A Day in the Life of the Evil Knitter

Roll With It (Draco/Neville)-- 1/9

evil_knitter — Wed, 01 Jan 2014 04:47:31 GMT

Title: Roll With It

Pairing: Draco/Neville, Harry/Ginny, Ron/Hermione
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~50,000 (total)
Summary: Neville wants to go out with a bang in his Seventh Year. He's tired of playing in the shadows, and now he's caught the attention of Draco Malfoy.
Warning: Major character death, eventually. Blatant recreational drug use. Evil!Harry.
Author's notes: I originally wrote this back in 2002. Thankfully, my writing skills have improved, so I thought I'd revise and republish. This is a COMPLETE story, and I will post it in sections as I edit until I am done (probably by mid-January).
Spoilers: All canon, except Book 7
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. The following was written for fun, not profit.

**

Prelude: A Night to Remember

This was Neville Longbottom’s last chance. He wanted this Yule Ball – his last at Hogwarts—to be special; to mean something. He didn’t have a date this year. He’d gone with his best friend, Ginny Weasley, every year in the past, but this year, Ginny had her own date. Now that she was dating Harry Potter, Neville had fallen into the official role of "Third Wheel"—Fifth Wheel, if you counted Ron and Hermione in the mix. Any way you count it, Neville was the odd wheel out.

He was doomed to be second string, second rate, an expendable part to the essential whole of Harry Potter’s gang. He knew the only reason he even ranked was because of Ginny.

Neville sighed, leaning his elbows on his knees. He did not want it to be that way. He wanted to be remembered as something other than the clumsy, forgetful idiot who faded into the shadows.

And so, Neville had devised a Plan. He had reached out. He had asked around. He had made an unlikely contact. And finally, he had scored. It was all the rage in the wizarding world at the moment: The Muggle drug called Ecstacy. With a few alterations that made it a touch more potent.

Neville looked down at his clenched fist and opened it slowly. A small white tablet, impressed in the middle with a tiny Snitch, sat in the palm of his hand. He wanted just one night of freedom from his nerves and reputation. He wanted to feel free. And in his hand, he held the key to that freedom. All he had to do was swallow.

Neville licked his lips nervously. Am I too scared to swallow?

The sound of an approaching group of people made the dark haired boy jump to his feet and shove the pill into the pocket of his dress robes.

"Hey, Nev," Harry called as he led Ron, Hermione and Ginny into the Seventh Year Boys' Dormitory. "You look sharp!"

"Ooh," Hermione smiled at Neville warmly, surveying his dark green velvet robes. "That is a fantastic color on you! Much better than the aqua ones you wore last year."

"That's what I told him," Ginny smiled and went to brush the wrinkles out of Neville's robes. She smoothed the front of his waistcoat and straightened his bowtie. "It makes his eyes stand out."

"Give over," Neville brushed off Ginny's busy hands and walked to the door. It was uncomfortable for her to fawn over him in front of her boyfriend—especially considering who her boyfriend was. "We should go.”

Harry moved to take Ginny's hands in his. His eyes roved over his girlfriend's entire form before smiling at her. "You are breathtaking, Gin."

“Yeah,” Ron parroted, pulling Hermione close and nuzzling her ear. “You look fantastic, poppet.”

Neville rolled his eyes and left the room, giving the happy couples time to giggle amongst themselves. He ran his fingers through his dark brown hair as he descended the stone staircase into the Gryffindor Common Room.

"I can do this," Neville muttered to himself. He retrieved the Ecstacy – called White Snitch because of the tiny white snitch embossed on the tablet—from his pocket and popped it into his mouth. He swiped a glass of water from a study table nearby and swallowed the drug before he could reconsider. Smiling, he turned to the stairs. "Oi! Come on, you guys!"

**

Chapter One: Dancing with the Enemy

I think my body
is as restless as my mind
and I don't know if I can roll with it
this time......
"Roll With It" by Ani DiFranco

Neville stood next to the punch table, watching his quartet of friends share a dance. The worst thing about being a Third Wheel was the appalling lack of dance partners. Glancing around the room, Neville saw that there were only a select handful of students not dancing: Colin Creevy, Crabbe and Goyle, Millicent Bulstrode and, surprisingly, Draco Malfoy.

