voice barely audible over the TV. Scraping her fingers through his hair, she rested her cheek on the top of his head.

Dean inhaled his sister's scent—textbooks, coconut shampoo, and just the faintest hint of metal and violence—and caught the fabric of her hoodie between his teeth, nuzzled closer until he found her nipple. When she hissed and jerked in his arms, he leaned back. "We'll just have to make up for future lost time tonight, then," he said.

"He'll let us have our own room, right?"

"Yeah, don't worry, Sam," he soothed, sliding his palms up underneath the sweatshirt. "Dad's too paranoid to let you sleep alone, even if it is fucked up to share a room with your 21-year-old brother." Bracketing her ribcage with his hands, he spread his fingers wide and admired the solid strength of her torso, the way her stomach muscles flexed under his thumbs.

"Do you think we're fucked up?" she asked, voice just above a whisper.

Dean held on tighter, pressed his fingers into the grooves between her ribs. He looked her right in the eye and said, "I think we're fucking magnificent, Sammy."

*

Later that night, when he'd made her come twice on his tongue and she'd brought him off with her spit-slick palm, they decided to have Christmas in her bed. He pulled on his boxer shorts and she grabbed a tank top and her underwear, and the room smelled like sex, and it was perfect.

He opened his gift first, a small box wrapped meticulously in colorful magazine ads. Inside was a new watch—black with silver buttons.

"It's waterproof," Sam said, "because you're always falling in lakes and swimming pools on hunts." She pointed to where it said 'waterproof' on the packaging. "And it has a stopwatch for training. And an alarm so we don't..." She flushed. "...so we don't sleep in too late when Dad's around." Finally looking up, she said, "You like it?"

Dean wrestled the watch out of the packaging and grinned as he buckled it on. "Yeah, Sam, it's great. It's perfect." Leaning forward, caught her around the neck and tugged her into a quick kiss. When she started to pull back, he kept her forehead pressed to his. "Thank you."

She gave him the small crooked smile that had melted his heart since her first one at age eight. "You're welcome."

"But where'd you get the money?" he asked, still the concerned older brother. "This is a really nice watch."

Looking up at him and then away, she said, "Wrote a couple kids' papers for them. All they wanted were B's."

Dean laughed. "Hustling pool is way cooler but I guess this is more your style. Just don't let Dad catch you."

Sam rolled her eyes. "As if Dad gives two shits about what I do in school."

Not wanting to start in on that argument again, Dean picked up his present for Sam. "Your turn, sis—here." He pressed the package into her hands and then punched her gently in the shoulder. "Merry Christmas, kiddo."

Sam's pretty eyes widened as she eagerly took the present and ripped away the newspaper. Then she sucked in a quick breath and beamed up at him. "Oh my god, Dean, it's—it's perfect."

"Yeah? You like it?" Dean's whole body flushed warm with happiness as she unfolded the leather jacket and held it up.

"Yeah, I love it! The color is so cool!" The jacket was a deep reddish brown, cut slim at the waist. It was shiny and almost new with lots of buttons and zippers. "Where'd you get the money for this?" she asked in a hushed whisper.

"Took some extra hours at the garage. And—don't worry, Sammy, I got it from Goodwill."

Her expression relaxed as soon as he said it. Sam was always worrying about money and she would've hated if he'd spent more than he needed to, even if he'd wanted to.

"You wanna try it on? See if it fits?"

"Yeah," she said, standing up from the bed and shrugging into the coat. She settled her long arms and bony shoulders in the sleeves and, with her legs bare and the tank top exposing a strip of her stomach, Dean didn't think she'd ever looked sexier. "Whattya think?" she said, giving a quick twirl.

"I think I did good," he answered with a sly grin. Kneeing over to the edge of the bed, he hooked his fingers into the jacket pockets and tugged her forward until she bumped into the mattress. Sam's eyes strayed down to the watch on his wrist and she smiled, soft and happy.

Then, with a quick quirk of her lips, she tackled him backwards onto the bed. She bit at his earlobe and whispered "Best Christmas ever, Dean."

In retaliation, he wrapped both his arms and legs around her and squeezed until she was gasping and shrieking, then rolled her over and held himself up on his hands and knees. "Get ready for an even better New Years, 'cause tomorrow we're headed to Romance, Arkansas."

Wrinkling her nose, Sam laughed. "Just what I always wanted—New Years in Romance. Do we at least get to make out at midnight?"

Dean thought of all the stupid New Years parties he'd been to over the years, all the times he'd kissed total strangers, mouths sticky with lipstick and cheap champagne, a headache already building behind his eyes because alcohol and sugar didn't mix well for him. He thought about standing over an open grave with bones burning at the bottom, Sam at his side with her shotgun hanging by her hip, dirt smudged across her face. She'd grab his collar and kiss him and he'd have to watch for the iron blade in her belt.

"Hell yes, we can make out at midnight."

Fill Number 2!

A description of the vegetarian meal you would make to impress.

My vegetarian sushi is always a hit! Requires some assembly, and a second pair of hands cuts down on prep time. I'm just going to go through the instructions rather than listing all the ingredients first to save space. Also, this is an adapted style of sushi, in no way traditional or authentic beyond the ingredients used.

I try to get about 8-10 rolls from 1 and 1/2 cups of uncooked rice. And for a meal, I can eat 2 rolls.

First:
Start your rice. We use a rice cooker, and the rice cooker cup measure. Sushi rice is pivotal; it's sticky. Do the old 2:1 ration of water to rice, or slightly less.

Start your tofu. Use about half a block of extra firm sliced up into sticks. Fry up with a little sesame oil. Once it starts to crisp up a bit, add splashes of soy sauce (thin and thick), mirin, Frank's redhot, ketchup, and if you've got it, fresh ginger and garlic, though powdered works, too. You're going for a caramelized BBQ effect with the tofu. Fry it hard until it's dark and crispy, though watch the heat; it can burn. Stir every couple minutes. It'll probably take about 15-20 min. to get it right.

While the rice and tofu are cooking, chop your veggies. I do carrots, cucumber, avocado, scallions, and if I'm feeling funky, some roasted red peppers, dill pickles, and some feta. Slice them thin. Don't forget to stir the tofu!

Once the rice is done, for some extra flavor, sprinkle in some mirin and rice vinegar and fluff.

Once you've got all ingredients ready to go, it's time to assemble! I have a rolling mat, but honestly you could probably go without if you're gentle. Lay out a sheet of sushi paper, shiny side down, and spread a scant paddle of rice across it. Less is more in this case--don't go crazy with the rice. I try to stretch it. And make sure you leave about an inch at the top empty.

Next, lay your veggies and tofu, in whatever combination you like -- variety is the spice of life and all that -- in a line about a third of the way up the paper. Then, tuck and roll into a tight cylinder. When you've got it, give it a squeeze to make sure it all sticks together.

And repeat!

To slice for eating, USE A SERRATED KNIFE. So much easier.

For condiments, we make wasabi paste from the powder and a little water. Experiment with the thickness you like. Also soy sauce for dipping. And hubby makes a fantastic mayo hot sauce with mayo, chili paste, sesame oil, and lime juice.

There you have it! It's pretty impressive, if I do say so myself! And, bonus, all these ingredients are available in most good-sized grocery stores (except the thick soy sauce). Asian markets have more variety and better prices. Enjoy!

HP Fic: If It Were Up to Me (I Would Leave It Up to You), Harry/Cedric, 1/1

2012-11-12T00:21:53Z

Title: If It Were Up to Me (I Would Leave It Up to You)
Author: downjune
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Cedric/Harry
Rating: R
Summary: Despite the fact that he's newly employed at Hogwarts, Cedric receives an invitation from Harry to the Eighth Year Halloween bonfire. Against his better judgment, he attends. With Luna in charge of his costume, what could go wrong?
Word Count: 3700
Warnings/Content: none
Author's notes: My samhain_smut fic! Title from Elvis Perkins, clever devil. It's been so long since I've posted in this fandom! The fic is a kind of sequel to I'll Just Begin Again and is in the same universe as If the Walls Were too Thin .

Cedric had never been very good at Halloween. He didn't like fancy dress parties; he didn't like pranks; he didn't even care for sweets. Put together, he could have had as bad a reputation as Hermione Granger for a being a general wet blanket and ruiner-of-fun.

Luckily, Cedric was better at faking it than Hermione. Before the war and the end of everyone's childhood, Cedric dressed as his favorite Quidditch player, let his friends pull the pranks, and only participated enough to keep from becoming the victim of one. Basically, he smiled his way through the night. Cedric was very aware of what his smile could get him.

But he was Hogwarts staff now—if only part time. He was supposed to be in the clear. He was too old for Halloween, and until Harry and Luna showed up at his office door, he'd been very much looking forward to having the night off, reading a book and going to bed.

He blinked as Harry fumbled his way through an invitation to the bonfire down by the forest Halloween night. By the end of his stilted offer, they were both flustered and Luna, with her arm through Harry's, looked to be the only thing keeping him from bolting back down the corridor. When Cedric looked to his childhood friend and neighbor for an explanation, she shrugged and smiled.

"We'd really like it if you came, Cedric. Harry especially would, though he's too afraid to say that."

At her words, Harry's eyes went comically wide behind his glasses and he elbowed her sharply in the ribs. She let out a quiet 'oof' but didn't seem bothered.

"I—I'm flattered," Cedric started. "But you don't want me at your party. I'm older than everyone and I—I'm a teacher now. It'd be uncomfortable, wouldn't it?"

"No," Luna promptly answered. "And you're only teaching First and Second Years. You're not Harry's teacher, are you?"

Harry elbowed her again, and then cleared his throat, apparently ready to speak on his own behalf. "There won't be many of us—just those who came back for our last year, Luna, Ginny, and a few others. Everyone'd miss you if you didn't come."

Cedric shrugged, uncomfortable with the idea but loathe to disappoint Harry. Since the start of term, they'd hardly had any time together, not like it had been over the summer, working shoulder-to-shoulder along with everyone else to rebuild the school in time for the start of classes. Then, they'd spent all day in each other's company, exhausted, sunburnt, and stupidly happy to both be alive and all in one piece.

"All right," he finally said. "Maybe I'll come for a bit. The cold and damp doesn't do much for my leg, though. And I don't want to wear a costume."

"Sorry, but you have to," Luna piped up. "It's a Halloween bonfire. I can help you—I'm very good with costume ideas."

Next to her, Harry barked a laugh. "Luna, I don't think Cedric wants to dress as bird of paradise or a spotted owl. Brilliant as those costumes are."

Cedric nodded. "Yeah, no offense, of course."

Luna gave a delicate shrug. "None taken. And you couldn't be a bird of paradise or a spotted owl, because those are Neville's and my costumes. But I have lots of other ideas."

Grinning up at Cedric, Harry backed away, hands shoved into his pockets. "Well then, I'll leave you to it. I'll see you Friday, Diggory."

"Yeah..." Cedric trailed off, feeling a bit helpless. Luna didn't show any signs of leaving so, with a sigh, he invited her into his office.

"Don't worry," she said. "We can think of something that will make you look very handsome—or rakish, if you prefer. You'd be quite dashing as a vampire, I think."

~*~

In the end, he wasn't a vampire because vampires couldn't take their pale skin and fangs off and on like a costume, so Luna decided it would be in poor taste to pretend to be one just for a night. Instead, he went to the bonfire dressed as a 1950s greaser which, Luna assured him, was even sexier than a vampire.

The weather that night was cold and damp, just as Cedric knew it would be, so his leg ached even after the pain potion Pomfrey had given him. And even though it kind of ruined the look of his costume, he brought his cane because he didn't want his knee to buckle halfway down the hill. Tumbling into the bonfire was not the kind of entrance he wanted to make.

Thankfully, there were a few Hufflepuffs gathered around the fire so Cedric was able to gravitate to his old house and avoid awkward chitchat with people he didn't know very well. He grinned when Luna arrived with Neville, enormous orange beak protruding from her forehead. Neville, in his slightly more subdued owl costume appeared to be puzzling over how he would kiss her without injuring himself.

Hermione and Ron came shortly thereafter, bickering as usual. Hermione looked fantastic in her suit of armor and Ron actually made a convincing damsel in distress. Cedric supposed that, since Hermione seemed to have gotten over her dislike of Halloween, he could make an effort as well.

When he caught sight of Harry, though, Cedric lost all interest in anyone else's costume or subject of conversation. He was coming down the hill talking animatedly with Dean Thomas and, done in white makeup, Harry's face had been turned into an anatomically correct skull. The hollows of his cheek bones and eyes, the sharp line of his jaw all done in glowing white paint made him at once striking and terrifying.

Then Harry spotted him and grinned, his mouth all teeth. Cedric waved and started toward him, picking his way around Eighth Years, the odd Seventh Year, and their various extra appendages or parts of wardrobe.

"Hello, Harry," he finally said, tucking his cane behind him and leaning on his good leg.

"Cedric—hi!" Harry replied. "You look—you look fantastic!"

Glancing down at his black leather jacket and his dark blue jeans – painstakingly transfigured from an old coat and pair of trousers – he smiled and flushed. "Thanks. Luna really does know her stuff, apparently."

"Yeah, she does," Harry agreed, still unabashedly looking him over.

Flushing, Cedric gestured at Harry's own costume. "Did you come up with this yourself? It's really something."

Harry looked down at his black jumper and trousers and Cedric noticed his hands were also covered in the eerily glowing paint, the bones drawn on in painstaking detail. "Not really, no," he answered. "Dean's practicing on anyone who'll let him. He's applying for theatre work in London."

"Brilliant. It's amazing. You look—really scary and really cool."

"Thanks," Harry laughed. "They're supposed to look like X-rays."

Cedric nodded and tried not to remember those very unpleasant trips to a Muggle hospital, agreeing to let them re-brake his leg in hopes of getting it to heal straighter, and staring at X-ray after X-ray, despairing of ever running another step in his life. Harry'd been there with Cedric's parents, shepherding them through the whole process. Hermione, too, because she was better at talking to doctors.

"Anyway," Harry continued, bringing Cedric back to the present, "I'm crap at costumes, just like you. Give me a name tag that says 'Hello, my name is Steve,' and I'm happy."

Chuckling, Cedric tried to run his fingers through his hair, got them stuck in the gel Luna had put in, and settled for smoothing it over with his palm. When he abruptly could think of nothing to say to the beautiful happy boy in front of him, Harry saved him by making a bit of his own awkward conversation.

"How are your classes going? Do you like teaching? I don't ever get to talk to you now term's started."

"Oh, it's brilliant," Cedric hastily answered. "Really great." He smiled. "And obviously terrifying. Twelve-year-olds are awful."

Harry laughed. "Yeah, I reckon. There wasn't much to like about being twelve. Or thirteen. Or anything less than eighteen, from what I can tell."

"Well, and you at least had Voldemort to worry about. All my students have are hormones and short attention spans."

"And they're probably completely mad for you," Harry said, flushing as soon as the words were out of his mouth. "I—I mean..." He ran a hand through his hair and caught Cedric's eye. "I would have been. If you were my teacher."

Impressed by Harry's candor, and not a little turned on by it, Cedric looked at his feet to hide his grin. "I'm flattered. And, yeah, a few of the girls look at me like they don't quite know what to do, but most of them are only worried about who'll go with them to Hogsmeade."

"None of the boys, then?"

Cedric stiffened and blinked at Harry, searching his face warily. They'd been circling around this for months—since the end of the war, since the long spring and summer spent rebuilding, since Ginny had gone back with Dean.

But for Cedric it'd been longer than months. It'd been since a muddy graveyard, curse fire, and hands fisted in shirts, refusing to be dragged apart even after the Portkey had taken them back to the start of the maze. It'd been since all those hospital visits after the tournament. It'd been since they formed Dumbledore's Army, since they started teaching defensive spells together. It'd been since Order meetings hunched over the table at Grimmauld Place.

The truth was, he'd been a goner since Harry was fourteen with stupid hair and a hero complex. He did not want to fuck around about this. He did not want to joke about this. He was almost 21 and he'd been in love long enough to feel both old and cynical and also completely out of his depth. Declarations of gay love were not something to be taken lightly.

"Er—no. No boys," he said finally. "I don't think most teenagers are prepared to—to make themselves vulnerable like that. I mean—would you have when you were that age? Would you have admitted anything like that?"

"God, no," Harry answered quickly, looking a little panicked. "I could barely speak in complete sentences. It would have a been a disaster. And I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable or unprofessional or anything. I'm sorry." He put his painted hands in his pockets. "I only wanted to make you laugh and pay you a complement. A poorly executed complement."

Huffing a laugh, Cedric relaxed a bit, feeling better about where this seemed to be headed.

"Well, despite the poorly executed complement, and that stumbling invite earlier in the week, I think you've gotten better at the complete sentences bit. You might be well on your way to smooth, Potter."

Harry's whole face lit up. "Yeah?" he said, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Thanks, Diggory."

Cedric nodded his acknowledgment and cast his eyes around the small gathering. He spotted a bottle of Fire Whiskey being passed around, an open case of Butter Beer, and a cauldron of sweets set a safe distance back from the fire.

"Can I, um, can I get you a drink, then?" Harry eventually asked, taking a step closer so that their shoulders brushed.

Smiling, Cedric leaned into him. "Speaking of smooth." He frowned as Ginny took a good swig from the bottle. "And I'll just pretend I don't see that Fire Whiskey," he added.

Shrugging, Harry gave him a rueful grin. "They just know you're one of us, is all."

"Or they don't really consider me a teacher."

Bending down to grab two bottles of Butter Beer, Harry handed one to Cedric. "Bollocks," he said. "Everyone knows you're developing one of the most useful and most difficult classes ever taught at Hogwarts. It drives Hermione mad that she's rubbish at it. You've got her respect. And everyone else's, trust me."

Cedric took a swallow of his drink. "Thanks," he said, looking down.

"And, um, I'm always impressed at what you can do. I think it's amazing."

"Now you're just trying to make me feel better."

Harry grinned. "Of course, I am. What kind of friend would I be if I weren't?" Fidgeting with the bottle, Harry said, "Would you, um, would you do some for me now. Something just for me?"

Cedric returned Harry's smile, admired how wild and strange it was with the glowing painted bones. "All right," he said, feeling a little breathless. "I can—"

He put his hand out, feeling for Harry's magic, for the magic that inhabited the air and the ground and the fibers of his clothes. Then he rested his hand on Harry's chest. He felt the soft wool of Harry's jumper and his thumping heart underneath. "I can't—" he started, already coaxing the wool into something else. "I can't do what Dean does, but I—" He exhaled as the material began to settle into its new shape. When he took his hand away, he breathed a laugh, and so did Harry when he looked down and saw the shape of a heart, as white as the bones painted onto his skin.

"It's not anatomically correct, obviously," Cedric hedged. "I'm not that good."

Harry rubbed his fingers over the new fabric. "But you changed the wool to cotton—that's really good! And you gave me a heart," he added, looking up with another toothy grin. "That's, um, that's really romantic."

Cedric glanced around, giddy and uneasy all at the same time. "Is it?"

"I'm quite sure it is," Harry said, certain.

And then Harry tried to kiss him—grabbed his arm, leaned up, closed his eyes, the whole bit.

Cedric started so badly his knee almost buckled. He stumbled back but managed to stay upright with Harry's hand gripping his elbow.

"Fuck," Harry swore, "I'm sorry." Once Cedric had his balance, Harry backed off a step. "God, I'm so sorry—I thought. I thought you wanted—"

Putting out a hand to quiet him, Cedric kept his voice low, instinctively scanning the small crowd to see if anyone had noticed. "No, it's okay. You just startled me, and I—" He finally looked Harry in the eye, found him flushed around the edges of the makeup, and maybe a little heartbroken. "I do want to, Harry," he said quietly. "Just not here, not where people can—"

"Not where people can see? These are our friends, Cedric. They won't mind; they know I'm—"

"No, you don't know that," Cedric interrupted. "This isn't—" Cedric looked around again. There were definitely people watching, now. "No one does this here. We would be the only ones."

"What?" Harry blinked at him. "Have you been counting or something? Looking for gay kids at Hogwarts?"

"Yes." Cedric desperately wanted that whiskey now. It didn't seem to matter that Harry was finally ready to snog him senseless—the idea of anyone seeing it happen was actually much more terrifying than Cedric had thought it would be.

"There are others," Harry said, stepping squarely in front of him and redirecting his attention. "I promise."

Cedric exhaled through his nose. "Look, you may not know this about me, Potter, but I like being liked. It's important that people like me."

"I had noticed," Harry said with a wry smile.

"Well, and so, getting people to like you generally requires doing what they expect you to do. I'm not—good at surprising people, Harry. I don't like doing it."

Nodding, Harry glanced around at the small gathering. "But—you do like me, don't you? I'm not imagining that part?"

Cedric shook his head. "Definitely not imagining it."

"Right, then." Putting down his drink, Harry reached into his back pocket and pulled out the shimmering length of his invisibility cloak. Then, with an expert flick of his wrist, he draped it over the both of them. The firelight instantly dimmed, though Harry's face still glowed.

Shuffling closer, Cedric ducked down so his feet didn't show. Harry held the cloak closed over their heads and put his other hand on Cedric's side, just up under his jacket. "How's this?" he asked. "Better?"

"A bit, yeah," Cedric answered, looking up at the strange filmy material. "Are you not afraid, then? Of what people will think? You're a student, Harry, and I'm a... bloody hell, I'm a teacher. What if someone found out—I could be sacked."

Harry blinked at him as though he were speaking German. "You're not even three years older than I am."

"So? I can't be with a student!"

Harry snorted a laugh. "Oh, come on, I'm barely a student. I'm a fake student. I only came back to be with my friends—to stay close to you. I'll sit my N.E.W.T.s next week and be finished if that'll make you feel better."

"You can't do that! You'll never pass if you take them now."

Harry rolled his eyes so hard, his whole head moved. "Oh my god, you're as bad as Hermione." His fingers clenched on Cedric's waist, almost ticklish. He fixed Cedric with a look that made his insides spin and crash around like wind-up toys. "Cedric. I don't care about the sodding N.E.W.T.s, and I don't care that you teach wandless magic to eleven-year-olds. And I don't think McGonagall will mind at all if we have loads of sex in the privacy of your room. But we can ask, if you like." He lifted his eyebrows. "Or we could get out of here, yeah? I'll take you—we can go anywhere you want."

Cedric's mouth hung open a little and he couldn't seem to recollect any other place on the planet outside the small space they occupied. Harry was grinning at him, hopeful and clearly besotted. Finally, Cedric sucked in a quick breath. "All right. We can go to my room. If you want."

Not bothering to answer, Harry gave him a gentle shove back towards the school. When they'd got beyond the reach of the firelight, Harry let the cloak fall away from them. Resolve strengthening with every step they took, Cedric grabbed his hand and pulled him along even faster.

~*~

As firsts went, Cedric and Harry blew through them all in about twenty minutes, barely pausing for breath. First kiss, first grope, first dry hump, first blowjob—never let it be said that a Hufflepuff didn't follow through on their commitments.

No sooner had the door closed behind them than Cedric grabbed Harry and hustled him to the bed, pushed him down onto it, and looked for skin as quick as he could. This was no easy task given that once they'd started kissing, neither had the inclination to stop, even for clothes.

When Cedric had the warm skin of Harry's stomach under his palm, shuddering with his breath and damp with sweat, he lost his head a bit, rolling them on the bed just so that he could feel Harry on top of him, their bellies pressed flush together. He grabbed Harry's arse through his trousers and arched up into him, the friction sparking through his nervous system like a lit fuse. Harry grunted, breathed into his mouth, and let his hips stutter against Cedric's. Eyes closed tight, he palmed the back of Cedric's skull and pressed their foreheads together.

"Oh, fuck, I can't—" He stiffened above Cedric and kissed him hard on the mouth, breath huffing in and out through his nose. Cedric stilled, wanting to feel Harry come, but there were too many layers between them, so when Harry finally slumped against him, Cedric rolled him onto his back and peeled off his trousers and pants. He pulled out Harry's softening cock and wiped his fingers through the mess of spunk stuck to his skin. Harry watched him do it with heavy-lidded eyes, hissing when Cedric stroked him a few times, just to know what it felt like.

Harry's fingers curled weakly against Cedric's fly, but he grinned when Cedric knelt up and wriggled out of his jeans. Pushing himself up to a seated position, Harry greedily eyed Cedric's cock and leaned forward to take it into his mouth, licking and sucking with obscene enthusiasm. Cedric put his hands on Harry's shoulders and just tried to hang on.

~*~

Sometimes Cedric felt much older than 20—the old leg injury, the war, his job. They all contributed to an early adult perspective on the world.

Sometimes Cedric forgot that he was still basically a teenager, and that Harry was, too.

That night, Cedric vowed to take full advantage of his and Harry's impressive recovery time for as long as it lasted. They'd managed to rescue the future of the Wizarding world from the jaws of a completely psychotic megalomaniac—that future was going to be filled with sex if Cedric had anything to say about it. Sex and nakedness and Harry's breath on the back of his neck and the taste of salt on skin.

Lying together on Cedric's thoroughly soiled bed, jaw aching pleasantly, Cedric traced the arc of Harry's cheekbone and realized that the makeup hadn't smudged even a little. Cedric's hair was a total disaster, but the skull remained intact, ghostly white over his skin.

"Does this actually come off? It's still perfect. I don't think any even got on me."

Making a contented humming noise, Harry wiped his hand down over his face. "I forgot it was there. Dean said he'd have to take the makeup off for me—it's charmed to resist pretty much everything. I'll have to tell him it's a success."

Thumbing at Harry's chin, Cedric suddenly wanted very much to see Harry's face without the makeup. "I could take it off for you."

Blinking his eyes open, Harry smiled up at him. "Yeah? Without taking off a layer of skin, I hope."

"What do you think I am—some kind of amateur?" he asked, scooting closer and pressing his palm along the side of Harry's face. All it took was a bit of persuasion, and Cedric felt the magic give, the makeup coming away in his hand. Running his fingers gently over Harry's nose and chin and eyelids, Cedric looked down at their bodies, saw Harry getting hard again, and grinned, ducking his head to kiss the line of his now-clean jaw.

It was official. Halloween was the greatest holiday in the history of holidays.

SD Minibang: God Save the Human Cannon Ball Master Post

2012-10-22T18:42:40Z

Title: God Save the Human Cannon Ball
Author: downjune
Characters/Pairings: Sam'n'Dean (with some vague Sam/Dean), Claire Novak, Jody Mills, Castiel. Also, brief Sam/Jody.
Rating: R for violence
Word Count: 19,250
Warnings: Case-related incident of homophobic violence
Summary: In nearly every major religion, and in all the lore he can find on the subject of Purgatory, the living can influence the fortunes of the dead through prayers and offerings. And Sam's sure Dean isn't even dead, so, piece of cake. All he has to do is make the right offering. It only takes seven months -- and 29 years.

A post-Season 7 AU, and a story of past and present heroism.

Notes: Yay, my first spn Bang! How awesome is samdean_otp for hosting? How awesome are the mods for coordinating the whole thing? Very extremely awesome. Massive thank yous go to harrigan for whipping this beast into shape and for being appropriately ruthless in her beta reading. Sam is a better Sam because of her careful eye. Also, hugs and squeezes to killabeez for being a much-needed third set of eyes when all perspective had been lost. Any remaining errors are entirely my own.

As for music, here's a link to the songs that inspired the story. There'll probably be a download available in the future, but for now enjoy Sam's songs for Dean. The title of this story is taken from "Wild Billy's Circus Story."

Finally, art! petite_madameswooped in and hammered out such gorgeous achy lonely pretty art, I'm still trying and failing to describe it properly. Just look at it! Be warned, it is very spoilery—beautiful and spoilery.

Here's all of her collected art!

And Fic Links: Part I, Part II, Part III a, Part III b

And a PDF!

SD Minibang: God Save the Human Cannon Ball (Prologue and Part I)

2012-10-22T12:08:37Z

Prologue.

Summer 2012

Claire Novak was a fuck-up. She made a good first impression, sure—well-spoken, clean, put-together. But she was a fuck-up and had been since an angel hijacked her dad's body, and since it had hijacked her own. (She'd said 'yes' but she hadn't known what it would be like, hadn't known that it would scour her insides like steel wool and Comet.)

She'd been a fuck-up since the angels had left her and her mother alone after 'the apocalypse,' which, okay, did seem legit there by the end. But just because the Winchesters had averted it, or whatever, didn't mean she and her mom were safe.

She'd been a fuck-up since demons had decided to test whether the Host was still looking out for them—the eyes of Heaven were clearly directed elsewhere. They gutted her mom and now her body walked around with something else inside it. Demons were petty assholes, and they didn't care whether it was a fair fight, whether Amelia Novak could get them anything.

Claire Novak hadn't finished high school, though she got her GED when she turned seventeen because there were some things a girl had to have. Her current job at Friendly's was miserable and barely brought in enough money to pay for the room she rented from one of the other waitresses—a retired teacher who wanted the extra cash and somehow actually enjoyed food service.

Claire hated her job but she hated even worse the threat of not having one, of needing to call up her aunt Audrey who was a total bitch. So she went to work in her nasty polyester uniform, waited on rude, cranky, depressed customers, served gross generic food, and collected her meager tips so that she could afford her bed in Mrs. Delaney's house.

She was a fuck-up but she was managing—no expensive drug habits, only one shoplifting charge on her record, no ties to the vast criminal underworld of Pontiac, Illinois. She was managing until one Sunday in the middle of the brunch rush, Castiel was back inside her body.

Or. No, not her body, not like four years ago. It was more the pressure of his voice in her mind. And, damn him, it was her dad's voice.

'Claire. Claire, can you hear me? This is very important, Claire. Please indicate if you can hear me, Cl—Dean, I don't know. I'm not even sure she'll be able to—If you can hear me, Claire, think loudly.'

This was very different from the last time he'd been in her head. Then, he'd filled her to the very edges of her skin, so that there'd been no room for her own will.

Finding herself still very much awake, Claire laughed and thought as loudly as she could, 'You know it's generally considered polite to identify yourself before forcing your way inside someone's head.'

'No other angel can communicate with you in this manner. You and I are bound, Claire. Lucky for me, not so lucky for you. I would not wish to be bound to me.'

'Oh, screw you. The moment you showed up, my life was fucked. But when you left, it was fucked even worse. So what do you want?'

'We need your help, Claire. Very badly. Follow my instructions. Open your eyes.'

"My eyes are open," she said aloud, even as she realized they hadn't been. Blinking, she spun in a circle, finding herself smack in the middle of her restaurant, every single customer staring at her. "What the...." Looking down at herself, she saw that her skin was covered in writing from her cheap Bic pen. Some of it was dug in so deep that blood oozed out of the scratches. Words in tight black writing crawled up and down her arms, circled her wrists, and lined her palms, front and back. There were even words climbing her fingers.

"Fuck me," she gasped, feeling like she might pass out.

"Er—Claire?" Mrs. Delaney said, one hand reaching out to touch her. Claire flinched back and tripped over the tray of juice glasses she'd dropped. "Claire, honey, why don't you take your break, now, all right?"

"Y-yes."

The front of her uniform was covered in orange and cranberry juice. It was in her shoes.

"Fuck me," she said again, because there was really nothing else to say.

~

Parking herself against the back wall of the restaurant, she lit a cigarette and inhaled about a third of it on the first drag. Relishing the quick buzz, she closed her eyes and searched the inside of her skull for evidence of an angel.

'Castiel?'

But there was no answer, so she opened her eyes and glared down at his handiwork. Pinching the cigarette between her lips, she held out her arms and, admittedly curious, started to read the writing on her skin.

It was a little repetitive.

Findsamfindsamfindsamfindsamfindsampurgatorywe'reinpurgatorywe'reinpurgatoryfindsamsiouxfallssouthdakotasiouxfallssouthdakotafindsamsheriffjodymillssheriffjodymillssheriffjodymillsfindjodyfindjodyfindjodyandfindsamhurrynowquick

That was the left arm.

Then on the right:

It'saboutfearsamit'saboutfearit'saboutfearHUNGERDEATHOLDAGEBEINGCONSUMEDHUNGERDEATHOLDAGEBEINGEATENHUNGERDEATHOLDAGELOSSOFSELFtherearefoursamtherearefourtherearefourtherearefouronlyfour

There was more crammed onto her palms but she felt a little sick looking at it. Wanting to scrub it off, she rubbed the heel of her palm down her forearm but only managed to smear blood and ink around. And then, worst of all, she felt a squirm of panic in her gut when she thought about what Castiel might do if she ignored the writing on her skin.

