shit son, your wax paper house of lies just collapsed

In lieu of content, have some photos | Tuesday

estei — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 22:58:55 GMT

Over the weekend hermette suggested a photo meme and while on my walk to get some veggies and a latte this afternoon I decided to try it out. I don't know how many days I'll manage, but starting tomorrow I'll be covering a five day indie music festival so I'll likely have way more interesting things/people to photograph.

A very artistic alley half a block from my apartment that I cut through to get to the closest "main" street where some of my favourite music venues, restaurants and streetcar routes live.

It has been so damn nice out this past week that all the patios are open about five weeks early. I know this has serious climate implications but I really prefer this to snow. Btw, Wanda's has THE BEST PIE. I don't even like pie but I would punch a grandma for a slice of their strawberry rhubarb. Just, you know, not my grandma.

The awesome indoor/outdoor fruit and veggie market about five minutes from my house. This is why I don't care if I have to live in a tiny basement apartment to afford this neighbourhood, I will never leave. Everything I need is within a three block radius from my front door.

All of the kale for me!

And after all that arduous shopping, time for a stop at my favourite coffeeshop.

And my favourite almond milk latte.

And to conclude, tiny flowers!

This entry was originally posted at http://estei.dreamwidth.org/

KinkFest Fic that doesn't deserve a title.

estei — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 02:34:00 GMT

I honestly have no clue how this happened. Somehow even though I was crazy busy at work today I managed to write 3000 words of something that had no kink it for eledhwenlin's amazing KinkFest and then I came home and wrote another 2000 words and kink actually happened. But there is no ending! I got to a point where I knew it had to stop but I wasn't sure how and so I literally just wrote THE END. So, you know. Keep that in mind. Also, this has not been beta'd, so keep that in mind because if random typos and tense shifts are dealbreakers for you this is information you need.

Written for roebling's prompt: Brendon wants nothing more than to see highschool! or early Panic! Spencer in a pair of high heels. Spencer's willing to try, but once he's got the shoes on his feet and he's wobbling around he's sure he just looks like a huge fool. Brendon convinces him otherwise.

Brendon/Spencer | NC-17 | Warnings: Characters perform safe sex and unsafe sex, because kids still think that blowjobs don't count | 5000 words

Brendon didn’t remember how it started.

No, that’s a lie. He remembered the exact moment the idea popped into his head. He’d been watching as Spencer goofed around backstage with the dancers, laughing as Katie tugged on his hips and twirled him around in mimicry of the act she performed on stage. Spencer had been uncharacteristically willing to go along with the joke, eyes bright and cheeks flushed as he danced around the room in bare feet, deftly moving aside when one of Katie’s heels came too close to his toes. Spencer had looked so good, twirled and then clutched close to Katie, taller in her heels. Heels, Brendon had thought, Spence should be wearing heels. Just a random image, another fantasy to cycle through when Brendon was stuck in his bunk without access to Spencer’s pale skin, jerking off furtively before someone interrupted.

But Brendon didn’t remember when it grew from an occasional fantasy into a full blown obsession, when he started looking at high heels online and imagining which one would look best on Spencer’s foot. Brendon was not good at keeping secrets, and it felt weird not to share this with Spencer. They were always honest with each other, had been since before their first sloppy kiss in Maryland, and hiding this part of himself felt uncomfortably close to lying. It wasn’t like the time Brendon had asked Spencer to spank him, which had been hot as fuck, because Brendon didn’t even want Spencer to do anything crazy. He didn’t want Spencer to wear a dress, he wasn’t even sure what Spencer should wear with the heels, and he didn’t want Spencer to dance for him. He just wanted to watch. It was weird. Brendon felt really weird.

Spencer had probably noticed that something was up, he was pretty good at reading Brendon’s moods, but he seemed to be waiting for Brendon to open the topic for discussion. Of course, just as Brendon wasn’t really known for being subtle, Spencer was not known for being patient, so it shouldn’t have been so surprising when the next hotel night rolled around Spencer put a plan into action. Before the door had even closed behind them, Spencer had his duffle open on the farthest bed and Brendon knew he wasn’t looking for the lube and condoms.

“I’m going to shower,” Spencer said, with tone did not suggest an invite to join him. Brendon dropped down on the opposite bed with a sigh, but Spencer seemed impervious to his distress. “You should find a movie for us to watch or something,” he said, confirming Brendon’s suspicions that there would be no activities involving dicks at all. Which was a travesty, but Brendon was wise to Spencer’s ways. This was an obvious ploy to orchestrate some ‘talking time’ and if Brendon tried to divert from the plan Spencer would just ask outright. At this point, desperate as he was, Brendon would still rather just cuddle in sexual frustration.

“Will do, captain,” Brendon gave a jaunty salute, pleased with Spencer obviously couldn’t stifle a grin, even as he rolled his eyes.

“Whatever, dork,” he said, sweeping his palm across the crown of Brendon’s head as he passed by with a change of clothes and toiletries clutched awkwardly in the crook of his elbow.

Brendon had the TV on before Spencer reached the bathroom. Spencer was going to be naked, and wet, very soon and if he didn’t have a distraction something embarrassing would probably happen. Brendon crossed to the other bed long enough to grab all the pillows, he and Spencer would be sharing and Brendon loved surrounding himself with fluffy hotel pillows. Once settled in his pillow fortress he sniffed under his arm as he flipped through the channels, but the quick wash down and outfit change at the venue had done the trick. Mostly. Whatever, Spencer probably wasn’t going to be getting close enough to smell him anyway.

“There is nothing on TV,” Brendon said to himself. The cardboard sign on the entertainment hutch read WE HAVE DELUXE CABLE!, but deluxe seemed to mean an assortment of news programs and the Vision network and a channel dedicated to musicals, the latter Brendon eventually settles on. Spencer wouldn’t approve, but he just didn’t understand the epic nature of Curly and Laurey’s romance.

“Ugh, Brendon, Oklahoma?” Spencer was at the foot of the bed, hip cocked and dressed in soft pajama pants and the pink t-shirt that made Brendon want to bite his belly.

“There’s nothing else on,” Brendon said, making a point of looking past Spencer at the television.

“I hate this movie,” Spencer announced, as though there were any doubt. He tossed his dirty clothes back in his duffle and pulled out the book that Ryan had nagged him into reading. Brendon kept his eye on Spencer as he crawled onto the bed alongside him, Spencer was a known pillow thief and Brendon was comfortably settled against the headboard. But Spencer sat facing Brendon, collapsing into the pillows fanned across the top of the bed and curling up with his feet in Brendon’s lap as he opened the paperback.

“What,” Brendon huffed, pulse racing. His left hand was under the curve of Spencer’s ankle and he jerked it free.

“If I face the TV I’ll get distracted,” Spencer said, brows furrowed, already trying to find his place on the page. “And I just showered, dude. My feet don’t stink.”

“So you say,” Brendon said, trying to think of another reason why this arrangement was unacceptable. A reason besides the real one.

“And the dream sequence part really freaks me out, it’s so rapey,” Spencer snuggled further into the pillows, his feet arching a little as he shifted.

“My mom didn’t care for that part either, what with the magic potion business,” Brendon said, and as horrifying as it is to think of his mother right now, when he feels like his skin might explode, it also helps. “Actually, there was a lot about this musical that my mom didn’t like.”

“What parent doesn’t love a musical about murder, sex and cheating?” Spencer murmured, not lifting his eyes from the book. Brendon chuckled and started relaxing despite himself. By the time they got to the dream sequence, and whoa, Spencer was so right, it was downright creepy, Spencer’s eyelids had started to droop and Brendon didn’t think he’d turned a page in a few minutes. His hands felt awkward at his sides, so Brendon risked dropping his left hand in his lap, casually, and then cupping Spencer’s ankle.

“I’m awake,” Spencer said, rousing himself a little and visibly refocusing on the words in front of him.

“Yeah, I bet,” Brendon said, stroking his thumb against the arch of Spencer’s foot. He can feel his cheeks flush, but he doesn’t want to stop. The skin there is so thin and soft and pale. He imagined the strap of a black heel crossing Spencer’s ankle, imagined how it would feel under his fingertips, to go from skin to strap.

“That feels nice,” Spencer sighed, toes curling into Brendon’s thigh.

“Yeah,” Brendon could barely get the word out, his throat was so tight. Spencer’s eyes had closed, but they open now.

“Are you,” he stopped, and Brendon followed his gaze to his lap, where his hand hadn’t stopped moving, where his dick was hard and visible through the line of his pants.

“Um…”

“I knew they didn’t stink,” Spencer said, no longer on the verge of sleep but still a little dazed. Brendon spared a moment to be grateful that his boyfriend was such a weirdo that it wouldn’t occur to him to freak out first. “Is this what you’ve been worrying about? Do you have a …” Spencer furrowed his brow, “A foot fetish?”

“Maybe,” Brendon took a breath and made his hand still, tried to force his erection down with the power of his mind. His dick, obstinate as always, did not want to get with the program. “I don’t know. It’s weird.”

“Just tell me,” Spencer said, reaching out to touch Brendon’s elbow. It felt anchoring, Spencer wasn’t pulling away, he wasn’t freaked out, but Brendon still couldn’t get the words out.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” Brendon said. On the television, Curly was selling everyone he owned so he could be with Laurey. Brendon would list all his guitars on eBay this second if it meant Spencer wouldn’t leave. He was so focused on not making eye contact that he almost fell off the bed when Spencer moved to straddle him, unzipping his pants and licking a stripe across his palm before sliding a hand into his boxers.

“Tell me what you think about when you’re doing this,” Spencer’s lips moved against the shell of Brendon’s ear as he started stroking his cock, slow and purposeful.

“Spence,” Brendon squirmed and gasped and clutched Spencer’s hips desperately. Spencer nipped at the curve of his neck, but didn’t pull back to make eye contact.

“Tell me, Bren, it’s okay.” Spencer said. “It’s my feet, right?”

“Yeah, but,” Brendon bucked up into Spencer’s fist, mouth dropping open on a moan. “In heels, I think about you wearing high heels.”

“Like, in a dress?” Spencer’s hand faltered for a moment and Brendon shook his head quickly.

“No, just, just you, in heels,” he whimpered when Spencer’s rhythm started again, faster this time. “I saw you dancing with Katie,” he said, and Spencer twisted his wrist, dirty cheater that he was, and Brendon came over his belly and Spencer’s hand. “Fuck,” Brendon tried to take a breath, but his heart felt like it was going to burst right out of his chest. He’d be embarrassed by how fast he’d come, but right now there were bigger problems. Spencer was still draped across his lap, half hard against his hip, but he hadn’t lifted his hand from Brendon’s shoulder yet and Brendon knew he was probably holding onto him tight enough to bruise. “Is it too messed up?”

“No, B, it’s not messed up,” Spencer nuzzled close. “I want to try it,”

“You do?” Brendon knows he sounds skeptical, but he can’t help it. Every time he had imagined this conversation the best case scenario had been Spencer not breaking up with him.

“Yeah,” Spencer sat back, just far enough that he could meet Brendon’s gaze. “Dude, you just came in, like, five seconds. Anything that gets you that turned on sounds hot to me.”

“Oh, gee, when you put it that way,” Brendon sniffed, a little embarrassed but mostly… happy.

“You know what I mean. You’re really into it, I like that. I want to try it.” Spencer licked his lips and smiled a little. “Just don’t laugh when I fall on my face.”

“I wouldn’t let you fall,” Brendon said, and that felt a little corny, but a faint blush crept across Spencer’s cheekbones. Brendon shifted a little, and became acutely aware that his dick was hanging out of his pants and he was a little messy, not to mention he hadn’t exactly reciprocated. “Do you want me to, uh,” he gestured, probably crudely, at Spencer’s crotch.

“How romantic,” Spencer snorted, and then moved back off Brendon’s lap. “Naw, I’m tired. And I want to cuddle.”

After a quick clean up and a new pair of boxers for Brendon, they crawled back into bed and Brendon rolled onto his back and tugged Spencer close. Spencer settled with his cheek to Brendon’s chest, and sighed happily when Brendon started scratching his fingers against his scalp.

“I should figure out what my size in lady shoes is,” Spencer yawned.

“Yeah?” Brendon said, not daring to continue.

“Yeah. So you know what size to get,” Spencer’s words were slow and just a little slurred, he was obviously half asleep, and Brendon felt only slightly guilty when he tugged a handful of hair just a little too hard, enough to keep Spencer awake. “Ow,” he whined.

“You want me to pick them out?” Brendon asked. “You don’t mind?”

“It’s for you, Bren. You should pick them out.” Spencer said. “Just, no snakeskin.”

Brendon laughed, and pressed a lingering kiss to Spencer’s temple. “No snakeskin,” he agreed, and let Spencer fall asleep.

***

Brendon had thought that finding heels big enough for Spencer would be harder, imagined himself trawling fetish websites that specialized in Lucite platforms, but he quickly realized that not all women wore a size six shoe and that Spencer’s feet were not that big. He spent an increasing amount of time huddled in his bunk with his laptop after everyone had gone to sleep, looking at the heels, knowing that he could buy them for Spencer, made him feel an exhaustive mixture of excitement, desperation and anxiety. Spencer said it wasn’t too weird, didn’t creep him out, but maybe he’d feel differently when he was wearing the actual shoes. Brendon tried not to think about that possibility too much. When he finally found the pair he wanted he didn’t feel the euphoria he’d expected, not when he clicked buy, not when the delivery was confirmed to his apartment in Vegas, not when the last days of the tour clicked by. He was anxious, mostly a low level worry that kept a constant beat in the back of his mind. Spencer tried to help, but reminding Brendon of what a great boyfriend he was, how much Brendon had to lose, only made it worse.

By the time they finally got home to Vegas Brendon had almost forgotten that the package, along with the rest of his mail, would be waiting at the concierge desk of his apartment building. He juggled the detritus of his mailbox along with his duffle, and even though he could have used the extra hands he was a little glad that Spencer had gone to his parents’ house for the night. Brendon wasn’t sure he could have opened the box with Spencer at his shoulder.
The shoes were perfect, black and simple with a small zipper at the back that sent a thrill through Brendon every time he looked at them. Though the straps weren’t thin and delicate, rather two bands that crossed at the front of the ankle, Brendon found he preferred them. They would look stunning, plus less likely to irritate delicate skin and more likely to keep the shoe on Spencer’s foot. Brendon had tried to choose something a little easier for a beginner, it had occurred to him that the actual worst case scenario now was that Spencer toppled to the floor and broke a limb, but once he’d seen them he hadn’t been able to resist. Spencer wouldn’t even have to walk in them at first, and Brendon would make sure to keep him close. He meant to keep his promise, he wouldn’t let Spencer fall.

By the time Spencer had come over, and essentially moved in as was his habit off tour, Brendon had hidden the shoes at the back of his closet. He needed the right moment to show them to Spencer, he needed a plan. But a plan failed to pop into his head, fully formed, and Brendon knew that Spencer was probably wondering when, and he knew that the longer he waited the more he would get stuck in his own head and he was tired of waiting.

They’d gone to dinner with Spencer’s sisters, who had insisted on dressing up, and Spencer was still in that ‘just home’ space where he was happy to indulge them. Spencer and Brendon had worn dress shirts and slacks and the girls had been giddy in their dresses. Now Spencer was stretched out on the bed, and wearing only his boxer briefs and his white dress shirt half unbuttoned as he watched Conan. Brendon was hanging his coat up in the closet, listening to the sounds of the television and Spencer’s commentary as he lingered between his shirts, fingertips on the shoebox. He wanted this, Spencer wanted it, too.

“This guy sucks,” Spencer opined. “What is he even saying, oh my God. His method?”

“Spence,” Brendon winced at the way his voice cracked, and cleared his throat. Spencer’s focus was on him now, the actor on TV forgotten. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and reached for the remote, Conan’s cackling laugh cut off abruptly. Brendon felt like an idiot, standing at the foot of the bed with a shoebox in his sweaty hands.

“Are those mine?” Spencer asked, a little coy, and Brendon released a breath, smiled a little.

“Yeah, they’re yours,” he said, reaching over to set them on the mattress. Spencer shifted closer, knees bent and sitting back on his heels as he took the cover off the box, his gaze shifting between Brendon’s face and the shoes. He was quiet as he pulled the shoes out of the tissue paper lined box, fingertips stroking the suede toe. “Do you like them?” Brendon asked when he couldn’t take the silence anymore. Spencer looked up, his lips parted and there was something close to awe on his face.

“Yeah,” he said. “They’re beautiful.” Spencer was holding one shoe in his lap, examining it.