He snorted out a strange laugh and tilted his head back. The candles hovering overhead were fascinating. He’d never noticed how they flickered from gold to red to violet. A thin shimmer of heat encapsulated the flames, casting a remarkable prism on the walls. He studied the candles for several long minutes, riveted by the colors. What he wouldn't give to touch one of those flames; to catch it and hold it in his palm.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," a sardonic voice penetrated Neville's foggy senses. Neville laughed and lowered his hands. He knew that voice: Draco Malfoy. "Fire tends to, you know, burn."

"How positively horrid of it,” Neville sighed.

"I'm assuming since you are trying to embrace the flames," Draco moved a little closer to the Gryffindor. "That you found the nerve to take the Snitch."

Neville thought he ought to defend his nerve, but the impulse was fleeting as new sensations continued to bombard him. "I took it about 30 minutes ago."

"Excellent," Draco consulted the watch hanging from his waistband. "I took mine about the same time."

"You took one?" Neville gaped incredulously at Draco. He slid his lower jaw from side to side, reveling at the sensation. " I thought you’d be above all this."

Draco laughed and clapped Neville on the back. "I am never above a spot of fun, Longbottom."

Neville leaned into Draco's hand, his nerves racing beneath his skin at the pressure of touch. No one had ever touched him before, not like Draco was touching him. Neville was not the sveltest boy at Hogwarts; hell, he wasn’t even in the top fifty. Draco didn’t seem put off by the soft give of his flesh. He rolled his head, watching Draco’s fingers snake over his shoulder and down his arms.

"What should we do, then?"

"First thing's first," Draco grabbed Neville's wrist and tugged him sharply toward the dance floor. "We have to dance."

Malfoy pulled Neville into his body and taught the Gryffindor to sway and bump to the rhythm of the music. Fairy lights twinkled overhead and a bass-heavy song pulse-pulse-thump…thumped in a dirty waltz.

Across the floor, Ginny caught a glimpse of her best friend bending at the waist, grinding his hips back into another boy. She giggled at the look of intense concentration on his flushed face. One hand floated in the air over his head while the other propped on his knee. She made a mental note to discuss what constituted socially acceptable dancing at the earliest possible moment. Curious to see who had agreed to dance with Neville – historically the worst dancer in the whole school—she shifted her position to get a good look.

"Harry!" Ginny forcefully turned Harry around and pointed toward the unlikely dance partners. "Look at that!"

Harry scanned the room until his eyes fell on Neville. His lips curved into an amused, patronizing smile, but he was quickly distracted by the pale figure who held a fistful of Neville’s hair in one hand, and mimed spanking his arse with the other. "Bloody hell!"

It was a fine thing, Neville thought, having Malfoy’s fingers curling in his hair. He’d never thought much about his hair—or about Malfoy’s fingers, come to that—but now he couldn’t think of anything but. His follicles prickled and sang individually, crying out for Malfoy’s fingernails to scrape and dig. He groaned from the back of his throat, sending another new glorious sensation over his body. He’d never groaned before—well, not like that. It was low and—and—sexual.

“God,” Malfoy huffed out a laugh and pulled Neville upright. “You sound like a porn star.”

Neville didn’t know what that meant. He understood the words, but he’d never seen porn. He rode a shiver up his spine and crashed his chest into Malfoy’s. He stared at the Slytherin, wondering when, exactly, Malfoy had gotten so... shiny. No matter. He was a porn star, dammit, so he pulled Malfoy down for a kiss.

The room tilted wildly and the music pounded inexorably in his ears. His thoughts pinged around his mind, catching and releasing any and every idea it passed. Malfoy’s hair felt as silky as it looked. It was soft. Malfoy smelled like night-blooming jasmine. He was suffocating and that was okay. Neville opened his mouth to breathe and found Draco's tongue sliding in between his lips. I have died and this is heaven.

"Bloody hell," Harry exclaimed again, watching as Neville snaked his own tongue into his nemesis' mouth. "My eyes, they’re burning."

"Oh!" Ginny gasped, pushing her way past Harry. She had to get to Neville. It was obviously the work of Dark Magic. "Neville!"

Neville heard his best friend's voice, but he wanted her to go away. He wanted to fall into Malfoy's mouth and drown. But suddenly, Malfoy was gone, leaving him bereft. Ginny had yanked the blond out of Neville's arms and was viciously yelling at him about casting a spell or some such thing.