This was obviously a message for her and a message for Sam.

"I don't fucking need this," she muttered around her cigarette. It had burned down to the filter and gone out, dropping ash onto her thigh. Spitting out the butt, she looked at the left arm. Find Sam. Find Sheriff Jody Mills. Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Hurry now quick. Her heart kick-started in an excited little flutter at those last three words.

She had enough for a bus ticket, but not much more than that. Mrs. Delaney kept some cash for emergencies in a crock on top of her kitchen cabinets, and Claire would probably feel a little guilty taking that, though she didn't right then.

"I don't fucking need this," she said again. "I don't need this. I have a bed and a job and...." She had juice squelching in her shoes and probably, if she looked, pancake crumbs in her bra and syrup in her hair. Brunch shifts were gross.

Standing up, she peeled the horrible polyester uniform shirt over her head and left it by the wall. Already feeling much better in her sweaty cotton t-shirt, next she stepped out of the shoes she'd had to buy to match the ugly pleated uniform pants. Finally, she shucked off the pants themselves and stood in the scrubby grass in shirt, boxer shorts, and socks. She grabbed the meager tips from her apron as well as her smokes and started back for Mrs. Delaney's, lighting another cigarette as she walked.

She probably did need this.

Part I

'What exactly are you afraid of? Losin'? Or losin' your brother?'

August

Sam bagged another big mouth in Sioux City just after sunset on a Friday. The guy was selling off real estate like the market was about to crash—just after buying it all up a few months before. On the lookout for that kind of activity, Sam had found him without much trouble and put an end to him with even less.

Dropping the burned and melted head into a portable safe, Sam straightened and set to cleaning his machete. Leviathan goop was hell on a blade if you let it sit. It was hell on your skin, too, so he scrubbed his face and hands in the dude's bathroom next. Leaning against the sink, he checked his reflection for any remaining evidence but he looked clean—a little thin and tired and in need of a shave but passable. A shower would have been awesome but wasn't in the cards—he needed to hit the road before the two pieces started looking for each other.

Wrapping the body in the shower curtain, Sam hauled it, his gear, and the safe out to the Impala in two trips, then headed for the gritty post-industrial wasteland that pretty much every city had on its fringe, perfectly suited for burning bodies.

From the road, he called Jody, trying her office line on a hunch and, sure enough, she picked up even though it was after eight. "Sheriff Mills," she answered, voice clipped and, if Sam was any judge, a little cranky.

"Hey, Jody, it's Sam. I catch you at a bad time?"

She heaved a sigh that made Sam's mouth twitch up in a smile. "Well, you caught me here, didn't ya? Stuck behind a mountain of paperwork on a Friday night."

"Okay, well, I won't keep you, I just—"

"You get that chomper? I been worryin' all day."

"Yeah. Just left the body in a parking lot. Had to use almost a whole can of kerosene to get it lit."

"They are pretty soggy."

Sam huffed a laugh. He could almost hear the grossed-out face she was making. "My carbon footprint has gotten pretty big this summer, all this fuel I'm burnin' through."

"Yeah, well, theirs was bigger. Biggest asshole footprint ever."

"Hey, I'm headed back—you want me to pick up dinner on my way in?"

There was a pause as she held the phone against her shoulder and called something to one of her deputies, then she was back. "I'd love you forever if you picked up dinner. If I see another doughnut or bag of Fritos I might hurl. How 'bout Thai?"

"They still be open when I get in?"

"Yeah, Sweet Basil does takeout until ten. Listen, hon, I gotta go. This jackass from the fire department is givin' me enough trouble I think I could legally shoot him. You drive safe, all right?"

"I will. I'll see you at your place." Sam clicked his phone shut and tossed it onto the passenger seat. Putting his foot down as he crossed into South Dakota, he felt the Impala accelerate smooth and easy under him. Roaring past Elk Point, he put in one of his brother's Stones tapes and stuck his elbow further out the open driver's side window.

~

Take any one piece of lore and there's a pretty slim chance it's accurate, but map out every bit you can find and a picture starts to form.

This was what Sam knew of Purgatory:

1. The souls of the supernatural go there when they die on Earth.
2. The souls go there to wait until they are purified and can move on.
3. The living can help the souls in purgatory through offerings.

Put all three together and Sam could be reasonably sure of this: Dick Roman had gone to Purgatory when Dean killed him. Dean had disappeared with him and, after three months of Sam's searching, had failed to turn up anywhere Sam could get to. Dean was therefore waiting in Purgatory with all the other monsters, waiting for Sam to get him out by offering the right thing.

He was pretty certain the first three premises were sound. He'd seen Cas turn himself inside out with all the souls from Purgatory with his own two eyes. The second two came from all the oldest lore he could find—Catholicism, Judaism, even Chinese Buddhism. At one point, it had been a widely held belief that souls in Purgatory could be helped and cared for through the prayers and offerings of the living.

If the premises were sound, then the conclusions should be, too. The conclusions made sense.

It was on Sam to figure this out. And he'd do it, but the process of elimination was a little slow. Death had said that God created Purgatory to hold the souls of the beasts but Sam wasn't sure they were all meant to stay there, at least not forever.

And Dean wasn't a beast or dead, so. Piece of cake.

~

Jody Mills was a tolerant lady, to say the least. When Dean and Cas had vanished, she'd let Sam bring all of his mess into her house—his panic, helplessness, anger, fear, and loneliness. She let him cover all available flat surfaces with Bobby's books and a few others he'd managed to dig up on his own. And she let him fill up her basement with shrines from every major religion and more than a few of the obscure ones—offerings of food, precious stones, possessions of the lost loved one, blood, and bone.

She let him in and helped him track down the splintering Leviathan network, even went out on a few hunts with him. "I love a good borax-burn-and-beheading," she said.

She was certainly tolerant, but Sam thought she was probably lonely, too, like him. With both her husband and her child dead for just over two years, and then with Bobby gone, she was stuck in that same miserable boat right there with Sam. Jody, at least, had her job and the community that came with it. Sam had... Jody.

Independent as he'd been growing up – always wanting something for himself, running away to Flagstaff and eventually to Stanford just so he could get it – Sam didn't actually do too well on his own. Soon as Dean and Dad were well and truly out of his life, he'd met Jess, and within a few months of them dating, they'd moved in together. He had his own life, sure, but without someone to share it with, to connect him to the world, he felt at loose ends. 'Home' had always meant his father and brother. In retrospect, he'd been trying to replicate that with Jess.

Ruby had betrayed him, but before that she'd saved him. The two were worlds apart, but Sam himself hadn't changed. Without Dean, Sam had needed Ruby just as much as he'd needed Jess.

He wasn't going to do that to Jody. He was not.

In the meantime, though, he could buy her Thai food, clean up her kitchen, and flop with her on the couch.

~

They ate in front of the TV and watched Law and Order reruns—which for some reason, no matter how many times he'd seen them, never got old. He used to do this with Jess and scoff at the inevitable twist in the last three minutes that helped the DA's office seal up the case in a neat forty-two minute package. Now, it was mostly a chance for Jody to vent about office politics and how ridiculously petty one of her deputies was.

When they'd finished their food, Jody leaned against his shoulder and closed her eyes. Adjusting his arm under her neck, he bent his wrist up so that he could get his fingers in her hair, lightly massaging her scalp.

Within about two weeks of his arrival in Sioux Falls, they'd started having sex. It happened in that inevitable kind of sad way that grieving people came together.

Tonight she turned her face into his neck and kissed the underside of his jaw, asking him if he wanted to fool around with the firm touch of her hand on his chest. Leaning across her, he hooked his free hand under her knee and pulled her sideways until she lay back against the armrest and he could kneel over her.

"Come on, big man," she said, the corner of her mouth lifting in a tired grin. Drawing him down on top of her, they both exhaled, the length and stress of the day sliding from their bodies.

He liked the feel of her under him—long narrow body with the soft stomach and wider hips of a woman who'd had a kid.

"This okay?" she asked against his mouth as she rolled her hips up into his, one leg hitched behind his knee.

"Yeah," he answered, liking how careful she was with him, liking that he'd never had to ask or tell her why.

Slow easy friction built up until Sam reached between their hips to thumb open her fly and saw that she'd dropped off to sleep, her face tilted into the cushions, breath slow and deep. Huffing a laugh, he shifted his weight to the side a bit and settled next to her, still half-sprawled across her so that they could both fit on the sofa.

Squirming a little under him, she inhaled and woke up enough to smile sleepily in his direction. "I fall asleep?"

"It's fine," he murmured. "I'll get you up before we stay out here too long."

"Thanks, Sam—sorry."

"It's fine," he said again, really not caring either way.

Murmuring something sleepy and quiet, Jody rolled onto her other side then scooted back until she was tucked against his front. Sam draped his arm across her middle and wriggled his arm under her neck until they were both comfortable against the armrest and throw pillow, but, letting out a breath that ruffled her hair, he didn't start to drift off for another hour.

Staring at the TV without seeing it, his eyes finally growing heavy, he caught the sound of footsteps on the front walk a moment before three quick loud knocks on the front door. Jolting upright, he shook Jody awake as he climbed over her and went for the Glock on the coffee table.

"There's someone at the door," he whispered. "You expecting anyone?"

Jody shook her head but reached for his gun hand. "Take it easy, big man—if they're knocking it's probably not a burglary." He shot her a look and she shrugged. "Oh, come on. It can't always be someone here to kill you, right?"

Tucking the gun into the back of his jeans, he flipped on the front light and looked sidelong through the window. Standing on the stoop was a girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, with a pack slung over one shoulder and a scowl on her face. Cracking the door, he asked, "Can I help you?"

Her scowl only deepened. "You don't recognize me, do you."

Sam reached for his gun. "Um.... " When she crossed her arms over her chest, his eyes narrowed and he hesitated, hand just brushing the grip. She was pretty in a kind of generic way—round face, blonde hair cut at her shoulders, layered like maybe she'd done it herself, shorter than average height and build and— "You look really familiar.... "

Shrugging, she looked away back down the driveway, as if she couldn't care less. "I shouldn't be surprised. I'd barely hit puberty the last time you saw me. And you were pretty out of it, as I recall. Demon blood, wasn't it? You look a bit more put together this time."

It hit him like a smack to the back of the head. "You're Jimmy Novak's kid, aren't you. Claire." She was small like both her parents, with her father's eyes and her mother's mouth. Now that her face had lost the pre-adolescent baby fat, he could see Jimmy – who would always be Cas to him – all over her.

"Sam? Who's at the door?" Behind him, Jody pushed his hand away from his gun and then pulled the door further open. When she set eyes on Claire Novak, her face instantly softened. Like Bobby, Jody Mills didn't turn away strays.

"Jody, this is Claire. She—" He looked at Claire's hard expression. "—can introduce herself."

The girl stuck out her hand and shook Jody's, polite and easy with her. Then she glared right back at Sam. "I'm here to deliver a message from Castiel. Asshole told me to find you." Looking past him, she ducked her head. "And, um, I also need a place to stay."

It'd been three months since Dean and Castiel had disappeared off the face of the earth. Sam could not get the door open fast enough.

~

They sat together bent over the kitchen table an hour after Jody had gone to bed, Claire's notebook open between Sam's elbows. Rubbing his forehead, he stared down at the words written on the page in a girl's wide, looping hand, but couldn't wrap his head around what any of it meant yet. "I would've thought it'd be in his writing—you said he was controlling you while you wrote it."

"It was in his writing," she said, pulling back her sleeve. "He wrote it on my skin." Claire said the message had come three days ago, and that looked about right, judging by the state of the scratches on her arms. There was still ink in some of them.

"Shit," he said, wincing. "Angels are a pretty brutal bunch. They tend to assume human bodies are a lot more resilient than they actually are."

Claire traced the word Purgatory on the soft skin of her forearm. "Tell me about it. I'm gonna make sure I keep this on me, for when he calls again," she said, gesturing at the notebook.

"You think he will?" Sam said, looking up sharply.

Flipping her palm up, she showed Sam two words gouged deep into the skin.

Be ready.

September

Sam pretty much stuck to her like glue after that—hanging around Jody's house, going with her to the grocery store, and out for cigarettes on the patio. Over the course of a couple weeks, he basically made himself the big brother, new friend, and guard dog she'd never had or ever really missed.

Of course, he was only doing it because he thought Castiel might pop back in between her ears to carve a Dean Winchester update into her skin. But she didn't let that sting. Claire hadn't set foot in a Friendly's in a week; she'd taken the guest room that Sam clearly wasn't sleeping in; and Jody was quite possibly the sweetest person she'd ever met.

In another few days, Claire thought she might ask if Jody needed help down at the station because she knew she needed to pull her own weight if she was going to make good on her escape from Pontiac.

And as much as the thought of Castiel hijacking her body for another broadcast from Purgatory made her healed-up palms sweat, she knew there was no reason for her to stay, nothing that she could contribute, unless he did.

He'd been absent since the first message four weeks ago and she knew Sam was getting twitchy. They were on their way to the station, having picked up lunch from the grocery story – bean salad, roast chicken, and fruit because Sam was strangely skittish around processed food – and Sam had her notebook out, flipping yet again between pages of writing. He'd added to it, digesting what she'd scribbled word-for-word from her arms into a few short lists and sentences.

"There's only four," he said. "Four fears: fear of death, fear of hunger, fear of old age, and the fear of being consumed or lost."

Claire didn't bother responding—he'd been listing them aloud for days now. And, anyway, she knew he really wanted his brother as his sounding board and that she was a poor substitute.

"It's about fear," he continued. "Fear must be what keeps you in Purgatory, what keeps you waiting."

"And what's in Purgatory?" she said, because it was part of the script now, what he expected her or Jody to say.

"Monsters are in Purgatory, and the monsters fear those things just like people do." That was the big revelation of a few nights ago. "Vamps and werewolves—they're afraid of hunger. The drive to feed pretty much defines their existence, right?" She nodded even though he wasn't looking at her. "And restless spirits fear death—they can't move on."

"What about the other two?"

He nodded as though this were a new problem, the first she'd brought it up. "That gets a little trickier, but I think I've got it figured out. "There are monsters that feed on youth specifically—Shtriga, Rawheads, the bogeymen in kids' closets. They do it to preserve themselves. And witches are the same, depending on whether or not they've made deals with demons. If they sold themselves to a demon, they go to Hell." Sam seemed to be very certain of that.

"And the last one – the fear of being consumed or lost – that has to be the Leviathan, the oldest beasts in creation. I mean, think about it." He nudged her with his elbow and Claire looked up at him, found him still staring intently at the notebook.

"Yeah?"

"The chompers eat each other when they're no longer useful. They can be forced to eat themselves. That's the only way to really kill one, I think—aside from the bone we shoved in Dick."

Claire snorted a laugh and Sam finally looked at her, grinning at his own joke.

"So if it's fear keeping the souls in Purgatory, facing that fear is what gets them out?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, it has to be. Right? Why else would Cas want me to know that?"

"But if Cas knows that, then your brother probably does, too, so why hasn't he just manned up and faced them already?"

Shrugging, Sam frowned. "I don't know. Dean's... he's the bravest person I know. I didn't think he was afraid of anything except maybe...."

Claire waited but Sam had gone somewhere else, disappeared inside his head. He did that a lot. Finally, because they were standing in the sun and it was lunchtime and she was hungry, she shoved him lightly with her elbow. "'Except maybe' what?" They were headed off script, now.

He sucked in a quiet breath, though his eyes stayed dark and distant. "Except maybe letting me down, not looking out for me. I mean, he... when we were kids, he took care of me. Dad put him on that job and he never... never gave it up." Sam looked at Claire then and she thought she could see an entire history opening wide inside him. "Dean doesn't—he's not afraid of dying because he's already done it a couple times. And he's not afraid of going hungry because he did that a couple times, too. He's been an adult ever since I can remember, so he doesn't fear getting old. But—"

"You think he's afraid of losing you, of losing part of himself."

Conflicted, complicated emotion cut grooves in Sam's face, putting lines around his mouth and between his eyebrows. For the first time, Claire felt like they were finally talking to each other.

"Yeah, but—he's already done that, too, more than once."

"What do you mean?"

"Dean knew when to let me go. He didn't want to, and I know now that it took a chunk out of him, but he did it. He knew when he had to give up."

Claire thought about watching her mother's body walk away from her with something evil inside it, thought about the poisonous words her mother's mouth had spewed from across the line of salt Claire had managed to put between them. She thought about watching her father walk away, too, with something different but just as terrifying riding him. She wondered what parts of herself were missing as a result.

"Just because he faced the fear of losing you doesn't mean he got over it—doesn't mean that he's not still afraid."

Sam nodded, seemed to recognize that they understood each other on this. "So if—" He cleared his throat, voice rough. "If Dean's already faced down the four kinds of fear that keep a soul in Purgatory, why hasn't he moved on? I mean, we can assume he hasn't, right? Or else Cas wouldn't have contacted you."

Claire shrugged and nudged Sam into motion again, urging him on toward the station. "Maybe souls can't get themselves out of Purgatory. I mean, if it was that easy then—"

"They need the living," Sam interrupted, stopping dead in his tracks after only a few steps. "Like in all the old lore. They need the help of the living." He exhaled a short laugh. "No one ever really disappears—people just stop looking for them."

"What?"

"Dean's held up his end; I have to get him the rest of the way." Sam's whole face changed when he smiled, and Claire about jumped out of her skin when one of his big hands gripped her shoulder and gave her a shake. "I got it now," he said, grinning, eyes lit up. "I'm the only one who can save him. All those things he did? Facing death and hunger and not getting to be a kid and letting me go? He did them for me, to save me. I know what he's sacrificed; I know what he's lost, so I'm the one who can bring him out."

"Yeah, but how? You still don't know how. You've been trying for months."

"Yeah, no, I don't know," Sam said, shrugging. His big shoulders already looked straighter, as though a weight had fallen off them. Keeping his hand on her arm, he looked her in the eye. "But Cas told you to be ready, didn't he? He's going to contact you again, I know he is. And when he does, you have to tell him to tell all this to Dean. Tell him, I'm going to save him because he spent his whole life saving me. You have to tell him that."

"I—I will," Claire said. "But, Sam, I don't know if—"

And just like that, as though he'd been waiting for this moment, Castiel was back in her mind. She could almost hear the rustle of feathers and his unsteady breath. He felt uneasy, maybe even panicked, and his voice in her head was tight and tense.

'Did you find Sam?' he asked without preamble. 'Claire, did you find him?'

'Yeah, I found him.' And even though she'd been waiting for him to come back, Claire was instantly irritated at his abruptness. 'I made the trip okay, too, thanks for asking. It wasn't hard or anything, showing up in a strange town, looking for a stranger, hoping they wouldn't turn me over to the cops for hanging out on their doorstep in the middle of the night.'

'I'm relieved to hear it wasn't difficult for you. You father always considered you a resourceful child.'

'Does sarcasm not translate telepathically or are you just dense?'

'I'm pressed for time, actually. Tell Sam he has to be ready by the new moon, that the offering has to be made on flesh, in blood. It has to be his blood.'

'Gross—does it have to be his flesh?'

'No, but the offering is from skin to skin.'

'I don't know what that means.'

'Don't worry; I'm explaining it now. Tell Sam that Dean says hurry. Tell him Dean says keep his chin up. And hurry.'

'Oh—Sam wanted you to tell Dean that—'

'I can't—I'm sorry, I have to—'

"No, wait!"

But he was gone, her voice echoing in the space he'd left. Opening her eyes, she found herself sitting on a bus stop bench with Sam at her feet, hands hovering above her knees as though he wasn't sure whether it was safe to touch her. His eyes were wide and hopeful and scared as he looked up at her. Then they darted down to her hands and Claire found the notebook in her lap.

Exhaling her relief that Castiel hadn't scrawled his message into her skin again, she looked over the pages, filled with more cramped writing. Like before, there was a lot of repetition, as if he couldn't quite control her hands. Or maybe it was just for emphasis, though more information rather than repeated information would have been helpful.

"Here, take a look," she finally said, shifting over on the bench to make room for Sam.

He moved fast for someone so long, unfolding from the pavement and sinking down beside her. Wordlessly she passed the notebook over to him, though he held it close enough that she could still see. Some of the writing was in a language that she'd never seen before—in an alphabet she'd never seen before. The rest looked like instructions for working some kind of magic.

At midnight of the new moon.
From skin to skin, connected by blood.
One for each of the four.
Only one at a time for each moon.
All at once and it won't work.
Make your offering in writing.
Evidence to appease the souls in purgatory.
Make the last one first. It's the most pressing.
Protect your brother. Get us out.

That was the gist of it, anyway.

"It looks like a spell," Sam finally said. "And I'm guessing that's the incantation." Pointing at the strange language, he huffed a bewildered laugh. "Good thing I don't have to try and say it aloud. I should be able to copy it down well enough." He looked back to Claire. "Did he say anything? Did Cas saying anything else to you? Anything about Dean?"

"Yeah, he said to tell you that Dean wants you to keep your chin up, and to hurry." Sam's smile twisted into something painful. "Castiel seemed edgy, worried."

Sam's eyebrows lifted but then he only nodded. "They're being hunted by all the souls down there. They probably don't have much time to rest." Abruptly, his eyes widened. "'Hurry,'" he said under his breath. "'Hurry.'" Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he scrolled to a lunar calendar. "Shit, the new moon's tonight. I have to figure this out tonight. I have to go—"

He made to stand up, but Claire grabbed his wrist. "Wait—Castiel said he'd explain it, but he didn't. It doesn't have to be your skin, just your blood. Don't do anything crazy, Sam."

But he was barely listening, pulling away from her, leaving her alone with the lunch they were supposed to eat with Jody. She watched him walk away, notebook in hand, and sighed. Well, more for her; she was starving after that.

~

Sam paced Jody's cramped and musty basement, going over what Castiel had written in Claire's notebook for what had to be the thirtieth time. 'Make the last one first; it's the most pressing.' That had to mean the last fear, the fear of being consumed. He had to show that Dean wasn't afraid; he had to 'appease the souls in purgatory.'

It was eleven at night; he was out of time. This was either going to work or it wasn't.

Sam didn't know a lot about blood magic, other than it was old – probably the oldest – and that it was heavy. But if there was anyone who could drag Dean out of Purgatory, it was Sam, and if there was any likely way for it to happen, it was through their shared blood.

So, palms sweating, Sam sat himself down at the small workstation he'd put together and picked up his knife. Dragging the blade across his forearm, he sucked in a hissed breath at the sharp ache of sliced tissue. Blood beaded out and ran down his arm into an emptied-out bowl from one of the many shrines he'd built that had done exactly nothing to bring his brother back. Squeezing his hand down his arm, he worked as much blood out as would come before the slice clotted and started to close. Then, picking up the quill he'd managed to find at the Sioux Falls art supply store, he dipped it into his own blood and laid his unblemished arm out on the desk. There'd been no time to look for parchment or vellum, and anyway, Sam wasn't convinced anything other than his own flesh would work for the spell. So he pressed the quill to his skin and started to write.

The day I told you about California and college, I knew you were hurt and pissed, but I didn't know what it meant for you to put me on that bus and let me go.

It was violent and selfish and necessary; I had to do it. I had to go. And you knew that, so you let it happen.

I think that letting me go away to school was like excising part of your rib cage or half the bones in your hand. But it was what I needed, so you sucked it up and barely even called me for almost four years. I should have thanked you for knowing me so well and apologized for not knowing you well enough, but I never did.

…

I jumped in the hole with Lucifer because I couldn't see a way to live in the world with what I'd done. And I don't think you could either. I'm pretty sure you hated me for a while—hated what I'd done, the fact that I did it even though you tried to warn me. You hated that I believed I was doing the right thing, and that maybe it meant we were just—really different, even though we started out almost the same person.

But I only ever wanted to be like you, Dean. To be brave like you. I only ever wanted to do right. And you let me do that when I said 'yes' to Lucifer. That was when you said goodbye for good. You kept going even though you left a lot behind, with me.

Sam sat back in his chair and held his arm out so that the writing wouldn't smear. He was shaking a little, sweaty and nervous, self-conscious. He hadn't written anything that personal since high school, when it had felt good to unload his fucked up life on paper.

He liked thinking about his brother, how good he was, how brave. Sam liked the feeling of thinking good things about Dean.

Checking the clock, he saw that it was ten to midnight so he set to work copying the spell onto a clean patch of skin. He'd practiced a few times with pen and paper, so he didn't have trouble duplicating the strange alphabet.

He finished three minutes before midnight and stared at his arm, totally unsure what, if anything, was about to happen. How would he know if it had even worked?

Then, when his cell clock ticked over to the next day, the writing started to itch and burn on his skin. As he watched, his blood glowed rusty orange and sank right through his flesh. Hissing, he squeezed the arm with the cut to distract himself until the words finally disappeared, leaving his skin perfectly clean and unmarked.

Letting out a breath, he flexed his fist and ran fingers over the smooth skin. "I think it worked," he said aloud. Looking around the basement at the useless shrines and the power tools lining the wall behind them, Sam missed his brother so fiercely that it was almost a tangible thing, an absence and a shadow where Dean should have been.

Exhausted, he climbed the stairs and went looking for Jody and Claire. He found them flopped on the couch, Claire's feet on a pillow in Jody's lap—both of them sound asleep, Jody with her mouth open. "I see I've been replaced," he murmured.

Totally fine with that, he shuffled down the hall to bed. Even if it was going to take three more months, his brother was on his way home.

On to Part II

SD Minibang: God Save the Human Cannon Ball (Part III b)

2012-10-22T11:58:41Z

December 13, 2012

The moment Sam's blood sizzled into the parchment and disappeared, Claire started looking for Castiel. She pictured throwing the gates open and shouting for him, as if her voice would help him to find his way out of Purgatory.

Sam said he had no idea how they'd know if the spell worked unless his brother and Cas just happened to show up with them in Jody's basement, so she decided she'd help by making her whereabouts obvious. An angel always knew where its vessel was.

And she'd be lying if she said part of her didn't want to feel that again—that burning wild brilliance filling her skin. Sam was getting his brother back and Claire... well, she was getting the closest thing she had to family. Castiel could never be her father, but he was kind of like a long-lost older brother. He would always love her in that odd way angels did—and he would always be a little clueless.

The fact that her real father had chosen to die for her and for Castiel made them both Jimmy's children. In a way. Castiel had learned much of what he knew about love and sacrifice from her father, and that made her proud.

Maybe ten minutes after Sam had worked the spell and was starting to look a little desperate, Claire called out again in her mind, imagined cupping her hands around her mouth and shouting.

And this time, she got an answer.

"Cover your eyes," she gasped aloud, and both Sam and Jody jumped. "He says to cover your eyes."

We're coming, boomed inside her skull a hundred times louder than when Castiel was trapped in purgatory.

It's about time, she replied.

~

Sam didn't quite cover his eyes, couldn't bear to miss a single second of what was about to happen. It'd taken him four months to work the spell Cas had given him; he wasn't about to turn away from the result.

So he saw Castiel blaze back into Claire, lighting her up from the inside, and, yeah, he suffered a slightly panicked moment of temporary blindness, but when he blinked again his brother was there, just across from him, like he'd never left.

Dean looked a little worse for wear—his clothes worn and dark with dirt, jaw covered in a thick beard, and his face visibly more gaunt underneath. But he was solid as always on his feet and glaring to cover up how surprised he was.

Dean was also looking everywhere but at Sam, eyes darting around the basement, landing only briefly on Jody, then the workbench with the parchment and the bowl of Sam's now-congealed blood. He might have cast a sidelong look at Sam, but Sam still had a few lens flares in his eyes so he couldn't be sure. When Dean turned to Cas and put his hand on Claire's shoulder, Sam felt it in his chest, like he'd been pierced somewhere and all his air was leaking out.

Dean wouldn't even look at him

"Did you ask first?" Dean demanded with that easy scolding tone of an older sibling.

Sam met Jody's eyes over Claire's head and she looked between him and his brother, confused. Sam chewed the inside of his lip and shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from grabbing for Dean.

"Of course I asked," Castiel answered in Claire's voice. It was deeper, smoother, not the voice of an 18-year-old girl, even though it was. Cas cleared his throat. "She's started smoking since I was last here."

"She's been through a lot," Jody snapped. "And you better not hurt her or I'll figure out a way to exorcise an angel, I swear to—whoever's still running this planet."

Castiel smiled in a way that Claire never had. It was small and private and turned inward, and Sam felt like it was actually for Claire. "I wouldn't hurt her. She said 'yes' so that I could say goodbye to you. My old vessel—did not make the trip back. And I'm returning to Heaven as soon as I...."

Sam watched Dean scrub his hand over his mouth—a gesture that was so familiar Sam had found himself doing it in his brother's absence. "Yeah, okay," Dean began, "don't make this any longer than it needs to be." Then he put his hand on the back of Claire's neck and kissed the crown of her head, patted her shoulder and said, "See ya, Cas."

Sam's throat seemed to be stuck around some immovable force so that when Claire stepped up to him and stuck out her hand, he could only take it and mutely nod.

"Thank you, Sam," Cas said. "Thank you for saving your brother so that I could hitch a ride."

Helpless to stop it, Sam's eyes lifted quickly to his brother and found him looking at the floor, rubbing the back of his neck. Somehow managing to clear his throat, Sam nodded. "Yeah. Thank you for telling me how."

Claire nodded, a very crisp, very Castiel-like nod. Maybe Purgatory had been good for settling the crazy Cas had taken with him. He seemed a lot less scattered than a few months ago.

With one more glance at Dean, Cas warned, "Cover your eyes."

And this time, Sam did, feeling light and heat flare against his skin before vanishing.

When it had gone, Sam lowered his hand to see Claire's knees wobble, but before she could fall, Jody caught her and held her up. "You all right, sweetheart?" she asked and Claire nodded.

Opening her eyes, they were dazed and calm, quiet. She smiled that same private smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. He was just—he was telling me about my father's Heaven." Her smile widened. "I invited him back for Christmas." Finally, she looked first at Dean, then Sam. "You smell like shit," she said to Dean, wrinkling her nose. "Really—like animal shit."

Lifting his sleeve, Dean took a tentative sniff. "Yeah, well, do monsters poop in the woods?" At Claire's blank look, Dean offered a tired grin. "The answer's 'yes.' They do, actually. And smearing it on me kept them off my scent, so." He puffed up his chest a little. "This stench? Is the mark of a great hunter."

Sam had the feeling that the shit-crusted coat was in fact the only thing holding his brother together.

Claire nodded, obviously humoring him, and Jody cleared her throat. "You do still want to shower, though, right? Oh, mighty hunter?"

Dean's eyes cut to his for the first time and something inside Sam loosened. He reached for Dean just as his brother sagged, an exhausted "God, yes," slipping out of him as he let Sam lead the way upstairs.

~

Dean wouldn't let him sit on the closed toilet lid while he shaved and showered, so Sam waited out in the living room with Jody's blowup mattress and some infomercial for knives on the TV. They'd still hardly said a word to each other and, as the minutes ticked by and Dean didn't come out, Sam considered busting in anyway, if for no other reason than to make sure he hadn’t somehow disappeared again.

But finally he heard the door open down the hall and felt the cloud of steam as it rolled out with his brother. When Dean stepped into the living room, clean-shaven and dressed in the t-shirt and sweats Sam had handed him, Sam stood up from the couch but got no further. He could only really stare as his brother shuffled toward him, still baffled by the fact of Dean after so many months of absence.

Over the t-shirt, Dean had on one of Sam's unzipped hoodies, and the sleeves were long enough that they almost covered his hands, hiding most of his torso in shapeless bulk. It wasn't even chilly in Jody's house.

Looking out of place and decidedly uncomfortable, Dean lowered himself to the air mattress, knees popping, exhaling a grunt.

"You, uh, you need anything?" Sam asked.

"Nah, I'm good. Thanks."

"You feelin' all right?"

"Yeah, Sammy."