“Can I put them on you?” Brendon asked, unable to take a breath until Spencer nodded. He pulled the box to the side and moved back as Spencer scooted forward, until he was sitting at the end of the bed with his feet on the floor.

“Should I, I don’t know, put some pants on?” Spencer’s brow was furrowed and Brendon couldn’t resist leaning in for a kiss.

“No,” Brendon said, “You’re perfect.” He knelt down, stroking Spencer’s calf as he placed both shoes beside him. He looked up to find Spencer watching him, gaze dark and serious. “You sure you want to do this?”

“Yes,” Spencer said, his fingers curling into the blankets. Brendon learned forward and kissed the inside of Spencer’s knee, smirking a little at the way Spencer shuddered under his touch. He could do this, they could do this. He slid his hand down to Spencer’s ankle and pulled his foot into his lap. The arch of the shoe was pretty extreme so Brendon knew that it wasn’t going to slide on like Cinderella’s glass slipper, and he laughed along with Spencer as they struggled to get first one shoe on and then the second. His laughter fell away as he straightened the bands along the top of Spencer’s foot, and Spencer was quiet, too. Brendon felt like his ribs were going to blow out, like there was something inside him he couldn’t contain.

“Spence,” Brendon murmured. He let his fingertips slide from Spencer knees to ankles, then over the tops of his feet then down to cup the soles of the shoes. Brendon stood, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste, and he makes himself slow down. He was supposed to be keeping Spencer steady, not spazzing out across the bedroom. He took Spencer’s hands and half pulled, half just assisted as Spencer stood on the heels.

“Holy shit,” Spencer gasped as he almost overbalanced, one ankle wobbling precariously.

“Take a breath, you’re fine,” Brendon said, and he wasn’t even sure where the sense of calm is coming from, but he felt totally in control. Spencer was absurdly tall in the heels, his arms dangling over Brendon’s shoulders as he steadied himself.

“Well, I’m not leaving the bedroom in these,” Spencer said finally, already a little out of breath.

“No, we should probably work up to that,” Brendon agreed. He smoothed a hand down Spencer’s back and waited until the tension was gone from his frame before moving a step back. From head to toe, Spencer looked amazing. Standing with one hip cocked he was a study of fluid lines and curves, chin tucked down so that his hair hung in front of his eyes. The undone buttons of his shirt showed tantalizing hints of shoulder, collarbone and belly.

Yeah, this wasn’t going to last long.

“How do they feel?” Brendon asked, taking another step back. Spencer whimpered and reached out for Brendon’s wrists but Brendon ducked away before he could touch. “You can sit back down if you feel like you’re gonna fall, I want to look at you.”

“Bren,” Spencer shifted his weight from foot to foot, and Brendon could see that moment that he found his balance, watched as his stance became languid and soft. “Do you like them?”

“Baby, I love them,” Brendon leered, waggled his eyebrows and was rewarded with a huff of laughter and a familiar smirk. “Do you like them?”

“Yeah,” Spencer said, after a moment’s pause. “I really do,” he sounded surprised, and Brendon felt relief sluice through him. As amazing as this was, Brendon didn’t want it if Spencer was only humoring him.

Brendon backed up until he was at the armchair by the window. The decorator he’d hired had insisted that he would use a chair in the bedroom, until now it had just been another place to toss his clothes. He didn’t think that she’d had this in mind, but he was grateful for her insistence now. He sat and crooked his finger.

“C’mere,” he said. Spencer bit his lip and shifted a little, and Brendon’s mouth went dry. With his fingers curled up in his shirtcuffs and long, lean legs, Spencer looked like pure sex. Brendon couldn’t wait to get his hands on that pale skin, but he wasn’t going to leave the chair. Spencer’s steps were small and halting but the sway to his hips and the flex of his calf muscles was so fucking graceful. It seemed to take an hour for Spencer to cross the ten feet of hardwood between them, as soon as he was within reach Brendon grabbed onto his hips and guided him down into his lap. Spencer collapsed gratefully, and Brendon could feel a slight tremble in his limbs.

“That probably looked ridiculous,” Spencer said, and Brendon could feel the heat of his cheeks.

“No, it looked amazing,” Brendon said, and he met Spencer’s doubtful stare head on. He reached up to cup the curve of Spencer’s jaw. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured. Spencer leaned in and kissed Brendon hard, with lips and teeth and tongue and rolled his hips forward so he was settled in Brendon’s lap.

“Fuck, you say these things, these stupid things,” Spencer gasped between kisses, gripping a handful of Brendon’s hair to keep him positioned as he wanted.

“You’re stupid if you don’t think I’m right,” Brendon countered, touching every inch of Spencer that he could. He could feel his cock throbbing, sensations building as Spencer pushed closer. “I’m not going to come in my pants,” he said as he pushed Spencer back.

“Oh yeah?” Spencer grinned and Brendon kept pushing until they were both struggling to their feet. “Do not let me fall,” Spencer warned as he stumbled back a step.

“You worry too much,” Brendon kept a hand on his elbow, just in case.

“So if you don’t want to come in your pants...” Spencer arched an eyebrow in question.

“I want to fuck you,” Brendon said, and his cock twitched when Spencer let his mouth fall open and licked his bottom lip.

“Yeah, that works for me. Does that mean I can stop standing?” Spencer smiled, just enough to show that he was teasing, which was a relief, because Brendon had no intention of letting him off so easily.

“No,” Brendon put his hands on Spencer’s hips and guided him backwards in careful, measured steps. “I want you to face the bed, and bend over.” Spencer shivered under his palms but his eyes were dark and lidded. Brendon could see his erection straining in his boxer briefs and cupped his hand around Spencer’s dick just long enough to make him moan. “Bend over,” he whispered, and Spencer turned around and complied, bending at the waist until his fingers were clutching the mattress edge. The frame was high enough that even with the added inches Spencer wasn’t bent at too much an angle.

Brendon’s hands found Spencer’s hips again, and he pressed forward until he was grinding Spencer’s ass, moving experimentally to see just how steady Spencer would be on his feet.

“Fuck, Bren,” Spencer whimpered. “More, come on,”

“Yeah,” Brendon stepped back and chuckled low when Spencer whined. “I doubt you want me fucking you without lube and a condom, dude.”

“Just hurry up, jackass,” Spencer pressed his forehead into the mattress and arched his back, Brendon was so busy watching him that he barely avoided walking straight into the nightstand.
There was a visible tremble in Spencer’s thighs and all the muscles in his legs seemed to be straining and pulled taut. Brendon’s hands shook as he fumbled in the drawer. He didn’t waste any time crossing the room again. He dropped the supplies on the comforter next to Spencer’s head and ignored his cursing, focusing instead on pulling Spencer’s underwear down. He crouched down next to his feet, cupping the back of his calf as Spencer lifted one foot and then the other, stepping clear of the material. Brendon nuzzled the back of one knee, and laughed when Spencer’s leg almost buckled.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, and pressed an apologetic kisses against the skin, and then kept kissing his way up until he was nipping the curve of Spencer’s ass. “Spread your legs,” Brendon said once he was standing again, one hand flat on the small of Spencer’s back. Again, Spencer lifted one foot carefully, bracing himself as wide as he could without his ankles giving out. If the apartment had caught fire around them, Brendon wouldn’t have been able to look away.

“Bren,” Spencer said, “Fuck me.”

“I’ve got you,” Brendon said, pushing his own pants down. He squeezed a generous amount of lube onto his fingertips and started hard and fast with one finger, Spencer always preferred rough over slow and easy. He made sure to take his time after that, Brendon was always wary of hurting Spencer at this point, when they were both worked up and desperate and it wouldn’t be later until the pain set in. Spencer whined and cursed and begged, but Brendon spent long minutes stretching him and teasing at this prostate. Spencer’s legs were shaking hard now and the dress shirt was damp and clung to the breadth of his shoulders. “Ready?”

“Fuck,” Spencer moaned, “I’ve been ready.”

Brendon slid the condom on and with a quick swipe of lube pressed in close until he was nudging up against Spencer’s hole. He held still for a moment longer, but he didn’t have the patience to tease and thrust forward, his cries matching Spencer’s as he bottomed out. Spencer was tight and hot around him and Brendon could already feel his orgasm building. There was no way he could risk loosening his grip on Spencer’s waist to reach around and jerk him off, Spencer kept his hands gripping the mattress for the same reason, but it wasn’t long before Brendon’s thrusts lost their rhythm and he came with a shout.

“Up, up,” Brendon basically had to lift Spencer’s legs as he crawled up onto the bed, and guided him over until he was on his back, legs splayed and cock flushed and leaking against his belly. The stiletto heels tugged and pulled at the sheets as Spencer’s legs shifted restlessly. “I got you,” Brendon said, leaving messy, open mouthed kisses up the inside of Spencer’s thigh. He licked a stripe up the length of Spencer’s cock, swallowing around the head as Spencer sobbed and arched. Brendon pulled off and started jacking Spencer in earnest, bracing himself on one elbow so he could look up at Spencer’s face, flushed and damp and his swollen bottom lip caught between his teeth, chin titled up and eyes half closed.

“Fuck, Bren,” he cried out as came in spurts across his belly.

“So good, Spence,” Brendon crooned, shimmying up until he could claim Spencer’s mouth in a kiss. Spencer murmured wordlessly into the kiss, limbs heavy and relaxed on the bed. Brendon held still until his breathing had evened out before making his way to the en suite bathroom. He ditched the condom and splashed some water on his face, running warmer water over a facecloth from the shelf. When he walked back into the bedroom Spencer was still splayed across the covers, sweaty and exhausted. Brendon dabbed the cloth against Spencer’s temples before swiping it across his belly, smiling when Spencer hummed happily.

“Shoes off,” Spencer said, stretching his legs out until his feet hung over the edge of the bed. Brendon reached down and slid them off, letting them drop onto his discarded clothes with a thump. “God,” Spencer flexed his feet under Brendon’s palms.

“Better?” Brendon asked, tugging at the blankets until he could pull them up over Spencer’s tired limbs.

“Yeah,” Spencer turned and curled up around Brendon’s side. “That was hard. How the fuck do people walk around in those all day?”

“I guess you get used to it,” Brendon said, trying to keep any disappointment out of his voice. He was still trying to process what they’d just done, but he knew it was the hottest thing he’d ever experienced, probably would ever experience. He felt like he might get hard again already just thinking about it.

“I’m gonna have to practice,” Spencer said around a yawn. “Kind of a mood killer if I’m worried about falling down all the time.”

“Oh?” Brendon said.

“Yeah. Maybe wear them around the apartment,” Spencer hesitated, “Maybe I should get a pair with a smaller heel for practicing.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d want to do it again,” Brendon said.

“Dumbass,” Spencer snorted. “That was hot. We’re definitely doing it again.”

THE END!

Oh, and, for the curious: Spencer's shoes

Lucky stars

estei — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 02:30:50 GMT

My parents and I got very lucky tonight. I flew into my home province yesterday and we spent a night in our capital city before heading back to our town this afternoon. We drove into a crazy snowstorm and, long story very short, were involved in an accident with an 18 wheeler. It was over as quickly as it had happened and we were so lucky, because of my parents car, the approximate size of a boat, we all walked away unhurt. I've been so stressed lately about money and work, this is a powerful reminder of what's really important and how blessed I really am.

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

Be a star

estei — Fri, 09 Dec 2011 22:55:06 GMT

Anyone who was on my flist from December 2008 - May 2009 spent those months first listening to my anxiety over moving across the country to Calgary, AB to try and find a better job, and spent the subsequent five months listening to how I couldn't find a job and felt desperate and ashamed. I had a PR degree and experience in corporate communications and I couldn't get a job as a temp answering phones or filing paper. I still get crushing anxiety when I think about those months, in a new city with no friends and no job and feeling like I was a total failure. Luckily, my family was able to keep me financially afloat until I was able to get on my feet. Skimming my flist today I saw a post by fourfreedoms that stopped me cold. I don't know shoshannagold but I do know I want to help. I sent a donation and after reading her story below, if you have the cash to spare, I hope you will, too.

Our beloved [info]shoshannagold was let go from her job last week with very little warning. She went from gainfully employed to not in thirty-six hours. Unfortunately, this is not the first in a series of unfortunate circumstances that have befallen Shosh this Autumn -- but this will be the the one that breaks the camel's back.

On Monday, she was given notice from her landlord that she would be evicted from her apartment on December 20th unless she could pay her rent in full at that time. She owes $800 CAD to cover the rent for November and December. If she's unable to pay it, she will be removed from her apartment in 13 days.

Unfortunately, Edmonton, AB, where [info]shoshannagold resides, there are very little jobs available; they are feeling the recession in full force. [info]shoshannagold has applied at numerous places, both for entry level and skilled work, in the hopes that even one of them would be hiring. They are not hiring.

4_a_star

Green tea and other delights

estei — Mon, 03 Oct 2011 15:41:31 GMT

I spent the weekend perfectly. I drank endless cups of tea, ate pastries from my favourite cafe, saw a band play a delightful show at a library and did it all in the company of subterrain, so there's really no excuse for my bad mood today. In the interest of not annoying myself (or others) I'll talk about the things that are distracting me from this mood.

- I'm obsessed with this personal fashion blog. I found it randomly through Twitter and I love the outfits this girl puts together.

- I signed up for bandomreversebb and am plotting my requests for bandomstuffsit.

- sneaky_sena posted new fic. Brendon/Spencer, a follow up to "Nicest Things." and basically the most amazing thing ever. She is so talented and prolific, I don't even know. Just go and read and comment.

Also, coveting this faux leather quilted purse.

I have the afternoon off and I think I know what I'm doing

estei — Fri, 16 Sep 2011 15:19:34 GMT

Everyone should definitely go and prompt and write! The potential for shenanigans is limitless!

BBB Rec: A More Audacious Monster

estei — Thu, 08 Sep 2011 14:43:28 GMT

I had the great privilege to read parts of this epic fic many months ago while I was interning in an office with no heat at the tail end of winter, and I can remember wiping sleet off the screen of my iPhone on the walk home because I hadn't finished before I left and could not stop reading.

I can't recommend this story enough. You'll be heartbroken, but it will be worth it.

A More Audacious Monster by verbyna
Band(s): Panic! at the Disco (with Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, The Academy Is..., Empires, Joanna Newsom)
Pairing(s): Spencer Smith/Brendon Urie, Ryan Ross/Jon Walker, Michael Guy Chislett/Butch Walker
Word Count: 37,776
Rating/Warnings: hard R. Contains violence, self-destructive behavior including alcohol and substance abuse, dubious consent (no physical coercion), off-screen death of a secondary character - suicide

Summary: Some Otherworlders are born with magic; some are born human and able to withstand one of the curses. Spencer's struggle not to turn Ryan into a werewolf gets a lot more complicated after their band is signed to a demigod's label. Suddenly thrust into a web of politics he doesn't fully grasp, Spencer realizes that if he can't have Ryan, he must do whatever it takes to make sure Ryan stays human. Jon Walker, on the other hand, never had reason to doubt the rules of the Pack, especially when Ryan asks him for a favor. As Panic splits down the middle, so does the supernatural world three of its members belong to. Is the right to choose not to be turned more important that the survival of the various magical species? A demigoddess and her oracle Gerard think so, and Brendon is the only human who understands that a revolution is taking place under the radar - with Spencer at its center.

Master Post here

This really needs no explanation

estei — Wed, 31 Aug 2011 01:10:43 GMT

I haven't posted in a long time though I keep meaning to, every time I open a draft I can't decide what I want to say but a picture of Spencer Smith holding a baby requires a post. Thank you, Zack's Twitter!

Masquerade as love

estei — Fri, 08 Apr 2011 18:12:41 GMT

I was feeling pretty bummed today and then pr_scatterbrain posted this amazing bandom fic that is so gorgeous I couldn't help but be charmed right out of my bad mood.

Seriously, I love Foe and Dear.

Heart in hand

estei — Tue, 29 Mar 2011 02:49:42 GMT

There are a few things about me that will be true forever. I will never be more than a passable bowler. Short hair makes my head look like a beach ball with a face. I will never love another band like I love The National.

Luckily I quite like it here

estei — Wed, 09 Feb 2011 13:56:09 GMT

I have a huge post to make about my trip to NYC and the Panic show (spoiler alert: it blew my fucking mind) but this isn't it. I finally watched the first five episodes of Southland season three last night and I am having so many FEELINGS - is anyone else watching this show? I need to talk about how every episode breaks my heart!