“It seems your bloody Gryffindors find association a bit distasteful,” Malfoy stage-whispered from behind his hand, even as Ginny continued to screech at him.

"Oh really?" Neville slinked over to Ginny and leaned heavily against her. "Leave Malfoy alone. We were just dancing."

"Dancing my left foot!" Ginny squealed, making Draco and Neville fall into peels of drug-induced giggles. "You were—"

"Be a lamb, Gin," Neville reached out and shoved Ginny's shoulder gently. "And sod off. Go on, then. There’s a dear."

Ginny's mouth fell open as she watched Neville grab Draco's hand and lead him back onto the dance floor.

“That’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen,” Harry said from Ginny’s side. He took a swig of punch and watched as Malfoy pulled out two iridescent wands and trailed them in front of Neville’s enraptured eyes. “And I’ve seen, you know… some weird stuff.”

"What are they doing now?" Ginny asked, a faint laugh in her voice. "What are those?"

"Those are glow sticks," Hermione said as she joined them. She tilted her head and stared openly as Neville’s eyes fluttered and rolled. Of course she knew. “I've seen them in the Muggle stores, and once on BBC4. They are used by Muggles who use Ecstacy."

“What’s that?” Ron asked.

“It’s a synthetic drug,” Hermione said. The foursome watched as Malfoy touched the glow sticks to Neville’s face and dragged them over his skin. Neville seemed to enjoy it. “It skews reality and makes you feel euphoric.”

Neville grabbed Malfoy by the back of his neck and hauled the boy in for another wet, sloppy kiss.

“And aroused,” Hermione finished on a violent exhale. Her cheeks pinkened and she ran a shaky hand down the front of her gown. “Very, very aroused. Sexually, I mean.”

“Oh, god,” Harry groaned. “That’s disgusting.”

“I bet Malfoy hexed Neville,” Ron said. “He’s probably planning on getting Neville in a compromising situation and then, I dunno, taking pictures for blackmail.”

"It looks like they’re both in a trance," Hermione mused. "We should tell a professor.”

“I’ll go,” Harry said. Hermione kissed Ron’s cheek and followed closely behind him.

"Not so fast," Blaise Zabini stepped in front of Harry, who was headed toward the staff table, and pressed his finger into Harry’s chest.

"What is your problem?" Harry pushed Blaise away roughly, itching to pull his wand.

"I see that you are barreling toward the staff table at top speed," Blaise lifted a finger and touched the tip of Harry's nose, causing him to
jerk his head back. "Presumably to accuse Draco of poisoning your dear Longbottom. Am I right so far?"

Harry's eyes flashed angrily. "Malfoy has obviously hexed him."

"Look," Blaise regarded Harry seriously. "If you go to the professors, you will get Draco in trouble—"

"And therein lies the beauty of the plan," Harry said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"—but you'll also get Longbottom into the same trouble," Blaise finished, looking smug.

"What do you mean?"

Blaise leaned slightly to the side, watching Draco gulp down a huge goblet of water. "Don't you see that Draco is acting odd?"

" Malfoy is always acting odd."

"Granted," Blaise inclined his head regally, in true Slytherin fashion. "But even at his oddest, have you ever seen him be decent to Longbottom?"

"No," Harry narrowed his eyes. "Why don't you just spit it out, Zabini? What are you trying to tell me?"

"Draco and Longbottom are rolling," Blaise told him with a shrug. "They took White Snitches—that’s Ecstacy, for the Mudbloods amongst us."

“I thought so!” Hermione said, ignoring the slight. “How do you know about Ecstacy?”

"It is Draco’s favorite Muggle drug," Blaise said. “I don’t mind it myself. In fact, if you’ll excuse me, I need to see a man about a Snitch…”

"Figures that a Muggle hater would love a Muggle drug," Harry muttered. He turned to look at Neville and Draco, who were once again grinding into one another and shuddered in disgust.

"Technicality," Blaise waved his hand as if dismissing the very idea that Draco would approve of anything Muggle in nature. "Muggle Ecstasy has been enhanced by wizards."

"Fascinating, really," Harry turned back to Blaise. "But why would I believe that Neville took that stuff on his own free will?"