"You wanna.... Are you ever gonna talk to me again, or is—is this what we're doing from here on out? I gotta say, I'd really rather not. I don't—I can't do the secretive bury-your-problems-behind-a-good-game-face thing because I haven't had one of those in a while. And I really don't wanna have to dredge one up to make this work, so—"

"It's okay, Sam," Dean rumbled, holding a hand out to stop him talking. "Sorry, there's just—there's something I need to tell you about that spell you worked and I don't want you to flip out, so I'm. I'm just tryin' to get my head straight is all."

Dropping down onto the couch, Sam almost brained Dean with his knee. "Shit, did it not work right? Did I do part of it wrong? Jesus, why didn't you say something when you got back?" Sam looked him over with a panicky feeling in his gut. Nothing seemed wrong but the sweatshirt was so baggy he couldn't really tell.

Dean huffed a laugh and rubbed his hand over his mouth again. "No, it's—I'm all here, if that's what you're worried about. Nothin' left behind except Cas' old vessel—and there was no saving that." He shivered at some unpleasant memory and looked up at Sam. "But that spell, it—well, it left a mark."

With a sick sense of dread, Sam watched his brother pull up the sleeve of his left arm to reveal lines of writing tattooed right into his skin. Leaning across the couch, Sam turned on the lamp to get a better look. The ink was the color of rust, of dried blood. "Oh my God," he said, taking hold of Dean's wrist and turning it so he could see the words on the pale underside of his forearm.

They were the very words he'd written in his own blood. Sam flushed so hot he couldn't even look at his brother. "Dean—I'm sorry, I didn't know. I didn't know you'd see that."

"How could you?" Dean said, voice soothing and low. "Wasn't like I could talk to you. And it worked, what you did, so you got no reason to be sorry. These saved my life, Sam."

Nodding, he dazedly ran his fingers over the words. The letters were raised a bit but still smooth to the touch, an exact copy of his handwriting. "This was the first one. I wrote it in this same spot on myself. Did it hurt?" Finally he glanced up, meeting Dean's eyes. They were dark in the dim light, dark and hard to read.

He shrugged. "I'm not even sure I know what constitutes pain anymore, but it burned like a tattoo, only more."

"Cas said to do the rest on parchment, so did they not—do this?"

Dean hesitated. "The parchment was neater, but...."

"There's more," Sam said, heart sinking.

"Yeah, there's more."

"Can I, uh. Can I see 'em?"

Nodding without hesitation, Dean shrugged out of Sam's hoodie. "Didn't know how I was gonna keep'em hidden so I thought it'd be better if I just...."

"Yeah."

There were no more visible tattoos on Dean's arms, but when he grabbed the collar of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head, Sam inhaled sharply at the writing that crawled up Dean's stomach. Squinting, Sam's hand hovered over Dean's ribs. His eye caught on the word 'hunger' and he read a few lines about the time Dean stole a car and stole dinner for Sam even though he went hungry.

Eyes lifting to Dean's chest, he found writing over Dean's heart, circling neatly around the anti-possession charm. He traced the words that described Dean's secret collection of their mother's cassette tapes, and the night he'd given up a memory of his own short childhood to make Sam happy.

"So when these showed up, what happened?" he asked, keeping his voice low. When he smudged his thumb over a few of the words, Dean leaned into him a little, like he'd been starved for touch these last six months. And really, it'd been years since Sam had been this close to him. Hell, betrayal, distrust, and insanity had kept them at least at arm's distance. That all seemed stupid, now, after half a year of absence.

Dean ran a hand over the writing on his belly. "Well, uh, it burned like a bitch, but then, when Dick Roman, minus the man-suit, called me up for some payback, his teeth went right through me. None of the Leviathan could hurt me. That was the first one, this one," he said, wrapping his hand around his wrist.

"And the Leviathan fear being eaten themselves. It's the only thing they fear. So what I wrote about you, about you not being afraid—it protected you."

Dean nodded. "Then the next was for the hungry ones—the vamps, Wendigo. That one was clutch. 90% of Purgatory is hungry for Long Pig, FYI." He put his hand back across his stomach. "When this showed up, I got... it was like I'd turned into a spirit myself."

"Like you were partway out, back to this world."

"Yeah. Cas wasn't so lucky, though. Tried to keep 'em off me until you came through with the blood mojo. His vessel, uh, didn't hold up after awhile, so he eventually left it, started walkin' around in his real skin, which, you should know, isn't actually skin."

Sam nodded, still captivated by the writing scrawled all over his brother's skin. He counted three of the four offerings he'd written, but couldn't see a fourth. "Hey, shouldn't there be one more—for the restless spirits, the ones who fear death?"

"Yeah, that's, uh—" Shifting on the mattress, he half-turned to show Sam.

At the sight of Dean's back, Sam sucked in a quiet breath and knelt down with him on the mattress. Dean bounced awkwardly as Sam's knees displaced a bunch of air, but then they settled and Sam got a good look.

Dean's back was covered—from the base of his skull all the way down to the top of his ass. And the scarring was fresh, inflamed and angry. It looked clean but painful and Sam hissed in sympathy.

"Musta been one hell of a story," Dean said. "Burned like crazy goin' on—felt like I was just paper burnin' up, hot and quick. Then Cas grabbed on and I was here."

Sam gently touched his brother's shoulder, flinched back when Dean tensed. "Would some ice help? Or a wet paper towel or something?"

"Yeah, Sammy, the wet paper towel—thanks," he said as Sam managed to lever himself up from the mattress. In the kitchen, Sam tore off half the roll, enough to cover Dean's back several times over, and ran it under cold water.

"You want a beer?" he called quietly.

"Uh—no, better not. Not tonight."

Sam nodded, relieved despite his fondness for sharing a celebratory drink with his brother. Before Dean had disappeared, none of the drinking he'd been doing had been celebratory.

Returning to the living room, he knelt down and spread the paper towels down his brother's back. Dean sighed and sagged forward, putting his elbows on his knees. "Goddamn, that feels good."

"I'll go to CVS tomorrow and get some antibiotic cream—I don't think the first aid kit's gonna cover this."

"Yeah, dude, what'd you put back there, anyway? It felt like a freakin' novel."

Flushing again, Sam shrugged. "If I'd known, I wouldn't have—"

"Hey, that wasn't a shot at you or what you did for me. I can't see back there, so what'd you write? Better be somethin' good."

"Dean, it all had to be good—more than good. You spent your whole life looking after me; I had to make it count." He hesitated. "Plus, I didn't really have anything else to do while I waited for the next new moon. Remembering when we were kids, remembering what we went through together.... It felt good to think about what you'd done for me, felt good to finally do something for you for a change."

"So basically, I have Samantha Winchester's diary tattooed on my back. Awesome." Dean's words had absolutely no heat to them; he was barely even teasing.

"No, you have the kickass account of when you almost got beaten to death by Malakai Barnes, and I nearly had a heart attack trying to get to you."

He could hear Dean's grin. "Damn, that is a good one. And that Janet chick was sexy as hell, remember?"

Sam snorted and the silence that followed was heavy, thick with whatever Dean was about to say.

Finally, he took a breath, though he didn't turn around to look Sam in the eye. "So, uh, what do these say? I didn't—I didn't get the chance really to read any of 'em besides the one on my arm."

"Really? You had two months for the middle ones."

"Yeah, well they were upside down, and it's not easy to read upside down in the dark and it was always fucking dark in Purgatory. And, I tried not to make a habit of being shirtless there, either."

"What about Cas? He could have read 'em to you," Sam pushed, feeling a little punchy.

"I didn't—think it was any of his business what they said. Thought they were for me, for you and me."

Sam sagged forward, rested his forehead against the back of Dean's neck, just above where the words started. "Would you want me to read some to you?" he asked.

Dean leaned into him and they both exhaled. "Yeah, Sammy. I would."

Final note: If you haven't already, head on over to petite_madame's art post for extra goodies not included here!

SPN Fic: All the Things You See (girl!Sam/Dean), pg-13

2012-09-24T01:10:22Z

Title:All the Things You See
Author: downjune
Characters/Pairing: girl!Sam/Dean
Rating: pg-13 for a dirty word
Word count: 2700
Summary: 'Watch out for Sammy.' 'Look out for your sister while I'm gone.' 'Keep an eye on Sam.' His whole friggin' life had been one giant sight metaphor.

Notes: For curtain!fic week at hoodie_time ! Also, the third in my genderswap verse, after What Comes Is Better and That Girl with the Face. You don't need to have read them to enjoy this. :)

Edit: Fixed my dates! I'm not sure when canon is anymore, so I'm just putting it a year ahead of the present, based on how long Dean's supposed to have been in Purgatory. So, the flashbacks are supposed to be roughly set in S8 --2013. Right?

All the Things You See

Fall 2014

Dean heard the rumble of the Impala well before the tires crunched up the gravel driveway and he closed his book in anticipation. The porch rocker creaked and a few crows made a racket when they took off from the tree in the yard. Dean turned to the west, felt the weakening late September sun warm his face, and grinned at the slam of the door and the clump of Sam's boots up the steps.

"Heya, Sammy," he called, taking a step toward his sister.

"Hey, Dean," she answered, meeting him there, putting one hand on his arm and letting him go through what had become their greeting ritual. First he took her hand off him and slid his fingers between hers, felt the grit of soil and mulch. Then he worked both hands up her arms, over the rough sleeves of her coveralls. His fingers stuck on some sticky patches and he caught the harsh scent of tree sap. She'd been trimming today. He sniffed again and smelled peanut butter and honey – her new favorite sandwich – just under the tree and dirt smells. Finally, he put one hand in her hair, felt it gathered back in a short tail with ends like a paintbrush tickling his palm.

"You have a good day, breadwinner?"

She snorted a laugh – always, no matter how many time's he's said it – and pressed her lips to his forehead, nose cold against his hairline. "Good enough. Worked up quite an appetite, winning all that bread. You make me somethin' to eat?"

They walked into the house, the smell of pot-roast filling the whole first floor. "You bet. They call me king of the crock-pot round these parts," Dean said, letting a little swagger into his step. "You best recognize and respect the skill it takes to put meat and potatoes in a pot and flip the 'on' switch."

Finding his way easily around the small kitchen, Dean got down two big bowls from the cupboard and spoons from the drawer. He went still when he felt Sam come up behind him and reach around to grab a glass from the shelf.

"Oh, I respect," she said, leaning briefly against his back and tucking her chin over his shoulder. "You want a drink, my liege?"

"Yeah, what're you havin'—whiskey?"

"You know me so well, Dean."

They ate out on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, and watched Jeopardy—one of the few shows that Dean could get as much out of as Sam. And he was getting better, though he usually let Sam call out the answers because she needed to feel smart after working with her hands all day.

After dinner and cleanup, they flopped back on the couch, Sam put her head in his lap and pulled out their old bent up copy of Ender's Game to read aloud. And even though Dean had picked up Braille as easy has he'd understood an engine or an EMF reader by looking at it, he still liked the sound of Sammy's voice.

Fall 2013

'Watch out for Sammy.' 'Look out for your sister while I'm gone.' 'Keep an eye on Sam.' His whole friggin' life had been one giant sight metaphor. So long as he could see that Sam was okay, he was doing his job.

Take away Dean's eyes – literally steal them out of his skull – and just like that, the thing that defined him, his single purpose in life, was gone. Slam on the brakes, pull the plug, stick a fork in him—whatever new metaphor you wanted, Dean was done. Boom. Retired.

They went where Sam wanted, and Sam wanted quiet. She wanted big open spaces, no traffic, and winters that threatened to blow the town right off the map. So they landed in Montana, and Dean hadn't been blind so long that he couldn't picture the place they settled—a sky bluer than blue, crazy big mountains, and flowers that bloomed with only rock to grow in.

He shut himself in the house, in his room, in the pitch black of his own head, and let her come and go as she pleased. What the hell else was he supposed to do? A clean break was the best kind. It didn't matter where she went—he couldn't drive her, couldn't stay half a step in front of her, couldn't watch for sleazy guys or oncoming cars or angry spirits or even the edge of the fucking sidewalk. He couldn't follow her, couldn't even really ask about her day because he didn't know the places she went to or the people she talked to.

The job she got at a landscaping business barely paid the rent, so after good old Charlie Bradbury hooked them up with new clean identities, Dean brought in a paycheck, too—disability insurance.

He celebrated the arrival of his first check by drinking himself into the emergency room.

Fall 2014

When Sam started to doze on the couch, Dean didn't let her fall asleep. She was impossible to wake back up and turned into a cranky pouting child for the required trip to the bathroom before bed.

"Up you go, Sammich. No sleepin' on the couch."

"Mm, come on, Dean, just for a little bit. Aren't you sleepy?"

"Nah. Didn't even leave the house today. I burned maybe eight calories going from the kitchen to the porch."

"Are you goin' to bed, then?"

"I'll be up in a bit. Come on, Sam." He bounced his knees up and down under her shoulders until she finally groaned, swore at him, and pushed herself to her feet. Dean stood with her, taking her hand and leading the way up the stairs to the bathroom just off the landing. He liked that he could still drag Sam half-asleep around the house, just like when they were kids and she hadn't wanted to get off the couch to brush her teeth. He didn't even need to put a hand out to make sure they didn't run into the door frame.

"Oh, hey," she started, once she had a mouth full of toothbrush and toothpaste, "I was thinkin' a lot at work today. There's some stuff we should talk about in the morning."

At least, he was pretty sure that's what she said. "Yeah, all right," he answered a bit warily. Serious talks with Sam were not something he'd ever gotten good at, despite her near-constant need to have them. Dad had never been big on feelings, and there were periods when Sam went through similar phases – angry phases – but she always came out of them, always came back to Dean with whatever incredibly private and personal thing she was dealing with. By and large, Sam was an over-sharer.

But not tonight. Tonight, at least, she was too tired. So, after she'd kissed him goodnight – a chaste child's kiss on the cheek – Dean went back downstairs, threw on his jacket, grabbed the laptop and a beer, and headed out to the porch.

The computer had a reading program that let him use the internet and word processing. He kept the volume low and opened the hunting database he'd been building over the past year, starting a new sub-directory for monsters that specifically went after children.

In the absolute silence of the Montana wilderness, Dean listened for coyotes and grizzlies, stood guard over the house, and tried to keep saving people the only way he still could.

Winter 2013

After the hospital incident, Sam didn't talk to him for two weeks. He could feel the anger coming off her in waves. It turned to depression about halfway through the campaign, the whole house cold and dead feeling. But there was nothing he could do, no way for him to be anything other than a burden, a helpless piece of shit that couldn't protect her. The only thing he could offer was a check from the government that was entirely contingent upon the fact that he could not contribute anything else.

Sam's silence left him entirely isolated, his only company the sound of her feet and her breath when she passed close enough. The world narrowed to the sounds of an old house and the drone of the TV that he sometimes turned on just to keep his brain quiet.

The standoff ended when Sam dropped down onto the couch and slumped against his shoulder, as if the last weeks hadn't even happened.

"I'm an asshole," she said. "I shoulda known what this would be like for you, and I'm sorry I didn't give it more thought. But I was worried about keeping a roof over our heads and food on the table and I thought we could really use the extra help from the insurance. I wasn't thinking, Dean; I'm sorry. I don't know how you looked after me for so many years without losing your mind over every little thing. It's exhausting. So I'm gonna be better. I'll be better for you, I promise. But you have to promise me something, too."

She stopped, waiting for Dean to answer.

"Yeah, Sam?" he finally managed, too busy soaking in her voice and her smell and the texture of her hair against his cheek, too busy reacquainting himself with the shape of the world to remember that he was part of it.

"You have to be here for that and tell me what you need. You have to stop trying to tell me stuff with whiskey—just yell at me to pay attention. I'll pay attention, I swear."

Dean twisted on the couch and reached for her, put both his hands on her face and found her cheeks wet. It'd been since before he fell into Purgatory that he'd seen his sister and now he never would, and the tragedy of that about choked him. He felt for the length of her hair, the sharpness of her collarbone and shoulders, the roughness of her palms from working outside all day, and finally he kissed her, said, "Missed you, Sammy. Tired'a missin' you."

For Christmas that year, she got him reading software for the laptop and a whole bunch of books in Braille. At that point, he was on anti-depressants but it was the books that saved his life, finally got him out of his own head long enough to remember that everyone had a story. Everyone had their own shit to accomplish.

He read Lord of the Rings with his fingers and thought, at least he wouldn't have to take some ring to the top of Mount Doom to save all of Middle Earth. At least that kind of pressure was behind him.

For Dean's birthday, Sam put on silk underwear and slipped into his bed after he'd thought she was asleep in her own room. For his birthday, he relearned her by smell, taste, and touch. He'd always thought he knew his sister better than he knew anyone – probably even himself – but that night, he learned that the softest skin on her body was just below her ankle bone, sweat tasted sweeter on her stomach than it did at her temple, and nothing in the world smelled as good as her cunt when she was all wet and slick for him, so turned on she couldn't talk right.

He couldn't see her, but he built a new image of Sam for himself, made of different pieces—an image that he didn't have to share with anyone. He surrounded himself with her, got her all over him and made that promise she'd asked of him when things were still really bad. Dean was ready to follow through on it, now.

Fall 2014

Sometime in the middle of the night, after he'd finally gone to bed, Dean came awake to the sound of bare feet on the floorboards—Sam's feet. A moment later the bed lurched and creaked in its frame as she landed next to him. He didn't need to have seen it to know the kind of leap she'd taken from the edge of his room—the one meant to avoid any monsters waiting for her under the bed.

Which meant that she'd had a nightmare.

"Dean," she started, voice strangled and thick with fear.

"Yeah, Sammy," he answered.

She scrambled under the blankets with him and before the cold air that'd come in with her even had the chance to warm up, she wrapped herself around him, long and bony—an arm across his chest, a leg shoved between his, and her face pressed tight up against his neck. Her fingers felt along his chest, first on the outside of his shirt, then underneath. "I had a dream," she said, voice still slurred with sleep. "I dreamed Alistair had you again and that he was making you—you were pulling off your own skin and—" She stopped herself, choking, and Dean shuddered in reaction, and because he remembered.

"It's okay," he said automatically, instinctively. "It's okay; Alistair's dead, he's gone. He can't hurt me or you." But he shivered again, knowing just how vulnerable they were out here in the middle of nowhere. The doors and windows were salted, devil's traps all over the house, Enochian carved into the walls, borax within reach—and Dean still sometimes felt like their house was at the center of some cosmic bulls-eye, that it was only a matter of time until something came looking.

Sam was shaking, clutching at him with trembling fingers and pushing her forehead hard against his jaw. "Shit," she exhaled, taking a slow breath after. "Shit. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you that—are you okay?" Sounding more awake, she started to draw back from him, but he kept an arm tight around her.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Takes more'n one'a your dreams to freak me out. Though that one sounded like a doozy." He would never say it to her in a million years but keeping Sam safe from her own head was about the only way he could still look out for her, the only time he felt like he really had a purpose. This felt like it mattered. So he ignored the cold sweat that had prickled down his neck at the mention of Alistair and said, "Hey, wasn't there somethin' you wanted to talk to me about? You said before...."

Sam sniffed and nodded against his shoulder. "Yeah. Yeah, I was thinkin' at work about some stuff."

"What kinda stuff?"

"About, you know, whether it was a good idea for us to settle here, so far from everything." She touched his face, ghosted her fingers over his eyelids. He blinked around the synthetic eyeballs—white like Pamela's had been, according to Sam. "I wonder if it was right for you. There's a lot you could still be doing, now you've got a handle on...."

"Bein' blind as a bat?"

"Yeah, and you don't have access to the resources available, say, in a city. I was thinkin'... if you wanted, we could start doing some research about your options. You picked up Braille like it was nothin'; maybe you should start thinking about what you'd like to do."

Dean also sincerely enjoyed it when Sam told him he was smart.

"For starters, sleep would be nice—you sure are chatty in the middle of the night," he grumbled, trying and failing to keep a fond grin off his face.

And she must have heard it because she laughed and dug her fingers into his ribs, finding where he was ticklish like a heat-seeking missile. "You asked, jerk," she said, getting his earlobe between her teeth and nipping hard enough that he jumped. "Just think about it, all right?" she said, refusing to be distracted. "I don't wanna be that selfish kid anymore. I wanna know what you want."

I already got what I want sat right on the tip of his tongue, but he didn't say it, instead swallowed it down and mumbled, "Yeah, all right, Sammy."

Her breathing had returned to normal and she'd stopped shaking, but Dean had a feeling that bedrooms across the hall from each other weren't going to cut it tonight. She didn't show any signs of letting go, so he didn't either.

SPN Fic: That Girl With the Face (girl!Sam/Dean) pg-13

2012-09-04T15:45:55Z

Title: That Girl With the Face
Author: downjune
Characters/Pairing: Girl!Sam/Dean
Rating: pg-13
Warnings: I dunno, body image issues and alcoholism?
Word count: ~2100
Disclaimer: I wish Samantha Jean were mine. I guess she's a little closer than Sam, though.
Summary: As if being a Winchester weren't hard enough, Sam sometimes has this problem where she thinks she's hideous. Having her head shaved in the hospital didn't help. Set post-7.17

Note: This is more shamelessly indulgent genderswap wincest. I'm not sorry. Though I am sorry, quickreaver, for stealing your prompt from ohsam! I have a slight addiction to filling my own prompts. It's a thing I brought with me from Harry Potter fandom. I feel quite certain, however, that you'll write something very different from this ;)

Also, apparently I have a bit of a sleep fetish. The Winchesters sleeping is just soothing to me, I guess.

Mm, and I think my Max/Alec icon doubles nicely as a genderswap icon. It's official.

Oh, and, announcement! Rarepair fest fics are up! See if you can guess which one's mine! Now, I'm excited for the samdean_otp mini-bang summaries to go up--I hope my story gets claimed!

And finally, thank you lavishsqualorfor the v-gift! *_*

Sam had never been vain; she'd never even really considered herself pretty. Too tall, too bony, too angular, too boyish. On a job in Philadelphia, she'd told Dean that he shouldn't make a fuss about her interviewing a witness on her own in a bad part of town because men looked at her like she was a freak, not a target. Chin too prominent, shoulders too wide, feet too big.

He'd been hearing it off and on his whole life, Sam sometimes needing to explain the way she looked to Dean as if he weren't intimately familiar with every square inch of her. As if he didn't know the soft and the hard spots as well as his own. As if he needed to be apprised of the situation before he could love them. Knowing the amount of guilt and self-loathing already cluttering up Sam's brain, Dean hated that she sometimes fell prey to these insecurities, too. Being a girl was hard. Like being a Winchester wasn't bad enough.

When she'd been checked in to the hospital, stoned out of her mind and hallucinating a devil on her back, they'd shaved her head. There'd been a nasty cut on her scalp that needed stitching and her hair had been so tangled and dirty that it was deemed a lost cause.

When Dean had seen her the first time after that, he almost cried. Sam's hair had been beautiful, dark and thick and half-way down her back before scissors and a razor took it all off. In the hospital, dying of sleep deprivation, Sam looked almost skeletal, like she was maybe a few hours from just fading out of the world.

That night, when his contacts had turned up nothing and no one to help her, Dean almost drank himself into a hospital visit of his own. Even if there was nothing he could do about the Lucifer hallucinations, he'd still let Sam down. He was supposed to protect her, from her own fractured mind if that's what it took, and he'd failed.

But she was here now, put back together and whole, if a bit more brittle than before.

Three weeks after the hospital, she'd put on some weight and her hair had grown enough to mostly cover the scar behind her ear. The deep shadows under her eyes had receded and she moved easier now. Her joints weren't aching and stiff like they'd been. Still, when she stood in the bathroom and the toothbrush stalled mid-scrub, Dean noticed, looked up from the TV. Since he'd busted her out of the hospital, no music was too loud, no waitress too distractingly hot for Dean not to know what his sister was up to or not up to.

When she didn't start brushing again, Dean shoved himself off the bed and wandered casually over to the bathroom, leaned in the doorway with crossed arms.

"You awake there, Sammy? No sleeping with toothpaste in your mouth."

Blinking at him, she promptly leaned over and spit into the sink, rinsed out her mouth, and put her toothbrush back in its travel case.

"Is it time to sleep yet?" she asked, eyes focused somewhere in middle distance.

"Not really. It's only 7:30."

Nodding, she walked past him out into the motel room. "You goin' out tonight?"

Still leaning in the bathroom doorway, Dean watched her bend down by her duffel to pull out flannel pajamas and a white t-shirt. Her jeans were held up with a belt and hung looser than they should, sagging a little in the ass. Her fitted plaid shirt rode up, exposing the dimples above her hips as well as the bumps of her spine. Her short hair was almost as jarring as when Dean'd first seen it in the hospital.

"Not unless you want to," he finally answered.

"Dean, I'm not sure I'm ever gonna want to. You should go; you've hung out with me enough nights. I'm fine on my own."

"Do you want me to go?"

Glancing up at him with a very familiar pinched look, Sam started to strip. She kept her eyes on Dean as she unbuttoned her shirt and slid it off her shoulders. Then she peeled off her undershirt, exposing her small firm breasts. His eyes were drawn to her ribs and the shallow inward curve of her stomach. But he kept himself from wincing at how far she still had to go and met her eyes again.

She was daring him to say something, make some comment about how she needed to eat more, get back into a training regimen to build up some of the muscle she'd lost. But he said nothing, only watched her shrug into the loose, almost see-through t-shirt. It used to be one of his. When she let her jeans fall to the floor, he followed them down with his eyes. He'd always loved her legs, long, knock-kneed and scarred, made for running.

"Do you want me to stay?"

Pulling on the flannel pants, Sam mumbled, "I want to not feel like a freak show. Wanna feel normal again."

"Not sure that last one's in the cards, Sammy."

"Normal for us, then."

Dean cast about for inspiration, but there wasn't much to be found in their dingy damp room. "Weapons check?" he offered. "I'll take the .45; you do the 9 mm. Bet I can do a faster field strip than you."

Sam offered him a grateful smile, already drifting closer to the table. "You haven't been able to since I was sixteen—why would now be any different?"

"Those are big words."

Eyebrows raised, she made a show of placing his favorite Colt and a clean rag on the table for him, then picked up her own 9 mm. "Well, you're a big man; you can handle little old Samantha Jean, can't you?"

Dean grinned, dropping down into the waiting chair and wriggling his fingers in readiness. "Bring it, Sammich."

"On three."

They were both handicapped, so it was actually pretty close. Dean had enough whiskey in him to warm his guts and slow down his fingers, and Sam was sleeping every chance she got, making up for lost time, so she was just a little sloppy and loose around the edges. In the end, Dean got distracted watching her – the butt of the gun in her palm, the easy way she ejected the magazine, the way her long fingers pulled the slide and pried out its component parts – and finished a few seconds behind.

He was just as smitten as when she'd turned sixteen and he realized that there was something more than respect and affection making his belly warm.

Managing to beat her reassembling his gun, he grinned proudly as he shoved the magazine back in and replaced the Colt on its rag. Glancing up at her, he had to look way up as she rose and stood next to his chair. His eyes fell closed when she put fingers that smelled like gun oil in his hair and drew him into her, gently pressing his face against her stomach.

Wrapping his arm around her hip, he held on, rubbed his nose against her shirt and breathed in her soft sleepy smell.

"How fucked up is it that you make me feel normal, Dean?" she asked, voice vibrating through her belly against his ear.

Dean huffed a laugh. "No more than that fucked up is normal for us."

Sam carded her fingers through his hair and then tipped his head back. "Can you sleep with me tonight?" she asked, looking uneasy, a little flushed. "Not to... I don't want—not to fuck, okay? Just to sleep."

Dean nodded, quietly relieved. Since Cas had taken down her wall, and even after he'd fixed the worst of the consequences, Sam hadn't gone anywhere near sex with a partner other than Dean. And they'd only done it a handful of times, when adrenalin or some decent porn was enough to get her worked up.

Dean was fine with that. Whiskey kept his libido pretty soggy and he hadn't figured out a way to give that up yet, so. They were both basically celibate. It was kind of pathetic and definitely sad, but it was all they could handle so he didn't worry too much. What would be the point?

"Yeah, just as long as you don't elbow me in the throat like last time," he finally answered.

She snorted, stomach jumping. "Dude, I thought you were the devil. I already apologized for that."

"I know, Sammy," he said, pushing himself to his feet and then walking his sister backwards to the bed. In her white t-shirt and pajama bottoms, and with her short short hair, she looked like a cancer survivor.

And she was still more beautiful than any woman he'd ever taken for a tumble. Bigger tits and curvier hips always drew his eye, but Sam's body was so lived in, so familiar, that even the dry patches of skin on her elbows were attractive to him.

Because he liked to do it, and because Sam let him, he picked her up by the backs of her thighs and knelt up onto the bed. Her legs wrapped strong around his sides, and there was a time when that would have sent him through the roof, but now he only felt the sharpness of her bones and the way she clung to him like she was six, Dean carrying her to the car when Dad had them on the road in the middle of the night.

He laid her down on the bed and then dragged the blankets down so they were on the sheet rather than the sleazy bedspread. Pulling the pillow over his shoulder so his arm wouldn't fall asleep, Dean settled her against his side, elbow bent under her head so he could touch the soft down of her hair. He wasn't sure whether to tell her that he liked the way it felt on his palm. She was still so sensitive about it.

Sighing deeply, Sam relaxed against him, rolled onto her side so that she could swing her leg across his and stick her nose close by his ear. Her breathing slowed and Dean figured she'd be out like a light, but after a few moments, he felt her fingers on his chest, plucking at his flannel shirt then scraping against the stubble on his jaw.

"I used to be jealous of you, Dean," she said, breath tickling his neck. "Did you know that?"

"Mm? No. Why would you be jealous a'me?"

"You were so much cooler than me, better at hunting, better at training. Better looking." She touched his mouth, traced his lips with her fingers. "The girls went nuts for you. It drove me crazy how much they wanted you, how they looked at you and talked about you. Next to you, I was this... I was nobody. Couldn't get their attention; didn't know what to do with yours."

Dean was silent, unsure of what to say to a confession like that.

"I realized later that some girls liked the way I was, the way I looked. Knew you did. Knew I didn't need to be pretty for you. But I still—sometimes I still feel like this... horrific thing. Like after everything I've done, it all shows. Everyone can see how—"

Dean rolled on top of her, a small abortive noise getting stuck in his throat. He braced himself on his elbows and rested his forehead against hers, rubbed their noses together, and closed his eyes. "You got part of that right, Sammy. Everything about you shows. You've never been any good at hidin' it—the good or the bad. But it's never been ugly. You were never ugly."

Her cheeks were wet and Dean dried them with his thumbs. "And if it's about your hair, you could get to like it, you know? Lots of gorgeous women rock the short hair—Natalie Portman, Winona Ryder, that British girl you like with the face—"

"Carey Mulligan."

"Yeah, her."

Underneath him, her whole body twitched with laughter and he grinned when he felt her knees slip up to bracket his hips. He'd had enough to drink that, when she planted one foot on the mattress and shoved, she was able to roll them over, and when he landed the room spun. Smiling sleepily at him and sniffing a little, she settled lower on his chest and rested her head on her arms, ear over his heart.

"I'm tired, Dean," she said, words muffled by her hand.

"Yeah. You should sleep for awhile." With her draped over his chest, the remote and his beer were just out of reach, so he closed his eyes, too.

SPN Fic: What Comes Is Better; girl!Sam/Dean; 1/1

2012-08-09T20:41:55Z

Title: What Comes Is Better (than what came before)
Aurthor: downjune
Pairing: Girl!Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: genderswap wincest; frank discussion of birth control and periods; reference to underage shenanigans
Word count: 3300
Summary: Orgasms help with cramps, so. It's a no-brainer. (Filling my own prompt at ohsam like a weirdo.)

Notes: Sometimes I just need to write porn, okay? (I should make that into a bumper sticker.) I've always had a thing for wincest genderswap and a serious interest in how the brothers' relationship would be different if one was a sister. I think growing up a girl with an older brother like Dean and a dad like John would give Sam a lot of extra crap to deal with and one of those things would be her period. As finicky as Dean is about chick-flick moments and insulting Sam by calling him a girl in canon, I really like exploring how that might be different or how it might stay exactly same if Sam actually were a girl. Also, I don't think I've ever read late-series girl!Sam, so I'm giving that a go, too!

tl;dr—this is my slightly kinky exploration of how Sam and Dean handle cramps and periods because, I don't care how macho he is, Dean would have to deal with it. He's too good of a brother not to.