Of course, if you want to comment about all the exciting Panic! things happening of late I will be delighted to talk about that too.

Home for the holidays

estei — Sun, 19 Dec 2010 16:44:34 GMT

Running around with all the last minute errands before getting on a plane can sometimes take all the excitement out of going home for Christmas, but getting up early to give myself lots of time (despite epic MCR show and then after show shenanigans last night) + buffyaddict13's awesome holiday playlist has me pretty happy and relaxed as I get ready to head to the airport.

As always, my parents house does not have the internet, so I will likely be out of touch for the next ten days, so please consider this my season's greetings to you. I am so grateful for every person on my flist, and I hope you all have a most excellent holiday season, or for those who have already celebrated their holidays, I hope it was fantastic.

♥

Interested in a ticket to My Chem on Saturday?

estei — Fri, 17 Dec 2010 15:35:58 GMT

As the subject line says, I have an extra general admission ticket to the Toronto MCR show at the Sound Academy this weekend. If you or someone you know might be interested, comment or email me at estei.feist@gmail.com

I bought it for my sister and now she can't go so I really just want to make sure it goes to a good home.

Oh yeah, and this is a gift! So if you didn't get a ticket because you couldn't afford one now you can go for free!

eta: Also, is anybody going to this show? If yes, how early do you intend to get there?

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

G20: Toronto city shakedown

estei — Sun, 27 Jun 2010 15:16:29 GMT

In the days and weeks preceding the G20 events in Toronto this weekend, a lot of people had concerns and quibbles with what seemed destined to be a total clusterfuck. A security zone that was going to be hell for anyone who lived or worked in the core area where residents and employees faced wire fences and cement blockades as early as June 7, though they were allowed to "pass freely" until June 25, when photo ID and additional documentation to support your need to enter the area could be requested. Businesses and consumers faced annoying closures. People also appeared a little pissed off about the $2 million fake lake the Tories had built, allegedly for photo ops. Of course, this wasn't the most shocking expenditure to come out of the G20 planning - in May, security costs for the G8 summit occurring in Hunstville, Ontario and the G20 in Toronto had climbed to $833 million, with Stephen Harper saying that the government was prepared to spend at least one hundred million more. This is 20 times the security costs reported for the 2009 G20 event in Britain. According to our illustrious leaders, this discrepancy is because Britain was not also hosting the G8 summit.

Which brings us to yesterday's event. Despite almost a billion spent on security, store fronts on Yonge, Dundas and Queen Street were vandalized and in some cases outright destroyed. Police cars were also vandalized, with at least two being set on fire. Unfortunately this violence was perpetrated by a small group of self-identified anarchists, and the police seem to recognize that most of the protestors were peaceful, at least until around 11 pm last night when riot officers moved in on what was described by present media and bystanders to be peaceful protest on Esplanade. Several protestors were arrested and one journalist, who identified himself to the police as reporting on behalf of the Guardian, was assaulted and arrested. Steve Paikin, a local current affairs journalist, reports events as he witnesses them on his Twitter account.

Photo source Warning: There are photos of acts of violence at this page.

I don't have a political or philosophical view to espouse about any of this, but I'll be really glad to have the city I love back in one piece when all of the world leaders, tourists and protestors leave.

fic: don't hold back, feel a little longer | bandom | 7610 words

estei — Thu, 25 Feb 2010 18:23:50 GMT

I wanted to write a Jon POV companion piece to Hello, I'm too tired to smile today and it basically turned into a week and a half of me torturing subterrain with emails that started out with "I NEED YOU RIGHT NOW" and then stalking her every move as she made comments in the google doc. She puts up with a lot in being my friend.

title: don't hold back, feel a little longer
rating: R, for salty language
words: 7610
summary: Jon keeps hoping that time will smooth out the sharp edges, but Spencer isn't going to wait anymore.
notes: This may or may not make sense if you haven't read Hello, I'm too tired to smile today

Don't hold back, feel a little longer

more notes!: I really hope I didn't leave any beta comments in again, especially the one where subterrain mocks me for trying to fix a grammatical mistake by making it MORE WRONG. Also, when I started writing this fic I listened to All I Need by Hannah Georgas on repeat. If you would like to listen to it, you can! All I Need Because I'm at work I can't check to see if this link is working, so there is a chance that I screwed it up. Oops, in advance.

Jon thinks he might have been awake before the phone rang, dozing easily in the way he has when there's nowhere to be in the morning, when he can just curl up on his mattress and laze until he wants to get up. He stretches his arm across the duvet and his fingers fumble a little across the nightstand until he feels the hard plastic case of his phone, buzzing against his fingertips. He glances at the screen as he eyes dart back and forth between the highlighted name in the middle at the time stamp in the upper corner. Spence - 5:13 am - Spence - 5:13 am. Something blooms, cold and big, in his chest. He knows the time difference between Chicago and LA, either Spencer is drunk dialing him or something has happened. Jon honestly doesn't know which thought scares him more.

"Spencer," he says, swallowing hard around the name and mangling the syllables. He clears his throat a little, pushing the noise into the crook of his elbow as he rolls onto his side, burrowing into the pillows. Just in case.

"This pancake smile is very sinister," Spencer says. Jon's toes curl against the mattress. He ticks away at the possibilities in his mind. Definitely sober, but something is off. Brendon?

"Where are you?" seems like the safest question, the most likely to get a real answer. Jon knows better than to ask if something's wrong, Spencer always did hate stating the obvious. "Where's Brendon?"

"Brendon, I'm not sure. The last time I saw him he was drinking something very purple in Shane's kitchen."

Jon scrubs a hand over his face and closes his teeth around the question he wants to ask, tries to pretend he isn't even thinking about the possibility. Not drunk, something else? It didn't bother him so much when Ryan decided he wanted to try "something else", moving beyond the pot and the bourbon. It didn't bother him because Jon knew it was just a thing, just a little dalliance and he kept an eye on it but it didn't take Ryan long to dismiss that kind of partying. If Spencer is using, it won't be a dalliance, and Jon can't keep an eye on him. Not like that, not anymore.

"How long ago was that?" Jon asks. Maybe he can get Spencer to call Brendon.

"I don't know exactly. I guess, probably about six hours, no, no probably more like eight." Spencer is being uncharacteristically direct, he sounds vague, like he actually has to consider Jon's questions and not how to get around them. Jon knows he could just ask. Spencer would probably tell him. But he isn't brave enough.

"And you're eating sinister pancakes?" It’s pathetic. Something is wrong, and Jon can't even make himself say the words. Spencer called him, Spencer called him and not Brendon or Ryan and that means something.

"I probably won't eat them. I don't know why I ordered them." Spencer sounds sad, and a little confused, like he doesn't understand his own motives for something as simple as a food order. Jon takes a breath and reminds himself that whatever else is happening, he will never be able to look away when Spencer needs help.

"Spencer, where are you?"

"Um," for the first time Spencer sounds nervous. "A diner. Patti's."

Jon is sitting up in bed before he even realizes he's started moving. It is not possible, Spencer is not in Chicago. He just said he'd been at Shane's. Spencer is not in a diner blocks away, a diner they'd had breakfast at, once. It is not fucking possible and his hands need to just stop shaking.

"You're here?" Jon's heart is not going to break when Spencer says no. It's not.

"Yes," Spencer says.

"I'll be right there," Jon says, and hangs up. He can't say another word, not until he can see Spencer, he can't trust himself right now not to let out all the things he's been holding back. He stubs his toe on the bedpost as he rounds the corner. He can't think beyond getting to the diner. Spencer is here. It doesn't make any sense. Even before the break, when Jon wouldn't have hesitated to call Spencer one of his best friends, he knew he was never Spencer's refuge in a crisis. He wonders is Spencer called Ryan first, if Ryan was unavailable, or worse, if Ryan lashed out.

Jon contemplates walking to the diner for about five seconds, and then dismisses the idea just as quickly. It's cold and dark and he's in pajamas, and, more importantly, Spencer is waiting. Still, is a little glad for the minutes it takes to scrape the night's snowfall off the windshield, his muscles pulling with the effort of breaking through the ice where it has melted and frozen again on the glass.

Jon doesn't really believe that Spencer is sitting in Patti's Diner until he walks in, until he sees him sitting in a booth, staring blankly out the window. He gives no indication that he heard the bell ring when the door opened, doesn't blink or flinch like he knows Jon is staring at him, snow dripping off his boots and soaking the hem of the pajama pants he's wearing. His ankles are probably cold, but Jon doesn't feel it. He makes himself crossed the floor, feet slipping a little across the slick black and white tiles.

Spencer looks so small, small and lost. It hurts, seeing him this way. He's clean-shaven and thin, maybe even skinnier than when he lived in a rotation of pink t-shirts on Jon's first tour as Panic's bassist, and Jon might think he was still that boy if it weren't for the different hair, the weight that he's carrying on his shoulders, the bruises under his eyes. He can see all the years between then and now in the way Spencer holds himself, perfect posture and fixed eyes. Cautious, and closed off. Some of that falls away when Jon sits down across from him, and Jon can't help the warmth that spreads through him then.

He's startled when an arm reaches across him, turning over the white cup on the tabletop and Jon forces a smile for the waitress as she pours the coffee. "No menu, thanks," he says when it looks like she's about to ask. He looks further across the table then, at the plate that's pushed into the centre, whipped cream congealing on cold pancakes. "Those pancakes are a little sinister," he says, and wishes he'd thought to get the waitress to take them away. Spencer shrugs, lifts one shoulder and taps the edge of his own mug. Jon bites back a comment on Spencer's choice of outerwear - the jacket can't be warding off the chill that seeps through the windows of the diner, forget being suitable for outside. He wants to ask if Spencer took a cab from the airport, but that would lead to a line of questions he isn't sure either of them is ready for yet.

"I taught Dylan a new trick," Jon says, and pretends the story is for Spencer's benefit and not his own. He's suspicious of his own motives, but he can see the tremor in Spencer's hands start to fade. They go back and forth for a moment - pleasantries and banal conversation that starts to scratch the surface. Jon breaks first. It's only fair, after all. Flying to Chicago in the middle of the night is more of a statement than Jon can make with words, anyway.

"When was the last time you slept?" he asks. It doesn't matter how long it's been since they lived on top of each other, with each other, he knows the signs of a Spencer who is worn down and strung out on insomnia.

"A while," Spencer shrugs and looks to the side, and Jon knows that he isn't being avoidant, that he honestly can't count back to the last time he closed his eyes and slept. "Since Thursday, I guess."

Jon hands curl into fists on the tabletop. What the hell was Brendon thinking, partying and drinking something fucking purple when Spencer has been awake for fucking days. Jon is so stupidly relieved that he drove the short distance to the diner; he wonders how Spencer is functioning at all. "We should go," he says. "I have my car, you might not freeze."

Spencer doesn't seem at all concerned about the cold, about getting from here to there. Jon watches as he leaves a ridiculous amount for cold pancakes and a couple cups of bad coffee, stays close as they shuffle to the front door. Spencer doesn't react at all when they step outside, even Jon can't stop the reflex shiver that courses through him. The cold air makes his breath catch and Jon cups his palm around Spencer's elbow, just in case, but Spencer just ambles along quietly like they're still in LA, not trudging through a foot of snow in the dark of Chicago.

Jon resists the urge to turn the vents on full blast as soon as the car is started, he knows it is only going to push cold air in their faces, he just wants so badly to be able to do something for Spencer, even something as simple as pushing a button on the dashboard would feel like enough right now.

"I missed you," Spencer says as Jon is navigating through a sharp left turn in the slippery intersection. Jon doesn't know what he could say that would be equal, that would sound like something more than a platitude. By the time he's parking outside his building, he still hasn't figured it out.

Spencer is shaking hard enough to stumble by the time they make it inside, Jon doesn't know if its from the temperature or the exhaustion, but the need to have Spencer inside his apartment is like a physical pull. Jon practically drags him the rest of the way, Spencer quiescent and quiet a half step behind him. His own hand shakes when he tries to fit the key into the locks of the door.

Jon doesn't even consider directing Spencer to the guest bedroom. He leads him down the hallway to his own room, where he can put Spencer in his bed, covered with his duvet and wrapped in his arms, the one place he knows he can make Spencer safe.

Spencer doesn't balk or hesitate, he lets Jon steady him as he slips into a pair of sweatpants and crawls right into Jon's bed, like he belongs there. Jon slides in tight behind him and closes his eyes, tucks his face into the curve of Spencer's neck and breathes.

"I missed you, too," he says, but that isn't it, not really, it isn't enough to describe the ache he feels when he thinks of Spencer, when he's thought about having this, Spencer, in his bed. "I'm glad you came," he whispers, knowing that Spencer is listening. "When you wake up, I'm going to kiss you," he hesitates, just a little, and can't stop himself from adding, "If that's okay." In the dark, with his chest filled with something he can't name, it feels right.

"It's okay," Spencer says quickly, and Jon can feel the last of the tension melt out of his frame. Jon feels a little giddy. He did that.

"And I'll make you some friendly pancakes," he says, pressing his lips against the soft skin behind Spencer's ear. Sleep first, Spencer needs to rest, but then he needs to eat. He's hasn't been eating, that's clear. But Jon can fix that. "I'm so glad you're here," he says. "You can sleep now."

"I know," Spencer murmurs, already drifting off. Jon waits until Spencer's breathing has settled, deep and even, his limbs loose and heavy on the mattress, before pressing another kiss into Spencer's hair.

"You knew before I did, Spence," he whispers. "You knew I could keep you safe."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Spencer doesn't stir when Jon slips out of bed several hours later. His elbow is bent on the pillow above his head and his face is tilted toward the window; Jon is itching to touch, to reach for his camera. Instead he hangs a bath towel over the blinds to keep the room dark and pads into the living room - he's too restless to lay quietly, too tempted to trace the curve of Spencer's jaw, and Dylan and Clover will be crying for attention soon. He doesn't want to wake Spencer, he needs time to rest, but Jon. Jon needs time, too.

Jon wasn't lying when he said he missed Spencer, that he's glad Spencer came to him, that he's the person Spencer believes in at that gut-level even after months of silence and tension and hurt feelings. The problem is, the bigger truth that has lived between them for years, is that the issue was never about Jon and Spencer. Jon has never doubted that he loves Spencer, that he could love Spencer until the end and find something real and good with him, and he thinks that Spencer knows the same thing. The things that made them keep their distance, Brendon and Ryan his mind whispers, were wrapped up in the band and the break up might feel like a neat solution, but it isn't. If anything, now it's more complicated. No one is admitting it, but there is a definitely feeling of "us versus them" when it comes to the Young Veins and Panic. Jon keeps hoping that time will smooth out the sharp edges, but this. He doesn't know where he and Spencer fit into that timeline, if they can fit. He hates the way things are now, that he can't just talk to Brendon and Spencer, that he has to forget their names entirely when he's with Ryan, but he's so fucking scared of making it worse.

Busying himself with putting fresh water in the cat dish and emptying the dishwasher doesn't stop the thoughts from looping round in Jon's head. If he's being honest, he knows that he and Spencer both hold a share in what went wrong with the four of them, and that some of it was beyond everyone. There was never any malice; just fear and guilt and sadness and regret that played out on a public stage. The split started out as amicable as it could have under any circumstance, but pressure from reporters, the fans, their friends and then themselves as they all started producing music built up and spilled over into dirty asides during interviews, trying to one-up each other on release dates, and finally a cold silence that was fraught with bruised egos and hurt feelings and the pain of turning your back on the people that you once loved the most, watching them turn their back on you.

But with Spencer sleeping in Jon's bed its hard to remember why any of that matters anymore.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At noon Jon sneaks back into the bedroom to grab yesterday's jeans off the floor. Spencer is still out, almost totally obscured by a nest of pillows and blankets and Jon closes the door quietly behind him as he backs out. He needs to run to the market, wants to get the coffee cream that Spencer likes and some real food - he's been living on take out but wants to be able to cook something with vegetables, maybe fruit for smoothies, definitely strawberries for the friendly pancakes he promised. After half an hour of worrying that Spencer will wake to an empty apartment Jon decides that the chances of that are very, very low and bundles up for the most harried trip to the store he will ever make.

He bangs his hip on the edge of the deli counter as he grabs a container of goat cheese and knocks three apples to the floor with his elbow as he tries to sidestep an old woman pushing a cart seemingly full of only bananas before he makes himself take a breath and slow down. He still taps his foot impatiently when he gets to the check out and the man in front of him argues over the price of a box of Hamburger Helper with the cashier. He's about to offer to pay for the man's whole fucking grocery order when the cashier grudgingly accepts the outdated and dog-eared coupon they've been warring over.