"Oh, you don't have to believe me," Blaise laughed. "I just thought it would be fun to watch your little Gryffindor mind try to sort it all out. Send an enemy and a friend to slaughter? Or save them both? Oh! Whatever shall the brave and noble Gryffindors do?"

With a final wave of his hand, Blaise returned to his group of overly preened friends, leaving Harry to debate his next move. Damn Slytherins.

“We can’t get Neville in trouble,” Harry said. His Gryffindor loyalty ran true and deep. “His Gran would go mental if she ever found out.”

“But he’s in danger,” Hermione said. “We can’t just leave him with Malfoy in that state.”

“We’ll keep an eye on him,” Harry said with finality. His vote was the one that mattered; they all knew that. “He got himself into this mess, so he’s got to get himself out of it. We’ll be ready to step in if Malfoy gets out of line.”

*

"Here," Draco shoved a cup into Neville's hands. "Drink this. It’s important to stay hydrated."

"What is it?" Neville asked, even as he raised the cup to his lips. In his haste to drink, water dribbled out Neville’s mouth and slid down his neck. The water was cold and the contact with his skin was pleasurable. He shivered and took the glass from his lips. "Hey, let’s go swimming!"

"That could be dangerous," Draco purred as his fingers reached out to follow the dribbled water from Neville's lips, down his neck and beneath the collar of his robes.

"Dangerous?" Neville asked. Like danger concerned him. His skin zinged from Draco's touch.

"If we leave this room," Draco's voice was breathy and bated. He pulled at Neville’s off-kilter bowtie, unknotting it so its ends dangled against his chest. "We will end up shagging."

"Then, let's go," Neville grabbed Draco's wrist and tugged him toward the door. There was no hesitation. He’d never shagged anyone before, but he wanted it. Now. "Now."

Draco laughed and allowed the Gryffindor to lead him from the Great Hall. He never would have taken Neville for such an easy score. Queer? Oh, absolutely, but not easy. Draco thought he would have had to work at getting the boy onto his back. Of course, the Ecstasy was the only thing making this possible. He just knew that if Neville were sober, there would be no chance of him going off alone with Draco Malfoy for a quick shag.

"In here, Longbottom," Draco opened the door to the Prefect's bathroom and gestured for Neville to enter. "This tub is big enough for a swim."

The door had barely closed before Neville lunged at Malfoy, grappling at the swarthy fabric holding pale skin captive. Malfoy found himself slammed against the closed door and lifted beneath the knees. Neville was soft—Malfoy knew that from their time on the dance floor—but he was also strong and steady. He threaded Malfoy’s legs around his waist, pressing against him to hold him in place.

“Slow down, Longbottom,” Malfoy gasped. He felt his wand yanked from inside his robes and tossed haphazardly to the floor. Buttons popped and scattered over the tiled floor.

“No.”

Draco recovered from the shock of Neville’s attack with a vengeance. He was Draco Bloody Malfoy and he was in control. He ground down on Neville, but he was sitting to high on Neville’s waist to make contact with anything throbbing and interesting.

Neville tugged and ripped at Malfoy’s, trapping the other boy's arms to his side. The sight of Draco's bare chest renewed Neville’s vigor. He bent and lapped at Draco's skin.

Draco struggled to free his arms from his robe sleeves. Longbottom. Naked. Now.

The world spun wildly around Neville. He felt each of the other boy's touches as if his fingers were electrically charged. Each moan emitting from Draco sounded like a symphony of deranged angels. These feelings were overwhelming and he never wanted them to stop.

Spots of light tingled at the backs of Draco's eyes. He had never experienced a roll quite like this one. The White Snitch was the newest breed of the Malfoy Quality E and it was his first time taking it. He usually reserved taste tests for nights alone in his room, but when he sold his first tab to Neville, he’d decided to take the ride with him.

He had never felt this undeniable urge to fuck before. Sure, it had been there in the past, and yes, he had acted on it—several times over. Hell, he wasn't called the Mattress King for nothing! But the other incarnations of the drug had never driven him to the brink of – well... ecstasy before.

Draco pushed against Neville roughly. Neville's eyes were unfocused and glassy as he regarded Draco in confusion.

"Oh, I'm not done with you," Draco rasped, pulling his legs from around Neville’s waist and standing unsteadily on the ground. He let his robe and undershirt fall to his feet, leaving him only in black trousers. "I just—air—needed air."