Set mid-S6, after Sam gets her soul back. Title from this tune, which is really good. I consider it a happy Sam/Dean song, of which there are precious few.

Okay, enjoy!

When Dean got back to the motel room, breakfast under his arm, Sam had on The Dress and was lying on the bed with her feet propped against the wall so that the faded gray fabric pooled around her hips, leaving her legs bare.

"Shit," Dean huffed, surprised. He hadn't seen The Dress in years, not since after Stanford, when Sam was growing out her hair and grieving and off the pill because they hadn't gotten it together to find a Planned Parenthood. Her body'd been all out of wack, rebelling at the stress, the crazy sleep schedule, and entire days spent in the car.

Dean figured she was probably going through something similar now, with a soul recently shoved back up under her ribs and the Great Wall closing off over a century of hellfire.

"You okay?" he asked, leaving the breakfast burritos on the table and going to stand by her bed.

Sam looked up at him, mouth pinched into a line, brow following suit. "Do I look okay? You do remember the Aunt Flo Dress, right?"

"Yeah, but I thought we agreed not to call it that."

"Aunt fucking Flo, dude. Tricky bitch."

Dean's mouth quirked into a smile and before he could think better of it, he sat down on the edge of the bed and twisted his fingers in the worn cotton hem. The material used to be heavy, soft and stretchy. It was much thinner now, after so many years, but the feel of it was the same. He knew the way it hung on Sam's long frame, hitched in just under her chest, loose and flowing to just above her knees. Or—well, that was before Sam's last growth spurt, before she broke 5'11". The dress only hit mid-thigh now, showing Sam's legs—knock-kneed and coltish even at 28.

Great legs—scarred knees, banged up shins and all.

"You take anything?"

"Yeah, Advil. Gotta get some'a the good stuff though, next time we go out. What is it?"

"Pamprin," he answered without even thinking.

She grinned up at him, gently slapped his cheek. "Yeah, that's it. You got any, Deanna?"

"Oh, fuck you," he grumbled, shoving her hand away.

Scooting her ass a little closer to the headboard and repositioning the mashed pillow under her lower back, she groaned. "I guess my uterus is getting back at me for that year I spent soulless—all those eggs just waiting to jump down the shoot but nothin' to send'em on their way."

Dean frowned. "You didn't get your period the whole time you were soulless?"

"I don't think so. I mean, I don't really remember, but there wasn't a single tampon in my bag when I went scrambling this morning. Not even a Light Days—or any good painkillers. Had to sprint across the street to the Gas'n'Sip with a wad of toilet paper between my legs."

Cringing, Dean dropped the hem of The Dress. "Awesome. I'm so glad you told me that."

Sam had the decency to look a little sheepish and reached for Dean's hand in apology. "It's weird though, right? If I didn't get it that year? Like, maybe there really is something mystical about the whole baby-making thing. Can't put a bun in the oven when there's no—bun in my other oven, or whatever."

Dean laughed. "How is your 'other oven' by the way? Feelin' okay? Feelin' like you?"

Nodding, Sam looked away. "Nothin' in here but Sammy, minus a century or two." Shifting her hips on the bed, she dragged Dean's hand over to rest lightly on her lower abdomen.

"Good," he answered, looking down at their joined hands, her skinny light brown fingers and his wide square ones a few shades lighter. She moved his hand back and forth in a gentle massage and when his pinky brushed the bump of her pubic bone, he felt a familiar tug low in his belly, an old feeling of want that hadn't surfaced in something like two years—not since before Sam had thrown herself into Hell to save him, even before the apocalypse had really started breathing down their necks.

Maybe it was The Dress and all the history it brought back—holding her hand when they went to Planned Parenthood the first time to get her cheap birth control for the cramps and nausea, lying through their teeth about her age so they didn't have to drag Dad in, answering, yes, he was her boyfriend because that was just easier. Or maybe it was the firm muscle and jut of her hip bones under his hand, but Dean thought it was mostly that his Sam was back. No Yellow Eyes fucking with her, no demon blood, no angels trying to shove an apocalypse down her throat—it was just Sam. They were Sam and Dean again.

He cleared his throat. "You, uh, if you want me too... I could...."

He met Sam's eyes and she hesitated, searched his face like she almost didn't believe he was serious, that he would actually want to. "You'd do that?"

He was blushing now, he could feel it, but he nodded, moving his hand a little lower to the bony crest of her pelvis. "Yeah, I would. You know I would, Sammy." The fabric of the dress bunched around his hand, and he could see her underwear, plain cotton with blue and white stripes. They were old and stretched out, too. She hated the feel of even an elastic waistband when the cramps were really bad— hence the arrival of The Dress when she was fifteen and on a Goodwill run.

Licking her lips, she nodded back, mussing her hair where it spread on the sheets. "Get a towel? We gotta sleep here again tonight."

"Yeah," Dean said, pushing himself to his feet. Behind him, he heard Sam shuffling around, recognized the sound of tissues being pulled from the box, and remembered the days when he felt like his life had revolved around cramps and tampons and stained underwear in the laundry pile and Sam's unflinching willingness to give him every bloody detail.

Grabbing a bath towel off the rack, he returned to the bed to find Sam on her back again, feet toward the headboard, tugging her underwear down her long legs. Planting her feet on the mattress, she canted her hips up so he could spread the towel underneath her.

"Leave the dress on," he said, looking up in time to see her nod.

"You like the Aunt Flo Dress, Dean?" she asked, still a brat even though her breath was coming a little faster, and her knees fell open like she could barely wait for him.

"Yeah, I really do, actually," he said, kneeling up in front of her and running his hands up the backs of her legs. "Haven't shaved in a while, I see," he said with a grin. It'd been about two weeks if he had to guess.

"Fuck off," she groaned, rolling her head and rubbing the heel of her hand in her eye. "You start shaving your legs every other fucking day and I will, too."

Dean let his hands dip further down her thighs, to the neat thatch of dark hair between her legs. "Liked it when you stopped," he confessed, kissing the inside of her knee. "When we got back on the road looking for Dad and you were all butch."

"Mmm," she said, pushing her hips up a little against his hand. "Jess liked it. Would you—would you hurry it up, Dean?" Her voice rose in a whine and Dean chuckled, moved his fingers right to where she was slick and hot. Slipping two fingers into her was quick and easy, and she arched, moaning. "Ungh, god, yes."

Grinning, he slid them back out and in, slow and even the way he remembered she liked when the cramps were hurting. It'd been so long, but he remembered this like he remembered everything about Sam. Even the smell and taste came back when he closed his eyes—sharp and rusty with the soursweet tang that was Sammy. "You were so fuckin' sexy in your dress and combat boots. Always were, Sammy—high school and after." Circling his thumb on her clit, he gently massaged her insides and licked a kiss into her thigh while she gasped and groaned. "Never wanted to say anything 'cause you only wore it when you felt like shit, but I liked it."

She sucked in a slow breath, rolling her hips in time with the motion of his hand. "Wish you had—felt like such a gangly freak in high school."

"Nah," he said against her skin. "Friggin' gorgeous."

He watched her smile up at the ceiling and felt a lot of the ugliness he'd been holding onto over the last year crack and break up in his chest.

Looking down at his fingers, he found them staining red and brown, slick down to the first knuckle. The sight was just as hot, just as intimate and private as when they'd first done this, scared and ecstatic in their bedroom with Dad passed out across the hall. Dean remembered wanting to have Sammy all over him then, her spit and sweat and blood, and groaned deep in his throat, pressed his other palm against the hard curve of his dick still stuck in his jeans.

He'd lost her for so long – to Ruby, to fucking Lucifer himself – he couldn't even remember now why they'd waited to come back to this.

Tipping forward at the waist, he leaned down and kissed her, exhaling a soft sound when she wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and shoved her tongue in his mouth. He grinned and sucked in a quick breath when he felt her internal muscles grip his fingers and start to pulse with her orgasm.

She moaned unsteadily into his mouth, fingers clutched painfully in his hair, as she shook and twitched through it, hips rolling up and juddering away from his fingers.

"Yeah, baby," he whispered, pressing his lips to her forehead and temple. "That feel good? Take the edge off?"

Nodding, she went boneless underneath him and closed her eyes. Dean watched her, twisted a lock of her hair around his fingers. There was so much of it now—she hadn't cut it since Jess died and it spread long and thick across the sheets, shiny brown with some red, too. He'd always been a sucker for long hair and he bet he could wrap Sam's around his fist more than once.

"Wanna go again?" he asked, smirking because he knew the answer.

"Hell, yes," she said, cracking an eye open and gently putting her long slim foot right against his dick. "Get your pants off."

"Yes, ma'am." Bending down to kiss her one more time, he pressed his forehead to hers and stayed there for a second. They shared a few breaths until Sam finally nosed along his jaw and bit his earlobe.

"Pants off, Dean," she said. "Unless you're wussing out."

Huffing in mock offense, Dean backed up off the bed and peeled out of his flannel shirt. "Sammy, you do not want to issue that kind of challenge."

Stretching her arms above her head, she gave him a sly grin. "And why don't I want to be doing that?"

Tugging his t-shirt over his head and then unbuckling his belt, Dean said, "A woman in you condition shouldn't—"

A sound came out of his sister that was a strange combination of a laugh and a squawk and she reached for his knee, tugging hard enough on his pant leg that the joint buckled and he almost lost his balance. Shucking his jeans and underwear before he toppled over, he got caught on his socks and boots and had to sit down anyway to take them the rest of the way off. No sooner had his bare ass touched the bed than Sam sank her teeth into the soft skin just over his hip and sucked hard enough to raise a bruise.

When he finally got his boots off and crawled back on top of her, she looked about ready to eat him alive. There was blood smeared on the insides of her thighs and she'd hiked the dress up to her waist to keep it from getting stained. Her nipples were hard and he realized she wasn't wearing a bra, her tits small and clearly outlined under the dress. Leaning down, he bit gently at her right nipple through the fabric and got his arms under her shoulders. When she arched up into him, he pulled her into his lap so that she sat with her knees straddling his hips.

Then, without preamble, she grabbed his dick and was about to sink down onto it before he grabbed her by the waist and held her off him. "Shit, you got any condoms?" he asked, the tip of his prick just touching her.

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Seriously? My uterus is shedding all possibilities of pregnancy right now. Look at it; it's everywhere."

"Samantha Jean Winchester, I know I taught you better than that."

Rolling her eyes, she wriggled out of his grip and off the bed, letting the dress swirl around her thighs. "Condoms, I do have," she said as she knelt down by her duffel. "Soulless me was gettin' some, apparently."

Standing by the bed again, she held the condom packet between her first two fingers and offered it to Dean. Then she watched him open it with his teeth and roll the rubber down over his dick. "But the great Dean Winchester doesn't have a single one? Not even in his wallet?"

He didn't offer more than a shrug in answer.

"There hasn't been anyone since Lisa?" she asked, voice quiet and serious, now.

Shaking his head, he finally looked up at her, palmed her hip in his big hand. "I don't really wanna talk about it," he said. "I wanna make you feel good." Get you all over me, like before, he didn't say.

Tugging her down on top of him again, he let his head fall forward against her collarbone as she sank down onto him, wet and slick as could be. She groaned, a warm deep vibration in her chest that went straight through Dean and settled in his spine. Circling his arms tight around her waist, he bounced her in his lap and then slowed down when she inhaled a hiss. "Easy, tiger," she murmured. "A woman in my condition."

"Sorry, sorry," Dean said, gently rubbing his nose against the fabric of the dress. He worked his way over to the crease of her armpit and was almost disappointed to smell soap and deodorant instead of Sam. There had been entire summers when the only times they bathed were at state park pools and in the border waters of northern Minnesota when Dad ditched them at a friend's hunting cabin, and right then, Dean wanted that smell in his nose—unwashed sweaty girl with lake-water hair and sunburned shoulders.

But he hadn't had that girl in his arms in about ten years so wishing for it now was pointless. He couldn't give any of that back to Sammy, and she probably didn't want it, anyway. She might regret her mistakes but she wasn't looking to turn back time. Sam had always rushed into her future, usually without watching where she stepped.

Huffing his surprise when she shoved him down onto his back, Dean refocused in a hurry, then had to spit hair out of his mouth as all of it suddenly fell past her shoulders and into his face. "You with me, Dean?" she asked, and he pressed his fingers into her hip in answer.

"Yeah," he said, gathering her hair in his free hand and smoothing it down her back

"Are you thinking about Lisa?" And there was definitely something besides curiosity worked into that question.

"No, though I probably should be," he answered honestly. "Mostly m'thinkin' about you those summers in Minnesota, swimmin' in your underwear and training bra and beatin' my ass at laps even though you had the skinniest arms I'd ever seen on a girl." He looked at her shoulders, traced the lines and curves of muscle. "Not anymore, though."

She hmm'd quietly and started to work her hips forward and back, then slowly up and down. "I was built for stamina; you were built for speed—except right now, apparently. How about we reminisce after we get off? Would that work for you?"

"Such a bitch," Dean laughed, then arched his neck on the pillow when she squeezed every inch of him with her internal muscles.

"You like that?" she asked, a little breathless.

He nodded, not quite able to answer.

"Love the way you feel in me, Dean," she said, shifting her weight so that she could get her hand between them and touch herself while she rode him. Looking down, he watched her do it, watched himself slide in and out of her. The condom was streaked with red and he could see his pubes were wet and sticky with it, his thighs, too. It'd never been gross to him, not once, not even the first time. This was just something he could know about Sammy, something he could do for her, with her, that no one else did. Not even Jess.

And he'd never gone there with Lisa. If he was honest, he'd never gone much of anywhere with Lisa—which was way more his fault than hers.

He pushed up into her with slow strokes of his hips and she gasped, holding herself up high enough that he was just barely inside her, the head of his dick working right at the surface where she was the most sensitive.

Her face – eyes closed, mouth open and gasping in quick sweet hitches – was enough to send him careening dangerously close to the edge. "Sammy, I—"

"Wait for me," she said. "Wait just—you feel—"

Her voice broke then, cracked open as she fell forward and breathed against his mouth and came. He could feel it work through her whole body like a shivering current and he hung on as long as he could just so he could see it all. Then when the strong pulses faded to more gentle fluttering, he shoved hard up in her, once, twice and buried his face in the curtain of her hair to muffle his shout.

Knees tucked up tight against his sides, she laid her weight across his chest and pressed her face between his shoulder and his jaw. "You're the best," she slurred. "The fucking best."

Dean let his fingers drift up and down her back, bumping over her spine. His hands buzzed and tingled against the dress fabric and he rucked it up until he could get his palm on her skin.

"Thanks, Sammy," he said, brain sluggish enough that he didn't bother with anything more than gratitude.

Drawing in a slow breath, she rolled up to a seated position, dress falling back down to cover them. "I gotta pee," she said. "And I think we made a mess."

Still unable to string more than two words together, Dean only nodded.

"You wanna rinse off with me?"

With what felt like tremendous effort, he sat up with her, drawing his knees up against her back. "Yeah, all right."

Her legs still wrapped around him, he swung his own off the side of the bed and picked her up with a firm grip on her ass. She did that funny laugh/squawk again but didn't protest when he carried her into the bathroom.

HP FIC: The Boxers (Draco/Luna, Harry/Hermione) 1/1

2012-03-24T11:55:10Z

Title:The Boxers
Author: downjune
Prompt # 120. Each blade of grass has its spot on earth whence it draws its life, its strength; and so is man rooted to the land from which he draws his faith together with his life. ~ Joseph Conrad
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Draco/Luna, Harry/Hermione
Rating:R
Summary: As much as this place had hurt and frightened him in the past, he could never remove himself from it completely. Its walls were his bones.
Word Count: 4800
Disclaimer: Only for fun, not for profit. No infringement intended.

Notes: For this year's wizard_love! I thought, why just pick one of my favorite pairs when I could write both!

The Boxers

"You have to trust your memory, and the way you felt about the place." Draco pointed his wand at the blackened bit of earth and said very clearly, "Out." Then he flicked his wand up in a short sharp gesture. The scrubbing spell worked slowly, not appearing to do much until the ground suddenly released a puff of noxious stale air. Both Potter and he stepped back from it, and Draco cleared it away with a quick blast from his wand. "It has to be a place that mattered to you, that still matters."

Next to him, Potter examined the patch of earth, now just brown dirt. He looked impressed. "That's amazing." Glancing up, Potter quirked a half-smile at him. "Thanks for the lesson. Only...I'm not sure I remember this place well enough to know what it was like before."

Draco tapped his wand against his thigh in distraction and turned to look back at the Manor from where they stood in the garden. "I don't know what else to tell you, Potter. There are parts of the house I still don't go to. You can't get rid of everything."

"You haven't got rid of the cursed artifacts, I noticed."

Draco sniffed and looked down his nose. Thankfully, Potter'd never grown taller than him. "Those are different; they're family heirlooms. And Mother collects them."

Snorting a laugh, Potter scratched the back of his neck.

"They're not the same thing," Draco said again, preempting whatever stupidly law-abiding thing Potter was about to say. "Cursed artifacts are intricate, complicated pieces of history. They're artistic in a way this never was." He gestured at the bit of ground. "This was just left over after an Unforgivable. An ugly residue."

"Luna's been good for you," Potter said, smirking, "if she's got you appreciating art and beautiful things."

Draco's moderately good humor instantly evaporated. "All right," he said. "I've told you what you want to know. Get out." Raising his wand, he leveled it right at Harry's throat.

Potter blinked stupidly at him until his eyebrows drew together in a frown. "I was paying you a complement, Malfoy. Get over yourself, all right?" Drawing himself up, he prepared to disapparate. "Tell Luna I said hello. Tosser."

Draco aimed a small blasting hex at Potter's feet just as he vanished. Feeling only a little guilty for that display of immaturity, he made for the outer edges of the garden. It grew wild now, overgrown and shaggy. The grass came to his knees, choking out the walkways and stone sculptures. The fountains were full of rainwater, decaying leaves, and the odd drowned worm. Draco thought it a vast improvement.

~*~

Luna wandered the grounds of Malfoy Manor and savored the feel of the wind at her back as it whipped her hair about and lifted her dress against her body. Brushing her fingers along the wild hedges, she greeted the birds that flitted about inside the branches. Luna thought the garden had never looked more beautiful.

She found Draco sprawled in the grass with his eyes closed. Unsure if he was awake, she stood back to watch him for a moment. He appeared so very at home here, so at ease, that Luna thought him even more beautiful than she usually did. His sharpness was softened by the gentle curve of his arm behind his head, his leg bent at the knee. As much as this place had hurt and frightened him in the past, he could never remove himself from it completely. Its walls were his bones.

"Is that you, Lovegood?" he asked, tipping his head back to look at her. "How long do you plan on standing there?"

"Only until you noticed me," she said, coming forward. As he sat up, she reached easily for his hair and combed it back from his forehead. "Oh, don't get up," she said. "I've come to find you, after all." Dropping down into the grass beside him, she lay back and inhaled the scent of summer. This close to the ground, it was more pungent, warm and sweet.

Settling closer, Draco pressed his shoulder to hers, and after a moment, their fingers twined together. "Have you been to see Mother yet?" he asked.

"No," she answered. "I wanted to see you first."

Any time she came to stay with him at the Manor after traveling, he insisted she see Narcissa at the very beginning of her visit. Between them the air grew heavy with expectations.

She used to hate them, expectations. People were so very good at disappointing one another, she thought it better to let them demonstrate their own worth instead of imposing her wishes upon them.

But now—well, it'd be dishonest to think that she expected nothing of Draco. Not after nearly seven years of friendship, shared adventures, and beds. He expected her to say hello to his mother when she visited, even though she was quite sure Narcissa didn't like her very much.

"Shall we go see her now?" she asked. "Is she in the potions lab?"

"In a bit," Draco replied. "She'll be up to her elbows in slug juice at this time of the afternoon."

"She's marvelous at potions, your mum. I'm sure you know that, but I would never have thought it. I'm sorry I never would have thought it. I don't like to judge people without knowing them."

"I don't blame you," Draco said. "I didn't even know until the war." He hesitated—he always did just before he shared something private with her. "But I don't think I really knew her at all when I was a boy. I didn't know how brilliant she was."

"You only knew that she loved you."

"Right," he said, and she could feel him looking at her. Also, she could feel his breath on her neck. Shifting just the slightest bit closer to him, she felt his nose brush her ear.

"I'll never know more than that about my mother. I'll never know her like you do yours."

"Well, you've got...you've got um, those audio tapes?"

She smiled at the question in his voice. "Yes, her cassettes. She had so many—I just found more. I brought them with me."

Turning, she watched him role his eyes, but he gave her one of his happier half smiles. "We'll be needing firewhiskey, then?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "It does seem to help."

*

They went to Draco's rooms by way of the lab and found Mrs. Malfoy up to her elbows in slug slime, just as Draco said.

"Mother," Draco began, hovering in the doorway, "Luna's come to stay for a bit."

He always sounded as though he were embarrassed or sorry to announce her presence. Or possibly just nervous and uncomfortable. She didn't want him to be any of those things, but neither could she make Narcissa Malfoy like her.

"Hello, Mrs. Malfoy," she said. "What are you brewing?"

Gracefully rubbing sweat from her forehead with her sleeve, she offered Luna a stiff smile. "Luna. It's nice to see you again. "I am—" She sloshed the pulverized slugs around with what looked like a potato masher. "—starting a new batch of moisturizer."

"Oh, that's interesting," Luna said, taking a step closer. "I didn't know slugs were good for the complexion."

"Yes, well, it's quite high-end, but it only works with a certain kind of white pepper and avocado, which my supplier is having difficulty locating at the moment."

"You might try Neville Longbottom," Luna offered. "He can find anything."

Narcissa nodded to her and looked down at the opened text by her cauldron, signaling the end of the conversation.

"I doubt I'll be up for supper," she called after them as they left the lab, and next to her, Draco's spine relaxed. Supper was often an awkward affair, even for Luna. She wasn't sorry Draco and she could eat alone.

"She wants you to make an honest man out of me," he blurted as they climbed the stairs to his rooms. "If it's going to be you, it should be—honest."

Luna traced her fingers along the swirling pattern of the wallpaper. "Make you an honest man," she repeated. "You are an honest man. But I don't expect she means being truthful."

He exhaled a sharp laugh. "No, that's never been a Malfoy priority. 'Honest' means..." But he didn't offer a definition, only trailing off as they climbed the stairs.

Reaching his rooms, they found that the House Elves had delivered her bag, along with a bottle of firewhiskey and the old cassette player she'd brought with her two trips ago. A meal sat covered and waiting for them at his table. "How lovely," she said. "I shall have to thank them for being so thoughtful," she said, stepping out of her shoes and leaving them by the door.

Draco went straight for the bottle, cracked the seal, and pored them each a glass.

"Would your mother like me better if we were married?" Luna asked.

Draco didn't wait for her to take her glass before drinking from his own, scowling as he swallowed.

"I don't—I don't know. Just—put your mum's music on. I like her music."

"All right," Luna murmured, bending down to insert the tape into the player. Tapping it with her wand, she smiled when it began to play. Magic worked much better with analog media than digital.

It was a Simon and Garfunkel tape—one that Luna hadn't heard in probably twelve years. But she instantly remembered the sound of Paul Simon's voice, and how much she'd loved it. Her mum had been half blood, and her mum had been
Muggleborn, so Luna had grown up listening to Muggle music. The memory of that music was so strong that Luna could picture herself exactly where she'd sat and played on the floor while her mother worked and sang to herself.

She started a bit when Draco pushed the glass into her hand, but then she thanked him and took a sip. "Will you marry someone else, then?"

Draco's gaze cut sideways, a sign that he felt ashamed. In the years they'd been friends, since sharing a winter imprisoned in the Manor, Luna could always tell when Draco blamed himself for something, even if it wasn't his fault. "They're not exactly breaking down the bloody doors, are they."

"You would make a very dashing suitor, Draco. I should think it'd be nice being wooed."

Any girl who sought Draco's affection wouldn't be in it for the money. The Malfoy fortune had gone first in his and his mother's defense, keeping them out of Azkaban. And the rest had been seized in reparations for damages during the war.

But they still had the Manor. Draco had his own magical scrubbing business, and Narcissa had her potions. They did all right for themselves financially, and Luna could not have been more proud of him.

"Well, it's not," he said, taking another swallow of his whiskey. "You'd think it was ridiculous and pointless, and you'd be right." Taking her glass, even though she'd only had a few sips, he put it with his on the table by their supper, and wrapped his arm around her waist. He laced their fingers together with his free hand and moved her in a quick waltz around the room. "We could never say anything interesting for fear of offending, and I couldn't even glance at your tits."

Luna laughed. "That would be a shame, as you like them so much."

They were waltzing to "The Boxer," which was no easy task, but Draco had a fantastic sense of rhythm, and at the perfect moment, he spun her around then bent her backward in a shallow dip. She felt his arm tighten around her and let her head fall back. Draco kissed her breastbone and then rubbed his nose gently against the spot, humming a few notes of the song low in his throat.

"I might like to be wooed," she said, looking up at the ceiling. When he pulled her back up, Draco didn't quite look her in the eye, but kissed her again and stared at her mouth as though whatever she might say next would be very important.

Another song started, and it was much faster so Luna decided for the next few minutes, she would not worry about whether she and Draco had just backed their way into an engagement. It was what her mother and father had done. Perhaps she would know what to feel about it after the song.

In the mean time, Draco was showing off a bit. He could dance to old pop songs better than anyone Luna knew. Even if her sample size was small, she could imagine that Draco would beat out all the competition. All of his joints loosened. Snapping his fingers with exaggerated movements of his wrist, he shuffled around the room, looking like a funny cross between Elvis Presley and Tom Petty.

Luna'd had a brief infatuation with Tom Petty when she was younger. She supposed she had a bit of a thing for towheaded scarecrow boys.

Luna did not consider herself a particularly good dancer, but she made up for it in enthusiasm, and, taking a large swallow of her drink, she took Draco's hand and danced with him. The words to the song came back to her, even after twelve years, so she sang them to Draco, twisted her hips, and twirled fast enough that her hair whipped about her shoulders.

When she caught Draco's eyes she smiled at him, and his smirk was so close to a grin that she grabbed him by the back of the neck and kissed him. She did it with a bit too much force and he stumbled backward into the small table that held his owl-post. He grunted into her mouth and put a hand out to steady himself. The table forcing his spine to arch a bit, Luna took advantage, opening her mouth against his and holding him tighter at the back of his neck.

He had his drink in one hand and she jumped as the cool glass slid up her arm. After he put it down, his fingers fisted in the thin fabric of her dress and tugged it up her legs just above her bum. Turning his face to the side, he broke the kiss and glanced down at her knickers. "You wore my favorites," he said.

Twisting around a bit to get a look at them as well, she 'hmm'd' quietly. "Of course I did." Her knickers were white with black crows on them—they were her favorites as well, a gift from Draco last Christmas.

Hands drifting to Draco's waist, she unbuckled his belt and had his shirt partway tugged free when he lifted her with his hands under her bum and dumped her on his bed. He followed her down and Luna stretched underneath him, pressing her ribcage up into him as she inhaled.

"Would you fuck me first?" she asked, letting her knees fall open so that Draco's hips pressed sharply into hers.

"Yes," he grunted, and bit gently at her throat. "Leave your knickers on, all right?"

She made some noise in the affirmative and reached between her legs to push Draco's trousers and pants down to his thighs. Then, shifting her weight, she turned over onto hands and knees. Ordinarily, she liked to be on top of him, and she liked it when they were both naked, but when they fucked with their clothes on, she preferred him behind her.

She liked the feel of his whole body folded along hers, the way his stomach pushed against her spine when he breathed, the press of his forehead between her shoulder blades, and his long skinny arms wound around hers. When, he pushed into her, knickers shoved out of the way, she liked the shallow angle and the quick hard rhythm of his hips that pushed her down onto her elbows.

"Fucking lovely," he groaned.

Luna lifted his knuckles to her lips and kissed them.

*

Later that night, they walked through the manor with lit wands and spoke in whispers. The house was very dark at night and Luna felt an unpleasant squirm of fear at the memories that hid and waited for her here, even seven years after her imprisonment. Draco took her hand as he showed her the places he'd scrubbed clean of old curses, and he looked so proud and pleased that she found she needed to tell him the truth straight away.

"I'm very happy you've made the Manor your home again, Draco. Just since I last visited, you've done wonderful things."

His footsteps stilled, and he looked off into the shadows of his strange and terrible house.

"But I couldn't live here."

He nodded, his jaw tight. "I know that. And I can't leave—this is my home. I can't leave Mother; I won't. But—"

"I want to tell you the right thing," she interrupted. It wasn't like her to interrupt anyone—only when she had something very important she needed to say. "Pansy says that I talk a lot without saying much, and I don't want to do that with you."

Finally looking at her, Draco lifted an eyebrow. "Pansy Parkinson told you that."

"Yes, and she would know, I suppose, as she always says exactly what she means."

"I usually know what you're trying to say, Luna. Don't take too much of Parkinson's advice—outside of promoting you newspaper, I don't think she's much of an expert."

Luna shook her head, not to be distracted. "Your mother hopes that you'll get married because she wants the best for you. She wants that because she loves you." She looked at Draco, squeezed his hand. "I don't mind whether we get married or not, but I don't want to disappoint you. I want you to expect great things of me. Because I love you, and it only seems right that people who love each other have expectations. The highest expectations."

Draco hesitated and then gave her one of his quiet laughs—an uncertain beautiful thing. "I know that. Which is why I was going to suggest we build a place for you on the grounds somewhere."

Luna looked at him. She hadn't considered that option. "Like a house."

Draco rolled his eyes. "No, a shoebox. Of course, a house."

"You don't have the money to build me a house." His gaze slid sideways again just as hers widened. "Oh, but I have money! Pansy helped us make money this year—she's very clever with money. But—"

"And your dad could live there, as well. He'd be close by while you travel for work." Draco looked as though he wanted to say more about that and was holding his tongue, so Luna said it for him.

"But you don't like my father, and he doesn't like you very much, either."

"The same could be said of my mother, but you make a valiant effort."

Luna made a quiet thoughtful noise. "I'm glad we both have parents to look after. I like knowing that you worry about the same things I do."

"You would find worrying about the same things romantic," he said, smiling and frowning all at once—one of his more complicated expressions.

"But you want me to live here with you—on your land. You want me to be here, with you."

"I want to marry you and fuck off to Paris for a year, but, yes. If you want to live here."

"Can we go outside now and look for a place for my house?"

"Ah, I suppose the proper alignment of the constellations is key for the location."

She smiled at him. "Yes, exactly."

Then he leaned down to kiss her.

~*~

Hermione checked her bag again, even though she was absolutely certain of its contents: wallet, three changes of clothes, toothbrush, toothpaste, and floss, thirty-two of her most loved books, and a mobile phone. She stood at the end of the main street and thought about disapparating. Harry hadn't asked her to come. He hadn't given her any indication that he wanted to see her, at all. They hadn't seen each other in nearly half a year—not since she'd broken things off with Ron the night he'd asked her to marry him in front of his entire family, in front of Harry.

But knowing she'd be far more disgusted with herself if she lost her nerve, Hermione squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and set off down the street to where Harry stood in front of his parents' old house.

He didn't even look at her when she finally stood beside him, so they stood together in silence, looking at the burnt-out wreckage of the house. Her face heated with all the emotion she felt welling up in her, but she didn't know what to say. Did he really not want to see her? Was that awful night when Ron had proposed still so terrible that he couldn't even face her?

"Hello, Harry," she said finally, just wanting to hear his name aloud again.

Then he looked over at her, flashed her a quick grin. "Hey, 'Mione," he said. He sounded distracted, like he sometimes had in school when he actually bothered to study. "I've been at this spell all bloody morning and I'm getting nowhere with it."

Relaxing slightly, Hermione came a step closer. "Maybe I can help. What is it you're trying to do?"

He looked at her again, and this time his gaze traveled over her face, back and forth between her eyes and her mouth. "I'm trying to restore my parents' house, get ride of the curse residue. But I can't make it work."

"Why do you think that is?"

"Well, I don't have enough of a sense of what it was before. I was only a baby when I lived here."