Spencer doesn't seem to have moved by the time Jon gets back, and Jon can't help but lean in to make sure that he's still breathing. He can tell by the way Spencer's eyelashes aren't even fluttering that he's really asleep, the kind of deep unconsciousness that Jon knows from experience even an exploding can of cream soda and the resulting shrieks of delight won't shake him out of.

Jon traces the slope of Spencer’s nose with his index finger and dips down to follow the contour of his cheekbone. The dark smudges under his eyes have deepened in sleep, settled into something that looks like the makeup Ryan used to smear on them with careful fingertips. Jon remembers that the first time Ryan came at him with his palette of creams and powders and brushes how he’d felt; a little awkward, a little nervous, but mostly he’d felt accepted. He’d liked the way Ryan had cupped his face, had looked at him with such intensity, like he was trying to know Jon. He’d liked the attention, and he laughs a little at himself, looking back and realizing how much he had wanted Ryan’s approval, unspoken but demonstrated in the stroke of a brush on his skin.

“Jesus,” Jon says softly. Spencer shifts suddenly, rolls his shoulders and mewls a little as he rubs his face against the pillow. Jon leans back quickly, his heart hammering as he clambers off the bed. Spencer settles again, quiet breaths even as his fingers curl and uncurl around the duvet. Jon wants to put his hand there, thread his fingers through Spencer's and just hold on.

He leaves the room, instead. Spencer needs to rest.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It feels small in the apartment in a way Jon isn’t used to, like Spencer’s presence is filling up all the empty corners. He’s too aware of every noise, every point of contact he makes – is it too loud when he closes the kitchen cupboard? – and Jon ends up sitting on the living room floor with shoeboxes of photos he hasn’t dared to look at in months. The boxes are from their first tour together, pilfered from the detritus of Spencer’s shopping excursions. The pictures inside aren’t as easy to pinpoint. Brendon, standing in front of a street sign that Jon knows he took in St. Louis. He can’t remember which year it is – which St. Louis visit. The generic red t-shirt doesn’t offer any clues and the scruff on Brendon’s face is the same he gets after two days without using a razor. Jon stares hard, follows the curve of Brendon’s smile, where he’s pointing at something off camera. Jon remembers now. It was their first time in St. Louis, and Jon has a whole series of pictures of Brendon from that afternoon, dancing down the street to an off-the-cuff song about the pursuit of gyros. Onward Jonathan, Brendon had yelled, we are on a journey. No, no, a QUEST. A quest for gyros! Ryan had laughed. Jon knows that in one of these shoeboxes is a picture of Ryan and Brendon, holding hands and skipping with Zack just present in the corner, almost out of frame. It hurts to think about that moment without being able to consider that there are infinite more just like it around the corner. It hurts to look at their faces and remember how much they had just enjoyed being around each other, how any situation, no more how shitty, was always better if they were together.

There was nothing complicated in the smiling face that he’d captured that day, but Jon knows that if he’s being fair, if he’d taken another set of shoeboxes from the hall closet, that he could follow the whole messy timeline, watch the cracks shoot across the windshield. Its stupid to wish that people didn’t change, that new directions and new experiences and new relationships didn’t happen every day, and its really stupid that instead of trying to find each other again on this new terrain he’s wishing he could stay static inside the past.

Jon is startled when his phone rings, he kicks one of the boxes over as he lumbers to his feet, nerves tingling in his legs from being on the floor too long. He left it in his coat pocket, slung over one of the kitchen chairs and he winces as the ringtone brays out. He knows who it is, and he thinks about not picking up for a whole second before dismissing the idea.

“Hey Ryan,” he says.

“Brendon called me,” Ryan says, “Brendon called me and he is freaking out because Spencer is apparently missing? As in fucking disappeared from a party last night and didn’t come home and no one has seen him and he isn’t answering his phone and Brendon called me.”

“Whoa, dude, just. Um,” Jon scrubs a hand over his face. Fuck. It had occurred to him that Brendon would probably start wondering about Spencer’s whereabouts but he’s been pissed. Pissed that Brendon hasn’t been paying enough attention, had taken Spencer to a party on no sleep, and. And when Jon had thought about calling Brendon, he felt scared. Shit. He should have called. He should have called and now things were really fucked up and if Brendon had called Ryan he was upset and that. That was shitty. “Spencer is here. With me. In Chicago.”

“What?” Ryan says. “That doesn’t… what?”

“I don’t know,” Jon says. “He just kind of showed up. He’s been sleeping, like, since he got here, so. That’s why he isn’t answering the phone.”

“So, he just, what? Flew to Chicago? He left Shane’s and went to the airport? And you didn’t know?” Ryan is snapping out questions, his tone going flat.

“I didn’t know until he was here. He called me when he was already here.”

“When was this, exactly?”

“Uh, around five, I think?”

“Five. This morning. That is like, what time is it there now? Six? That is a whole day, Jon. It didn’t occur to you that we might be concerned?”

“Jesus, Ryan, I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t think Brendon would call you, I didn’t think you’d even,” Jon stops himself there.

“Didn’t think I’d care?” Ryan asks softly. “Brendon always waits to the last possible second before asking for help. He always waits until a problem is just too big, you know? So when he called me I knew that it was, I knew something was wrong. And I tried to think about where Spencer would go, if he was,” Ryan stops. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t think of a single fucking place in this whole state. I don’t know those things anymore, Jon. Isn’t that, isn’t it,”

“What, Ry?” Jon closes his eyes. The hurt in Ryan’s voice is almost fucking unbearable.

“I guess it doesn’t matter,” Ryan says. “He wasn’t here at all.”

"Ryan," Jon says.

"So what," Ryan says, strident and loud in Jon's ear. "You guys have been talking again?"

"No, look, don't get all," Jon waves his hand, tries to find a way to say pissy without actually saying it. He hates trying to deal with Ryan when he's like this, he's tired and confused enough already.

"I'm just trying to understand why the hell Spencer would just hop on a plane when the last I heard he didn't want to be the same room as you." Ryan says. Jon pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to bite back the retort he wants to make. It doesn't work.

"No, you're trying to understand why he didn't go to you," he says, and there's no way to miss Ryan's sharp inhale. "You haven't even asked me if he's okay."

"Do whatever the hell you want, Jon," Ryan hisses. "But remember, you're in a band with me."

Ryan hangs up. Jon doesn't bother trying to tell himself he isn't grateful. He's still standing in the doorway between the living room and the hall, phone clutched in his sweaty palm, trying to figure out if he can reasonably assume that Ryan will at least call Brendon, when he hears the bedroom door open. He turns in time to catch Spencer's half wave as he shuffles into the bathroom. His eyes are half closed and he bumps into the doorframe with a little oof.

"Fuck, dude," Spencer mumbles as he closes the door behind him. Jon types out a quick text to Brendon, Spencer here, is fine, talk later, before turning off his phone and making his way into his room. He stumbles a little across the threshold; with the towel over the window it is darker than he's used to. He takes careful steps across the floor until he bumps into the nightstand, sets down the glass and then fumbles with the bedside lamp. The low-watt bulb casts a warm light over half of the bed, the rest of the room dark enough for shadows. Jon sits on the edge of the rumpled bed and waits.

Spencer's face is a little damp and his bangs are wet, sticking up over his forehead where he'd pushed them back. He doesn't say anything, just crawls back onto the bed to collapse into the pillows.

"What time s'it?" he says, practically chewing on the pillowcase in an attempt to get the words out without lifting his face. Jon smiles and pushes the sting of Ryan's words away.

"Early still. You've been sleeping for a little over twelve hours." Jon says.

"Fuck," Spencer's eyes flutter closed. "Feel like I could sleep for another twelve."

"So do it," Jon says. He kicks off his jeans and slides his legs under the blankets. He stretches out and lays his head on the edge of Spencer's pillow. Spencer blinks at him.

"Yeah," he murmurs, smiling a little. "Turn off the light, okay?"

Jon turns at the waist, leans back and fumbles for the switch. He blinks in the sudden dark and rolls closer to Spencer, tugging and shifting until he's on his back with Spencer settled against his side, cheek and palm pressed to Jon's chest. Spencer hums and nods his head a little.

"When you're done sleeping, then we'll talk," Jon says, his hand sweeping up and down the length of Spencer's spine.

"Okay, Jon," Spencer says. Jon's not really tired, its still early and he's hyper aware of every point of contact between their bodies. He thinks he'll lay awake all night, just holding Spence and worrying and wondering and trying to figure out what comes next, but he closes his eyes and the next time he opens them he can tell that the sun has risen behind the blinds and makeshift towel-curtain.

"Shit," he says as he knuckles his gummy eyes. Spencer is curled up on his side facing Jon, close but not touching, squinting at the display on his phone.

"Uh, I have a lot of messages," Spencer says, voice burred with sleep.

"Probably mostly from Brendon," Jon says. "And maybe Ryan, too. They were, uh. Looking for you."

"Fuck," Spencer drops the phone on the mattress and rolls onto his back. "Fuck," he lays a hand across his eyes. "Brendon called Ryan?"

"Yeah," Jon sits up. "They both know you're here,"

"Well," Spencer moves his hand to scratch his chin idly.

"So, you're probably hungry. I'm gonna make breakfast, if you want to hop in the shower or whatever, well. You know where the towels are." Jon says quickly. Spencer levers himself up into a sitting position.

"Oh man, yes. A shower, that sounds awesome. Also food. Fuck. I actually don't remember the last time I ate."

"Well, I did promise you friendly pancakes." Jon laughs.

"You did," Spencer smiles, and Jon is reminded of the other promise he made the last time they talked, it feels so long ago now, and he winces when he remembers telling Spencer he was going to kiss him. He doesn't know what Spencer's thinking, still doesn't even really know why Spencer's here, and he feels awkward and almost presumptuous sitting on the mattress next to him right now. Jon doesn't exactly flee the room, but he walks a little too quickly to be casual. He hopes Spencer is too sleepy and distracted to notice.

When Spencer wanders into the kitchen half an hour later Jon has a sizable stack of pancakes warming in the oven, coffee brewing and two bowls full of sliced strawberries. Spencer is bundled in a fresh pair of Jon's sweats and a Decaydance hoodie that Jon got at one of Pete's many promotional events but never wore. He still looks a little dazed, but mostly awake with his hair making wet cowlicks around his face.

"Dude," Spencer says when Jon lays everything out on the table. He makes grabby hands at the mug of coffee that Jon brings over and Jon laughs when Spencer practically coos at the steaming contents.

"Freak," he says fondly, palming the top of Spencer's head briefly.

They don't talk much during breakfast; just eat in a companiable silence that reminds Jon of lazy mornings on the bus. The way his mouth goes dry when Spencer licks syrup off his knuckles is familiar, too. Jon wishes he and Spencer could stay in this moment forever, quiet over good coffee, enjoying each other's company in Jon's sunny kitchen. When he thought about missing Spencer, it was always the loud and bright moments, it never occurred to him to miss the everyday sharing of space.

"So," Spencer drags his fork across his empty plate. "You've been really awesome about not asking, but I guess we should probably talk about me just showing up at your door with my nervous breakdown."

Jon was hoping that he could delay the conversation a little longer by busying himself with kitchen clean up, but now that Spencer has raised the issue he makes himself forget about the dirty dishes. He does get up to grab more coffee, tops them both off. A little fortification might be necessary.

"Is it an actual nervous breakdown?" he asks when he's sitting again. Spencer straightens a little, and Jon can't see any of the confusion or uncertainty from the diner anywhere in his face. Spencer looks a little nervous, but resolved, like himself. Jon knows that Spencer isn't going to back down until he's said his piece, and instead of feeling cornered, Jon feels relieved.

"I don't know," Spencer says, pausing to take a sip of his coffee. He wraps both hands around the mug and holds it up under his chin, something to look at instead of Jon. "I didn't plan to come here, I don't even really remember being at Shane's party, or leaving, so. I didn't plan it, but I've been thinking about you a lot lately."

"Okay," Jon says. He wants to say me too, just to make it less awkward, more even, but he wasn't, not really. Not until he saw Spencer's name on his call display, and he hasn't been thinking about anyone or anything else since, but it's not the same. "Are you and Brendon, um, doing okay?" Maybe they've been fighting. Maybe the music isn't working. Maybe -

"What? We're fine, what do you - no, no. That's not what I mean," Spencer shakes his head, frustrated. He meets Jon's eyes for the first time. "This has nothing to do with the band, Jon."

"Sorry, I just. I'm just confused, I guess," Jon holds his hands up. Spencer flushes and looks away and back.

"I was seeing this guy, um, Andrew," Spencer ducks his head a little and Jon doesn't try to hide his scowl. He feels like the floor is shifting under him and he clutches the edge of the table. If Spencer came here to say, what, too late? "Christ. It was a fucking disaster."

"Oh?" Jon doesn't know what else to say, he feels twisted up inside, relieved and confused and angry and so fucking jealous. He knows what he wants to say, he wants to ask about this Andrew guy, wants to know what Spencer means by "seeing", if they kissed, if they fucked, was Andrew an asshole? Did Spencer love him?

"I'm sorry, I know I'm not explaining this very well," Spencer says. "It was, we fought a lot, right from the start, and it was stupid. But, he said something to me that made me realize why it wasn't working, why it was never going to,"

"What did he say?" Jon says, and he knows he sounds a little sharp despite his best effort not to, but. He can't pretend that it doesn't hurt.

"That I was stupid to try and be with him when I obviously had, uh, feelings for someone else," Spencer stares at a point over Jon's shoulders as he speaks, unable to meet Jon's gaze. Jon doesn't mind, he's not sure he could look into Spencer's eyes right now, either. Of course he knew that the conversation was leading to this point, but now that its here, Jon doesn't know what to do with it.

"Spence," Jon says.

"I was scared," Spencer talks over him in a rush. "Because, because what if it was just the idea of being with this person? How do you love someone for that long and never say it?"

Jon tries to swallow, but can't. He chokes a little and clenches his hands into fists. "I don't know," he says. "Did you," Jon doesn't know how to finish that question, so he just stops.

"I love you," Spencer says. "I'm in love with you, fuck, probably have been since the first time I met you." Spencer takes a long, deep breath. "I've been thinking about this for a little while and now I'm just here and telling you this and I know you probably haven't been thinking about it, but. I want you to. Think about it."

"You know how I feel about you, Spencer," Jon says quietly.

"Say it," Spencer is looking right at Jon now. He looks scared, scared and determined.

"I love you," Jon murmurs. "But, Spence, we might not, we're not a band anymore but that doesn't mean its simple all of a sudden."

"Don't, don't do that, Jon," Spencer shakes his head. "We've been doing that for years, making excuses, reasons why this was beyond our control. That's bullshit."

"It isn't bullshit," Jon says. "It's complicated."

"Yes, complicated. Not impossible." Spencer retorts. He leans back in his chair and visible releases a breath. "I'm not, I'm not trying to push you. I know it’s a lot to take in, but don't just shut me down, okay?"

"You're right," Jon rubs the back of his neck and smiles sheepishly. "I'm sorry, I'm just. You're right. I haven't been thinking about this, but I know that when you were sleeping all I wanted to lie there with you, take care of you. And I really didn't like hearing about this Andrew dude."

"We don't have to figure everything out right now, I just want to know, I don't know. If you want to try," Spencer says.

"I don't know," Jon says. "What if," he trails off.

"What if what?" Spencer asks. "Just. Forget about everyone else for right now, okay? What do you want?"

"It isn't that simple, Spencer," Jon says.

"Yes it is. It is that simple. Jesus, Jon. What's the problem? Ryan? Brendon? I love them, I do, but I'm not going to give up on you just because it might piss them off. That's bullshit."

"It isn't just about Ryan and Brendon, okay? Its about us. What if it doesn't work? What if we can't be friends anywhere?" Jon pauses. "What if we lose what we have?"

"What we have? We haven't talked in months. We're not," Spencer says. "We're not friends right now."

"That's just, that's not. It isn't forever, Spencer. Things are just," Jon stops. He knows Spencer is right, but he doesn't know how to explain this fear he has when he thinks about screwing this up. "I don't want to make it worse."

"I don't want to pretend anymore," Spencer says.

Jon looks at Spencer, really looks at him, and he knows suddenly that he is on the cusp of losing Spencer right now. The thought makes him feel sick, makes him feel desperate. Spencer must see something in his face, because he leans forward and grips Jon's hand.

"I love you," he says fiercely. "I want to be with you and I know that we can figure everything else out, if you want the same thing."