"What?" Neville's ears were filled with roaring white noise. He could see Draco's mouth moving, but could not make out the words he was saying. No matter.

"Hurry up."

*

"You cannot believe that garbage," Ginny's perky nose crinkled in dismay as she listened to her boyfriend explain what Blaise had told him and Hermione. "I mean, Blaise is a Slytherin."

"Right," Ron chimed in, as Harry assumed he would. "Slytherin equals Liar. No two ways about it."

Harry bit is lower lip. "But don't you think that it is possible? I mean, Nev seems like the type who would rebel."

"He does?" Ginny's nose crinkled further up her face.

"Harry's right," Hermione told the group sagely. "I remember the Drug Counselors at my old Muggle school telling us that sometimes the weakest is the easiest target for dealers. You know, that one person who may not have friends or who—"

"Neville has friends," Ron argued.

"Are we really his friends, though?" Hermione asked seriously. "I mean, besides Ginny? He is never really in the thick of things with us, is he?"

The group collectively shuffled their feet in a Very Guilty Manner. They never really thought about Neville when he was not in their direct line of sight. And when he was there, they often plotted to get him to leave. Did any of them even really know him? What was his Gran's name? What village had he grown up in? What was his favorite book? It was a sad fact that none of them could answer those questions.

"Okay," Harry broke the tense silence. "Any idea where they might've been heading?"

*

Draco pulled his mouth away from Neville's and covered it instead with his hand, whispering for him to be quiet. Neville's eyes searched Draco's face as the blonde tilted his head to the side, listening intently. From beyond the door there was much clomping of feet and gnashing of teeth. One voice stood out from the cacophony: Harry Fucking Potter. Of course.

"Looks like your little friends are out to find you," Draco whispered against Neville's cheek. "Whatever are we going to do?"
Neville made a series of gestures indicating his apparent lack of caring. His lips opened beneath Draco's palm, his tongue drawing one of the long slender digits into his mouth. A roguish grin crossed Draco's features as he allowed Neville to nurse on his fingers.

The two boys reclined on a cushion of bath towels in nothing but towels knotted at the waist, hastily donned at the end of their swim cum sex romp in the tub. Neville's dark hair was still dripping wet and Draco's silvery hair was curling at the ends.

"Don't you care that your friends," Draco spat out 'friends' as if it were a bug on his tongue. "Are about to discover you with me, naked?"

"I'm sure that my friends would be only too happy to find me in your arms," Neville said after letting Draco's fingers slip from his mouth.
"Especially naked."

Draco did not miss the sarcastic inflection on the word friends. It nearly mirrored his own take on the noun just seconds before. His eyebrows came together in genuine shock.

"Why, Longbottom!" Draco mocked lightly. "Are you suggesting that the brat pack is anything less than perfect?"

"I'm not sure you could actually get farther from 'perfect' if you caught a train to Timbuktu," Neville said bitterly, his eyes flashing with what Draco could have sworn was venom. Surely he was mistaken. Perhaps Stage Two of a White Snitch roll was anger—or was it circumspection? "I don't know why everyone is so keen on believing they are the only ones who matter around here."

Draco let the insinuation that he did not matter slide by without comment, as he was too busy reeling from shock. He never would have guessed that the quiet Gryffindor before him was possible of such strong emotions. Draco admonished himself to never assume. Trouble was bred from assumptions.

"So," Draco assumed the detached nonchalance for which he was famous. "Why do you stick around and let them have all the glory, then?"

"What else can I do?" Neville laid back onto the bathroom floor and spread his arms out and over his head repeatedly, as if making a snow angel. "The Ravenclaws think I'm stupid. The Slytherins think I'm too—actually, I'm not sure why the Slytherins hate me. And the Hufflepuffs hate that I am better at Herbology than the whole lot of them! It is supposed to be their specialty, you know."

"What?" Draco was once again amazed. The wheels in Draco's head spun rapidly as he tried to digest this new information. "So, you were the Top Herbology Student last year? The one who preferred to remain unnamed?"

"Actually," Neville corrected him casually, the E rendering him incapable of speaking anything but the truth. Draco thought he might suggest this strain of Ecstacy as a substitute, in a pinch, to Veritaserum. "I've technically been Top Herbology Student for the past six years. But they only give the award to Sixth and Seventh years."