"Oh! Is this one of Malfoy's scrubbing spells? I've heard they're very good."

"Yeah," Harry said. "I watched him do it this morning, and it worked great, but..."

"The entire house has Unforgivables all through it. That's a lot to scrub."

He nodded and looked down at the lawn, burned yellow by the summer sun. "I want to fix it; I don't want to give up on this place. I don't have another home to go to."

"What about Grimmauld Place?" she asked, even though she'd never call that Harry's home, no matter how much Sirius had meant to him.

Shaking his head, he kicked at a clump of weeds. "I'm selling it." Without looking at her, he reached for the beaded bag slung across her chest. "Is that what I think it is?" he asked, curling his first two fingers around the strap by her hip.

"...It is," she eventually said.

"Where are you headed? Not to Australia again, I hope. I don't like it when you disappear."

"No, I—I'm back, now. I came to see you. Obviously," she added with an uneasy smile.

"Well, I don't have a spare room at the moment," he said, gesturing at the house as though it were a frustrating and stubborn child.

"That's all right," she said, shrugging. "I can fetch the tent, if you like."

His eyes snapped up to hers then, and he gave her a sharp, unsure look. "Why did you come?" he asked.

Eyebrows pulling together in a worried frown, Hermione took Harry's fingers from her bag strap and curled hers around them. She'd held his hand so many times in her life, she didn't know how to make this time different. "I wanted to say that I'm sorry for leaving you there with the Weasleys the night Ron... I'm sorry that I put you in that position."

"Hermione, you looked at me when you told him no. 'That,' apart from dueling Voldemort, was the most terrified I've ever been."

She forced a nervous laugh. "Good to know I'm not quite as frightening as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named." He carefully pulled his fingers free of her hand and dragged them through his hair. Hermione's heart sank. "If you want me to go—"

"No," he said quickly. "No, I don't want you to go. I'm glad you came."

With that uneasy truce, she looked back up at the ruined house and tried to think how she could help him restore it. She wondered why he'd want to at all. But if there was one person in all the world she knew well enough to know the answer to that, it was Harry Potter. He wanted to fix the house because it was the one place he'd truly felt loved, and it was the one place he could feel close to his only real family. No matter how many friends he had or would have, he would miss his parents for the rest of his life. Godric's Hollow was his home. Harry was stubborn that way.

And she knew how to help him.

"You don't have to remember the house, Harry—the floors or cupboards or windows. You have to remember the way you felt in the house, what made you feel like it was yours."

Nodding, he stared at the house with such focus, such longing, that Hermione felt the need to touch him again—but then, she always had done. There wasn't a time she could remember not wanting to touch him.

Stepping a bit closer to him, she spread her palm against his lower back as he lifted his wand and pointed it at the house. Glancing at her once, he spread his feet wider in the dirt and said, "Out" with every bit of himself. His wrist and wand flicked straight up, and she could feel him nearly vibrating with the strength of his desire for the spell to work.

The heavy summer air hung around them like a weight, and the house didn't move. Her fingers fisting in the back of his shirt, she held her breath until she heard a faint rumble that grew steadily. Eventually she could see the walls of the house trembling.

"Harry, I think—"

Stepping half in front of her, Harry pushed her back from the house out into the street, his face tight with anticipation and worry.

Finally, with a great crash, the two-story house collapsed in on itself, falling into a pile of scorched rubble and releasing a foul cloud of dust. When silence had fallen again, Hermione exhaled and chanced a look at Harry.

"I—I'm sorry, I thought that would work. Harry, I'm so sorry."

But he only shook his head. "I think it did work, actually." Raising his wand, he leveled it at his old house again. "Reducto." The spell left his wand, hitting its target with a sharp crack. Just after the moment of impact, the pile of rubble exploded into a cloud of slate gray ash and hung suspended in the air. "Help me get rid of it?" he asked, striding forward and sweeping his wand in a wide arc.

Within a few minutes they'd cleared out the ash, banishing most of it and scattering the rest with a few blasts of air. After, they stood in the hole left by the foundation, and to their relief, found only dirt. All evidence of old curses was gone.

Hermione stood beside Harry, squinting in the afternoon sun. "That wasn't quite what I expected," she said quietly. "Though I wasn't sure how the house could have been saved."

Shrugging, Harry reached for her hand. "Not everything can be just the way it was, I suppose."

She took his hand as easily as she'd always done and shaded her eyes as she looked up at him. "Are you all right?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah. Would you, um...would you like to—come for a drink, or something?" He gave her his earnest happysad smile, and she couldn't help grinning back at him.

"Of course, I would." She twisted to look over her shoulder. "Is there even a pub in Godric's Hollow?"

"Er, yes, I think so. Though—no, actually, I'm not sure. What I meant to say was—would you like to stay for awhile and help me build a new house, and then maybe live in it with me? For as long as you like?"

Her mouth fell open a moment before a laugh bubbled up out of her, but words failed her.

"I don't know anything about building houses," Harry said, with a nervous grin.

"Well, neither do I, Harry," she finally managed.

"Yes, but you're exceedingly clever."

She laughed again. "I'd better stay, then."

Harry nodded, feigning a serious expression. Then, hand-in-hand, they set off in search of alcohol and a place to make plans.

End.

HP Fic: I Don't Even Wish for Snow (Harry/Hermione) 1/1

2012-01-14T22:04:48Z

Title: I Don't Even Wish for Snow
Author: downjune
Recipient: ladybluestar
Pairing: Harry/Hermione
Summary: They were finally their own family in their own home. But then it was Christmas.
Rating: hard R
Length: 5200 words
Warnings: none
Author's notes: For this year's smutty_claus! Yay, I can finally post it! For those of you who know me at all, you'll probably see quite a bit of me in this fic, which is why I'm both really proud of it, and a little nervous sharing.

A couple notes on location and timing—I wanted a life for Harry and Hermione somewhat on the fringe of wizarding society, so I enrolled Hermione at the London School of Economics and set Harry up at the Well Street Market in Hackney. In real life, the market is struggling and a lot of it is closed down, but the way I look at it, if Harry Potter had shown up and taken an interest, he'd have a pretty positive influence on the place, being Harry. This all takes place 2010-ish.

I Don't Even Wish for Snow

Hermione wasn't at all sure how she felt about Christmas, or the holiday season in general. She loved her family and didn't see them nearly enough, so the holidays meant she could eat her mother's cooking again, sleep in her old bed, and watch Christmas specials all day on the telly.

But as warm and pleasant as these thoughts were, the actual time spent with her parents rarely lived up to how she pictured it.

Her mother's food was a bit bland, her bed was too narrow, and the telly was crap. She was also reminded of her father's temper and her mother's competitive side. And at thirty, Hermione didn’t like to be snapped at as though she were still a child. Nostalgia for home wasn't quite enough to carry her through.

It wasn't that she ever had a bad time, of course, or that she didn’t still want to spend time with her parents. It was more...an adult understanding of families and holidays changed everything, made things a little less shiny.

Also, the shopping was exhausting. Hermione had never been any good at finding that perfect gift, the thing that her friend or family member didn't even know they wanted. Her brain just didn't work that way. She could only ever find what she thought they should want. Perhaps it came with being an only child.

Or perhaps she was just self-absorbed and solitary by nature, because Harry Potter sent her 'only child' theory right out the window. True, he had a cousin, but Dudley had never been Harry's brother.

Harry loved Christmas more than any other day of the year, and more than anyone else she knew. He loved basically any chance he got to be with his friends and shower them with gifts, but Christmas embodied for Harry everything he'd ever wanted as child.

For this reason, Hermione loved shopping for Harry.

Opening the door to the kitchen shop, she sighed in relief as warm air enveloped her. She brushed the heavy wet snow from her hat and scarf and took off her gloves, heading straight for the hot spiced cider and biscuits in the corner. The whole shop smelled of cinnamon and cloves.

Once fortified with cider and a pumpkin-flavored biscuit, Hermione wandered around the shop and easily filled the basket she'd grabbed: a fancy, very sharp zester and cheese grater, a basting brush that Harry could use for glazing his pastries, the pizza stone he'd been eying all year, and a new set of bread pans. Harry's old ones were beaten and scratched to hell. For his stocking, she picked up a pan scraper so that he'd have better luck removing the sugar glazes that had cooked onto almost all of their baking dishes. Scourgify worked passably well, but tended to wear out the pans too quickly. On a whim, she grabbed a tiny set of spoons that measured out pinches and dashes and sprinkles.

She also liked shopping for Harry because it was so bloody easy. He was so used to cast-offs and second-hand items that he rarely bought anything for himself—had never really developed a taste for what he liked. Or anyway, he never went out in search of it. He was a terrible shopper, impulsive and impatient, and almost all of his gifts he ordered through a catalog or online.

Not that Hermione was much better at it. The shopping at Covent Garden was a touristy nightmare, but it was close to Hermione's LSE office so she could get back to apparate, weighted down with books, her laptop, and all the shopping.

It was well after dark by the time she made her way up Well Street to the market. Quickening her steps, she hurried to make it to Harry's stall before he'd finished packing up. The Well Street markets were really struggling, and Hermione worried about Harry's safety now that it got dark so early, but he'd taken to the run-down little street as he'd always done any time he found anything small and dingy and important. The neighborhood could do worse than have Harry Potter looking out for it.

Harry's stall was right at the end, and she smiled when she spotted him shifting crates of fruit around in the lorry. He was bundled up from his boots and flannel-lined jeans to his down jacket, fingerless gloves, and cap. Stepping down out of the lorry, he waved when he saw her. She lifted one bag-laden arm in greeting and then quickly charmed the bags to read, 'Keep out, HP, until Dec. 25.'

"How did it go today?" she asked, setting down her bags in a dry spot inside the stall and dragging him close for a kiss. His lips were cold and tasted like tea and chap stick.

"All right," he answered. "Bit slow tonight with this weather. But I sold out of all the bread and pastries." Touching her hair with the reddened tips of his fingers, he leaned in to kiss her again. "You?" He grinned and glanced at her shopping bags. "I see you've run the gauntlet."

She shuddered. "Yes, it was complete madness. Lucky I was shopping for you, else I'd have given up."

"You are the worst Christmas procrastinator I've ever known. I've been done—"

"Since November—I know. But you paid a mint in shipping costs," she sniffed, bumping him aside with her hip and bending to pick up a half-full crate of pears. "Shall we? I'm so hungry I could steal sweets from small children."

Harry scoffed in mock dismay, reached into his pocket and pulled out half a scone wrapped in paper. "I meant to save all of this for you, but I got hungry myself." Breaking off a piece, he fed it to her before she turned and stepped up into the lorry bed. Even cold and a bit linty, it melted in her mouth. "You're an artist, Harry Potter," she moaned.

Harry baked everything in their own kitchen on Sundays, Mondays, and Tuesdays. She'd begun to associate the smell of yeast and buttery sugar with her life with Harry—their house, their clothes, even Harry's skin.

On the ride home, they blasted the heat until their fingers and toes began to burn with returning warmth. Thankfully the snow wasn't sticking to the road, only leaving it wet and shimmering with street lamp glare.

"I got quite a bit done today," Hermione said. "I'm ahead of schedule, actually."

Glancing over at her, Harry grinned. "That's great. How much left?"

"Just the one chapter, I hope. If anyone on my committee changes their minds, I'll hex them. I don't know for how much longer I can look at this thing. I want to have a proper job next year."

"You have a proper job now," Harry said, keeping his eyes on the road. "We both do."

Hermione looked out the window into the early winter darkness. The street lamps' glow flared bright orange in her eyes. "I wish the rest of the world shared your definition of 'proper.'"

"Bugger those expectations. Can't you picture it? We'll grow old selling pastries and fruit, and writing brilliant books on—critical race theory and magical creatures. It'd be brilliant."

Hermione let her head fall back against the seat. "If only."

"We could do it, you know—sales from your books, dividends from Fred and George's shop, cash from the fruit and veg stall. And I've hardly touched what my parents left me."

That last was true, at least. Harry'd sold Grimmauld Place to Draco and Narcissa Malfoy when they'd had to give up the Manor. And they'd paid more than he asked for—Draco of course hated the idea that Harry would offer them a lower price and refused to pay a knut less than market value for the place.

With the money from the sale Harry had been able to buy their little house in Hackney, hardly having to borrow anything. And he'd have been able to pay the whole thing up front if he'd dipped into his inheritance, but Hermione suspected he liked having a mortgage, however small it was. Harry liked to feel normal and normal people had mortgages.

"I need to contribute something before resting on these laurels you seem to think I have," she said. "And I hate to disappoint you, but academic publishing isn't nearly so profitable as...as romance or mystery novels. I need a proper job, Harry. I haven't been able to help you with money since my stipend ran out at school."

"Maybe try teaching. You'd be a brilliant teacher."

Giving a full-body shudder, she made a face at Harry. "You know how I feel about children."

"Just because you don't want to have any of your own doesn't mean you can't teach them. Go for the older ones—the ones who've already got the basics sorted out."

Stiffening in her seat, Hermione tried to determine whether Harry'd meant anything by his comment. She knew he liked the idea of children, and heknew that she had no interest in them at present, but that didn't keep him from having these wistful wishful moments.

Nor should it, of course, but Hermione still felt a little defensive and...lacking when he talked like that. Even if he didn't mean for her to.

Starting a bit when she felt his hand on her leg, she looked over to see him reaching across the gear shift, glancing at her sidelong. "All right?"

She forced a tired smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm just...you know, questioning my decisions and second-guessing my own abilities. The usual."

"You're better at that than I am, which makes no sense, at all. Look," he said, rubbing his hand briskly against her thigh, "finish your book, become a doctor of philosophy, and then decide what to do with that ridiculous degree. We'll be fine in the meantime."

She nodded and leaned across the seat to kiss his cheek. Finally, when they'd reached their neighborhood, he pulled over to let her off at the Turkish restaurant down the block from their house while he unloaded for the night.

"I'll be back with dinner in a few minutes," she said. "Have wine ready, would you?"

He smiled and nodded. "Yeah, all right."

She kissed him again, this time turning his face so she could reach his lips. "I love you," she said quietly, just to the space between their mouths.

"I love you," he said.

~*~

They fell into bed just before 9:30, after nearly drifting off on the sofa watching a movie. Harry had to be up by six the next morning for the Saturday market, and he needed to pick up extra apples and satsumas from his distributor beforehand. Christmas time always had people buying for pies and gifts.

Curling herself around his body, Hermione pressed her forehead between his shoulder blades and inhaled deeply. Harry gripped her hand tightly as she held him across his middle and turned his head on his pillow so she could hear him.

"We could, um...we could fool around, if you wanted."

Hermione's hand settled low on his belly and she groaned inwardly. She could feel her body already sinking into sleep, and the prospect of waking it up again was a bit daunting and unappealing. "It's such a production for me, Harry; you'd be up all night. But I could touch you, if you like." She could feel that he was getting hard as she moved her hand lower to the waist of his shorts. Drowsily she brushed her fingers along the curve of his erection.

"No, um, that's okay. I don't want to if you don't."

"Are you sure? I don't mind."

"You're mostly asleep already. It's fine. Maybe this weekend."

"All right." Gently, she bit at Harry's shoulder blade through his undershirt and then nuzzled as close to him as she could get without crawling inside his clothes. "That'd be nice."

"Goodnight, Hermione."

"'Night, Harry."

~*~

Hermione joined Harry at the Saturday market around mid-morning, when the crowds usually swarmed. And if most Saturdays were hectic, this one was berserk. She barely had time to set down her bag and pull back her hair before Harry pushed her behind the cash box and put someone's money in her hand. "Change for half a peck and two pastries."

They didn't have much chance to speak to one another after that. Hermione let herself slip into the easy quick rhythm of taking money and making change, sometimes helping a customer to transfer their purchases to a cloth sack, often catching the stray piece of fruit that rolled toward the edge of the table. The work kept her mental arithmetic sharp and allowed her to think of very little else; the clamor of voices, coins, and feet, the taste of tea charmed to stay hot, and the smells of the market occupied her senses.

It wasn't until early afternoon that the crowd started to thin out, leaving them a bit of space to breathe. With deft fingers, Harry sliced them an apple and handed her a piece at a time while they leaned against the table and caught their breath.

"Big day," Hermione said, smiling as she accepted another slice of apple.

"Yeah, it's great, right? If you want to find us some food, I can manage here."

"Okay." Bending down to pick up her bag, she groaned as her lower back muscles were finally able to stretch out.

"Oh, and..." Straightening, she could see Harry readying himself to tell her something she might not like. "Gin called this morning, while you were still asleep. She, um, she wanted to know what time we'd be up Christmas Day."

"You mean what time we would be at the Burrow on Christmas Day."

"Yeah." He looked sheepish. "You know none of the rest of the Weasleys know how to use a phone or they'd—"

Shaking her head, Hermione cut him off. "I know it's because she lives with Dean. That's not what I'm—What did you tell her?"

"I told her I'd talk with you first, and then we'd decide."

Hermione took a deep breath, as all her irritation with the holidays came flooding back in the space of a few seconds. "Of course they would assume we'd spend Christmas Day with them. It's not as if we have no other family to visit, or that this will be our first Christmas in our own home. Why would they ever think we might want to have Christmas in our own home?"

"Hermione...we've always gone to the Weasleys for Christmas. I thought you liked seeing everybody." He looked at her warily, as if he didn't understand her reaction at all.

Exhaling sharply through her nose, Hermione took Harry's gloved hand and squeezed it firmly between her own. "I do, Harry. But they're not our family, and they haven't been for awhile now. I'm not upset that Ginny called you, and I—of course I want to see them over the holidays, but—"

"I want to see them," Harry said, his chin jutting stubbornly at her as he pulled his hand from her grasp. "And I want to see your parents, and...and I want to drop by Privet Drive, too, now Uncle Vernon's gone. Christmas is about family, Hermione, and I don't see why you'd want to shut yourself off from all that. You spend so much time alone in your office with your books and your computer, I feel like you should be the loneliest person in the world, only you're not. You like it. But I'm not like that; I want—I want to see my family and be with them at Christmas. You may find it tiresome and annoying, but it's important to me, and—"

"Harry, that's not what I meant—"

"Yes, it is. All of this—" He swept his hand around at the bustling market. "It annoys you. You tolerate it, and you have done every year I've known you. And even though I love every bit of it, it's exhausting and depressing watching you have to get through it and meet your obligations, just to make me happy."

Surprised and alarmed by his fierce temper, Hermione felt angry tears threaten, but the very last thing she wanted to do was cry, or have Harry think that he'd made her cry. "You're right, Harry, I am irritated by the holidays, because they're never as good as they're supposed to be and they cost too much money and put too much pressure on people, but I've never felt that way about being with you. Not ever. And I'm very sorry if I ever made you feel that I did. I promise I didn't mean to."

She took a steadying breath, but when she still felt like crying, hastily picked up her bag and walked out from behind the stall. "I'm going to find us lunch. Maybe if we eat we can discuss this rationally; we're both rotten when we haven't eaten."

~*~

Hermione sat on the floor of her upstairs office, Harry's presents spread out in front of her. Tape, scissors, bows, and bright rolls of wrapping paper almost completely covered the carpet. Pausing to take a sip of wine from her mug – she'd knocked over one too many wineglasses since they'd moved in – she surveyed her work. She was almost finished. And she'd better be; it was Christmas Eve.

It was Christmas Eve and she still didn't know what their plans were for the next day. Any time she tried to bring it up, Harry reacted like a child being robbed of the only thing he'd ever loved, which she supposed wasn't far from the truth. Once he'd come to Hogwarts – indeed, once the Weasleys had shown him what Christmas could be like – the holiday had become his most cherished tradition.

And Hermione didn't want to go to the Weasleys on Christmas Day. She didn't want to go anywhere Christmas Day.

Which meant she wanted to ruin Harry's holiday, apparently.

It was a real problem—he was being childish, and she was Ebeneezer Scrooge. Sometimes she felt like Scrooge, honestly.

Almost as if he'd developed some sort of sixth present-sense, Harry knocked on her door just as she finished taping up his last present—the one she was most pleased with, the one that might actually be perfect, and not just what she thought he should want. It was a portable record player. He loved looking through the old records at the market, and now he would have something to play them on.

"You can come in," she called. "It's safe."

Pushing the door open, Harry poked his head in with his eyes closed. "Are you sure? No stray stocking presents lying about?"

She took a final look around, just in case, and quickly stuck a new pair of gloves under an empty paper bag. "I'm sure," she said.

When he opened his eyes and grinned at her, her heart warmed the way it had the very first time they'd kissed. He was Harry Potter, and they lived together in this house, their house, with both their names on the mortgage, and she loved him.

When he'd come the rest of the way into the room, he brought a plate of chocolate biscuits from behind his back, and her mouth began to water. She'd been smelling them for the last half hour. Resting the plate on the floor between them, he sat down across from her, then looked around at the chaotic mess and smiled.

"I love what you've done with the place."

Hermione shrugged and snatched a biscuit from the plate. "Christmas is a mess every year."

Harry's smile sagged a bit, and she instantly regretted her choice of words. "What I meant was...it's a huge production every year, but I don't mind so long as you're the one I'm making a mess for. I look forward to it because of you." She looked down at the biscuit in her hand. "I'm sorry if I haven't said that enough. Or ever."

Harry reached for her wine and took a sip. "It is a lot of pressure," he said, "making this thing happen every year. I have these expectations and I don't really think about how anyone feels about that." He gave her a sheepish laugh. "And here I was telling you we didn't need to meet anyone's expectations."

"We don't," Hermione assured him. "That's why I want to have Christmas here with you—just you. I don't want to go anywhere or see anyone. I want to wake up whenever we feel like and open our presents under our tree in our living room. And I want to make you breakfast, after, and I don't want to get dressed until just before dinner. After we've eaten, we can take a walk and look at the lights. And we can watch our favorite Christmas movies until we fall asleep on the sofa."

She stopped, nearly overwhelmed by how much she wanted to do all those things. "Well?" she said. "What do you think?"

Harry's mouth had fallen open a bit and before she could get embarrassed about her outburst, she offered him a biscuit. He automatically took a bite and then began to smile as he chewed. "I didn't think you liked Christmas. Or—I thought you just put up with it because you knew I liked it, and Mrs. Weasley likes to..."

"Treat us like we're her children even though I left Ron very nearly at the alter, for you?"

"Right." Harry could still blush at the memory, and so could she. "But...you want to do all that—with me."

"Of course I do, Harry. I've wanted to since—oh, I don't know. I'm selfish, and I've always wanted to have time with just you, but I never could, could I? The Weasleys were our family, and there's never a moment's privacy in that house. But we have our own house now, and I want to have Christmas with you. Is that all right?"

In answer, Harry bent forward at the waist and kissed her, cupping his hand at the back of her neck. Hermione smiled her relief and happiness against his mouth and felt like crying again. She held his face in her hands and kissed him back.

"I thought..." he began roughly, "I thought you were tired of me already. I thought I might not be able to keep you, to keep you loving me."

Hermione made a low sound in her chest and grabbed him into a tight hug, upsetting the plate of biscuits and just missing the mug of wine. Not caring in the least, she climbed right into his lap and spoke between quick kisses to his cheeks and nose and eyelids.

"No, Harry. I've been—distracted and tired—and my sex drive has been basically non-existent, but I was never tired of you." The sex part came out of her mouth in such a rush, she wasn't quite sure she'd said it out loud. But she immediately felt better, as if it were a terrible burden finally jettisoned.

With his arms around her waist pressing her flush against him, Harry's voice rumbled and vibrated through her. "I want you to be attracted to me. Sometimes I want you so badly I can hardly see straight; I want you to feel that for me—at least sometimes."

"I do, Harry. I get so caught up in finishing school and thinking about finding a job and worrying about money, but I do. I promise I do."

She could feel him getting hard, and for the first time in months, the prospect of sex was not at all daunting. The feel of him through his clothes, the sound of his breath and the press of his arms around her made desire flare through her like a piece of music.

"How about now?" he asked, his voice gruff and humble.

Hermione laughed and kissed him. "All right, yes. Absolutely now."

"Good," he said against her lips. "I've got an early Christmas present for you."

Quickly rising to his feet, he pulled her up after him, holding her hand until she had her balance. Then he nearly dragged her into the bedroom in his eagerness. He paused at his dresser and opened his sock drawer to remove a small rectangular package, which he gave to her, blushing to roots of his hair. Taking the box, she sat down on the edge of their bed and turned it over in her hands.

"Before you open it," he started, "you should know I've had it for awhile, but I didn't know when or how to give it to you. It's kind of...personal, I guess, but I thought we could..."

He trailed off, gaze dropping from hers. Utterly baffled, Hermione tore away the newspaper that wrapped the package. Then it was her turn to blush.

Carefully opening the box, she pulled out its contents and held them in her palm. Harry'd gotten her a vibrator—a small egg with a cord and remote adjustable settings.

"What do you think?" he asked, and she looked up to see him staring at what he'd given her. He looked embarrassed, but also excited and curious.

"I—I don't know, actually," she stuttered.

"We don't have to use it! If you don't want. But I thought—"

"Since the planets have to be aligned for me to come during sex, that maybe batteries would help?"

"Basically, yeah."

Hermione couldn't help it—she started to laugh. "Aren't you supposed to feel threatened by this kind of thing? That it'll replace you, or something?"

"I was hoping we could all be friends, actually," Harry said, grinning.

This only made Hermione laugh harder, until she could barely breathe. "Oh, Harry," she finally managed, "that's so romantic. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Do you want to try it now?" Hermione asked. "Did you get batteries?"

"'Did I get batteries,'" he echoed. "Of course I got batteries. They're just here somewhere." Turning again, he rummaged in his sock drawer until he found the package of AA batteries and hurriedly opened it. Both of them giggling like children, he passed her two batteries and then sat down next to her as she inserted them into the small remote.

No sooner had she slotted the cover back into place than he drew her down onto the bed with him and kissed her. She moaned into the kiss and blindly tried to undo his belt. When she was unsuccessful in that venture, she instead tugged at his jumper and undershirt until she found skin. Slipping her hand up his back, she pulled as much of his clothing with her as she could manage until most of his torso was bare and pressed warm against her.

"Take my clothes off, Harry," she said into his ear, and his hands, already busy with the button of her jeans doubled their pace.

Scrambling out of their clothes, they were both shivering with nervous laughter until they tugged down the duvet and sheet and climbed into bed. Once underneath the blankets, Hermione pressed their naked bodies together. The feel of Harry's skin was brilliant, and she couldn't remember why on earth she'd thought sex was difficult or tiring or not really worth the effort it took to enjoy it.

Harry's body was lovely—firm and compact—and his belly had the most perfect line of dark hair trailing down it.

But there was no time to appreciate that right then. The need to feel him in her, to be joined with him, pressed in her lower abdomen with an urgent weight.

He must have sensed that because he'd already reached into the nightstand for lubricant and was coating his first two fingers in it. "Can I use my fingers first?" he asked, and she nodded.

Then he handed her the vibrator. "Use that, too, okay?"

Unused to Harry telling her what he wanted to do in bed with her, Hermione only nodded again and placed the cool surface of the vibrator against her body. Experimentally, she turned it on the lowest setting as Harry slipped his fingers into her.

The difference in sensation was immediate. She gasped and bumped her hips against his palm as feeling radiated out from her clitoris and seemed to envelop where his fingers touched her. He moved his hand gently and slowly, and she felt the push and drag of his fingers through her hold body, not just in her vagina.

Gradually increasing the intensity of the vibrations only made it better. Harry watched her, eyes wide behind his glasses, his breath coming quickly with hers. As he moved his fingers more steadily and pushed them deeper into her, she felt her entire lower abdomen tug inward in a powerful spasm. She laughed in surprise as she felt the usually elusive wave of orgasm build easily and quickly. Adjusting the vibrator enough so she could hover there in that euphoric moment, she met Harry's gaze. His face was so open and trusting and curious that Hermione found it difficult to look at him without emotion welling up into her throat. He was wonderful, and he was hers. Finally, she had to close her eyes, and once she'd done that, all of her awareness shifted downward. Her muscles contracted as orgasm rushed through her, and she gasped aloud.

When Harry moaned, Hermione's eyes snapped open, and she saw that he was touching himself, too, hands stuttering in her and on himself in the same uneven rhythm.

When she'd come down enough to think, she realized that she hadn't really come down at all. Her skin was flushed and warm, her extremities buzzed pleasantly, and her insides felt alive with a strange tickling itch. Shoving herself up into a sitting position, she rolled Harry onto his back.

He looked up at her, eyes wide and eager. "How was that?" he asked. "It looked nice."

Crawling on top of him, Hermione reached for the lubricant and, after slicking him up, guided him into her. At his unsteady moan, she smiled. He felt new inside her and she felt different, as well—a new landscape. Then she bent forward and rested against him so they lay chest to chest. "That was a paradigm shift, Harry," she said.

"I—I hope that's good," he managed as she began to move her hips.

Reaching for the vibrator again and carefully positioning it, she turned it on and then moaned as the feel of him inside her changed—grew three-dimensional.

"It's wonderful," she said.

~*~

Flopped in a boneless pile, Hermione couldn't ever remember feeling so exhausted after sex. Usually, it took such effort to achieve orgasm that she was wired after she finally managed one. But this—she wanted to sink into the bed with Harry and not wake up until Christmas.

Bloody hell—Christmas.

"I propose a compromise," she mumbled. "We visit the Weasleys, the Grangers, and the Dursleys between now and the New Year. Just not tomorrow."

Harry's hand came to rest, sticky and warm, on her cheek. Brushing the wild tangle of hair off her face he slid close enough to kiss her chastely – or perhaps just tiredly – on the lips. "Brilliant."

She sighed. "We can't fall asleep, you know. Christmas doesn't happen on its own."

Groaning, Harry gathered her into his arms and pushed his leg between hers, effectively trapping her. "Yes, but we'll have all day."

/All I want for Christmas is you./

HP Fic: If the Walls Were Too Thin (Harry/Cedric)

2011-08-07T16:10:46Z

Title: If the Walls Were Too Thin
Author: june
Characters: Harry Potter/Cedric Diggory
Word Count: 5,400
Rating: R
Warnings: none
Summary: "I'm seeing another life," he said, "when I go to sleep."
Disclaimer: JKR owns the characters and their world. I'm just playing.
Notes: I wrote this a while back for Humpfest 2011 for one of my favorite HP slash pairings. Expect a bit of magical handwaving, as it wasn't really the focus of the story. But I would like it to be for the next part, which I am outlining now, and which will be from Cedric's perspective.

Also, partially inspired by this wicked cool song by Glasser (Title from lyrics)

If the Walls Were Too Thin

/If the walls were too thin
You would break right in/

In my sleep, I see images of your life, our life, in mirrors and newsprint, photographs and paintings—and not just your face captured by a charm, preserving you at seventeen. It's as though you still exist somewhere, living your life; you're nineteen, and twenty-three, twenty-nine, thirty-one, and thirty-seven. We're together, there, wherever it is.

I touch the glass or the paper and I know what our life is – will be – what it feels like. And I wake up, and none of it's real. It's an... absence, a space where something should be and isn't. It's horrible, feels horrible. All the people who died because of me, because of a prophesy and a megalomaniacal dark wizard, you are the one I see. Remus and Sirius and my parents, Tonks and Snape and Fred and Dumbledore—they're gone. There's just you. I miss them; I want you to be here. I feel like I'm waiting for you to get here, to just look at me through a mirror and walk right out.

~*~

The first time Harry fell into one of the photographs, he was so confused as to which way was down that he crouched low to the floor, even when Cedric hunkered down carefully next to him, brown eyes amused and concerned. He leaned heavily on a cane, his right hand gripping the worn wooden handle to keep himself steady.

"All right, Harry?"

Straightening slowly, hands out for balance, Harry looked at Cedric as though he were something much stranger than a 25-year-old man, dressed for work. "I—I'm fine. You're off to work, then. With your dad." Cedric raised an eyebrow, and Harry looked down at himself, found he was wearing Auror robes. "And so am I."

"Just like we do every morning. So... all right, Harry?"

Harry nodded and looked around the flat, at the plain white walls, and the worn-in furniture, the clutter on the table and their shoes by the door. It was very much a boys' flat, Hermione would say, everything mismatched, and a bit rumpled, with dust in the corners and takeaway containers in the bin. It was very much their flat.