"You gonna fight for me, Spencer Smith?" Jon smiles, he can feel himself blushing.

"Yes," Spencer says. Jon stands, uses his grip on Spencer's hand to pull him to his feet and against his chest.

"I want you," his lips brush the shell of Spencer's ear. Spencer shivers in his arms and clutches at Jon's t-shirt. "I want you," he says and presses his mouth to Spencer's. “Okay?”

“God, Jon,” Spencer presses in close, almost like he’s trying to burrow underneath Jon’s clothes. Jon strokes up over his shoulders until his fingers are tangled in Spencer’s hair and uses his hold to tilt Spencer’s head just a little as he leans in to kiss his mouth. He swipes his tongue along the curve of Spencer’s bottom lip and sighs when Spencer opens up for him. Even as the kiss deepens, its sweeter than Jon expects, the desperation he felt moments ago ebbs away. Spencer keeps his hands on the small of Jon’s back, but doesn’t move to slide under his shirt for bare skin, and Jon rubs his fingertips gently against Spencer’s scalp. When they finally break apart its only to press their foreheads together, eyes closed and sharing breath in the small space between their parted lips. Jon’s mouth feels swollen and sore, but he can’t help but lean in for more kisses.

"I did warn you that I was gonna kiss you," Jon says.

"Yeah, you did," Spencer murmurs.

Jon lets his hands slide down to rest between Spencer’s shoulder blades; that’s when he notices that Spencer is shaking. “Spence?” he murmurs, and Spencer tucks his face into the curve of Jon’s neck. Jon can smell his own coconut conditioner in Spencer’s hair as he wraps his arms tight around Spencer’s back. “What is it?”

“It’s just, I was pretty sure I knew how you felt, but,” Spencer shrugs a little, as much as he can with Jon’s arms around him. Jon nods, thinks about their conversation. Spencer had always been wary of exposing too much, but in Jon’s kitchen he had essentially laid himself bare, and trusted Jon not to break him.

“I would never hurt you,” Jon says, and hopes so much that he isn’t lying. Spencer lifts his head and leans back enough so that he can look into Jon’s eyes.

“It’s not the same, Jon. I know you would never hurt me on purpose, but if you had said no, you could have said no.”

“No, Spence. I couldn’t have,” Jon says. Spencer smiles, soft and shy and Jon can’t help but kiss him again.

“I should probably call Brendon,” Spencer says once they separate. “I didn’t ask earlier, you said he knows I’m here?”

“I texted him, I didn’t actually talk to him, though,” Jon explains. “It was, I wasn’t trying to make a point of not calling or anything, I was just. Um, distracted.”

Spencer laughs softly. “Dude, you don’t have to explain, just. I should definitely call him,” he winces a little. “I can’t believe he called Ryan.”

Jon doesn’t know what to say to that, he definitely doesn’t want to talk about the conversation he had with Ryan, which would be a pretty obvious violation of his “do not hurt Spencer” edict.

“He was probably pretty worried,” Jon says finally.

“Yeah,” Spencer twists his fingers in the hem of Jon’s t-shirt. “He’ll, uh, probably want to know when I’m coming back.”

“Can you stay? I mean, just until we can figure stuff out.” Jon can’t fathom being away from Spencer right now, there’s barely an inch of space between their bodies and he still wants Spencer to be closer.

“Yes, definitely. Maybe a week, or two?” Spencer says, tone lilting up into a question.

“Okay,” Jon nods, but a week or two doesn’t sound long enough at all. Suddenly there’s a deadline in his mind, an ominous countdown that he shies away from. What if they don’t figure anything out? What if Spencer leaves and things fall apart? What if-

“Hey,” Spencer taps his cheek lightly, then turns the touch into a caress across his jaw. “We’ll figure it out,” This time it’s Spencer who leans in, licks his way into Jon’s mouth for a kiss.

“Yeah,” Jon says, “We will. Okay,” with effort he pulls himself away. “Okay, you call Brendon and I’ll clean up in here.”

“Sure, I’ll just,” Spencer waves a hand in the direction of the living room. He pauses in the doorway, looks back at Jon. “We’re gonna be okay,” he says.

“I know,” Jon smiles. He forgoes the dishwasher, decides he needs something to do with his hands, and fills the sink with hot water. He can just hear the murmur of Spencer’s voice from the next room, so he turns the radio on, too. He doesn’t want to hear if Spencer’s voice rises or breaks, Spencer will tell him about it later. Right now, he’s the happiest he’s ever been with his hands in a messy sink.

Jon doesn't want to, but once the dishes are done and the countertops have been wiped down, he doesn't really have an excuse not to turn his phone on. He has a few missed calls and texts, but he doesn't bother to look past the one from Ryan. His hands don't shake when he clicks to open it, but he's holding his breath in the second it takes for the words to pop up on the screen.

I didn't have to ask if he was OK. He's with you.

Jon lets out a noisy breath. He wasn't fair to Ryan, Ryan wasn't fair to him, but he knows that Ryan was coming from a bad place, scared and hurt and stressed, and Jon had probably pushed him too hard. Jon puts his phone down. He doesn't have to call Ryan right now, it's enough to know that can, later.

When Spencer wanders back in almost an hour later, Jon is sitting at the table with his feet propped up on another chair and Dylan purring in his lap; the kitchen is probably the cleanest it has ever been. Spencer goes straight for Jon’s chair and puts his arms around Jon’s shoulders.

“Sorry it took so long,” Spencer mumbles, his words spoken directly into the curve of Jon’s neck, “He was, uh, upset. Not about this, but, that I just took off.”

Jon strokes up Spencer’s arm, Spencer is leaning heavily against him. “Tired?” he asks.

“God,” Spencer says. “Yes. I know I slept for two days, but can we go back to bed? Um, just to lay down.”

“Cuddle time sounds awesome,” Jon says. Spencer snorts and leans back far enough so that Jon can stand without knocking him over.

“We’re so lame,” Spencer says.

“The lamest,” Jon nods. He slings an arm around Spencer’s waist. Spencer is yawning and his eyes are half closed by the time they make it into Jon’s room. He practically collapses onto the mattress, and shuffles over to leave room for Jon. As soon as Jon has situated himself on his back, Spencer rolls over and presses his chest to Jon’s chest, slips his knee across Jon’s leg and an arm over his waist. Jon kisses his temple, nuzzles his hair a little and lets his eyes droop closed.

“You’re warm,” Spencer sighs happily.

“Your own personal heater,” Jon agrees. “Sleep, Spence. We’re both gonna need it. You have one outfit with you, and that coat you wore will not do. We’re going to have to brave the mall, I think.”

“Jon Walker, are you going to take me shopping?” Spencer laughs. “You really do love me.”

Jon hooks his finger under Spencer’s chin and tilts his face up for a kiss, then pulls back so he can look into Spencer's blue, blue eyes. “Yeah,” he says, “I really do.”

Thoughts for a Saturday afternoon

estei — Sat, 20 Feb 2010 21:02:15 GMT

Instant coffee might do the trick, but that doesn't make it right.
- That said, this hazelnut flavoured cream I have is curing all my caffeine ails.
I think it's no coincidence that after a year in Calgary I am still sleeping on an air mattress and can fit everything I own into my suitcases. Hmmm.
I have 2500 words of Jon POV to this story that may or may not have already reached a natural conclusion. I've gotten to the point where I can't tell if I am only prolonging it so I can write more cuddling scenes.
I'd rather post this song than talk about the epic divorce fic that has been floating around my brain for two months. Hannah Georgas - The National

Gadzooks, this is what you're looking for

estei — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 23:36:06 GMT

A million years ago I was whining to subterrain that no one was writing the exact Jon/Spencer fic of my HEART and she said "OK. Tell me about this fic and I'll write it" because she's awesome, okay, she's just totally awesome. At the time I didn't even have words for how excited this made me because subterrain is the one who got me into bandom, totally indirectly, because our paths had never really crossed in fandom but we were living in the same city and a mutual LJ friend made intros and we were meeting for coffee so, naturally, I stalked her journal and the first thing I saw was her Bandom Big Bang, the totally phenomenal You will not rattle us apart, Ryan Ross and then not only was I smitten with the whole bandom thing, but with this amazing person who had written this crazy-awesome story. So my mind was appropriately blown when she offered to write me a story.

ANYWAY. BACK TO THIS REC. So we talked about this Jon/Spencer story all the time and she sent me snippets and when "sufficient" time had passed between snippets I would casually bring it up while we were at the gym and she couldn't escape me. I am sure she started fantasizing about beating me to death with a barbell, but it was all for you! (and me. Mostly me) Because it is done and posted!

Fandom: Panic
Pairing: Jon/Spencer
Warnings: kissing, drinking, cursing, references to casual sex. A solid PG-13, I'd say.
Words: 23,983
Summary: It's July 2006 and Jon Walker is kind of selfish, and kind of oblivious, and kind of in love with the drummer. None of these things are making this tour easy.

Faster than you go when you're alone OR, as I call it, the best fucking thing to ever be committed in a google doc!!!

fic: Hello, I'm too tired to smile today | bandom | 2236 words

estei — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 05:01:25 GMT

I spent most of today hopped up on NeoCitron and watching Mythbusters reruns. During the commercial breaks I wrote something.

title: Hello, I'm too tired to smile today
rating: I didn't know I could write anything g rated, but here it is.
words: 2236
summary: Spencer just wants to go home. He ends up in Chicago. This is not a coincidence.
notes: This was written for bandomvalentine for prompt 28 Post/split HAPPY Jon/Spencer (maybe side Brendon/Ryan?) As long as it has a happy ending, it's all good. "Remember when you looked like a girl?" I had big happy plans for this prompt, but then life and the cold that will not die got in the way. It is mostly happy? subterrain assures me that it is bittersweet.
notes: As mentioned above, subterrain gave up part of her Sunday to look this over and kick my ass a little.

When the wheels of the airplane touch down on a runway at O'Hare, Spencer has been awake for thirty hours, approximately. He isn't entirely sure and is more concerned with getting his hands on some Visine than he is in figuring out the minutes and hours and days that have passed since he last closed his eyes. The dry, recycled air in the cabin is probably what Spencer hates the most about air travel.

The coffee Spencer gets from a kiosk on the concourse is more like caffeinated syrup than an actual liquid but its hot and bitter on his tongue, his heart beats faster with every gulp and he feels more balanced, if slightly nauseous, when the paper cup is empty. He doesn't have any luggage so he bypasses baggage claim, darting through the throng of travelers who watch the carousel jolt into motion with predatory attention. It had been a cool night in Los Angeles and Spencer is wearing a light jacket, but it isn't going to do much against the cold February air in Chicago. He considers the wares of the magazine shop beside the revolving doors - it offers the same selection as every other airport store on the continent; candy, bestsellers, blankets and cushions, cheap souvenirs and bottled water. There's a rack of scarves and mittens in the back corner, garish and brightly coloured, but there's a line up at the counter and the cashier looks like someone who may have been around to vote for Eisenhower and Spencer doesn't think he could stand still for that long.

Sitting in a cab doesn't hold much appeal, either. Spencer follows the signs to the CTA terminal. He doesn't know the train system at all, but he knows the Blue line. It reminds him that the last time he was in this airport he'd flown in with Jon, visited with Jon, whose enthusiasm for Chicago's public transit had been endearing. Spencer thinks he probably knows Jon's neighborhood better than he knows his own in LA. Despite the late hour, the big digital readout above the transit schedule reads 4:38, Spencer doesn't have to wait long for a train. The whole trip has been easy like that. He can't remember when the idea popped into his head. He'd left Brendon at Shane's party. There had been too many people, too many people who only knew Jon and Ryan through Shane's careful anecdotes or Brendon's bitter asides and it had been early but the headache growing behind his eyes had sent Spencer out the door and into a cab. He'd meant to go home, his only thought had been home, but he asked to go to LAX. From there it hadn't taken any thought at all.

Maybe he should have called. He still could, face tipped against the window and watching the dark rattle by. The only things he has with him besides his clothes are the essentials he stuffed in his jacket pocket when he'd left the house with Brendon that evening. His keys, his phone and his wallet.

His phone is off. He wonders if Brendon has noticed he's gone.

Spencer doesn't call Jon. He doesn't know what to say yet. Jon was one of his closest friends and once they had orbited each other with the promise of something more, but that something never came and Spencer doesn't know if this kind of visit would ever have been within the boundaries of their friendship. He doesn't know if he would have been welcomed then, he's even less sure now.

Its too soon when his stop comes up. Spencer's not ready to step out of the limbo of travel, that place where you can exist only inside your own head, just a passing thought or second glance to the world around you.

There's an all night diner four blocks from the train stop, eight blocks further from Jon's apartment. Spencer was there once with Jon. He had pancakes and Jon ordered an egg scramble. He doesn't remember how the food tasted, but he remembers that it was warm and that the waitress had drawn a lopsided smiley face on his pancakes.

Spencer ducks his head against the cold and walks fast. He gets turned around, goes up the wrong street before he realizes his mistake and it takes ten minutes to reorient himself. When he pushes open the diner door and the bell jingles overhead the light and warmth feels a little like salvation. The booths are mostly empty and Spencer scuffs across the linoleum to the sound of a talk radio station. The waitress is at his elbow before he's even taken his seat, scooting indelicately across the vinyl bench seat.

The waitress, Joanna, if her nametag can be trusted, would probably pass for thirty if it weren't for the blue rinse in her hair. Spencer remembers a time when he would have been texting Ryan about this experience as soon as her back was turned, he remembers a time when Ryan would have been sitting across the table from him, eyebrows angled in droll amusement.

He orders a coffee and pancakes. The coffee comes first, a steaming at his elbow in a chipped porcelain cup and Spencer forgoes the yellow packets of Splenda for the hulking sugar dispenser by the napkin holder. The coffee feels good and Joanna refills his cup before she brings the pancakes out. Joanna smiles as she slides the plate in front of him.

"I tried to put a smiley face on them for you, didn't quite work out," she says. Spencer smiles at her, mouth stretching and cheeks dimpling, but he feels a little sick now. The whipped cream smile is crooked, almost like a grimace, and suddenly being here feels wrong, like he's gone through the looking glass to a darker reflection.

He calls Jon. Its after five now, Sunday morning and traffic outside won't pick up with early commuters. Jon answers on the fifth ring. He doesn't sound sleepy or confused, he sounds wary.

"Spencer?" he says. He doesn't bother with hello and he doesn't point out the time. Its been so long since they've talked, this isn't just a casual call.

"This pancake smile is very sinister," Spencer says, and it isn't what he meant to say at all. He meant to say something innocuous like, Sorry for waking you or Do you have a minute? But that isn't right, because he isn't sorry and he needs more than a minute.

"Where are you?" Jon asks. "Where's Brendon?"

"Brendon, I'm not sure. The last time I saw him he was drinking something very purple in Shane's kitchen." Spencer choses not to answer the first question, not yet.

"How long ago was that?"

"I don't know exactly. I guess, probably about six hours, no, no probably more like eight."

"And you're eating sinister pancakes?"

"I probably won't eat them." Spencer admits. He won't, he knew he wouldn't when he ordered them. "I don't know why I ordered them."

"Spencer, where are you?" Jon is being very patient, Spencer gets that, but he wishes he wouldn't ask that question again.

"Um. A diner. Patti's."

There is a long pause, Spencer can just hear the rustle of fabric - blankets, maybe? - and a soft thump, like maybe Jon was putting his feet on the floor.

"You're here?" Jon says, his tone modulated in the way he uses when he's trying to seem calm.

"Yes," Spencer says.

"I'll be right there." Jon says, and hangs up.

Spencer is on his third refill of coffee when the door opens and the little bell rattles. He doesn't look up from the table until Jon is sliding in across from him, unwrapping his scarf and dropping his mittens next to the salt and pepper shakers. Jon looks tired, pillow creases on his cheek and disheveled hair. Spencer has never seen it so long. He wants to comb his fingers through it, smooth out the tangles behind Jon's ears.

Before Jon can speak Joanna is at their side with an extra cup and a carafe of coffee. Jon smiles politely and declines a menu. He takes a careful sip, winces and reaches for the sugar dispenser.

"Those pancakes are a little sinister," Jon says. Spencer nods, but he keeps his lips pressed together tightly. Jon is here, a wool peacoat over his pajamas and making idle conversation about threatening breakfast foods and the truth is Spencer wasn't sure that he would come. Wasn't sure that he had the right to ask anymore. It might have been better if Jon hadn't answered the phone. Spencer doesn't know what he's doing here. He feels cracked open and sad, and he isn't sure what will come out of his mouth if he tries to speak.