"But why hide it?"

Neville looked at Draco in confusion. "Does it matter?"

"Yes."

"In that case," the dark featured boy shrugged. "I didn’t want Hermione to go tits-up about it. You know her—she has to be the best at everything. She got all the other awards except—"

Draco smirked complacently. "She didn’t get the Potions award."

"Right. Because you got that one," Neville supplied quickly. "Isn't it funny that the only two students to beat her last year were you and I?"

"That is actually quite hysterical. Her arch nemesis and you!"

"Isn't it?" Neville sat up abruptly, the Ecstasy-imposed honesty bubbling forth. "I wanted to owl you so that we could have a good laugh about it."

Draco was officially blown away. Never in all his time at Hogwarts had he heard anything more astonishingly unGryffindor. Draco was quite sure that he had horribly underestimated Neville Longbottom.

Neville was getting tired of being still. The White Snitch still had him in its clutches. He wanted to move; he needed to move. He jumped to his feet and began pacing the room, stopping every so often to examine touch the rough bumps and edges on the walls.

"You know, Malfoy," Neville turned to look at the Slytherin, who lounged against a mountain of crumpled towels. "I always wondered why you and I never got on better."

"Longbottom," Draco said in a tone of a chastising parent. "We just spent the better part of the past hour fucking like unicorns. How much better could we get?"

Neville waved away Draco's reference to their sexual encounter without a hint of a blush. "You know what I mean."
"I daresay," Draco sounded amused. "That it is the age old Gryffindor - Slytherin rivalry."

"That's ridiculous," Neville chided, his feet shuffling not from nerves but from the overwhelming urge to do so. "We are both from old, pureblood families. There are not many of us left."

Draco blinked twice in rapid succession.

"Shame that."

"Longbottom," Draco got to his feet and approached the other boy. "Are you about to rail against Muggles and Mudbloods and announce your undying devotion to the Dark Lord?"

"Have you gone around the bend?" Neville laughed and shot Draco a pointed glance. "We are, in fact, different in that regard."

"Well, thank the stars," Draco chuckled and grabbed at his chest dramatically. He stroked at the tiny wisps of hair he encountered there.
The Snitch still had him, too. "I would have suffered an immediate heart attack."

Neville smiled as he reached out for Draco. "Are we done talking now?"

"For now," Draco nodded before leaning in to devour Neville's mouth once again.

*

"We've checked every corridor," Ron leaned against a closed door and crossed his arms resolutely. "He’s not here. Let’s head back to the Ball.”

"Okay, fine," Harry sighed and ran his fingers through his dark hair. "We may as well. We might make it back in time for one last dance."

"Wait," Ginny pushed her brother aside and pressed her ear to the wooden door. "Do you hear that?"

The foursome fell silent, all eight ears straining to hear whatever noise Ginny discovered. Just as they started to shuffle impatiently and think of moving on, a cry rang out through the silence like the bells of La Notre Dame breaking through the dawn in Paris.

"This is the prefect's toilet," Hermione pulled Ginny away from the door and reached for her wand. "Stand back."

Hermione spoke her overriding Head Girl password. The door swung open soundlessly. The Gryffindors rushed in behind Hermione but quickly stopped short. There, on the floor before them, were Draco Malfoy and Neville Longbottom—completely nude and writhing. Neville sat straddled atop Draco’s right thigh, leaning forward to wrap his fingers around Draco’s cock.

The girls squealed in surprise. The boys cursed and turned away. There was no mistaking that their friend wanted to be in his current position. Neville lifted his head and turned at the sound of the disturbance and sighed loudly.

"Can we help you?" Draco inquired with sugary sweet helpfulness. He nudged Neville with his thigh, revealing more of their blatant nudity to the appalled Gryffindors.

"Are you okay?” Hermione planted her gaze on her housemate’s face and hurried forward to touch his forehead as if feeling for a temperature. "You're burning up!"

"Of course I'm all right," Neville jerked back from her touch as if her hand was on fire. "Why shouldn't I be?"

"Well," Ron piped up, his voice quaking with disapproval. "You are starkers, for one, and perhaps more importantly, you are snogging Malfoy."

"Good thing you did not pop in an hour ago," Neville told him with an uncharacteristic grin.