"How long have we lived here, Cedric?"

Cedric followed his gaze around the flat—from entryway to living room and the hall to the bathroom and bedroom. "A year this week, actually."

Harry smiled. "That long already. We should celebrate—go down the pub tonight?"

Cedric's grin flashed, and Harry felt his stomach swoop and drop. He was so very handsome. "Yeah, brilliant. Have supper, too?" Then, without waiting for an answer, Cedric stepped close and kissed him, ducking his head enough to compensate for the height difference. It was quick and chaste, but Harry still froze, even as Cedric turned away and reached for the door. "Coming, Potter?" he called over his should.

"Yes," Harry managed. "Yes." But no sooner had his foot crossed the threshold than the flat disappeared and he found himself alone in his bedroom. He lay there, fingers touching his lips, and tried to remember the details of the dream. Cedric had been twenty-five, which made Harry twenty-two and a brand new Auror. But more than just recalling the feel of their flat, Harry could remember other things, like that it had been Wednesday, and Wednesdays were often a night they ate out together, to break up the week. Cedric would meet him after work, even if it was only for pub food. No one else was ever invited on Wednesdays.

Rolling over onto his side, Harry closed his eyes and waited to return to that strange place where pictures and mirrors and newspapers were all cluttered together. It'd been happening since early summer, three months now, and was nearly effortless—almost like Legilimency, only he was investigating some part of his own mind. And, it seemed, now he could actually step inside the pictures to the memory itself.

When he found his way there again, he went straight to a low table in the middle of the room. Folding down to his knees, he fumbled a newspaper from the middle of a pile and pushed his way inside it face first, like a Pensieve. He landed on a sofa, his skin instantly prickling with heat and humidity, his mind reeling with new information. The experience was so different from just looking at the pictures.

This is the house we bought. It's summer, 2010. I'm not an Auror anymore, and Cedric's father is dead. Cedric got a promotion. Not because of his father's death, of course, or my leaving the Ministry, but because he's brilliant and he deserves it. I work with George, now, in the shop. He and I own it, and when Ron and Hermione save up enough, they'll invest, too. Ron already does some of the bookkeeping.

The warm, sticky weight on Harry's chest was Cedric and Cedric was reading the Prophet. From the open window, Harry could hear jazz trombone and guitar. Neighbors—two doors down and across the street—so it must be Thursday. Kasim and Jessica always played together on Thursdays.

"They sound great today," Cedric said. His bad leg was propped up on a pillow, and he was dressed only in shorts, so Harry could see the old curse scar running jagged from thigh to knee.

Harry shifted and winced as sweaty skin stuck and clung. "Ugh. It is too hot for this much skin to be touching. And, yeah...do they always sound this good?"

Cedric twisted around just enough to give him a strange look before settling back. "Kasim would sound fantastic playing a kazoo, you know that." Then he cocked an eyebrow. "Do you want me to move?"

Harry wriggled a bit underneath him, discovered he was half hard and bumping up against Cedric's arse, and relaxed into the cushions. This was a very comfortable sofa. "No, you're all right."

Listening to the music from their neighbors (he did know them, actually, now he thought about it) Harry's mind drifted lazily, thinking little more than 'heat,' 'afternoon,' and 'Cedric.' Gradually he became aware of Cedric shifting about in his lap, and when he made this observation, he realized Cedric was actually moving against Harry's prick. Harry's prick was very very interested.

Tentatively, he put his hand on Cedric's hip, slid his fingers just under the waist of Cedric's shorts. They sat low enough that he could just reach the coarse hair trailing from his belly button. When Cedric shivered, Harry more boldly kissed the back of his neck, mouth open, tongue tracing his cervical vertebrae. He tasted salt and closed his eyes, rubbing his nose along Cedric's cheek as Cedric tipped his head back to rest on Harry's shoulder.

"Were you hinting at something, just now?" Harry murmured.

Cedric exhaled a laugh and rolled his head on Harry's shoulder just enough to nibble at his jaw. "You picked up on that, did you?"

"It's too hot to be really observant. Sorry."

"Is it too hot to fuck?"

His entire body flushing even warmer, Harry groaned and slid his hand further down Cedric's shorts to cup him tightly, finding the flesh between his legs hard and damp with heat. "Is this all right?" he asked, speaking the words against Cedric's throat.

"Yes. Yes, Harry." The Prophet slid, forgotten, to the floor.

"Can I touch you? Here. Like this?"

Cedric nodded, already pushing his shorts down his hips to his knees and then kicking them off. Cedric's body was at once utterly new and as familiar as Harry's own. He rubbed his hands up and down Cedric's stomach, felt that it was just beginning to soften with their easier life. Tracing the shape of his thighs, he found the left was twisted and tight while the muscles in the right stood out, strongly defined to compensate for the old injury. Harry let his hands drift again to Cedric's cock, wrapping one hand around the smooth length, gently pressing against his balls with the other.

Cedric sucked in a slow shuddering breath. "You... are wonderful at this. I don't know if I've said that enough."

Harry's smile was happy and sad and a little panicked all at once.

~*~

"I'm seeing another reality," he said, "when I go to sleep."

Hermione didn't look up from the brief she was writing, even as she reached for and found the tea placed on her desk several minutes ago by her eager-looking male assistant.

"That's what happens in dreams, Harry—that is, when we're not reliving the past. Dreams are often a form of escape."

"Yeah but, 'Mione, it's the same reality. At least, I think it is. I go there and it's—my life, my other life."

"Dreams can show us what we want to see—things we didn't even know we wanted." She looked up. "For example, I had the most fascinating dream about Cormac McClaggen the other night and haven't been able to look at him the same since."

"Er, I'd like you to spare me the details, if you don't mind."

She smiled at him, her vague, distracted smile that indicated she was thinking about something much more diverting.

"I see Cedric," Harry said softly. "I see our home, our work, our...afternoons. It's out of order and it's not always the same flat or the same job. And I don't know if that's just because I'm seeing snapshots in the wrong order or if they're totally unconnected, or if I've just completely lost it, but I—miss that life. And it's not even real."

She was looking at him, now, her dark eyes focused entirely on his.

"I mean, why would I only dream about Cedric Diggory? Of all the people we've lost, everyone who—Collin and Tonks and Fred. Their lives were all cut short, but I feel like Cedric's still living his, in my head. And it's not fair! I want that life, but I don't see why it even exists, when it doesn't for anyone else. Why don't I dream about my parents? I still miss them, after all this time."

Walking around her desk, Hermione took both Harry's hands and pulled him to his feet. Then she folded him into a hard embrace. "We can't ever really know how the mind works, or what kind of magic it possesses. No amount of scientific inquiry and no diagnostic spell can fully explain what it can do or has the power to create."

Harry held her tightly around the ribs, his nose in her hair. "It feels like I'm seeing something real, something I'm not creating at all."

Drawing back, Hermione kissed him lightly on the lips. "Oh, Harry. Maybe you are. Try to think it through. Ask yourself what makes sense, and go with the explanation that fits the data, rather than the other way round."

Harry laughed a little and lifted her off her feet with the strength of his hug. "Thank you. Thank you, and I'm sorry to barge in on you like this, but you always know what to say."

When he put her down, she gave him his favorite crooked smile as she straightened her rumpled blouse. "And you always know what to do, Harry Potter. It's what I've always admired about you, you know. You know the right choice, even if you're brain isn't communicating it quite right."

~*~

Harry rummaged through images of Cedric's and his life, and didn't feel, now, that he was intruding, felt instead like he was sifting through his own attic. He stayed well clear of the darkened corner that held Cedric's sixth year and the Triwizard Tournament. The furthest back he went was his own seventh year, and he investigated this time thoroughly—it was so close to the one he remembered, and so very very different.

The one he remembered was spent revising for his NEWTs while helping to rebuild the castle, his brain and his body exhausted by the time he fell into the bed set up in Hufflepuff—where all the Gryffindoors were temporarily rooming. And there was his attempt at making things work with Ginny, even though he knew she'd basically been fed up with him by Christmas.

The Seventh Year with Cedric in it had all those things, too, except... there was Cedric bent over a work table with Hermione and Professor McGonagall, designing the new wards for the castle. He couldn't help with the heavy levitating work that Harry and Ron and many of the other Seventh Years did with the remaining staff and volunteers, but when the wards finally went up, Cedric's magic sank into the very stone and the ground beneath it. Cedric, Hermione and Professor McGonagall were holding the castle together in a way that only Dumbledore and his predecessors would have understood.

And by Christmas, Ginny had begun a very sweet and very obvious romance with Neville.

It was their public displays that finally made Harry pluck up his courage and drag Cedric into the Prefects' bathroom. Bloody brilliant idea, a Prefects' bathroom.

Harry dropped into as many pictures as he could find, learning Cedric's life in frames and single scenes.

Once either of them left the room or wandered off across Hogwarts' grounds, Harry found himself alone in his bedroom aching for his partner, until he drifted off again and could dive back into a meal they shared, or a walk they took to stretch Cedric's leg, or a row they had, or a doctor's appointment, a party, a funeral, or crazily enough, taking their daughter to meet the Hogwarts' express for her first year at school.

It was dizzying and wonderful, and, so far as he knew, it was all in his head.

~*~

Squinting into a small hand mirror, Harry saw a darkened room, lit only by orange street light from around the edges of the blind. He reached into the tiny reflective surface and came into himself folded around Cedric from behind. With a jolt he realized they were both naked and pulled back enough to put a bit of space between them.

"Cedric?" he whispered. "You awake?"

Cedric half-turned, mumbling sleepily, "I only dropped off for a minute, I swear. And it's not that I don't want to go visit your aunt and cousin this weekend. Except, I just...don't really want to visit your aunt and cousin. You understand, right?"

Harry jolted, and despite the nonsensical construction of that sentence, did understand. "The Durselys? Why on earth would we visit them? Is something wrong?"

When Cedric rolled over and propped himself up on his elbows, Harry cursed under his breath. He should know better than to ask about a conversation he was supposed to be having.

"You're doing it again,"he said. His voice was sharp, now, very much awake.
"Doing what?" Harry responded automatically, though he knew the answer.

"You're lost again, or... checking in on our life as though you don't remember you're a part of it. Do you honestly forget?"

Harry grimaced in the dark. "No, I—I just like to remember. Sorry—I don't ever want to forget any of this, and I honestly don't know why we're going to visit my Aunt and—" As the correct memories, the context of his life, slotted into place, he remembered. Vernon had died of a massive heart attack only a few months back, and as Cedric had also recently lost his father, they were... attempting to reconnect with Harry's only living family. If he remembered correctly, Dudley wasn't so bad these days.

"Harry, is something wrong? What's going on?"

Shrugging and feeling a bit helpless, Harry bumped his nose gently against Cedric's shoulder. "I don't know what I did to have you be here, to have us be here. It's just still amazing to me—sometimes."

Cedric rolled onto his side, toward Harry, and pushed him onto his back with a firm hand on his chest. "You really don't remember?"

Harry tried to shrug again, but only managed a small wriggle under Cedric's palm. "I just mean, I feel really lucky. That's all. I'm lucky to have you."

"You don't know, do you. Bloody hell, Harry. Luck had nothing to do with it. I'm here because you saved my life. I owe you my life. How could you not remember?"

"No, don't tell me that!" Harry said sharply, sitting up and pushing Cedric's hand off him. He fumbled at the bedside until he found the lamp, and then blinked in the sudden harsh light. He turned to see Cedric doing the same, looking angry, confused, and not a little fearful. "Don't tell me that this life is something you owed me, that it was due to me. I don't want it be that! I don't even know what 'it' is, or how we got here. I don't understand any of this!"

At Harry's near-hysteria, Cedric's brows lifted, and he shifted closer in their bed. "Ssh, Harry, I didn't mean it like that; I'm sorry. It's just... you're so strange sometimes, like you don't remember any of the details." Cedric reached for Harry and, with arms made stronger by compensating for a weak leg, pulled him into his lap, hands hooked around the backs of Harry's knees. "But this is really big, Harry; this isn't a detail."

Trying to collect himself, Harry gently combed his hands through Cedric's sleep-mussed hair. It was just as soft and tangled as ever. "I don't remember," he murmured. "Sometimes I think I'm some kind of time traveler, and I'm seeing two lives. I just—visit this one, even though it's the one I want, because you and I are... because we're. In this one." He cut himself off with a frown and hesitantly met Cedric's gaze, found it shrewd and thoughtful. Harry thought fleetingly, You would have made a brilliant Head Boy. He probably had been, in this life; Harry hadn't dared look. "Do you think I've gone mad?" Harry asked. "Sometimes I do."

Cedric hesitated, his dark eyes still searching Harry's, then shook his head. "No. I think there are more things in this world than we can explain. And you are not quite the Harry I know. Which, I can not explain."

Harry sagged forward, putting his head on Cedric's shoulder. "That's just what Hermione told me, ten years ago yesterday morning."

Cedric snorted a quiet laugh, his fingers drifting up the bumps of Harry's spine. "There must be a magical object of some kind that allows you to see, to travel, like a Time Turner, only it's linked to this reality. So, not just time, but space as well."

"I see pictures, images in books and mirrors, in bits of newsprint—and only when I'm asleep. Then, this past Hallowe'en, I started falling into them, like they're memories in a Pensieve.Maybe it's a memory charm or something, showing me what I want to see."

Quick as grabbing a Snitch from the air, Cedric leaned up and caught Harry's lower lip in his teeth, nipping hard enough that Harry jolted. "This is real, Potter. This is our life. You're my partner, and you've been with me since we rebuilt Hogwarts together. Don't tell me it's something you're making up, because I won't believe that."

Harry worried the tiny cut on his lip with his tongue. "Cedric, when I wake up in my bedroom, you're... you're not—"

"I'm not there. I imagine I'm dead. Makes sense."

Shaking his head, Harry stroked his thumbs down the sides of Cedric's face. "It doesn't. It's fucking awful. This life makes sense, even if I've only got bits and pieces of it in the wrong order. My seventh year, our first flat—bloody hell, we even have a daughter. Somehow—I don't even know how—we're old and we have a kid."

At his words, Cedric's expression went blank, and Harry winced. "I probably shouldn't have said that."

But Cedric only smiled at Harry's uneasiness. "No, that's brilliant! What's her name? How old is she? Merlin, how old are we?

"Her name's Anna, but it—it doesn't matter, does it, because I don't know how to take either of you with me, and I don't know how to stay. One step out of this room, and I wake up."

Cedric nodded, his smile turning sad. "What's the earliest you've seen? Where does it start?"

"I haven't gone before my seventh year—when we, you know. In the Prefects' Bath."

"Oh, yeah," Cedric laughed. "Brilliant idea, a Prefects' Bath. I've always said."

Harry's answering smile was halfhearted and flat. "But there's a picture on the wall, shrouded in black, and it's the graveyard. I see us, and I look away. I'm frightened. I don't want to go back there ever again."

"It's the most nightmarish place I've ever been," Cedric said, his voice quiet and soothing, "and that counts defending the castle on a bum leg three years later."

Still in Cedric's lap, Harry twisted around to touch the knotted, scarred muscle. Then, turning back, he pressed in close and breathed the scent of the man underneath him. "I don't know if I'm your Harry, but I do know you're brilliant and sexy, and I—"

Cedric laughed into his mouth as he kissed him silent, arching his whole body up against Harry with what little leverage he could manage. Harry was very abruptly reminded of their nudity and felt himself blush.

"How old are you, anyway?" Cedric asked, cocking an eyebrow and giving him the very same look he had when they were boys and first having a go at sex. It was a look of supreme interest and skepticism all at once.

Harry considered his answer then shrugged. "I'm twenty-one. But here, I'm thirty-two, and you're about to turn thirty-five. That's right, isn't it?"

Cedric nodded. "How'd you know?"

"It takes a minute to get sorted out, but I know what this Harry knows—at least what he knows in this room, with you."

Cedric ducked his head and smiled, rubbed the backs of his knuckles up and down Harry's stiffening cock. "It's strange to think of you as separate from him. You won't be here tomorrow, and he won't remember you. I feel like I should miss you, somehow. How will I even know you've gone?"

"I don't know. Does your Harry remember any gaps, bits of missing time when I'm here?"

"Dunno. I don't think so." Cedric was stroking him lightly now, his fingers a loose ring that Harry had begun to push up into. In turn, Cedric rolled his hips up, his prick pressing gently against Harry's balls.

"Should we even be doing this?" Harry whispered.

Drawing Harry down on top of him, Cedric wouldn't let him look away. Harry didn't even dare blink. "I love you—course we should." When Harry didn't make any further move, Cedric looked down between their bodies, then back up with a slightly different, more expectant tilt to his brow. "Try not to think too much for right now, okay, Potter?"

Harry nodded and leaned down to kiss him. "Yeah. Only, you just said you loved me."

"Is—that bad?"

Smiling and shaking his head, Harry rubbed his nose against the stubble on Cedric's jaw. "No." Lacing his fingers with Cedric's, he grabbed both their cocks and began a gentle rocking rhythm that he knew wouldn't last.

And it didn't. The times he'd had sex with Cedric—other than in the Prefects' Bath, of course—were mostly slow and gentle. It was the kind of sex that indicated long-time trust and comfort, and intimate familiarity with what they each liked.

This was a bit more like the Prefects' Bath—sweaty hands and the awkwardness of something new and terribly exciting, the fear of getting any more intimate than hands and mouths, but the need to touch and kiss and know everything about the skin under their hands.

Harry tried hard not to, but he finished first, head dropping to hang between his shoulders as his hips stuttered against their joined hands. When the blood quit pounding in his ears, he raised his eyes to Cedric's to find him looking on, dark eyes wide and glazed. "All right?" Harry asked, his voice wrecked.

Nodding, Cedric licked his lips. "Yeah. You come differently. Don't know why I didn't notice it before."

Harry only shook his head and scooted down the bed enough to take Cedric's prick into his mouth, sucking steadily until Cedric stiffened and stilled. Harry realized Cedric was trying not to thrust up, and relaxed his jaw, letting Cedric's cock rub the back of his throat.

That was all it took. Cedric sucked in a harsh, loud breath and let it out in an unsteady, strangled moan. Harry closed his eyes and swallowed.

Finally, when they lay together, boneless and nearly asleep, Harry felt Cedric's fingers in his hair, clumsy and heavy. "I think you should go back to where it starts, Harry, back to the moment when it all changes."

"I don't want to go back there. I don't want to see that again," he whispered.

"It won't be so bad this time, I promise."

Harry tried to stay awake as long as he could, fighting the heaviness of his eyes. Watching Cedric sleep, he told himself it was time to be brave.

~*~
Harry willed himself to look at the shrouded picture in the corner. He thought he saw the sheer fabric drifting in some un-felt breeze, thought he might even see mist curling out and down onto the floor.

"All right, Potter, this is it. Time to make your own bloody happy ending." He exhaled slowly and let his shoulders slump. "Again. Make it again, because obviously once wasn't enough."

Taking a deep breath as though he were about to plunge under water, Harry took the last three steps up to the painting, drew back the shroud and plunged head-first into it.

He landed clumsily on soft damp ground, rolled onto his back, and let himself breathe for a moment, reorienting his sense of gravity, as well as sorting out his fourteen-year-old mind.

"Where are we?" Cedric's voice was tense as Harry quickly pushed himself to his feet; there was no time to waste. Cedric paced an uneasy circle through the graveyard, and then returned to the Cup. Squatting down in front of it, Harry could see his smile even in the gloom. "It's a Portkey. Harry; the cup's a Portkey."

"I know," Harry murmured. "Cedric, we have to get out of here. We have to go back right now." If they went before Wormtail emerged from the cottage, they could prevent Voldemort from ever returning. But, no, Harry had still fought and defeated him at the Battle of Hogwarts, even in this altered timeline.

And, as if in confirmation, his scar began to burn and ache. It sent pain radiating like stress fractures all along his skull until he was forced to his knees.

"Harry! What's wrong; what's going on?" Then, "Who are you? What do you want?"

And through the pain, Harry still heard him say it: "Kill the spare."

He forced himself to look up at Cedric, saw his lover's eyes narrow in suspicion a moment before they flicked to Harry. Wormtail raised his wand and Harry flung himself forward. His heart was young and wild in his chest, beating like a drum as he threw himself in front of the Killing Curse. He saw Wormtail's eyes bug out of his skull and his wand quickly jerk up, felt Cedric grab hold of him, and then the curse slammed into him, tossing them both back. He and Cedric hit the ground and Harry had the wherewithal to realize he was still conscious a moment before he blacked out.

He came to at the feel of the knife digging into his forearm. He remembered that feeling. The knife was dull; it tore his skin. It hit bone before coming back out. Weak and woozy from the aborted killing curse, Harry was barely able to curl his fingers into fists. Below him the cauldron roiled with the foul potion, but Harry paid it no mind. He cast about for Cedric, frantically searching for evidence of his survival, and there he was—darting between headstones, dueling two Deatheaters at once.

"Bloody hell, Cedric," Harry grumbled.

When Voldemort stood before him, pale and horrible in his black robes, Harry felt a wild thrill flare through him.

I know how this ends. I know that I can beat you. I can beat you and save him.

Released from his bindings with a wave of Voldemort's wand, Harry fell to the ground and scrambled for his wand. "Cedric!" he shouted. "Come on!"

"Don't turn your back on me, Harry Potter!" The coldness of Voldemort's voice still unnerved him and Harry ducked quickly behind a large gravestone, putting it at his back. The timing still had to be right. Get Cedric, then the cup. Cedric was running around the graveyard fighting Deatheaters. They needed a distraction.

The only one he could think of was the one he'd already tried. Stepping out from behind his minimal cover, he straightened his shoulders. "Have it your way."

His shouted 'Expelliarmus!' meeting Voldemort's 'Avada Kedavra' nearly drowned out the sound of a shattering headstone and Cedric's scream. Clenching his jaw, Harry forced himself to maintain the spell, knowing he could do it because he'd already done it. When his parents leapt out of Voldemort's wand like sparks from a bonfire, he felt that old swell of love and loss and pain threaten to choke him, even now. How was it possible to miss two people he'd never known so very much?

But he hadn't been given the chance to save them; he was here for Cedric. When his mother told him to let go and run, he did. He turned and sprinted for where he'd last seen Cedric.

Only, his legs gave out just as he spotted Cedric dragging himself down a short embankment. He felt like he was trying to run in a dream. His body was all wrong with no coordination or strength. "Cedric," he gasped. "Take the cup and bring back help."

"Shut it," Cedric snarled, tucking and rolling the rest of the way down the hill. He landed with a strangled cry, and Harry could see his ruined leg was twisted under him. Knowing they had only seconds, Harry scrambled forward clumsily on hands and knees, reaching for Cedric's hand the moment he heard shouting voices behind him.

No sooner had their fingers touched than they both shouted 'Accio!' and brought the Cup zipping to them. They winked out of existence and Harry awoke gasping in his bed.

He sat up and groaned his frustration. There was no way he would get back to sleep, now, to look for the next scene from that night. He often couldn't find the ones he actually wanted to see, especially when he really really wanted to know what happened next. Bunching his fingers up in the duvet, Harry's racing thoughts came to an abrupt halt.

He didn't remember climbing under the covers, or undressing for that matter.

"All right, Harry?" Looking up from the mysterious circumstances of his relative undress, Harry found Cedric leaning in the doorway to the bedroom. He experienced a very strange moment where up and down seemed to shift about ninety degrees.

But, then his mind adjusted, and he only blinked.

"Yeah, I had a weird dream; that's all. What're you doing up?"

Cedric held up a half-empty glass. "Just getting a drink."

"Are you coming back to bed?"

"Yeah. I was dreaming, too—a really odd one." Cedric made his way across the bedroom, and Harry drew the blankets back for him. "Can't remember what it was about, now, though. You were there, I think. Always you."

Harry didn't answer, his gaze turned inward as he grasped for the memory of what he'd been dreaming. It was right there, he knew, but already fading—something about the graveyard.

"Do you remember anything about that night?" Harry asked absently. "After we got back, I mean. We were so scared, and you were hurt so badly..."

"You wouldn't let go of me, and I... didn't really mind. I could barely think straight."

"I remember you were crying and asking me over and over again what I was thinking, why I'd done it."

"I thought you were completely mad, jumping in front of that curse. It was all going round and round in my head, all I could think about, wondering why you'd done it."

Harry shuddered and shook off the memories of that night, as well as the strange pull of his dream. Beside him, Cedric looked to be doing the same, his eyes haunted and sad before they cleared. Then he smiled and slid under the blankets. "Come on. You have Auror training in the morning, and dinner with my parents later. Conversations with my father require plenty of rest before and after."

Harry laughed and shifted over, hooking his leg over both of Cedric's and resting his forehead against Cedric's shoulder. It was how he always fell asleep.

HP Fic: The Clever Ruse and the Lunch Break

2011-08-05T13:47:18Z

Title: The Clever Ruse and the Lunch Break
Author: downjune
Rating: R
Pairing: Hermione/Luna
Word Count: ~5000
Summary: "You could invite me for lunch and say I was your girlfriend."
Warning: References to mild sexual harassment
Disclaimer: Not mine; only playing.

Notes: I wrote this for the International Day of Femslash over at hp_femsmut a few weeks back-- my first real attempt at writing a love story between two ladies. I've never been that into femslash, but writing my two favorite women from HP actually got me pretty excited about it.

This story is from the same universe as "If You Can Not Take the First Step". but you don't really need to have read that to get this.

The Clever Ruse and the Lunch Break

"It was so offensive, the whole thing seems more ridiculous than terrible. He actually asked me to come closer and then spin around so he could look me over! I was so surprised and flustered and embarrassed that I did what he wanted. And I couldn't walk out because, Luna, it's such an opportunity. Skipping right past the Administrative Services for the Wizengamot with an apprenticeship to one of its senior members means I don't have to waste time as an assistant. I should be able to start with research on actual cases. But if I have to deal with him every day? I might rather be back in Magical Creatures. Not that it'd be so bad, of course. There's still so much to be done there."

Hermione paused for breath and a large swallow of her wine. She swirled it in her glass and stared despondently down into the dark liquid. Across the table from her, Luna sipped from her own glass and then 'hmm'd thoughtfully. "Indeed. I'd like to get back to work as soon as Father is well again. You don't suppose your boss could have been checking you for a Wrackspurt infestation?"

Hermione snorted. "No, he absolutely was not. He wasn't wearing the proper glasses to detect them." She looked up to see Luna nodding, touching her fingers to her chin.

"No, it's no good without the glasses. He was ogling your breasts and your bum, then. I imagine telling him to fuck off won't get you the apprenticeship."

"Most likely not," Hermione grumbled.

"Then you shall have to devise a means of preventing a recurrence."

"Oh, you mean commission a charmed set of robes that blink 'Eyes up top. You Pig.' every time he looks anywhere but my face—that might work. Although, I'd be making quite a spectacle of myself, I suppose."

Luna shrugged. "And why shouldn't you? He's already made one of himself, and you by extension. You might at least have a say in your spectacle."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh, imagine that, right?"

"You could invite me for lunch and say I was your girlfriend."

Hermione went very still and watched Luna closely to see if she might be joking, but when that didn't work, she had to ask. "Are you serious?"

Luna didn't quite meet her eyes when she shrugged. "In my experience, men who overly enjoy making women uncomfortable are easily made to feel uncomfortable themselves—and very much dislike the feeling."

"Yes, but why should I have to offer up my personal life so that I can have a professional life? It's none of his business who I see—even if I'm not actually seeing you." She chewed her lip and thought of Alford Snudden's droopy eyes widening at the sight of Luna in Hermione's office, sitting on her desk, leaning in close to offer intimate words. Her stomach gave an involuntary flutter.

"Still, it might work," she mused. "He can't fire me for being a lesbian, even a fake lesbian." She looked to Luna for input and found her leaning back in her chair, watching Hermione curiously.

"And it's not as if there's anyone I fancy who'd be put out," Hermione added. "I'd have to tell Harry and Ron, of course, and it is possible that The Prophet might get hold of something, but so long as Lavender or Parvati don't—"

She was cut off by an enormous fall of white-blond hair and the press of soft dry lips to her own. Then Luna straightened and returned to her seat.

"I thought I should see if I liked kissing you before we pretended to be lovers," she said prosaically.

Hermione touched her lips and then licked them. She didn't taste anything but the wine she'd been drinking. "Well?"

Luna smiled. "It was very nice. I was sure it would be. Would you like dessert?"

Hermione looked carefully at Luna and Luna looked right back.

"I don't think so; I'm very full. But if you'd like something, I might have a bite or two."

"Mm, no, I should get home. Father will worry."

As usual, they split the bill, even though Hermione knew Luna and Xenophilius had barely two galleons to rub together these days. Walking out of the restaurant, Hermione slid her arm through Luna's, as they'd done since they were girls together at Hogwarts.

"If you ever... need help with your father, or need a break or something, there are people—you have have friends who would help you."

Luna kept her eyes on the sidewalk and nodded. "Thank you. It... is different now, from when I was a child—of course, it is. I see things about him that I didn't when I was younger. I was always so certain that he knew all the important things in the world—what to do, what to be. I don't know now that he ever did. I think... that he knew he had to raise me and protect me without my mother's help. And he was good at making me believe he knew how to do that, but I don't really believe him anymore."

"Luna..."

She looked up and smiled. "Hermione, I love my father, and I know that he loves me, but I think he's rather lost sometimes. I think he was then and I just didn't know."

It was the most Luna had ever said about her family and Hermione felt strange with the knowledge, felt that she needed to share something of equal value. "I've learned..." she began, "that my family has politics—alliances and feuds and stalemates. Both my parents have brothers and sisters, and they're all very opinionated about everything. I never noticed when I was younger, playing with my cousins, but everything's different now I'm almost thirty. They must think I don't mind knowing, that I should be glad to be part of the adult conversation, but I'd really rather keep things the way they were. It feels strange to have an adult perspective on my family when I had a child's for so long—even when I wasn't a child anymore."

As they came to their Apparating point, Luna pulled Hermione to a stop and went up on tiptoe to kiss her again—a chaste kiss to the corner of her mouth. "Thank you for telling me about your family. Neither of my parents had any brothers or sisters."

Hermione giggled, buzzed from a bit more than the wine. "I think both of us are quintessential only children, don't you? It's better to just not leave the safety of our own heads; we think we have to do everything for ourselves; and asking for help is so strange and awkward, it's like—asking for an outrageous sum of money or something."

Luna tilted her head a bit as she considered this. "You may be right. I've never really thought about it. But I'm happy to help you, if you like."

Hermione nodded and looked up at the stars dimly visible between the buildings. "I'm going to accept the position. It's what I've always wanted, and no vile old leech is going to keep me out."

"Shall I stop in for lunch, then?" Luna asked.

"Oh, yes please, if you really don't mind." She looked back to Luna and found her star-gazing as well.

"Let me know when I should come."

"I will. Thank you, Luna."

"Good night, Hermione." With a parting smile, Luna Disapparated.

~*~

They'd been friends since Hermione's fifth year, when a shared detention with Umbridge had brought them closer out of a need for solidarity. That, and the distinct absence of a girl friend in Hermione's life, had begun their companionship. What had started as an alliance mostly by necessity and partially from curiosity had only deepened over the years.

Hermione loved Luna for both her closeness and her distance. They met for tea at least once a month but the absence of pressure from Luna encouraged Hermione to confide in her in a way that Lavender's open enthusiasm for 'girl talk' never had. In turn, Luna let slip a few of her own worries—her absence from work now that her father was unwell, and her very short romance with Harry at the end of his marriage to Ginny, among other things less personal in nature.

Their friendship was at once casual and intimate, and she wasn't at all sure how they were supposed to indicate that they were now even closer—short of snogging in front of Snudden himself, something she wasn't exactly keen to attempt.

But she needn't have worried.

A week after she had accepted the apprenticeship, Luna arrived in Hermione's tiny office with homemade soup and sandwiches. Hermione bought them pumpkin juice and, in plain view of everyone, they sat together at her desk, leaning towards one another as they ate.

"How has your first week been?" Luna asked quietly, nudging Hermione's knee with her own.