"I taught Dylan a new trick," Jon says. "Its pretty awesome, I won't lie. I'm glad you're here so that you can witness it in person, I don't think you'd believe me if I told you."

"Were you going to tell me about it?" Spencer asks. With anyone else the question would be weighted, would have ulterior motives maybe. With Ryan, it would have started a fight.

"I don't know," Jon says. "I thought about it. Sometimes I think up conversations in my head, things I could tell you, things I want to tell you. I don't think they'd go like I imagined them, though."

"Probably not," Spencer admits. "I don't know why I'm here. I mean," he shrugs. "I didn't plan it. I just, I left Shane's party and," he shrugs again. Jon is looking at him, really looking, and Spencer wants to turn his gaze away so badly, but he figures he owes Jon at least a few seconds of eye contact at this point.

"You shaved," Jon says, and grimaces through another swallow of coffee. Spencer automatically reaches up to rub his jaw, it still feels strange to feel his skin and not the bristles of hair.

"I was sick, this flu thing, and it just. After three days of fever it felt gross." he shrugs.

"How long has it been since you slept?" Jon asks. No point in hiding anything from someone you've shared a bus with. Brendon and Ryan and Jon, they probably know him better than his mother, probably better than he knows himself.

"A while," Spencer says. "Since Thursday night, I guess."

Jon nods. "We should go," he says. "I have my car, you might not freeze."

Spencer pulls two twenties from his wallet - he feels bad for not eating Joanna's pancakes. He hopes the tip will make up for his weirdness.

Jon's car is just around the corner and they shuffle side by side, Jon trying to hurry them along and Spencer resisting. He isn't cold, not really. Spencer settles himself into the passenger seat and ignores Jon's searching looks. Spencer watches the street lights as they drive by.

"I missed you," he says, and for a moment he can see Jon's profile in the window, staring straight ahead and knuckles tight on the steering wheel.

Jon hustles him up the stairs to his apartment and this time Spencer lets him. He's at once eager and terrified for the familiarity of Jon's home, Dylan and Clover and the rug he got in England and the thick wool sweaters that seem part of the decor. He almost breaks down when he walks into the living room, exactly as he'd remembered. His hands are shaking when Jon hands him a pair of sweatpants to change into.

"Come on," Jon takes him by the elbow and leads him down the hallway to his bedroom. His duvet is half on the floor and the pillows bunched up around the headboard. Jon reaches up to pull his jacket off his shoulders and Spencer's legs buckle, just a little. "Hey, hey," Jon slips an arm around his waist and takes him the last two steps to the bed. He holds on while Spencer shuffles out of his jeans, toes off his socks and pulls the sweatpants up. "Lay down," Jon murmurs, and Spencer crawls across the mattress to settle on his side, facing the wall. Jon follows and curls himself around Spencer, chest to back. He strokes a palm down Spencer's side, curling at his hip. "You're getting too skinny again."

Jon's breath is warm against his ear and Spencer closes his eyes, exhales and breathes in the scent of Jon and sleep. He can't remember a time where he didn't want this, when he didn't want Jon. He'd always been afraid, of ruining the band, of losing his friend. He never took the chance, and the worst happened anyway.

"I've missed you, too," Jon says. "I'm glad you came. When you wake up I'm probably going to kiss you, if that's okay."

Spencer presses a hand to his mouth and smiles against his skin. "It's okay," he whispers.

"And I'll make you some friendly pancakes," Jon presses a dry kiss to the skin behind his ear and inhales deeply. "I'm so glad you're here," he says again. "You can sleep now."

"I know," Spencer says. He closes his eyes. The pipes make a soft whooshing sound as hot water circulates and Spencer can hear the cats puttering around outside the door and Jon is snuffle-snoring beside his ear. He sleeps.

-----------------------------------------------

Now with Jon POV companion piece; don't hold back, feel a little longer

my days are numbered, too

estei — Fri, 05 Feb 2010 08:41:18 GMT

I don't usually do New Year's resolutions because I find the whole thing a little depressing, like, I don't want to put too much pressure on the year to be more awesome than the last incase it sucks. This year I just stuck to the general and I stole some from subterrain

1. Be braver in every way.
2. See a shit-ton of shows.

Tonight I combined the two and went to see Magnetic North, We Are The City and the Zolas at the Palomino bar by myself. This probably doesn't seem like a huge deal, but I was plenty nervous about it and didn't really believe I would go until I found myself outside my apartment building around 9:30. I really wanted to see this show because I knew that I loved two of the three bands and even though I had seen them on Friday I was really curious to see how the shift of venue from a hipster cafe to seedy bar would play out.

So first it was a little awkward because I got there before the first opener (Magnetic North) started soundcheck and there were three tables (occupied) and mostly open space in front of the stage and there were a handful of groups, clumped like knots in formation around the bar. So I gritted my teeth and sidled up to the bar and ordered a rum and coke. Two things that were not cool happened while I was leaning there throughout the first set. The first was a truly unfortunate encounter with a guy I'd drunkenly hooked up with before Christmas. He remembered me, I was not so clear until he spoke because, hey. I don't know that many guys with Australian accents. Very awkward. Secondly, the awesome bartender ALMOST SET ME ON FIRE. I had my back to her and she was lighting a row of shots at least three feet down the bar but the whole bar top kind of lit up and I was standing there thinking, Where is that weird heat coming from? Luckily, I was not set on fire.

For We Are the City and the Zolas I managed to work up the nerve to elbow my way to the front of the stage and enjoyed a fucking phenomenal show. Close enough to count the hairs on Zachary Gray's beautiful chest and to stare longingly at the drummer who looks like Jon Walker. They had such an amazing energy, and within the first few songs the band members of WATC and the Zolas were hopping on stage during each other's performances to lend an assist on whatever came to hand; tambourine, rain stick and wooden spoons. Despite the amount of truly drunk people, it was a really good crowd and a lot of people sang along with the songs. The guys in these bands are so nice and genuine and nerdy and it was just awesome to see them play and listen to their bad jokes and to be part of something they obviously all loved so much.

Lastly, I am so glad that I didn't let my fear keep me from such a fantastic experience. Progress!

That said, when my alarm goes off in four hours I might have a slightly different take on the situation. Too bad Friday is a work day!

Long time no see

estei — Wed, 03 Feb 2010 22:48:27 GMT

I haven't posted in a while, though I have opened this page more than a few times only to stare blankly at the blinking cursor until frustration sends me running. I have pretty much cut ties with Supernatural - I haven't watched any episodes this season and only read fic when it is posted by someone I know and love (see indysaur's latest AU of awesome) and the fandom I am interested in is mostly dead - bandom, why have you forsaken me?

Basically all I talk about these days is one of the following:

- Music (mostly Canadian indie music and the shows I see - coming up! Dan Mangan! The Rural Alberta Advantage! The National!!!)
- Coffee and how much I love it with a subcategory of Sunday brunch. No Sunday can be considered a success if some kind of brunch was not had.
- Spencer Smith. WHAT.
- Frank Iero.
- Ok Go's youtube channel. Seriously. You don't even have to like them, okay? BLAZIN.
- The road trip I want to take sometime in the near future

So! That's my update. How about you?

Ficlet: I tried my best by you | Bandom

estei — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 22:59:07 GMT

Timothy's has this coffee that I really love called "Winter Carnival" and it is just. Made of awesome. But there is no Timothy's near my work and so I don't get this awesome coffee ever and every time I hit up the Starbucks across the street I convince myself that "Christmas Spice" is going to be really good. It is really not, and so I found myself with a cold coffee and zero energies at work this afternoon so I started harrassing subterrain and telling her to entertain me and instead she said: 1. Walk downstairs, find a cookie and eat it. 2. Write me five shirts that Spencer Smith has worn/would wear.

Well, I didn't get a cookie but I did write something. And then she told me to post it. So. You know.

note: So it should go without saying that this hasn't been beta'd and I am too tired and lazy to really bother tidying it up even though it could really use a firmer hand, but I don't think anyone but subterrain or delighter will be reading this and they definitely already know how much I suck. So.

5 shirts that would have looked even better on the floor

1. Where it starts, baby

It is completely ridiculous and Jon is baffled by himself but when he sees Spencer in that stupid pink t-shirt, its like. He just can't keep his hands off. He starts out with touching his knuckles to Spencer's elbow, shivering at how stupid-soft his skin is there, and ends up with his arm fully around Spencer and his fingers in his hair, silky and still damp and he can feel his mouth stretch in a smile that is uncomfortable on his face, too large and uncontrollable and Zack is rolling his eyes and the snap-click of cameras are a buzz in his ear but for just one second Spencer leans into him and Jon just doesn't care.

2. You're on thin ice now

Jon just really likes the design, okay? And he likes that Spencer can wear shit like rainbow t-shirts and it isn't a statement and he doesn't have to say shit like "This is an ironic rainbow" because he doesn't care, because he likes it and that is all that matters. Jon wishes he had a bit of Spencer's confidence sometimes when he's blushing at Sisky's asides and William fucking Beckett's knowing looks. Spencer just stares them down, meets their eyes and shrugs.

"They're going to think what they're going to think," Spencer said one night, out of nowhere when the two of them were shivering behind the bus and passing a fading joint back and forth. Jon hadn't said anything, feeling cold somewhere deep in his chest when he realized that Spencer had seen his discomfort. Spencer wasn't mad, wasn't even disappointed, just matter-of-fact and Jon had wanted to stay out there with him forever.

3. Now we have a problem

Long sleeved black and white stripes with a wide neck and definitely a girl's shirt and Jon's mouth is desert-dry just taking in the long curve of Spencer's neck, the slope of his collarbones and the dip at the base of his throat. Jon just wants to put his mouth there, feel the warmth from Spencer's skin and just breathe him in. He almost does, leans forward with intent but then he catches Ryan watching him, gaze dark and knowing and Jon jerks back, elbow knocking Spencer's ribs hard. Spencer's mouth forms a perfect O as his brow furrows and Jon's heart beats-beats-beats in his chest.

4. But I never was the wise one

"I'm not going to cry or anything," Spencer says as he wipes the tears from his cheeks. His skin is cold but the tears are hot when he presses his face into Jon's shoulder. "Just because he, like. So I'm not," his breath hitches as Jon's arm comes around his back, "I don't always have the answers. I'm just as stupid as he is but he acts like its this big surprise every time, like I'm supposed to just know, but I don't. I can't. And, and,"

"And he's a big dick," Jon supplies when Spencer can't seem to find the words he needs.

"Yeah," Spencer laughs, short and harsh and more like a sob than anything else and Jon is so fucking mad, okay, he's so mad because this isn't right and this needs to stop but. But what can Jon ever say to make it stop.

"The biggest," he says instead, "You're cold. You're so cold, Spence. Put my sweater on, okay?"

And the hoodie is too big and the sleeves are too short and Spencer's hair is mussed after he pulls it on but he takes a deep breath and flaps his arms a bit and says "I'm going to wipe my nose on you," and Jon feels like he might crack open from the fullness in his chest.

5. I get the answer from time to time

Jon buys the t-shirt because it feels soft on his fingertips and because he knows the colour will match Spencer's eyes. He thinks about how it will fit across Spencer's shoulders and how it will feel on Spencer's skin.

He keeps it in his duffle, because he knows that when Spencer wears it, it will mean something. He just doesn't know the meaning yet.

Finally, the saddest spn_j2_xmas fic ever!

estei — Fri, 23 Jan 2009 02:31:31 GMT

Writing this fic today was actually painful. My writing-fu (what fu I ever had) is broken or MIA or something because I started about fifty versions of this and the following 1,500 is what I could come up with. This was written for saiilorsong and aside from the pairing it in no way comes close to what she asked for, and it is late on top of that!

Jensen is a good boyfriend. No, really

After two months of Jensen spending every night in Jared’s bed, curled against his back and nose burrowed in the curls at the nape of his neck, Jared declared that Jensen’s old bedroom was his new office. Of course, this declaration came after Jensen returned from the grocery store to find his bed in the living room.

“Jared,” Jensen says as he surveys the mattress and box spring leaning precariously against the entertainment centre. He doesn’t see Jared, but he can hear him lurking around the piles of unpacked boxes that had just two hours ago resided in the dusty corners of Jensen’s room.

“Jensen,” Jared’s flushed face appears over the box marked “STUFF” in red sharpie. “Uh, you’re home,” he says.

“What’s going on? Why is all my stuff in the living room?” Jensen isn’t too alarmed yet. It’s entirely possible that Jared has a perfectly good explanation for the mess in front of him.

“Well, funny you should ask that,” Jared says and Jensen immediately wished he’d thought to pour himself a stiff drink before asking anything. Nothing good ever starts with “funny you should ask.” Only bad things start that way. “I was sitting in the living room trying to read that script Kim sent over and Harley and Sadie kept distracting me and then I moved in to the kitchen but the fridge kept watching me until I made a sandwich, obviously, and then I thought, I mean, the fridge was really dirty, Jensen. There was take out from the last time Tom was over in there and that stuff was like, planning some kind of revolution or biological warfare or something and so then I thought I could probably read the script in our bedroom and the dogs couldn’t in and there’s no fridge in there but then I was sitting on the bed and, I’m sure you noticed this, it’s really comfortable and I, well, I feel asleep. And so I was watching this really cool design show, you know, on the Home and Garden channel? Anyway, and they made this really cool office out of a spare room for this stay at home mom. I mean, it was amazing Jensen. Here this poor woman was trying to run a business out of her house and she has this little baby running around and there’s teething rings in her fax machine and it was really wild. So I decided that we should have an office. To do stuff in.”

Jensen takes a moment to try and absorb the verbal assault Jared just levelled at him. The plastic handles of the grocery bags are digging into his palms and he can feel the slush melting off of his boots onto the hardwoord floor and he obviously has to be more careful about where he hides the candy stash because Jared is practically vibrating.

Jensen knows that there are certain rules to being a good boyfriend. He likes to think that he’s got a handle on enough of them to keep him from getting too badly criticized by Chad Michael Murray, thank you very much. When Jared got sick with a nasty case of stomach flu in the middle of the night Jensen went to the drug store and quizzed the pharmacist for half an hour on the best treatments. He spent weeks hunting down the perfect vintage watch for Jared’s birthday. He’s seen Tropic Thunder four times and Tom Cruise in a chub-suit dancing to R&B will haunt his dreams forever. Still, there are those rare times when Jensen misjudges how Jared feels about a certain subject.

“Why do you need a home office, Jared? You’re not a stay at home mom and you don’t run your own business and this still doesn’t explain why my stuff is in the living room.” Jensen doesn’t mean to yell, he doesn’t, but he can feel the vein in his head throbbing and his eyebrow waxer told him in no uncertain terms that stress causes fine lines.

“I should have waited until you got home, but I wanted to surprise you.” Jared explains.

“Surprise me with what, exactly? All of my stuff in the living room?” Jensen wants to wave his arms around a little bit but he’s still holding the groceries so he settles for shaking the bags and stomping his feet.

“Yeah, the new furniture isn’t here yet,” Jared chews on his thumbnail as he crosses the room to the window and peers out, presumably looking for some sort of delivery vehicle.

“New furniture? I was gone for an hour!”

“It was two hours, actually.” Jared says as he turns away from the window.

“So this is my fault?”

“Who said anything about fault?”

“I did, just now. No, no. You know what? I’m going to put the groceries away and when I come back I expect to see everything in here back where it belongs.”

Jensen doesn’t wait to see Jared’s reaction; he just turns on his heels and heads down the hallway. He makes sure to bang around extra loud as he puts away the canned goods and slams the fridge door a few times for good measure. He doesn’t hear any furniture or boxes being moved but he’s still surprised when half an hour later nothing has made its way back to his room. In fact it seems like more things have made it out.

“Jared. What the hell?”

“Jen. I know you’re mad but think about it for just a second. You’re not sleeping in there anymore. I don’t think you’ve even been in there for three weeks. I cleared out half of my closet for your shit and the rest we can put in storage, you haven’t opened it anyway.” Jared says reasonably, ticking his fingers with every new statement.

“You cleared out half of your closet?” Jensen asks grudgingly. “Jesus, I wasn’t even gone that long. How did you have time to have a nap, make a sandwich, clean your room and totally dismantle mine?”

“It was a short nap,” Jared shrugs. “Think of how awesome it will be to have an office,”
At this point Jensen has to admit it will probably be pretty awesome. They could get some nice chairs, some bookcases, a big desk for the laptops – a space where he can focus away from the dogs and Jared’s bounciness.