Swallowing a spoonful of Luna's split pea soup, she lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "About as I expected. I'm reading some remarkable cases, fascinating stuff, in between Snudden's near-constant requests for tea. He has an assistant, poor girl, and neither of them can stand each other, so he asks me for things instead of her because he thinks I'm too worried about keeping my job to tell him 'no.'" She sighed. "Which, at the moment, is true."

"Has there been much ogling?" Luna asked, her expression perfectly serious until Hermione nearly snorted juice through her nose. Then Luna grinned. "I'm sorry, but it's one of my favorite words from a purely aesthetic point of view. I only wish it meant something else."

Hermione shook her head, trying desperately to swallow her drink before choking on it. "No, it's all right," she finally managed. "And unfortunately, yes, there has been. But fortunately, 'Alfie,' as he wants me to call him, is old and arthritic and very slow, so I don't feel unsafe—just uncomfortable and angry because he does it in front of his colleagues. I don't feel comfortable enough with any of them to say something about it, and, of course, the Ministry hasn't yet taken notice of Muggle legislation on sexual harassment." This was confirmed by Luna's blank look and Hermione quickly moved on. "So, here we are, devising our own solutions. Um, how's your dad?"

Luna's pale eyes tracked a pair of witches as they passed in the hall. "Oh, he's... he's all right today. Thanks for asking."

Grimacing down at her soup, Hermione let the conversation lull and the two of them ate their meals in relatively comfortable silence.

When they'd finished, Luna stood to go, gathering up dishes and shrinking them to fit into her bag. "Your boss wasn't here for lunch. Shall I come back again?"

Deliberately taking Luna's hand, Hermione nodded. "Yes, please? If it's not too much trouble?"

Luna met her eyes briefly. "It's no trouble. Getting out of the house is important, now I'm working from home."

"Oh, have you started writing again? That's great, Luna! Why didn't you say something?"

Smiling, Luna leaned up to kiss her, her lips wet this time and a still a bit oily from the soup. Hermione pushed forward into the kiss, felt Luna's head tilt to compensate, and exhaled a nervous laugh as she drew away.

"That aught to get people talking."

Luna nodded. "Good. I'll see you soon." Then she turned and left the office without a backwards glance.

Sitting down at her desk, Hermione's stomach did strange flips as she returned her attention to her work.

~*~

"You're pretending Luna is your girlfriend so your boss will leave you alone. Hermione, as solutions go, I don't think—"

Hermione cut Harry off with a shake of her head. "I know. I know," she repeated when he raised an eyebrow at her. "But I think it's working. Snudden gets flustered and crabby when she comes by for lunch and leaves me alone for the rest of the afternoon. It's the only way I can get any real work done."

"But couldn't you get into trouble for having her in the office so often?"

They were sitting at his tiny kitchen table, sharing his last beer. The small flat in London was where he'd landed nine months previous when his divorce was finalized. It wasn't nearly so depressing as it had been when he'd first moved in.

She took a swig from the bottle and slid it back across the table to Harry. "She only comes when I'm on my lunch break. Other employee's spouses and children do it, too."

"Well... couldn't you just tell him to bugger off?"

She snorted. "That may be the way the rest of the modern world operates, but the MLE hierarchy is a bit more rigid—except where the savior of the Wizarding World is concerned, of course."

Harry gave her a wry look. "Must be very frustrating for you. I know how much you enjoy head-on charges."

Reaching for the bottle again, Hermione shrugged. "It's... not so bad. Luna and I have been friends forever, and I think she needs someone to talk to besides her dad."

"That's certainly true."

Looking off into middle distance, she tried to keep her tone light. "I—I like her company. She comes almost every day now. I feel like... it's not really professional, sometimes..." She frowned. "But it's not as though Snudden's very professional, either, leering at me in front of the administrative staff, as well as other members of the Wizengamot!" She took a deep breath and met Harry's widened eyes.

Then his mouth quirked up into a mischievous smile. "Do you and Luna—you know..." He blushed and looked away, then made quick kissing noises before laughing down at the table.

Hermione felt her face heat as well and said a bit defensively, "I don't have to answer that, and if you were any good at all with office gossip, you would know already."

"I respect your privacy until I've had something to drink; you know that. Anyway, I'll just ask Luna. She'll tell me."

Hermione thought of their brief kisses, Luna's lips sweet with pumpkin juice or lemonade, her hand small at Hermione's waist, and murmured, "I don't know."

When she next looked at him, Harry's eyes were watchful and wary. "Don't lecture me," she warned. "You don't get to lecture me."

He scoffed. "When have I ever lectured you, Hermione?"

"When I thought seriously of marrying Ron."

"That wasn't a lecture; that was a stern reprimand. Ginny and I knew it'd been a mistake to get married so young, and I couldn't... Well, I don't need to repeat myself, do I."

She glared at him. "What is it you want to say to me, Harry?"

Reaching across the table he took her hand, his face earnest and open, the way it got when he'd had a few drinks and was about to say something that he really meant. He rubbed his thumb across the back of her palm.

"You are both too perfect to make each other unhappy. You're too good. So if something goes wrong, it will be a complete disaster. I've been half in love with both of you so I—"

"Harry Potter, I don't want to talk about this," she said, tugging her hand free. "And anyway, we're pretending. It's not real."

Harry threw his hands up in surrender and then went to use the toilet. Hermione didn't feel like she'd won.

~*~

They fumbled their way into the loo, and Hermione let herself be pushed up against the nearest cubicle, forced herself not to care who saw them. This wasn't real; it didn't count. She was pretending to be in love.

Still, she felt her stomach flip and her pulse thunder in her ears as she held onto Luna's waist and they kissed and kissed. Luna's hands fluttered over her arms and shoulders and hips, a faint teasing pressure on her skin.

Blindly searching for the door catch, Hermione dumped them backwards into the cubicle. As the door slammed shut behind them, Luna's cool fingers slid up Hermione's thigh to the elastic of her underwear.

"This is how we began," Luna whispered, "hiding together in a girls' toilet. Do you remember?"

"I remember," Hermione said. "We were hiding from Umbridge." She laughed. "If she could only see us now."

Luna smiled. "I'm very relieved she can't."

Hermione felt Luna's fingers inside her knickers, felt everything about their arrangement tilt dangerously toward something else entirely, something new. "Yes," she whispered, and Luna's fingers slid into her. Moaning, she arched against the cubicle wall. Her insides felt damp and aching around Luna's finger as she rocked her hips up against Luna's palm.

Luna pressed her forehead to Hermione's, and Hermione could see in the dim light that she was flushed and breathing quickly. She couldn't remember Luna ever being flustered, and the sight of it made the heat pool in her gut. "Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked, needing to hear Luna's voice.

But Luna only nodded, the gentle massage of her fingers becoming more firm and insistent. The increased pace put more pressure on Hermione's pubic bone, Luna's palm pressing solidly against her clit, and Hermione gasped. Surprise and happiness flickered across Luna's face.

"Do you want me to keep going?" she asked. "Should we stop?"

Hermione shook her head. "No—yes, I want you to keep—" She met Luna's pale eyes and then put her hand at Luna's cheek, pushed her fingers into the wild tangle of hair. "You're so lovely," she said and closed her eyes. In what felt like only a few seconds, her orgasm shook through her, leaving her clinging to Luna's arms to stay upright.

Tipping Hermione's head down with a hand at her jaw, Luna kissed her again, wet and urgent, but before Hermione could even catch her breath, Luna had gone. She didn't even stop at the sink to wash her hands. Hermione stood very still against the wall as she waited for her breathing and heartbeat to slow. Then she carefully sat down on the toilet and put her head in her hands. She thought she might cry, but didn't.

After a few moments, she left the cubicle, washed her hands and face at the sink, and went back to work.

She did cry a little at her desk, silent tears of frustration and embarrassment. It was later that very afternoon, and Snudden's words burned angrily in her mind.

'If you don't start treating this opportunity for what it is, it will know longer be afforded to you. Miss Granger, you were offered this position because of your supposed professionalism, but I have seen no evidence that you possess this quality. This office is not your flat, or your bedroom. If I am ever forced to bear witness to your...personal life here again, I will terminate your apprenticeship that very day. Now, put away these files for me, and let's be done with this.'

She had, of course, said nothing other than, 'Yes, sir' and 'No, sir,' but at her desk, she scribble furiously on a bit of parchment.

'Thank you, but this has been an opportunity to wait on you hand and foot. And professionalism? Shall we discuss your complete inability to differentiate between professional and unprofessional behavior? Or how I am of such personal interest to you, as your personal assistant? Shall we discuss how uncomfortable you have made me in my professional environment?

The nub of her quill threatened to tear through the parchment, and she shoved it aside with a muttered, "Fuck!"

After taking a few moments to calm herself, she smoothed out a clean roll and began to write.

'Luna, I am very sorry, but we can no longer meet for lunch. It's not really appropriate. But thank you very much for the company. It was always appreciated. I hope that I will see you for tea Thursday next. Yours, Hermione.'

Rolling up the parchment, she hesitated before attaching it to the office owl. "I'm sorry, Luna," she whispered.

~*~

She refused to give up her position as Snudden's apprentice, and over the next few weeks, made a point of befriending his actual assistant to see what they could do about dividing up the work of looking after the cantankerous old coot. Sylvia Hutchinson-Hasbrook was not a particularly friendly woman, but they could at least share their mutual distrust and dislike of their boss.

Harry went to Latvia with Viktor on an extended mission to root out a coven of dark witches, so Hermione had very little contact with him. She hadn't told him that she and Luna'd had sex in the women's toilet, and she didn't plan to, but she still felt the need to have him close by, as she'd always done.

Luna was gone, too—or at least not answering Hermione's owls. Nor had she turned up for their monthly dinner date. Knowing Luna as she did, Hermione thought she'd chosen to seek solitude, as she often did when she was unhappy or troubled. Hermione wanted very much to talk to her.

It was a little surprising to Hermione how she had managed to cock up both her friendship with Luna and her job, all at once. Ordinarily, she was very good at keeping things in order—her friends' troubles at school, keeping Harry and Ron alive during the war, sorting out her parents' taxes, even Harry's self-destruction and ill-advised romance with Luna at the end of his marriage.

But this was something else. This was Ron asking her to marry him when he was drunk and at the very end of their relationship. This was her very nearly saying 'yes' for no other reason than it was easier. This was Luna's voice in her ear, "Should we keep going?"

Hermione regretted hurting Luna—telling her she had to stay away when it was the very last thing Hermione herself wanted—but every other part of her chimed inside, happy and wild, at the memory of what it had felt like to be with her. She found she couldn't regret that.

~*~

Luna found Hermione outside the Ministry on a day Hermione had decided to walk home rather than take the Floo Network. Luna had a picnic basket in her arms and lifted the lid to show wrapped sandwiches and a thermos.

"I wanted to say I'm sorry," she said. Her hair was held back in a loose tail and her ears were bare. She wore a loose-fitting dark blue jumper over a fleeted skirt and miss-matched knee socks. Her buckle shoes were splattered with mud. Hermione thought she'd never looked more lovely. "I walked to the Weasleys and then the Diggorys and back home to Father, and all I wanted was to see you. So I came. I hope that's all right."

Hermione pulled her jacket closer against the October breeze. "I didn't think you would want to see me, not after that awful owl I sent you."

"Oh no, the owl was very nice," Luna said with a small twist to her lips. "I fed her hard cheese and beetles." Then her smile faded. "The message she carried wasn't quite as... but I wasn't surprised to receive it."

"It wasn't that I meant to say that you were—just that Snudden threatened to sack me if you came back and you—"

"I left you alone in the toilet, and it was wrong of me to do that. I'm very sorry. That's not something a friend should do, is it."

"A friend wouldn't have asked you to pretend to be in love with me, just to annoy my boss."

Luna smiled. "Oh, I wasn't pretending. I do love you."

Luna loved garlic and washing her hands with river gravel and Harry Potter, still, and her father. There were many meanings for the word love, so Hermione didn't dwell on any of them. Instead, she said the thing she'd been planning to say, regardless of whether it was the thing she should have said.

"I want us to be friends, Luna. I don't want anything to ever get in the way of that."

Luna hesitated. "All right." Her voice was steady, her face inscrutable as ever.

"Unless..." Heart racing, Hermione looked for any evidence of what Luna actually felt, but her expression was utterly tranquil, blank. "Unless you think that we could—that is, if you liked..." She let her uncertainty hang in the air—miserable and hopeful, her words echoing in her head along with the remembered sound of Luna's quickly retreating footsteps—until finally she could only shrug. "Where do you want to have our picnic?"

At last, Luna smiled. "I thought you should choose."

Deciding that she wanted to walk, Hermione led the way to a nearby park with benches and tables so they could spread out a bit. And despite the heaviness of Hermione's heart, she managed to eat and drink and sit with Luna in comfortable silence.

When Luna finished her sandwich and tea, she stood to leave, explaining that she needed to get home to her father.

"All right," Hermione said. "I'll see you soon, I hope. And—I'm sorry again for this mess."

Luna was looking somewhere over Hermione's shoulder. "It was my idea, you know, so I should be the one to apologize."

But she didn't, and as Hermione waited for her to say something, Luna leaned across the table to kiss Hermione lightly on the cheek and Disapparated.

Hermione sat at he table as the sun set and thought about what she should do. When she began to shiver, she went home to think some more.

~*~

Her secret was heavy in her chest. She needed to tell someone about her feelings but there was no one. Harry was still in Latvia and would be for at least another month. She wasn't ready to tell her mother, and things had never been quite right again with Ron—not that she'd ever really confided in him.

The only other person she could tell something of this magnitude was the one person she couldn't tell, so she rolled onto her side and pressed her face into her pillow. She whispered her confession to the silence.

"It's a mess, and it's all I can think about. I love you. Please, Luna, tell me what to do."

~*~

She heard from Neville that Xenophilius had lost his footing on a clump of uneven grass and severely sprained his ankle; however, since he was refusing pain potions, he was making himself and everyone around him, miserable. Neville had said even Luna was near the end of her patience.

Hermione had always known that the differences between Wizard and Muggle were not nearly so stark as everyone thought and since Mr. Lovegood had been unwell, he reminded her so much of her grandfather, that she began to think of them interchangeably. The only thing her parents had been able to do for him was slip sedatives in his tea to make him more comfortable.

She wondered if Luna had resorted to doing that or if she felt it would betray her father's trust.

Finally knowing what to do, Hermione pressed her lips into a smile. She had to get back to Hogwarts to find Neville.

Half an hour later, she stood on Luna's front steps, admiring the ancient Dirigible Plum bush. For a plant with such delicate fruit, it was very sturdy. It was fitting that it grew outside the Lovegood's door.

Luna opened the door before Hermione had the chance to knock, looking disheveled and perhaps even cross. Her hair was in wild disarray and her overalls were practically covered with dirt. "Hello," she said.

Hermione, suddenly nervous, thrust out the little potted plant she carried as an offering. "Hi," she said. "This is for your dad. Neville says we can add it to his tea to help him sleep."

Luna looked down at the plant and then back up to Hermione. "That's nice. You came to my house to give me a plant that already grows in my garden."

Heart sinking, Hermione bit the inside of her lips. "Oh. Well... now you've got more of it. And—and, anyway, I came to help you and keep you company more than to give you a plant so... Can I come in?"

Luna's eyes narrowed just slightly, her face momentarily closing in suspicion. Then she just looked curious. "You came to keep me and dad company?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes, and to help you around the house, if you need it, or...or cook something for you, or just give you a break from keeping track of him all the time."

"That's why you came." She still didn't sound like she quite believed it.

"And because I wanted to see you," Hermione added. "Mostly because I wanted to see you."

Luna blinked and then pulled the hair up off the back of her neck. The weather was a bit warm for early November; she'd obviously been working hard in the garden. "I... I barely have anything in."

"Then I'll go pick up a few things, come back, and make tea. Yeah?"

"All right," Luna said, her face relaxing into a tired smile. "That sounds lovely. Only—"

Pulling Hermione into the entryway of the house, Luna closed the door behind them. They stood quietly in the dim hall until Hermione reached out to touch Luna's hair, twisting it round her fingers. Luna put dusty hands to the back of Hermione's neck and leaned up to kiss her. "Stay for a few minutes, at least. I wanted to see you, too."

end.

TSN Fic: You Know How This Is 2/2

2011-04-20T20:32:05Z

"I thought about tracking Eduardo down through his credit card activity, but then I had a better idea."

Chris looked up from his computer monitor and over the thick black rims of his new glasses. Allegedly, they weren't just for show, but Mark was skeptical. "You thought you'd just ask me for his email address and phone number, instead."

Mark nodded. "Right. But just email's fine," he quickly added.

"Out of curiosity," Chris said, reaching for his mouse and redirecting his attention to the computer screen, "why do you think I have it?"

Offering a sharp little shrug, Mark began to drum his fingers against his pant leg. "Because you see no reason why a multi-million dollar lawsuit should terminate a friendship, despite non-disclosure agreements. Which, for a PR guy, is pretty ballsy. Which is why I pay you the big bucks."

Chris opened a desk drawer, pulled out a small notepad, and started writing. "Actually, a multi-million dollar lawsuit and a non-disclosure agreement are both fantastic reasons to end a friendship. Just not one with Eduardo Saverin." He handed over the slip of paper, which had, not only the email, but a cell and office number, as well as an address in New York.

"I didn't ask for all this stuff."

"You're planning on stalking him until you work up the nerve to actually contact him. I'm expediting the process."

"Have you spoken with him? Out of curiosity."

Chris looked away quickly and then out the office window. "Dustin has. He's still pissed."

"It's not about nerve," Mark felt the need to say. "It's about what's appropriate."

Cocking a pale eyebrow at him, Chris shrugged. "All right. Well, if you think it's appropriate, by all means, talk to Eduardo. However, as your PR Director, you're paying me the big bucks to remind you to talk to him carefully, and preferably somewhere private."

Mark frowned, feeling like he was being chastised. "I'm paying you the big bucks because you know better than to remind me that I have to protect Facebook above all else."

Chris didn't look remotely sorry, but he pinched his lips together and wisely said nothing else. Turning away, Mark returned to his office, remembered that his laptop was still on the fritz and swore under his breath. He didn't want to email Eduardo on a computer that wasn't his, so he flipped open his phone and wrote a text instead to the cell number Chris had given him.

I received your letter yesterday. Initiating contact is not a good way to break contact with me. I read it and then dreamed that both of us were in Montauk. I remembered that you had wanted to go, and now you're in New York. Have you been?

He closed the phone and didn't wait for a reply, though every time it vibrated in his pocket, he rushed to check the message. None came from Eduardo.

The day passed and he did what work he could at a desktop he set up in his office. This mostly amounted to answering emails and reviewing the minutes from meetings he hadn't gone to. He attended the important ones, or scheduled them himself.

Mark put on his favorite Woodie Allen movie to help him think. Woodie Allen always had bigger problems, or he at least complained about them more so that they seemed that way.

Mark watched Deconstructing Harry with part of his attention and thought about Eduardo with the rest.

He thought about what it might mean that he was thinking about Eduardo again, at all. He thought about what it might mean that his laptop was dying, now, and because of that, Mark had come face to face with Print. Eduardo had contacted him in this other way, and now Mark was writing post-its and remembering what Eduardo's cock felt like in his mouth. Was all this significant?

We had sex after you signed the papers. You didn't know yet that you were out of the company. I invited you back for the million members party and we had sex before you left for New York. It was the first time since I'd come out to California, and I knew that you would think it was some kind of gesture on my part. It wasn't.

Mark leaned forward and added the post-it to the increasingly chaotic patchwork of their timeline. He'd been adding them all night.

Eduardo wasn't going to answer Mark's text. Mark came to this conclusion at three in the morning, after he'd finished Crimes and Misdemeanors.

Eduardo had written a letter to Mark, and Mark was in the process of covering his coffee table with pink pieces of paper.

Remembered mornings had begun to string themselves together by the feel of Eduardo's palm sliding up and down Mark's spine, Eduardo curled on his side, looking at Mark as he did it, dark eyes wide. Eduardo's hand dipping into the shallow hollow of Mark's lower back and staying their, warm and large, the feel of Mark's cheek pressed into the pillow, fists curled underneath his chest, eyes locked with Eduardo's—there was nothing special about these mornings, no moment of brittle brilliance to be preserved, no place for them on the timeline, but Mark remembered them, anyway.

The moments reminded him of others ones, expanded to encompass clusters and bunches, so that they weren't just moments anymore but entire scenes, lasting hours, days. There was no escaping the weight of them.

Hours spent hunched over flashcards, learning the language of economics and law, and Eduardo's triumphant blinding grin when he remembered something Mark couldn't (be bothered to).

Days and days of Eduardo's laughter.

Mark seeing and understanding the way Eduardo's mind worked—supply and demand curves, formulas and algorithms for the enterprising investor, the language of calculus and money. Mark didn't speak the same tongue but that didn't mean they were any less brilliant together.

The feeling of his ratty old jeans stretched tight across his thighs when he straddled Eduardo's hips, pinned Eduardo's wrists to the bed.

The way the backs of Eduardo's knees held all of his smell and how they fit over Mark's arms when Mark fucked him.

And, yes, how Eduardo used to sleep in Mark's bed in the afternoons, buried under his blankets, fully dressed, sometimes with only his hair sticking out. Mark would work at his desk, but he would also tip his chair back onto two legs and watch him.

Venturing again to his home office, Mark looked for stationary but could only find printer paper, so he grabbed a whole ream of it and went back to the couch.

Eduardo,

There were things that I did just to do them. I didn't think about consequences. You weren't like that, usually. You always thought about what you should do before you did it. I have—a bit of a problem with anyone who treats me like a child. You never did, Wardo. When you froze the account, I thought that you were, but you were just doing the kind of thing I would. You froze the account to do something I'd finally recognize. So I reacted. I thought, if you could freeze the account, then I would find a way to push you out of Facebook. When Sean suggested diluting the shares, I thought it was perfect. And you were perfect when you confronted me. Jesus, Wardo. You were fucking gorgeous.

It was perfect.

Except it's not anymore.

I did it because I could, which will sound psychotic, but psychopaths also generally have violent urges, which I don't, and no fear of heights or death, which I absolutely do, so. This is just a thing, about me.

You started this whole letter-writing Print thing.

Mark

He sealed up the letter and carefully copied down the address Chris had given him. Of course, he couldn't find a stamp, and it was, by then, 4:30 in the morning. Did the Post Office open at six? Or was it nine, like those no-good bankers with their bankers' hours?

There was nothing for it. The earliest he could get to a window was 7:30. He could be on a flight to New York by then. Delivering the letter in person would be faster, with instantaneous results. It had already been four months since Eduardo had sent his letter; Mark didn't think he could wait for another one in reply, if he got one at all. After this, Print or the fucking Pony Express or whatever, were dead to him. Print was out. Facebook was so much faster, obviously, one of the reasons he'd invented it.

The plane touched down at JFK in early evening, three hours ahead of Mark's California-set internal clock. He didn't know Eduardo's work schedule so didn't know what he'd find once he got to the apartment building.

It had been a beautiful early spring day in Palo Alto. In New York, it felt like early March. The mounds of old snow hung around like ghosts, draining slowly into the sewers. And falling from the sky was some really unpleasant mix of ice, rain, and fat snowflakes.

He was not dressed for this shit.

Knowing that a cab would get stuck in rush hour traffic, Mark opted for the subway, looking up the route on his phone. Armed with directions and his letter, he set off for Central Park West.

The doorwoman at Eduardo's building, Olivia, took pity on him and let him wait inside. She even gave him a National Geographic from 1998 to read.

"Eduardo is such a gentleman," she said. "He's probably the most polite tenant in the building. No sense of entitlement, that boy. I swear, you'd think most of these people couldn't wipe their own—" Wisely cutting herself off there, the woman smiled. "Well, you get the idea."

"I do, yes," Mark answered.

"Are you a good friend of his, Mr. Zuckerberg?"

"I, um." Mark shrugged. "I was. I don't know, now. Maybe?"

Olivia's expression instantly hardened, as though the thought of a botched friendship with someone like Eduardo Saverin was too unpleasant to even consider. "Are you here to apologize?"

This woman was definitely the mother of several small children—or she was a retired elementary school teacher. "Probably. Could I—please read this article on manatees now?"

Burying his nose in the magazine before she answered, overnight bag propping up his feet, Mark slouched into the sofa and settled in to wait.

It was just after nine. Eduardo apparently worked late on Fridays. Or maybe he was out with friends. Maybe he was on a date. Shit, maybe he lived with someone. Mark should have investigated this before he flew out.

"Does Eduardo have a significant other?" he blurted, unapologetic. Olivia was the nearest source of information on the matter. Mark's laptop was still half-dead and in California.

Looking up from behind the desk, Olivia's eyes narrowed. "I'm not sure that's any of your business, Mr. Zuckerberg." The inflection of his name was, now, totally different.

"Ah. I see you are capable of using the internet. Well, Olivia, I am entirely certain it is none of your business if he's seeing anyone, so what does it matter if you tell me?"

Her mouth twisted in a fierce scowl, but before she could say anything, Eduardo came through the front door and neatly answered Mark's question. There was a man with him. He was about Mark's height, though a bit stockier, with messy black hair and black glasses, and he was so obviously Jewish, Mark had to close his eyes to keep from rolling them. Then he had to swallow a few times to keep from saying something he would (eventually) regret.

"Oh shit. Mark?" Looking up, he saw Eduardo staring at him, holding his dripping umbrella to the side. "What are you doing here?"

Getting to his feet was more difficult than it should have been, but he managed to step around his overnight bag and right himself. Shoving his cold hands in the pockets of his hoodie, he clenched them around both letters. "I got your letter," he said.

Eduardo blinked at him. "What letter?"

His jaw hurt from how tightly he ground his teeth together. "The one that you sent four months ago to my junk mail P.O. Box."

Instantly, color flooded Eduardo's face, and he ducked his head away from the man beside him.

"Oh my god, are you Mark Zuckerberg? Wow. I mean. Wow. I'm Ben." The man extended his hand and Mark looked at it before leaning forward for a very perfunctory shake. "You are, wow, like, such a controversial figure in New York. I'm, like, simultaneously honored and disgusted right now." His voice went up at the end of each sentence, as though it were a question.

Mark felt certain his eyebrows were doing all sorts of weird things up and down his forehead and he swallowed again around the urge to be rude. He wasn't nineteen anymore. He was CEO, bitch. Chris had taught him well. Glancing at Olivia, he was mildly reassured to see that her lips were pressed together in a thin line and that her eyebrows were also in full upright 'disbelief' position.

Eduardo was pinching the bridge of his nose and almost laughing. "Ben, I'll call you tomorrow, all right? We'll... go to that thing in the Park, that you mentioned at dinner."

Ben looked between them, his eyes lingering on Mark, before he reached up and put his hand on the back of Eduardo's neck. Mark quickly looked away when they kissed.

"Bye, Mark Zuckerberg!"

Mark shook his head and waved without looking up. It was a dismissal, or a 'get the fuck out of here,' rather than a goodbye. When he was gone, Mark finally raised his eyes to Eduardo. He wore a black pea coat, dark jeans, and what looked to be expensive European sneakers. His face was just as thin as Mark remembered it. His eyes were enormous.

"Don't," Eduardo said, and he was almost smiling.

Mark shrugged. "He's not even worth it. So, I won't."

And that, Mark realized quickly, wasn't want Eduardo wanted to hear. His almost-smile disappeared, and he looked down at his umbrella. "Let's go. I'm not going to subject Olivia to you for longer than necessary." He nodded to the doorwoman and then gestured toward the elevator.

Returning the National Geographic to her desk, Mark cleared his throat. "Thank you for letting me wait here."

Olivia put two fingers up to her eyes and then gestured at Mark, mouthing, 'I'm watching you.' He thought that was pretty creepy, and shifting his bag higher on his shoulder, hurried after Eduardo.

Eduardo's apartment was large and open with lots of natural light and pale-colored furniture. He had bookshelves overflowing with old textbooks and journals, and a huge television on the far wall. The apartment looked lived in. Mark could see Eduardo here, making cornbread in the galley kitchen, shuffling across the carpet with his shoes off, going to a bookshelf to find a back issue of The Economist.

"This place is really great."

Eduardo left the open umbrella by the door to dry and toed off his shoes. He hung his coat up on a hook and didn't turn around to face Mark when he spoke. "Thanks. I've been seeing Ben for a month. He's a PhD student at Columbia. I'm gay, Mark."

Mark's fists tightened again in the pockets of his hoodie. "Ben... is. He's a joke, you know that right? A caricature of a stereotype."

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes, and I—"

"You're choosing to ignore the parts that you don't like, and latching onto the thing that you think might hurt me or embarrass me."

"I haven't seen you in five years, and you're telling me what I'm—"

"Yes. Mark." Eduardo turned around, then. "I'm telling you what you're doing because I could never tell if you knew."

Mark pulled Eduardo's letter out of his pocket. He'd folded, unfolded, and refolded it so many times in the last few days that the creases were starting to wear thin. "You sent this to me. Some bizarre mix of a love letter and a Dear John."

Eduardo's sweater was a soft gray color, which made his hair and eyes look that much darker. His arms were crossed over his chest, fingers squeezing his biceps. He walked across the room and sat on the arm of his couch. "My therapist thought it'd be a good idea."

"You're seeing a shrink?"

"Jesus, Mark, everyone in New York sees a shrink. It's total bullshit. But I have to spend my settlement money on something other than this apartment."

"Did you start seeing a shrink because of the lawsuit? Because that's—"

"No, I went to Singapore for a year because of the lawsuit. You only got to ruin two years of my life."

"Apparently not, because you sent me this—"

"My god, you have not changed even the slightest—"

"Would you let me finish a fucking sentence? Goddammit, Eduardo, I came here to talk to you, not to be..." And then, of course, he trailed off, unable to finish his own fucking sentence. "I came here to... to—here." He thrust the letter he'd written at Eduardo.

Eduardo accepted it, looking down at the folded envelope and back up to Mark. His thick dark eyebrows were crooked, one lifted above the other. "I need a beer. There's Becks in the fridge."

Nodding stiffly, Mark escaped to the kitchen to poke through Eduardo's fridge. He heard the sound of the envelop ripping and then the letter crinkling open. Taking his time popping off the caps, he leaned back against the counter and drank deeply from one of the bottles. There was a return trip ticket in his bag if this went badly. He could catch a red-eye back to California and be at work in the morning.

Returning to the main room, Eduardo was still seated on the arm of the couch, his eyes tracking back and forth across the page. "What the fuck is this?" he asked without looking up.

"What does it look like to you?"

"It looks like a way for you to explain yourself without actually apologizing for any of it. It looks like you're saying you aren't sorry for plotting with Sean Parker to have me pushed out of the company. And you're not sorry you betrayed me because you—" And now he did meet Mark's eyes. "—because you thought I looked hot when I was hurt and angry?"

Mark had the acute desire to snatch back the letter and read it again to see if that was really what he'd said. "I—am. Sorry."

"Yeah?"

"Not for the reasons I think you think I should be, but because—"

"I don't want to hear it. I've got your letter. That's all I really need." Abruptly he stood. "Thanks for delivering it in person. That was big of you." It was a dismissal.

Mark glanced at his duffel. He was actually really tired. He hadn't slept the night before, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten; maybe lunch the previous day? He was fucking starving.

"No. Wardo. Maybe that's—maybe that's what it says, and I'm sure I meant it, but that's not all of it."

"Oh, great, there's more?"

"Sort of. I sort of—" Reaching down, he grabbed his duffel and opened one of the side compartments. His fingers closed around the small stack of post-its and he crossed to the coffee table, putting his beer up in the corner. He knelt down in front of it as though it were an old friend and made his timeline. He slapped down the original eleven slips of paper, the nine bits of remembered moments beginning with their meeting in Calculus and ending with the depositions. They didn't stick right anymore, but he smoothed down the corners of each one until he felt Eduardo looming behind him, until Eduardo knelt down next to him. Eduardo put his elbows on the table and rested his beer against his forehead as he read the notes.

Finally, he turned and really looked at Mark.

"It took me a long time to finally understand this about you, to understand you: you use people, Mark. This—the bits that you remember? That's when you got what you wanted most; it's when you won, and someone lost. Even if you were only proving yourself, you were doing it at someone's expense." He peeled one of the post-its off the table, the one for the Facemash algorithm. "You did it at my expense, more than anyone else's."

Mark shook his head. "That's not true. You're wrong, Wardo."

Eduardo hesitated for a moment, as though unsure if Mark were serious. Then he laughed, harsh and ugly, throwing his head back. "I'm wrong. Amazing. Tell me why I'm wrong this time, Mark. Enlighten me."

Mark exhaled hard and scrambled for the right words. They were right there; they just weren't...words. "It's not about winning. It's about..."

"It's about winning, Mark."

"Would you stop saying my name like my sixth grade English teacher? I'm trying to be precise. It's not winning. It's accomplishing. If it were about winning, I would have sold out to Microsoft or Apple. I would have sold Facebook. And you," he said, gesturing at Eduardo, "you would work for—for fucking Goldman Sachs and—and bet on fucking subprime mortgages. We're not those people. I hate those people; they don't make anything. Those people are about winning."

Eduardo nodded, blinking as he processed this. "Okay, then. What was I? What did you accomplish with me?"

Mark sucked in a slow breath and tried really hard not to look away. "I had you, Wardo. I was with you. That was all."

"That was all," Eduardo echoed.

"That was everything. We were everything."

Eduardo shook his head. "No. This?" he began, gesturing at the table. "This is not us. This is you."

Knowing Eduardo was about to get up, feeling his long body tense up to unfold from the floor, Mark grabbed his elbow. "Wait. Wardo, I know there's more. I know, all right?"

Mark leaned over and reached into his duffel again, pulling out the much thicker stack of post-its. There were dozens of them. He peeled them apart and added them to the table one at a time, reproducing the diagram of their relationship. Beside him, Eduardo shifted on his knees, settling a little closer to Mark, returning his elbows to the table.

As Mark laid out the post-its, Eduardo touched some of them with the tips of his fingers. Watching from the corner of his eyes, Mark could see him smile.

"I don't remember this," Eduardo murmured, touching one of the notes by Mark's wrist.

The first time you slept over, you used my tooth brush and wore a pair of my flannel pants. They barely came to your ankles. You and Dustin laughed so hard you were both crying.

Mark huffed a quiet laugh. "I didn't either until I remembered this one." He pointed to another.

The only time I slept in your room, you were so paranoid someone would suspect something that you made me leave at 5:30 in the morning.

Eduardo's smile was sad. "I felt bad about that for a while. I had nightmares about being outed by someone in my hall. There was this jackass who wrote 'faggot' on my white board because he thought it was funny how much time I spent fixing my hair."

"That hair did take a lot of work," Mark said. Then he took a swallow of his beer. "I didn't know anyone gave you trouble. Seriously, what fucking century is this?"

Eduardo barked a laugh. "I loved you for your bourgie liberal family, Mark. I almost came out to your mother that Thanksgiving."

"God, she would have loved that. And you got into the Phoenix even with suspicions of 'gay' hanging around? What the fuck was I doing wrong?"

Eduardo rolled his eyes. "Must have been the diversity thing." Distractedly, he moved a few of the post-its around, placing them at different points on the timeline.

Mark wondered at how they could have remembered different things about their friendship, how they could have remembered and interpreted it so differently. Eduardo's shoulder was close enough to his that he only had to lean the slightest bit to the left and their sleeves would touch.

"Did you really dream that we were at Montauk?"

"Yeah."

"That's so weird."

"Why, did you?"

"No, of course not. It's weird that you would dream we were there. What did we do?"

Mark shrugged. "I followed you around while you walked on the beach. Then there was, like, a hurricane that almost blew me into the ocean and we huddled under your coat to stay warm."

"We 'huddled?'"

"You took your coat off and we were under it. You, um, you put your arm here." He gestured to his own waist, and then, looking Eduardo in the eye, very carefully reached for Eduardo's side, resting his hand just below his ribs. "So, yeah, I would classify that as 'huddling.' Why didn't you answer my text?"

Eduardo's eyes dropped to Mark's hand and lifted again. "I didn't want to. I wrote you a letter, not a text. And I wrote that four months ago."

"My laptop died this week, so I went to the Post Office. That seems really significant, now. Print is dead to me, again, by the way. Now that I've—" He tilted his chin toward the post-it covered coffee table. "—destroyed a forest."

Carefully setting his beer on the table, Eduardo took Mark's hand from his side. "I think you were in love with me, and you made your discovery with post-its."

"Are you condoning the destruction of rain forests, Wardo?"

"Print brought you here, to me."

"I think all this brought me here." Eduardo still had hold of his hand as Mark leaned close and breathed in the smell of a clean shirt, warm skin and good beer. He touched his nose to the space behind Eduardo's ear and then drew back. “Mind if I crash here tonight?”

“No, Mark. I don't mind.”

The next day, they took the train out to Montauk. They walked to the beach, and it was cold and windy, just as Mark knew it would be, but the sun was shining.

TSN Fic: You Know How This Is 1/2

2011-04-20T20:24:10Z

Title: You Know How This Is
Author: June
Fandom: The Social Network
Pairing: Mark/Eduardo
Rating: R
Word Count: 7,445
Disclaimer: A fictitious account of fictitious characters based upon real characters. No infringement intended.

Summary:
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten

or

Mark makes lists and remembers.

Notes:
For the npmexchange for cheapxdate . Your prompts were so good, and I was this close to writing you Harry/Hermione, but I wanted to try my hand at Mark/Eduardo, so here you are, my dear! I hope you like this!

Inspired by If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda

You Know How This Is

It is the story of the life we made.

It is a question – the question – are we supposed to happen?

Can one decision define an entire relationship, or is it the smaller ones, the ones that aren't so heavy and hurtful, that set us on our path? Do we even remember them or do we find ourselves here, like a miracle?

On a Thursday his laptop crashed—just abruptly went to a blue screen while he was trying to open a video file. It wasn't the end of the world, or the laptop for that matter, but he'd be without his computer while a bunch of his software was reinstalled and personal files recovered from the hard drive. This was kind of an obnoxious process, so Mark went for a walk in the middle of the day—the first time he'd done so since, well, probably since Chris had made him take a day off to 'get some exercise and clear his head' six months ago. ("Preventative medicine, Mark. Breath some air and eat a salad." He'd been worried they were planning a surprise party, or something equally dreadful, but no, Chris was just worried about his health.)

He could have stayed at the office and used a different computer, but the settings wouldn't be the way he wanted them, and he'd have to remember all his passwords so it was just easier to leave for awhile. It was an act of God, except not in the form of an environmental disaster. Though for Mark, it may as well have been.

He walked past a newsstand, thought, 'Oh. Print,' and stopped to look at some of the titles. He reached automatically for one of the tech magazines, saw 'Facebook' down in the corner with one of his VP's names underneath and put it back.

He walked and wished he'd brought sunglasses. California could be really bright. Sometimes he missed the cool gray skies of the Northeast.

He walked until he passed a Post Office and remembered that he'd rented a box there a few years back, basically for correspondence with all the kids who wrote to him admiring him for his ambition, and the rest of his junk mail. His assistant usually picked it up for him every few months and kept the bulk of it off his desk.

Temporarily intrigued by this idea of Print, and wanting to touch more of it, Mark fished in his pockets for his keys and, miraculously, located the one to his P.O. box. His flipflops slid noisily across the tile floor as he shuffled into the lobby and then up to the window.

"Excuse me. I'm Mark Zukerberg; could you tell me which of these boxes is mine? I have my key, but I don't..."

The clerk was a large woman with a bubble hairdo and glasses with points on the ends. Mark thought, 'Oh—Print.' She was scowling at him.

"Well, Mr. Zuckerberg, I'm going to need to see some identification, and then you can have your bin of mail. Try to be a bit more regular about picking it up, all right?"

"Uh. Yes, Ma'am."

Standing in the lobby of the Post Office, Mark sifted through the bin, dumping fliers and take-out menus into the recycling. He kept the letters for his assistant to go through, glancing at the return addresses to see how many were from Harvard. There was one that caught his eye, addressed only to 'Mark.' It had no return address, but the handwriting looked familiar, and no sooner had he realized this, than his heart began to thud loudly in his ears, his fingers to buzz. He got that feeling in his throat like the invention of 'Relationship Status.'

He ripped open the envelope and fumbled the single sheet of lined white paper, unfolding it to find Eduardo's writing—neat and deliberate, just as he remembered it.

Written on the paper was a list, marked with dashes along the side. At the top, it read.

'I wrote all this down to be done with it. If you see it—good.'

The list read as follows:

You multi-tasked while we worked together. You used to write your Expos essays between Econ formulas, your Programming assignments, and whatever movie Dustin was watching. And you still used to stare at me.

You talked even faster when we were drunk. It made me feel smart that I could follow what you said.

sleeping in your bed in the afternoons. I was always tired in the afternoons, and you worked while I slept. The dorm was so quiet.

You were impressed sometimes. It did happen, when you weren't feeling jaded and superior. I read your papers, and I always wrote better than you. I was so stupidly satisfied when you'd look at me and know I was better at something. Makes me ill now.

I listened to you talk to your sisters on the phone. You were really nice to them.

You kissed with your eyes open

barely made a sound even when I asked you to

rested your head on my chest, after

You didn't understand the difference between friendship and utility.

Mark didn't know what he was looking at. He folded the letter and reached down into the trash to retrieve the envelope. It was postmarked New York City and dated four months ago. Unfolding the letter, he reread the list.

Okay, there were some things he could determine. This was clearly a list of memories, Eduardo's memories of Mark. This was probably Eduardo angry at himself for remembering them.

Mark hadn't ever felt the need to do this. He read through them again, and his cheeks heated at the three that ran together in one breath, as though Eduardo were angriest here, about this part.

These were not the memories Mark associated with Eduardo; they weren't the ones he would have chosen.

He walked out of the Post Office with the bin, which he remembered later was illegal, and took a cab home. He didn't go back to the office, only sent Chris a text letting him know.

He had to figure this out.

That night, he sat on his couch with his elbows on his knees, chin propped up on his fists. The letter sat in the middle of the coffee table, open.

Eduardo left and Mark had let him. When he left, Mark believed that he was gone, for good. Mark moved on, left that behind, traveled light. His office and his computer were where he stayed. He was a piece of information in a vast digital landscape. He was weightless and vast; he was everywhere.

He didn't live online, because that would imply that he said things, did things, had some sort of presence in the world he'd created. He didn't. Mark didn't really live anywhere because the word implied comfort, ease, feet propped up on something.

Mark hadn't created Facebook so he could live there. He hadn't wanted to get into a Final Club so he could live there. He hadn't gone to Harvard so that he could be a Harvard student—like, really be one. He hadn't dated Erica Albright because he'd wanted be with Erica Albright.

Mark didn't do things to participate in things. Things were not the point.

The point was... What was the point?

The point was that feeling, that moment of creation, of ownership, of deliberate life. The point was feeling that there was proof, however fleeting.

His betrayal of Eduardo was proof of something. Maybe that friendship couldn't last because comfort, familiarity, trust, love—these things didn't hold up in the face of time and new moments of creation.

Mark remembered the moments he'd had with Eduardo because they were among the sharpest, most perfect things he'd made. He kept them, along with all the others (building his first computer, Harvard, Erica, facemash, Sean Parker) locked in memory, the only place they really existed, now.

Striding quickly up to his home office, Mark rooted through the desk until he found what he was looking for: a new pack of post-it notes and a pen. He returned to the couch, the tools of Print in hand. Sitting forward on the cushions, he tore off the plastic from the post-its and uncapped his pen. The cap went between his teeth where he could bite on it.

He would write them out, too, the moments that made up Eduardo and him. Maybe there was something to this—Eduardo had thought so.

You're approaching the problem all wrong. Would you like my help?

Oh, thank god. Yeah, that'd be great. I'm Eduardo.

I'm Mark. Are you good at proofreading?

Yeah, 'course.

Ripping the first post-it off the pad, Mark stuck it to the table, immediately followed by another which read:

You're Jewish? We must have homing beacons or something. You know my roommate, Dustin. Yes, of course you do.

Hesitating before writing the third, his brows pinched into a frown.

Maybe if we work the diversity angle, the Final Clubs will have to punch us. You're half-brown; that can only help.

He slapped this note onto the table and the next one came easily.

I need you.

I'm here for you.

I need the algorithm, Wardo.

Leaning forward, Mark grabbed his beer from the corner of the table. He took a long swallow before writing the next.

I can't feel my legs.

I know. I'm totally psyched about his, too.

His thumb pressed back and forth across the adhesive as he stuck the slip of paper to the table. Then his lips quirked into a small crooked smile.

Let me go down on you. Right now.

Jesus, who says that? Okay.

His smile faded just as quickly, and he spat the pen cap out onto the table.

I'm afraid if you don't come out here, you're going to get left behind.

Looking at the post-its lined up, he wondered what it meant that the months between Mark pushing Eduardo down into his bed, and the end of their friendship were only an inch apart on his coffee table.

But he couldn't stop now that he'd started, and the next bit filled three notes.

I did this. I knew this would happen and I waited for it, and now it has, and this was me. I did this to him and he knows. It was beautiful in the way things are perfect a moment before they're destroyed. The moment before Wardo smashes the laptop is possibly the most beautiful thing I have ever made. Potential energy coiled and poised, waiting in that fraction of a second to crash down. There was everything that came before -- a hand at my back, notes scribbled on windows, the walls of a dormitory -- and there is a new world that springs up after, and I made it. My choices, me. I did this. When Wardo breaks, I can't even breath. And it's strange but I've never felt closer to him before this moment. I did this, and I did it so that he would see us, so that we would be perfect in this moment.

And that was it. That was the end of them. The depositions that came after only served to drag out their final moment, until it couldn't be perfect anymore. Mark was forced to look at it again and again, as though he would finally see something different, as though Eduardo could finally get Mark to recognize something. What Eduardo didn't understand was that Mark didn't work that way.

He had been sad that Eduardo was gone. Sean had been a prick.

But I don't regret what I did, and you did what you had to do. I gave you what was yours. That was the end.

He wrote the last note out slowly and smoothed it down next to the rest. There were eleven notes.

Feeling strangely exhausted from the effort, Mark flopped back onto his couch, arms and legs stretched out. He tipped the last few drops of beer into his mouth and then curled onto his side, facing the back cushions. Within moments, he was asleep.

Mark dreamed in numbers and brackets, in if-then-else statements. His dreams often woke him up and sent him stumbling to his computer—if he wasn't already asleep at his desk. He slept fitfully because dreaming and waking weren't so different; he could slip from one to the next without effort. He did some of his best work coming out of a cat nap in his office.

That night he dreamed for what felt like hours, through all phases of sleep and half-waking. He would emerge enough to find his face pressed to the couch cushions—just aware enough to know he'd been dreaming—and then sink right back to where he'd left off. He was home in New York, and then he was on the train to Montauk.

He never went to Montauk—too far, barren and windy. As a child he'd gone once and been convinced the strip of sand would blow away. His sisters'd had to drag him out of the car.

Eduardo was on the train, but several seats ahead, his back to Mark. They weren't speaking to each other or acknowledging that they were on the train together. Eduardo, in fact, was sleeping, head cushioned on his coat in the corner between seat and window. The train stopped and started, passengers entering and leaving, but Mark and Eduardo stayed put. Mark had a notebook into which he was jotting code, except in the blurred details of the dream, it was only nonsense words and symbols. The point of the dream was not the code, for once.

At the final stop, Mark and and Eduardo both exited the train, though Mark stayed a fair distance behind. Eduardo was dressed in black, like he'd been on that last day in the Facebook Office, tall and slim like a cowboy.

Eduardo walked out to the beach, and it was windy as hell, just as Mark knew it would be—windy and fucking cold. There was snow blowing, mixed with sand, and it stung his cheeks and chin. Eduardo stayed ahead of him, his coat tails snapping back in the wind.

The wind tore at them, and Mark, who was only wearing a down vest which, for some reason, he couldn't button, had already begun to shiver. He clutched the vest closed and kept his arms pulled tight against his chest, but couldn't retain any heat. The sand shifted under his feet, and he swore the ocean was closer with every wave that pounded into the shore.

Searching for Eduardo up ahead, Mark started to panic—he was gone.

Or, not gone—wading out into the surf. "Eduardo, hey! What the hell are you doing?" The words were torn from his throat and whipped away on the wind. Mark tried to run but his feet kept slipping and sinking in the sand. Eduardo waded further out, the waves rising past his knees to slap against his thighs and waist. Mark hated Montauk, hated even the idea of swimming in the ocean, and here he was, about to watch Eduardo be sucked out to sea in his best cowboy outfit.

"Wardo!"

Finally, finally, Eduardo turned, and Mark could just make out his face in the insane gale that had blown up around them.

They were both too skinny for this. They weren't built for this kind of weather. Mark lost his footing and slid along the beach as though the wind had forced the world to tip sideways. His fingers numb, he couldn't find anything to slow his fall until he caught hold of a wet sandy sleeve and the wrist underneath.

Scrambling in the sand, his flipflops missing, he braced himself with only socks on his feet until gravity reasserted itself.

"Goddammit, Wardo, why are you in Montauk?" he gasped.

They knelt together in the sand and Eduardo didn't answer him, only opened his coat to show Mark a soaking wet dress shirt plastered to his chest. They used the coat as a half-tent, half-blanket and huddled under it, elbows knocking together in the negotiation of the tiny space. Eduardo put a hand on Mark's side and with the easy intimacy of a long-time lover, pulled himself closer, shifting a knee between Mark's. Mark did not feel so at ease and he looked sidelong at Eduardo's throat, at his stubble-covered jaw and his shadowed eyes. Their eyes didn't meet, but Eduardo's breath gusted across Mark's face.

"Wardo, what the fuck?" he asked, voice thin. He couldn't stop shivering.

He awoke, curled into the tightest ball he could manage against the back of his couch, all his muscles stiff with cold. Cursing quietly, he reached up for the blanket folded across the top and pulled it down on over himself. It was fleece, and his mom had given it to him shortly after he'd moved into the house because she'd said the place looked cold. The place was cold.

In that strange moment after such a vivid dream, Mark felt Eduardo's absence as though he'd actually just left. The ache was surprising in its intensity.

Sitting up with the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, Mark looked at the neat line of post-its across the coffee table.

With stiff fingers, he picked up his pen and leaned forward to write.

You came home with me for Thanksgiving, and you wanted to go to the beach because you'd never been to one up north. I refused to take you because it was November.

He put the note above the "Your're Jewish?" one, and then, because he'd only just remembered it, added another that read:

After that, you had a powerful love for Jiffy box cornbread. You used to make it in the dorm kitchen.

Then he went upstairs and climbed into bed where he was finally able to get warm. He pulled the blankets over his head and rolled onto his stomach, rubbing his half-heard prick into his palm.

Part 2

Fic: When I was 1/1 (The Social Network, Mark/Eduardo, rated R)

2011-03-29T13:31:44Z

Title: When I Was
or
Five Times Mark Is Nearly Outed, and the One Time He Outs Himself
Fandom: The Social Network
Pairing: Mark/Eduardo
Rating/Warnings: R for language, sex, and potentially triggery violence
Disclaimer: A fictitious account of characters in a movie about real people. No harm intended.

Notes: I don't know, guys. There was this prompt at the tsn kink meme, and it struck a chord. This felt like the right fic to write.

When I was 12 and Fearless

Mark's parents had taught him that there was an answer to every question, and it was his job as a budding scientist (his love, then, had been chemistry) to discover those answers for himself—form a hypothesis and test it, isolating the different variables.

The question Mark had was why boys and girls were so crazy around each other. More specifically, he wanted to understand why he wasn't crazy around girls. He'd tried kissing girls like the boys did, quick pecks on the lips in the coat room and by the buses. It wasn't bad, but neither did he feel crazy. The next logical test was his feelings about boys. Was he not crazy over girls because he liked boys better?

His neighbor's name was Li. Mark and Li had been friends since Li had moved in a few years back. His mom had some high profile position in the government, maybe even the CIA. Li was cool enough to have a mom who worked for the CIA; he was pretty secretive about it.

They liked to have pretend sword fights with sticks when they were little. But in middle school, Li wanted to play soccer, so now they practiced that a lot. They were both skinny kids with knobby knees and elbows—they could run forever.

It was October, cold and sunny. Their faces were flushed, breath just starting to appear in clouds of condensing water. Mark grabbed Li by the back of the sweatshirt and spun him to the ground. They were both laughing and then Mark pressed his mouth to Li's. It was a hard, close-mouthed kiss, and it made Mark's whole body flush hot and wild. He felt his fingers buzz with life and his heart slap crazily against his ribs. He felt crazy. He closed his eyes because it seemed like the natural thing to do.

He shouldn't have closed his eyes.

Li shoved him and Mark rolled back onto the grass, startled. Then Li hit him, hard, right in the face, knuckles hitting his cheek bone. Li had never hit anyone before. His family was Chinese; Mr. And Mrs. Cheng were the most polite people Mark knew.

Li's mom and dad came over later and spoke in hushed angry voices to Mark's parents. Mark tried to listen in, but couldn't hear what they said.

When his Mom said goodnight to him that evening, she sat on the edge of his bed and put her hand on his knee. "Not everyone sees the world the way you do, sweetheart. You be who you are, but you be careful, too. Always, always be careful."

At school, Li didn't talk to him anymore, but neither did he say anything to anyone else about had happened. The Chengs remained the most polite people Mark knew. Before the school year was out, Li's mother was transferred and they had to move.

Li Cheng gave Mark his first lesson in keeping secrets.

When I Was 16 and Careless

In high school, Mark learned that there were other people like him, boys and girls with secrets, who wanted to touch each other and connect just like anyone else. Only, they couldn't like anyone else. They had to do it in hidden places, unhygienic places.

There was a boy named Jeremy who wasn't good at much except drawing comics and jerking Mark off in the boy's bathroom. Jeremy had black hair, black eyes and very pale skin. His fingers were long and bony, smudged with graphite from all the sketches he did. He pushed Mark up against the stall door, rubbed his smudged thumb along the Mark's cheek bone and pushed his other hand down Mark's pants into his underwear. He did it silently with only quiet little huffs of breath to indicate that he felt anything.

Mark liked to tug Jeremy's jeans and underwear down enough so he could see his cock when he touched it. At sixteen, Mark was one hundred percent certain that cocks were the most incredible part of the male body. Jeremy's was short and thick and pink, unlike the rest of him. Mark fantasized about putting his mouth on it, but he never had the courage.

Sometimes, after they'd both finished and cleaned each other up with toilet paper, Jeremy pressed folded squares of paper into Mark's hand—drawings of Mark's face, his hands, his prick.

Mark didn't tell anyone about Jeremy, obviously, not even his parents who would've only reiterated the importance of precautionary measures. Still, Mark had the feeling that people knew about Jeremy, knew that he liked cock.

This was confirmed one afternoon during their free period when they'd just finished each other off, and Jeremy had daringly kissed Mark right on the mouth, lips wet and cool. Jeremy went to wash up at the sinks, while Mark took a piss and tried to determine whether or not he liked kissing. He didn't really think so.

He heard the door to the bathroom open and several pairs of feet enter. He heard Jeremy suck in a quick breath, and even though Mark wasn't the best at knowing exactly what Jeremy wanted, Mark knew when Jeremy was afraid.

Mark heard the first "faggot," spit from a boy's mouth and bit his lip, unsure of what to do. When he heard more angry words and then the sound of a fist striking bone, he stepped up onto the toilet seat. He bit into the hood of his sweatshirt and waited, heart pounding in his ears, skin cold and sweating as Jeremy began to cry. They kept hitting him. Then they started pushing him back and forth across the bathroom.

Jeremy never called out to him.

No one came to help, and Mark didn't move. He didn't breath. Finally, he heard the unmistakable sound of something breaking against one of the sinks. The boys went quiet, and all Mark could hear was Jeremy moaning. Then, with only a few whispered words, the boys left. When the door had closed behind them, Mark stumbled from the stall, his fingers numb, his breath finally coming again in harsh, wild gusts. There was blood all over the floor, and a dead boy slumped by the sinks. Jeremy stared up at him with blank dead eyes, and Mark threw up all over his own shoes.

When the police came and carried Jeremy out on a stretcher under a sheet, Mark told a half-truth.

"I was using that stall over there when the boys came in, and I heard them beat him to death. Yes, I can identify the voices. I know who they are. No, I didn't know Jeremy."

When I Was 18 and Hidden

Erica Albright was, maybe, the coolest girl Mark had ever known. She was very smart, pretty, and a fantastic girlfriend. She wanted to see Mark 'whenever' and do 'whatever' and, he thought they might be one of those cool couples that people actually wanted to hang out with. They started dating the summer after Mark's freshman year at Harvard. She lived the next town over, and now that Mark had a car, he could drive around on the pretense of going to see her. If he never actually made it there, neither his parents nor Erica needed to know. Most often, though, he did because he really liked her.

The only hitch was sex.

Sex, for Mark, was private and dangerous. Sex, for Erica Albright, was something to be shared and laughed about. Erica was only one year older than Mark, but somehow, she'd determined that she had sex all figured out. Was it because heterosexual sex was easier? Or did she just know how to not be afraid of consequences? As though birth control and condoms were the answer to everything?

The only way he could have sex with Erica was to consider what they did something other than sex.

And, unfortunately for both of them, that didn't work out so well. Sex couldn't really be anything other than what it was.

They didn't do it often because Erica liked to just hang out, too, but they did it enough that Mark worried about it, about what she thought of it, of him. Especially what she thought of him.

He held himself over her in the dark of her bedroom, barely able to make out her face against her pillow. Her hands ran up and down his sides, the heel of her right foot curved over the back of his thigh. Moving inside her, Mark had to think so so hard about the purpose of this. Make Erica feel good. Do this for them because, for fuck sake, this is what kids did on weekends. He didn't know why this was so hard. He didn't know why he was even doing it at all. He didn't know what good this did either of— Please, he just wanted to come soon.

He could tell that she was getting uncomfortable, that she probably needed more lube. Fuck, why couldn't he just do this? Pulling out of her, he leaned down to kiss her. Erica loved kissing, and they could at least do this well together. He cradled her face in his hand and tipped her head back, pushing his tongue deep into her mouth.

She kissed him back for awhile and then gently pushed him away, a hand at his shoulder, thumbing his collarbone. He knew, suddenly, with absolute clarity what she was about to ask him. He could see the bits and pieces of their sex life coming together into a whole in her mind. She was about to ask him if he was gay, and he would have to lie to her, maybe make her think it was something wrong with her instead of him.

But she didn't say ask. She kissed his jaw and then let him sink down the length of her body. Kissing and nipping at her ribs and hip bone, Mark ate her out until finally finally he felt her come. She shook and gasped and moaned, and Mark thought that she was gorgeous and entirely too good for him.

Laughing and still shaking a little, she rolled him over, peeled off the condom, and went down on him until finally finally he shuddered and bucked his hips up. She held him there, after, her arm draped over his thighs, her mouth pressed to the side of his ass cheek.

They broke up within the first two weeks of school because Mark knew she knew about him, and he couldn't stand it. He kind of hated her for it.

When I was 19 and Ecstatic

"You know, you're charming when you're drunk?"

"No, I'm not. I'm really not."

"Yes. You are. You talk so quickly and you blush all the time, and you shrug your shoulders like this. I'm charmed; look at me. What's your name?"

"Mark. What's yours?"

"I'm Eduardo."

"Are you drunk right now, Eduardo?"

"Why, yes, how did you know?"

"Well, because I'm—I'm charmed, as well."

He fell in love with Eduardo Saverin over the course of a week. They fell in love together. It was fucking amazing and terrifying. Mark wanted to live in Eduardo's dorm room and code all day wearing his clothes. He wanted to bring him home to meet his family. For the first time, Mark wanted people to know he was gay, because it was that important for everyone to know how perfect Eduardo was, how perfect they were.

Eduardo, like Mark, wasn't out to anyone. But, unlike Mark, he was afraid of what his family would do. When they were alone in Eduardo's room, naked and half-asleep, Eduardo made crazy promises and offers, said things that made Mark's fear of discovery seem distant and unwarranted.

"I would run away with you," he whispered into Mark's armpit, "fuck off to Madrid or London or Dublin. Ireland's tech market is taking off. We could start The Facebook there. I'd fuck you every day and love you until we dropped dead of exhaustion."

He thought his suite-mates would be okay with it. Chris and Dustin were both from liberal Jewish families like his. He thought about laying Eduardo out on the couch and sucking him off, his long legs spread for anyone to see.

But when they were almost caught in a public bathroom, Mark remembered that sex was private, sex was secret, and above all, sex was dangerous. He remembered what it felt like to accidentally slip on Jeremy's blood, and had his first full-on panic attack. He thought he was dying, and so did Eduardo, who called 911 from the stall, with his pants around his knees.

When they finally launched Facebook, Mark decided he couldn't be out with Eduardo because it would be bad for the company. Eduardo agreed.

When I was 20 and Spiteful

After the Thiel investment, they fucked in Mark's apartment in Palo Alto. It was the first time since Mark had come to California and Eduardo had stayed behind, since Christy had introduced them to Sean Parker. Since Christy, full stop.

By then, Mark knew Eduardo was out of the company. They'd both made their choices; Eduardo just didn't know that yet. Eduardo made love to him like they used to. He told Mark that he still loved him, told him that he didn't care what his father thought of him anymore, that Facebook would make up for it, and even if it didn't? He told Mark that he wanted to be out to the entire world. The CEO and CFO of Facebook—the two youngest billionaires, business partners and lovers. Gay entrepreneurs—it'd be really important for the gay community.

Eduardo had never mentioned 'the gay community' before. He'd clearly spent too much time in New York.

Mark didn't have a panic attack at the thought of the entire world knowing the CEO of Facebook was gay. He didn't worry about it because Eduardo would be gone within the year, and Mark could finally put his fear of discovery to rest. He could finally be alone with his secrets and his company.

And he got exactly what he wanted—by 2005 Eduardo was gone, with an airtight non-disclosure agreement and a face frozen by heartbreak and betrayal.

When I am 29 and Alone

Walking into Chris's office, Mark sits down in the seat opposite his PR director's desk.

"What's up?" Chris asks. "You never just come here to sit. Is everything okay?"

"You're my PR director."

"Yes, I am."

"So you can make this really big thing that I have to say sound appropriately momentous but not at all disconcerting to stockholders."

"Oh, shit. Mark."

"It doesn't involve drugs or prostitutes or insider trading."

Chris sags in his chair and exhales. "Wonderful."

"We're going to draft a press release. I want it to say that the CEO and the former CFO of Facebook started Thefacebook together, and that we did it as partners and friends. We did it as more than friends. I want it to say that. Two gay kids started Facebook."

Chris is writing all this down on a notepad, and when Mark stops talking, he looks up. "Why is it you want to say this now, exactly?"

"Because it will be important for the gay community."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Okay, Mark. Anything else?"

Mark shifts in his seat and scratches his scalp. "Yes. Being gay and keeping it a secret can feel a lot like being alone, but it doesn't need to. I wasn't alone. I had Wardo until he was gone. Then I was alone, by choice, which I've realized was stupid." He looks at what Chris is writing. "Make that sound better than how I just said it."

"Sure."

"And, um, say that this is for Eduardo Saverin and Jeremy Deitch. Maybe we can turn it into, like, a PSA or something."

"I think that's a great idea."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Really."

Eduardo has been out for years. He is a Saverin in name only, now, his father disowning him after the depositions, the settlement, and Eduardo's very public announcement regarding his sexuality. Eduardo is a millionaire orphan. He's been married and divorced. Mark keeps track of all this through Chris and Dustin.

"Did you know?" Mark finally asks.

Chris hesitates. "Did I know about you, or did I know about you and Eduardo?"

"Both. Either."

He nods decisively. "He told me, actually, while you were together. And, I had eyes. Dustin said he felt a little weird about it at first, but Dustin is incapable of feeling any negative emotion for more than a day or two, so. It was cool. You both were so happy."

"Yeah." Abruptly, Mark stands up. "You, um, just run that by me before it goes out, okay?"

"Sure. And, congratulations, Mark."

Mark nods his thanks and backs out of the office with a small, awkward wave.

Returning to his own office, Mark sits down in front of his computer and opens a new email. He carefully types in Eduardo's address, meticulously copied from Chris's contacts but never officially entered into his own. In the body of the email he writes, "I have something for you. Keep an eye on the news."

End.