“I can see you’re coming around to my way of thinking,” Jared smirks as he steps over a pile of Jensen’s sneakers. His fingers tug gently on the hem on Jensen’s t-shirt as he backs him up against the doorframe.

“I’m still mad,” Jensen insists, eyes closing as Jared ducks down and brushes their mouths together. “I’m really, mmm, really mad,”

“I can tell,” Jared laughs as he presses a thigh between Jensen’s legs and exhales against his lips. Jensen rolls his hips up, trying to get closer and pressing his fingertips against Jared’s denim clad hips.

“You better make it up to me,” Jensen grins, moaning when Jared’s tongue teases the edge of his mouth. He doesn’t really give a shit about the furniture or the office or anything other than the heat coming off of Jared’s skin and the sweep of his lashes and the feel of- Jensen’s thoughts are derailed at the overly cheerful tones of the doorbell ringing.

“The office furniture!” Jared crows, breaking away and rushing for the door.

“Hey, what, damnit. You really ordered furniture?” Jensen yells, trying to pull his clothes into some kind of order as Jared swings the door wide open. Sure enough, two dudes in sweat-stained t-shirts and back braces are standing on the stoop and one of them is holding a clipboard.

“Is this the Padalecki residence?” one of them asks.

“Sure is fellas, all that stuff is going in the room down that hall.” Jared gestures down the hallway in question.

“All that stuff? Jared, exactly how much did you order?” Jensen cranes his head around the corner. His clothes are only slightly rumpled but there’s the bigger issue of the hard on he can’t get rid of.

“Office stuff, Jen,” Jared grins widely and Jensen can see his dreams of an orderly and sleek space crumbling before his eyes.

“Don’t worry,” Jared whispers as the delivery men tromp back to their truck, “The desk is the perfect shape,”

“For what, exactly?” Jensen says.

“For you to bend me over and fuck me later,” Jared winks and Jensen barely resists from reaching down to cup his growing erection. There are burly, ugly men around, after all.
Honestly. Jared is so lucky Jensen is such a good boyfriend. Anyone else might be driven to acts of violence. And it doesn’t matter what Chad says, that one time with the lacrosse stick totally does not count at domestic abuse.

It was an accident.

Really.

Fic: Seven takes of the same old scene

estei — Thu, 11 Dec 2008 20:27:54 GMT

Super dooper later wee!cest fic for strippedpink

Warning: Sam is fourteen. So. You know.
Other warning: Yes. The title is from a Pussycat Dolls song. Stop judging me!

Seven takes of the same old scene | pre-series | Sam/Dean, brief Sam/OFC and Sam/OMC | R | 4060 words

Author's note: Okay. So this fic really got away from me in every sense of the term. I ran out of time and then the characters did stuff that I totally did not expect and I had a family funeral so... uh... I hope this is not as crazy on paper as it is in my head. And I really like that song. And I'm not sorry about it, either.

Seven takes of the same old scene

It’s almost midnight and Sam is stretched across the couch, body angled to avoid the worst of the broken spring coils and a fleece blanket between himself and the rough upholstery. A Cheers rerun is barely discernible through the fuzzy lines climbing the TV screen; Dean’s coat-hanger contraption on the cable box can’t compete with the snowstorm raging on the other side of the bungalow walls. Sam is dozing anyway, half listening to the steady murmur of Dean and Dad in the kitchen. Normally Dad would have sent him to bed an hour ago but the electric radiators haven’t worked since they moved into the house in October and without Dean warm and heavy beside him Sam can’t tolerate moving away from the small wood stove in the living room.

Sam doesn’t remember falling asleep, he starts awake when Dean’s hand touches his shoulder.

“C’mon Smammy,” Dean says, lips curved in a smile that Sam can’t help but return.

“Don’t call me Smammy,” Sam mumbles as Dean helps him find his feet. He gets tripped up in the blanket and feels a momentary lurch in his stomach before Dean’s arm comes around his waist, solid and strong.

“Yeah, sure thing ya klutz,” Dean huffs a laugh against Sam’s ear as he pulls him closer, maneuvering them both around the couch and down the short hall before Sam can make his fuzzy brain come up with a retort. Sam doesn’t bother trying to keep his eyes open, Dean’s got him. Still, he grunts when Dean shoves him down onto the mattress, limbs flailing across the sheets as Dean pushes until he has room to crawl in, too.

“Dean,” he whines out the syllables, subsiding only when he feels Dean’s chest press up against his back.

“Shh,” Dean says. Sam can feel Dean’s ribs expand and contract with each breath, shivers when the exhalations make the hair at his nape flutter. “Go to sleep,” Dean says, and Sam does.

-0-

Sam supposes that he should be grateful that this time he won’t be judged by his ill-fitting clothes, the jeans that don’t quite fall to his sneakers or the plain t-shirts that have old stains, and even though the uniform fits like it was tailored for him Sam still hates it. The maroon jacket and the stupid tie and the scratchy pants and the way Dad smirks when Sam walks out of his room on the first morning.

“Looks good, son,” he says and Sam wants to get mad, wants to say something mean but Dad hasn’t been smiling a lot this winter so Sam just shrugs.

“I feel like an idiot,” he says, trying to loosen the knot of his tie without undoing it in the process. He’s waiting for Dean’s comment, probably something about how now he looks the nerdy part, but when he catches his brother’s gaze Dean flushes and looks away.

Sam’s stomach flutters and he doesn’t know why.

-0-

Janey Peterson leans across his desk during science class, dropping one elbow down and keeping her other shoulder high so that Sam can see the curve of her pale breast against her bra. He looks up at her face and meets the challenge there, slouching back in his chair. Away from her. The corners of her mouth turn down and she straightens with a practiced hair flip.

“Miss Donald said you might tutor me after school,” she says.

“Sorry,” Sam smiles. “I’m busy.”

After that Janey makes a point of being where Sam is, the top two buttons of her uniform shirt undone when the teachers aren’t looking. Sam’s used to attention; being the new kid in a small town at fourteen is better than it was at ten. He’s not interested, he never has been. He’s not curious about Dean’s Playboy magazines and last summer he and Virginia Malloy fooled around and it was nice but she cried when they left town and Sam doesn’t care enough about the kissing and touching to go through that again.

He’s never doesn’t thought it makes him weird, it’s not like his dick doesn’t work or anything, he’s just… busy. But Janey is persistent and the harder she tries the more she makes Sam feel uncomfortable, like she’s offering something Sam should be begging for. By the second week she’s starting to get pissed off, tired of the game and Sam can see something calculating in her gaze now and he wants to tell her to stop, he doesn’t need anyone trying to figure him out but he doesn’t know what to say and he doesn’t want to think about why that scares him. He sees her whispering to her friends when he walks by, a group of assessing eyes on his back and when he slams his locker shut a little too loudly they all smirk like they know everything about Sam Winchester.

Sam might have been able to ignore the itch growing under his skin at school if things hadn’t gotten so weird at home. Ever since they settled in this stupid town with the stupid cold weather and their stupid school uniforms Dean has been avoiding him. Janie’s constant attention at school and the way Dean’s eyes skitter away from Sam every damn time their gaze meets is too much. Sam feels like he’s going to throw up every time he walks in the door and Dean turns away, mumbling excuses and keeping his own company.

“Dean’s an adult now,” Dad says when Sam complains over a supper of tuna casserole. Sam hates tuna casserole and if Dean would come home and stop being everywhere Sam isn’t then he could have suggested Hamburger Helper in that way that always changes Dad’s mind.

On the fourth week Dean buys a portable space heater that plugs into the wall and puts it in their room.

“Now we won’t have to share, you’ll be warm enough by yourself,” Dean says when he moves the extra blankets out onto the couch. Dad grumbles about the electric bill but he doesn’t tell Dean to take the heater back to the store and Sam lies awake feeling every inch of cold empty space on the mattress.

Sam doesn’t think about the thing with Janey. He won’t. But now he wonders if Dean thinks about it. If Dean thinks he’s weird.

On the fifth week Janey asks him to meet her in the equipment room by the gym and they fuck on the stacked exercise mats in the corner. There’s chalk dust in Sam’s nose and Janey leaves fingernail impressions on his back and they don’t look each other in the eye when they get dressed.

Sam wishes Dad would pack them up and leave this place in the rearview mirror. He doesn’t, though. They stay and the space between Sam and Dean keeps on growing.

-0-

Janey moves on to someone new. Sam finds out when the someone new, Joel Pitt, sidles up to him at the bus stop. He and Joel play on the same intramural basketball team and Sam has talked to him maybe twice.

“Hey,” Joel says, hands shoved deep inside his coat pockets. Sam nods an acknowledgment. It’s too cold to bother with actual words. Normally Dean would be picking him up from school but in this town where everything is different he’s too busy and so Sam rides the bus with the other kids on their road.

“So, I’m thinking about asking Janey out, but I know you guys had a thing,” Joel explains.

“There was no thing,” Sam says.

“Yeah, that’s what Janey said,” Joel nods. “Just wanted to make sure.”

Sam stands alone in the cold and can’t believe that he ever thought that meeting Janey in that room would make things better, can’t believe that it didn’t occur to him that it would just make things worse.

-0-

Sam is normally ready for school by the time Dean rolls out of bed for work and its just bad luck that this morning Sam forgot to brush his teeth before Dean got in the shower. Dean is taking forever and Sam is going to miss the bus and in an effort to prove how not weird things are Sam opens the bathroom door and marches right to the sink counter.

“Jesus Christ, Sam,” Dean says and over the sound of water he sounds more resigned than annoyed. Sam clears the moisture and fog from the mirror and reaches for his toothbrush.

“Whatever,” he says. “You take too long in the shower. Asshole.” He can see the outline of Dean’s body through the flimsy shower curtain and he squirts toothpaste on the countertop because he can’t look away from the reflection in the mirror. There’s a gap between the curtain and the wall where Dean didn’t pull it fully closed and Sam can clearly see the showerhead and the steam from the water and when Dean turns around to put his face under the hot spray Sam can see the water streaming down his torso and past his hips and off the tip of his dick. His skin is flushed from the heat of the water and Sam’s eyes are stinging from the steam and he bangs out of the bathroom with his toothbrush still in his hand and his cock hard in his pants.

Dad is still at the kitchen table and he looks up at the noise and Sam feels like the house is about five sizes too small and he grabs his coat in one hand and his bag in the other as he runs for the front door and he doesn’t realized until he’s halfway down the drive that he’s forgotten his gloves.

Sam slouches down in the back seat of the bus until only the top of his head is visible from the other seats and tries very hard not to cry.

-0-

Sam attends every class that day and he copies a few notes from the blackboard but when he looks at his scribbler later he won’t recognize the words, won’t remember hearing or seeing them. He spends the day testing out sentences in his head.

I think I might be gay.

I think Dean already knows.

Sam doesn’t know how Dean figured it out first but it explains the sudden absence of his brother in his life. Dean’s never said anything about not liking gay people but maybe finding out your brother is into dick is different.

After lunch Sam asks for a hall pass so that he can throw up in the bathroom. The floor is cold and damp under his knees and Sam gags over the toilet bowl long after his stomach is empty.

It had taken all of two days to figure out that in this town good boys don’t hang out by the pool hall off Third Street. Dean doesn’t go there, he finds his games at the tavern by the bowling alley and Sam knows that one of the seniors from his school was caught sneaking out the back alleyway and the next week someone had spray painted the word fag on his locker in big pink letters.

On Monday morning Sam tells Dad that he has to do group work on a project after school. Dad nods without looking up from the newspaper and Dean doesn’t notice anything Sam does and when the last bell rings Sam doesn’t bother trying to duck around corners as he makes his way to Third Street, no one is out there watching for him, no one who knows him will see.

Sam walks right by the front door, glances at the shaded windows and tilts his chin up. He has no intention of going inside, knows he wouldn’t last ten seconds before getting tossed out on his ass for being grossly underage. Instead he hangs out at the diner next door, sits in the corner by the window and spreads his books across the table and orders coffee and French fries and rolls his shirtsleeves up to his elbows and makes a point of catching the gaze of every man who goes in and out of the pool hall.

By Wednesday he’s established a small cast of regulars and on Thursday one of them veers for the diner instead of the pool hall.

Sam is flummoxed at first, suddenly doesn’t feel as brazen when the man is staring at him from across the room instead of from across the street. Sam keeps his head down and focuses on the paperback he picked up at the library and tries to still his shaking hand when he lifts the coffee cup to his lips. Up close the man looks to be about Dad’s age, maybe younger. He has big hands that he keeps flat on the table and short blond hair and a crooked smile. The man orders the blue plate special, meatloaf, but he doesn’t eat it. Sam packs up his books and papers in a hurry and almost knocks over his chair when he stands up too quickly. The man watches him leave but doesn’t follow.

The next morning Dad asks what the hell kind of project he’s working on and Sam wets his lips, knows that he could just say the project is done and get on the bus after school and never have to see the man from the pool hall again.

“It’s a big deal, Dad. We have to write a paper and present it and the paper is taking forever and we haven’t even decided who’s going to talk about what and Aaron is already saying he’s too busy with hockey practice and-“

“Yeah, okay. Sounds like you’re pretty busy,” Dad says. Sam looks into his face and sees the lines around his mouth and the weight of his brow and has the overwhelming urge to climb into his father’s lap. Help me, he wants to say.

“Yeah,” Sam nods. “I am.”

-0-

The man’s name is Rodney. His hands are rough when they pull Sam’s shirt up around his armpits and Sam moans when blunt fingertips pinch his nipples. There are lips and teeth on the curve of his neck, sucking and biting and it hurts, and Sam moves to pull away but then the rough hands are on his ass, lifting and pulling until Sam has to wrap his legs around strong hips for purchase and there’s a hard cock grinding against his own and the heat on his throat and the wall at his back fall away.

“Fuck,” he whimpers and when he comes he thinks Dean.

It would never have amounted to anything more than fading bite marks and bruises on Sam’s hips if he hadn’t gotten sick. Just a stupid cold but Dad is gone and Dean has to stay around and the cold turns into a cold and a fever and sometime during the night Sam starts crying and gagging and all he can think about is Rodney’s calloused hands on him and how he wished they were Dean’s hands and he’s stripping off before he even makes it into the bathroom and when Dean finds him he’s half in the tub and half out with scalding hot water beating down on his back and his pajama pants still on.

“What the fuck,” Dean screams, banging his knee against the toilet in his haste to pull Sam clear.

“I did something bad, I did something bad,” Sam mumbles and all he can think is that Dean is here, Dean is here and he curls wriggles until he’s in Dean’s lap and cheek pressed against Dean’s chest.

“Sammy, what are you talking about?” Dean is holding him close, holding him up and Sam breathes deep.

“Don’t let me go,” he says, and falls asleep.

Sam wakes up in his bed and feels a moment of disorientation and the sheets sticky against his skin before he remembers and last night. He only has about five seconds to freak out before he realizes that he’s not alone in the bed. Dean is sitting up against the wall and Sam can tell he hasn’t slept.

“You wanna tell me what the fuck is going on, Sam?” he says.

“What do you mean?” Sam shrugs, pulls the sheets up around his naked shoulders.

“Why don’t we start with these teeth marks,” Dean’s index finger jabs the reddened skin on his neck. “And then we can move on to the bruises.”

“Don’t,” Sam says, voice trembling. “You haven’t had time for me since we got here so why start now?”

Dean inhales loudly, breath sucked in between clenched teeth. “This is my fault?”

“This is none of your business,” Sam says, sitting up and pulling away from Dean. He relents when he sees the look on Dean’s face, something dark and frightened. “Its nothing, I just, the fever made me freak out or something.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing to me,” Dean says.

“Whatever,” Sam scoffs, trying to gather his dignity around him. “Like you never came home with hickeys.”

“Those aren’t fucking hickeys, Sam. It looks like someone hurt you,” Dean growls, leaning forward to grab Sam’s wrist. Sam pulls away, the touch is too much right now.

“No, he didn’t-“

“He?” Dean’s expression just… closes up and Sam feels sick again.

“What?” he whispers.

“You said he didn’t.” Dean says, like he’s reading out the weather forecast to their dad.

“I… did I?” Sam can barely speak his mouth is so dry.

“Who is he?” Dean is up off the bed before the words are out of his mouth. “You better tell me right now Sam, or so help me I’ll…” Dean swallows and Sam can tell his eyes are fixed on the marks on his neck.

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispers. “I thought you knew,”

“Knew? Knew what, exactly? That you’re letting some random dude rough you up? Letting him touch you?”

“That I like guys,” Sam says.

“How the hell did you figure that?” Dean snaps.

“You stopped hanging out with me, moved into the living room…I thought it bothered you.” Sam shrugs and refuses to meet Dean’s eyes. He can still see when Dean’s shoulder drop, when his whole body seems to cave inward.

“What?” Dean says, softer now. “No, no, Sam, that’s not it at all. Its not, the gay thing doesn’t, he hurt you, and I wasn’t there.”

“I swear he didn’t, uh, force me,” Sam can’t stop the blush that spreads across his cheeks. “It was just a little rough,”

“Jesus,” Dean exhales wetly and scrubs a hand across his eyes. “Just tell me who it was, please.”

“You don’t know him,” Sam says. “He’s older.” He winces when Dean’s head snaps up at that admission.

“How much older?”

“I don’t know. A lot, I guess.” Sam feels so stupid, sitting on the bed in his sweaty sheets and stammering and blushing and so ashamed.

“What? Older than me?” Dean pushes, his eyes bright against his pale face.

“Yes, okay? A lot older than you,” Sam yells, fingers twisting in the sheets. “I freaked out because you wouldn’t even be around me and Janey Peterson wouldn’t leave me alone and I was too scared to think about what that meant but everyone was watching me and Janey and I hooked up and I didn’t even care and then I saw you-“ Sam stops suddenly, mouth working uselessly as he tries desperately to recall the words he’d just spoken.

“Saw me what?” Dean moves closer and Sam almost jumps out of his skin when he feels Dean’s palm against his cheek.

“Don’t,” Sam whispers, eyes screwed shut against the tears that threatened to come.

“Where did you see me?” Dean’s voice is soft and gentle and Sam knows that Dean thinks he could forgive anything, but he can’t, he won’t and he’ll be sick every time he looks at Sam because Sam is sick. “Tell me where,” Dean says.

“In the shower,” Sam says. “It was an accident, I didn’t mean to look but I did and I just, I couldn’t… you already didn’t want to be around me and I thought if you really knew…” Sam doesn’t want to look, won’t look and he doesn’t even care when he feels warm tears sliding down his cheeks. Dean is going to hate him, Dean is going to tell Dad and they’re both going to hate him.

“Shh,” Dean says and presses dry lips against the wetness on Sam’s cheekbone. “Don’t cry, Sammy.” Dean moves closer until they’re both on the mattress and pushes until they’re lying face to face. Sam keeps his eyes closed as Dean kisses his face again.

“Dean,” he moans, heart thumping in his chest when Dean’s mouth closes over his. Sam moves closer, needs to feel every warm, solid inch of Dean’s body against his. He tucks his leg between Dean’s thighs and curves his arm around Dean’s ribs and shudders when Dean clutches at him.

“I’ve got you,” Dean murmurs, licking at the edges of his mouth until Sam’s lips part with a sigh. Sam collapses into Dean when he feels the first tentative brush of his brother’s tongue against his own. Dean’s fingers twist in Sam’s hair as he tilts Sam’s face and deftly maps the corners of his mouth with lips and tongue and teeth. Sam can feel the tingling his belly growing as he writhed within the circle of Dean’s arms, whimpering when Dean’s hand smoothed down the curve of his back to settle on his ass, squeezing gently. Sam needs to feel Dean against him and pushes the waistband of his pajama pants down until he can kick free of them.
“Christ, Sam.” Dean gasps as he pulls Sam’s naked body close.

“More,” Sam whispers between kisses, bucking up against Dean’s hip and pushing his thigh against Dean’s cock.

“Easy,” Dean pulls away enough so that he can get a hand between their bodies and Sam jerks when fingers close around his erection

“Dean, I wanna touch you,” Sam pants out the words. He’s been thinking about Dean’s cock for what seems like forever, wants desperately to touch and lick and suck. His pulse thrums just thinking about doing those things to Dean, making Dean come.

“Yeah, yeah do it,” Dean lifts his leg enough for Sam to slip his hand through the slit of his boxers and Sam’s hip bucks when his fingertips brush hot flesh. “Fuck,” Dean groans and starts jacking Sam, quick and hard. Sam can feel how close he is and starts fisting Dean’s cock as best as he can in the close confines, twisting his wrist when he gets to the head. Dean curses and his hands clenches tighter around Sam tugs frantically on Dean’s erection even as he spurts come between them.

“Fuck, yeah,” Dean rolls until Sam is splayed loose limbed beneath him and grinds his cock into the crease of Sam’s thigh.

“Yeah, come on,” Sam slides his hands up Dean’s sweat-slicked back, murmuring encouragements until Dean jerks against him.

Dean is kneeling over Sam, foreheads touching and breath panting back and forth between parted lips and Sam stares up at Dean’s flushed face.

“I didn’t know, Sam,” Dean says finally. “I stayed away because I wanted this,” he trails a finger through the come streaked across Sam’s belly. “You’re mine, Sammy,” he whispers as he presses kisses along Sam’s jaw line. “Mine to look after,”

“Yeah, well, don’t forget it,” Sam laughs, trembling a little at how much he wants Dean to mean it. Dean pulls back, his eyes dark and serious.

“I won’t,” he says. He clambers up from the bed and pads out the door, dick still hanging out of his boxers and Sam just stretches across the mattress, feeling loose and relaxed for the first time in weeks. He barely notices when a wet facecloth slaps across his bare chest, doesn’t have time to move before Dean is next to him, gently scrubbing across his skin until they’re both clean. Dean lifts and pushes until Sam is on his side and he shivers at the cold air on his ass before Dean settles in tight behind him. He smiles to himself when Dean nuzzles the skin behind his ear.

“Go to sleep,” Dean says, and Sam does.

fic: Don't try to fight our Chicago luck

estei — Tue, 04 Nov 2008 16:03:06 GMT

So yesterday was buffyaddict13's birthday and I wanted to write something for her but my writing-fu was broken and this morning it is still broken but I managed to cobble together some thoughts and scenes into what I hope is a story. I'm not quite sure it worked. Mostly this is self-indulgent something or other because I have thoughts about this season that will not leave my brain!

Beb. Uh, hope you like?

Don't try to fight our Chicago luck | post 4×07 | spn gen

Two days later and Sam is still pissed about the thing with the astronaut and Dean thinks that’s a little too fucking rich.

“Consider the fact that you were flaunting your demon crap in front of an angel with an itchy trigger finger or that another seal bites the dust and then tell me you’re still mad about the kid thing.” Dean is so aggravated that he can’t even stand listening to the radio, turns the volume down until the music is nothing but an indistinct murmur.

“He was just a little kid, Dean, and you called him fat.” Sam is giving Dean ‘The Look’, an expression that Dean is convinced was responsible for their father’s blood pressure issues. One part raised eyebrows, one part narrowed eyes and three parts sneer with a dash of moral high ground for flavour.

“Did I say that? No, I believe I said that he didn’t need any more candy. Which is pretty freaking accurate, don’t you think?”

“Maybe he has a thyroid problem, did you ever think of that?”

“Do you even hear yourself when you talk?” Dean is completely boggled by Sam’s refusal to shut the fuck up.

“Anyway, you’re one to talk about diet.” Sam mutters, sliding his bony ass further down the bench seat. Dean lets the comment bounce around between his ears for a few minutes before he admits that Sam actually said those words.

“What did you say?”

“Hm? Oh, nothing,” Sam has the audacity to smile and it takes every bit of self-restraint Dean possesses to keep from smacking the smarmy grin off of Sam’s face.

“Watch it,” Dean points a finger and spends the remaining three hours of the drive alternating between cursing Sam in his head and tightening his ab muscles.

o0o

Dean comes awake slowly, blinking in the darkness of the motel room for ten even heartbeats before he sees the shadow looming over Sam. His ankles twist in the bedsheets as he jackknifes into a sitting position, scrambling for the knife under his pillow as he pants around his tongue, suddenly too big and awkward in his mouth.

“Shh,” Castiel says. “You’ll wake him.”

Dean’s fingers clutch the handle of the knife, convulsing around the familiar curves of the wood.

Castiel is sitting on the edge of Sam’s bed, knees turned in and almost touching Sam’s elbow where it rests on the mattress. Sam is on his back, face turned to the far wall and hips tilted awkwardly, angling his body towards the angel in the beige overcoat.

“Doesn’t,” Dean stops when he hears the tremor in his voice and clears his throat, tries again. “Doesn’t that poor schmuck have any other clothes?”

Castiel shrugs, a deliberate shifting of bone and muscle that doesn’t sit naturally.

“The garments are inconsequential,” he says and Dean watches as blunt fingertips stroke Sam’s hair off his brow.

“Don’t touch him,” Dean says, a shudder running through his body as Castiel continues to thread his fingertips through Sam’s hair. “Please,” he wets his lips. “Don’t hurt him.”

“I didn’t know,” Castiel murmurs.

“Didn’t know what?” Dean can feel hysteria bubbling up underneath his skin, wants to laugh or make a stupid joke, the kind that makes Sam scowl.

“The measure of your brother.” Castiel says. “Uriel believes we should kill him.”

“Yeah? Well you and your feathered fucking flock can go and-“

“I do not agree.” Castiel turns his head and looks at Dean. His eyes are shadowed but Dean can clearly see the way his palm is resting on Sam’s chest.

“You don’t,” Dean says finally. “What made you change your tune?”

“My eyes were opened and I saw.” Castiel says.

“Saw what?” Dean asks, voice hushed and leaning forward. “What did you see?”

“His soul,” Castiel stands suddenly, a rustle of clothes and soft footfalls and Dean closes his eyes, feels the weight of a palm on his head.

“And,” he chokes a little then, fists clenching in his lap and the cool metal of the knife resting on his knee. “It’s okay? It’s not all fucked up, or anything?”

“Sam has faith,” Castiel says.

“What does that even mean?” Dean opens his eyes, furious and frustrated and he knows before he blinks the moisture away that Castiel is gone, withholding fucker that he is.

Sam goes on sleeping, breaths quiet and soft, until Dean wakes him at eight o’clock by dumping the contents of his duffle bag on top of his head.

“Rise and shine,” Dean says.

He doesn’t stop thinking about it for days. Sam has faith. What the fuck does that mean?

o0o

Dean is losing patience with the hairpin turns and steep grades that come from driving in the Catskills. Tapping his fingertips against the steering wheel doesn’t really calm him down any, but it annoys Sam so it does make him feel a little better. The VW Jetta they’ve been stuck behind since goddamn Pennsylvania brakes every time the road turns downhill and Dean swears he can smell smoke coming from the brake pads. Dean tries to share the aggravation by launching into his usual speech about why only dumbasses ride the brakes, but Sam just keeps staring out the window, mooning at the leaves and “panoramic vistas.”

“Hey, I have an idea. Next time I’ll read the map and drive since you’re obviously unable to do the one thing you’ve been responsible for since you started reading without crossing your eyes.” Dean snaps when he sees the red lights on the Jetta’s tail blinking at him again.

“You said you didn’t want to go through New Jersey. You said you would kill someone, maybe me, if we went through the tolls on the Jersey turnpike again. You said you would break my arms if I ever directed you onto the Bronx Expressway again. You said-“

“If you ever navigate us through the Catskills again and we get stuck behind a fucking idiot in a German abomination again I will fucking throw you out the door while the car is in motion.” Dean supplies cheerfully.

“Thank you for proving my point,” Sam mumbles.

“Oh, I’m sorry, you had a point?” Dean says, taking great pains to widen his eyes innocently and blink excitedly in Sam’s direction.

“Are you having a seizure?” Sam curls his lip a little.

“Are we having a face off?” Dean asks.

“What?”

“You know, see who can make the most threatening face? Convey the most annoyance with facial tics?”

“Dean, stop,” Sam says.

“Aw, don’t be such a-“

“No, stop,”

Dean glances ahead and sees the rear bumper of the Jetta is getting alarmingly close.

“Fuck,” he plants both hands on the steering wheel and pushes down on the brake pedal. Hard. The wheels lock up, as he expects, and the whine of rubber against pavement builds as the car lurches, forward and back, and Sam hits the dashboard with enough force to make Dean wince.

“Hey, I have an idea,” Sam says snidely when Dean lets off the brake. “Next time I’ll drive so we don’t end up in a fucking accident.”

o0o

In Wal-Mart Sam is lingering in front of the cheap paperbooks; crime novels, spy novels, romance novels – they’re all cheesy and lame and Dean feels a little bit guilty that they don’t have time to hit a real bookstore. Since Dean, well, came back Sam hasn’t asked for much, mostly content to follow Dean’s lead as long as Dean remains in eyesight.

“Does anyone really still care about Russian spies?” Dean asks as he glances at the short description on an especially orange back cover. Sam shrugs, thumbing through the first ten pages of the latest John Sandford novel before tossing it in the blue shopping cart.

“I want yogurt,” Sam says. Dean rolls his eyes but heads in the direction of the dairy case anyway. He stares blankly at the packages of processed cheese while Sam examines the plastic containers for signs of loyalty to the Kaiser or aspartame or whatever it was that big-headed geeks looked for in their yogurt. Its a little bit zen, evidently too zen because Dean is just as surprised as Sam when he says “Do you think I’m an asshole?”

“What?” Sam is staring at Dean now, yogurt forgotten and Dean can feel the heat in his face as he tries to look casual.

“You know,” Dean shrugs. “Sometimes I think I might,” he stops then. Castiel’s words have been pinging around inside his head for weeks and every time Dean looks into Sam’s eyes he feels like a class A dick. Ever since he was a kid Sam was a bleeding heart do-gooder who rescued kittens and signed up as a tutor to legitimately help the cheerleader pass algebra and Sam has been struggling with the dangers of his psychic powers for years and Dean was gone and Sam was alone and now Dean can’t stop getting in Sam’s face, can’t stop doubting him and he knows how much that hurts Sam but he just can’t stop.

“Sometimes you think what?” Sam asks gently.

“That I might be an asshole,” Dean rubs the back of his neck and laughs. “You know, that ghost sickness thing really made me think,”

“That was weeks ago,” Sam says. “Have you been obsessing over that all this time?”

“What? No,” Dean taps the handle of the shopping cart. “Focus, Sammy. Pick your damned yogurt so we can get back to the room. There’s a Magnum P.I. marathon on tonight and if I miss one second of that glorious moustache I’ll kick your ass.”

Eight hours later Dean is stretched out on his bed and pretty much asleep. Tom Selleck is a blur on the TV screen in an ugly Hawaiian shirt. He snuffles a little when he feels the mattress shift beside him; Sam’s been quietly reading since the pizza arrived and Dean had assumed he’d fallen asleep, too.

“I didn’t realize it bothered you so much,” Sam says and for a long moment Dean is confused. Sam isn’t really looking at him, gaze fixed on the space above Dean’s head. “You’re not an asshole, Dean. I’m sorry I, well,” Sam’s throat works as he swallows. “I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I just got you back and that quick… I guess I thought if I made a joke about you being a dick it wouldn’t feel as serious. But, that was really selfish of me and I’m sorry.”

“Jesus Sam,” Dean groans and rubs his hand across his face.

“I wasn’t thinking about how-“

“I swear if you say the word feelings I will drop your ass on the floor,” Dean warns. Sam smiles then, small and sad and Dean wonders how he ever could have forgotten about Sam’s massive guilt complex.

“This is hard,” Sam says.

“What is?” Dean sits up, Sam is obviously in the mood to chat and he can forget about sleep until it passes.

“Everything,” Sam shrugs.

“Sam,”

“Its stupid but I thought that if we ever got you back that everything would be okay,” Sam says in a rush. “I thought… I thought I would be okay and everything would be like how it was before.”

“You are okay,” Dean says quickly.

“You said,” Sam does the hitching breath thing that always means tears and Dean remembers how much he hates it when Sam repeats things he’s said. “You said if you didn’t know me you’d hunt me. That’s not okay.”

Dean looks away. He can’t watch as Sam tries so hard not to cry.

“I didn’t mean it. Sam, I didn’t.”

“Yes you did. Things changed when you were gone and I tried so hard but it wasn’t enough and I thought I was doing the right thing and I never wanted-“

“Stop it,” Dean grabs Sam by the scruff of the neck and shakes him.

“I don’t even know myself anymore,” Sam sobs and Dean pulls him in, arms going across trembling shoulders until he can feel Sam’s damp face against his neck.

“I know you,” Dean says and he knows that it isn’t enough to make things better, it isn’t enough to stop the machine they’re caught in, but Sam sniffles a little and nods and takes a deep breath and it’s enough for right now.