"Were we snogging an hour ago?" Malfoy asked Neville conversationally.

"Oh, no," Neville turned to face Draco, his hands giving a playful tug. "An hour ago we were fucking."

The sound of Hermione's wand clattering to the floor echoed through the room.

"That is just—" Harry looked nearly as green as his infamous eyes.

"Gross," Ginny finished for him with a shiver.

"Come off it, Gin," Neville said with a hint of viciousness. "You told me not four days ago how much you wanted Malfoy to pin you against a wall and fuck you."

Ginny's hand flew to her mouth, gasping audibly. Harry's eyes narrowed on his girlfriend.

"Look," Draco lifted Neville off of himself and got to his feet. Neville stared at his beautiful form, but the others averted their eyes. "Could you lot continue your little Gryffindor version of As the Cauldron Bubbles elsewhere?"

"Fine," Hermione said stiffly, reaching down to retrieve her wand. "Let’s go, Neville. We’ll discuss this back in the Common Room."

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"I said no," Neville was on his feet, advancing on Hermione until he stood chest to chest with her. The Snitch gave him bravery—and no shame over his nakedness. "You cannot order me around."

"It wasn't an order," Hermione put her hands on Neville's chest and pushed him away from her. "I was just—"

"It sounded like an order to me," Draco advised Neville helpfully.

Neville once again stepped toward the small brunette before him. His voice was low and almost menacing. "Me, too."

"All right," Ron pulled Hermione away from the suddenly combative Neville and pushed her behind him. "That's enough, Neville. You don't want to come with us? Fine. But don't you ever touch Hermione. Ever."

"No worries there," Neville bit out, his mouth twisting with revulsion. Draco stifled the urge to laugh at the rejoinder.

"Come on," Harry took Ginny's arm and turned her to the door. "Let's get out of here. He deserves whatever happens to him."

Despite himself, Neville flinched at Harry’s words. Ginny, picking up on the subtle movement, pulled away from Harry and warily approached her friend.

Neville stared down at her, his face impassive. She concentrated on pouring every bit of love she felt for her best friend into her light eyes, hoping to break through the spell of the drug. Finally, she reached up and put her arms around his shoulders, her head resting against his bare chest.

Neville hesitated briefly before embracing her tightly. As his hands stroked her ginger hair, he whispered in her ear. "I'm fine. I want this. Just go."

"Okay," Ginny nodded and squeezed him once more before slipping from his arms. She turned and went to Harry. "Let's go."

TBC

you know what sucks?

evil_knitter — Tue, 25 Oct 2011 17:09:38 GMT

Reading Dean/Cas smut and having your kid's Laurie Berkner playlist decide to kick on. Seriously made me cringe. It was "Pig On Your Head"... YouTube it. (I'd link you, but I'm mobile!)

Review: 7.02 "Hello, Cruel World"

evil_knitter — Tue, 04 Oct 2011 23:29:23 GMT

Originally posted at SupportSupernatural.com

Supernatural 7.02: Hello, Cruel World
Written by Ben Edlund
Directed by Guy Norman Bee
Music: “Black Water” by The Doobie Brothers

There seems to be an All-In/ Balls-To-The-Wall philosophy in effect for Season 7. The kick-assery of 7.01 spilled into 7.02 like Leviathan into the drinking water. I simply cannot understand the dip in ratings thus far… have you lovely viewers not been spreading the Winchester Gospel? Reach out—tell your friends Season 7 is too much rock for one hand! Get them back, people, because if this fount of awesome continues, I’m gonna needs me a Season 8!

::putting my soap box away (for now)::

I remain tee-totally enamored by Misha Collin’s take on the Leviathan currently inhabiting Castiel… I mean, Castiel’s vessel. Or… Jimmy Novak’s skin? Ah, hells bells, whatever. I’m a fan of Misha’s Leviathan. He’s Cocoa Puffs crazy; I like that in a Big Bad, and really, is there anyone better suited to Cocoa Puffs crazy than Misha Collins? (Stick with me here—this is a compliment.) I am still convinced that we have not seen the last of Castiel this Season, although I will admit that I had to pause and sob for a solid ten minutes when Dean pulled Castiel’s trench coat out of the watering hole.

And Jensen! His anguished face and “Okay, so he’s gone” gut-punched me almost as much as his “Dumb son of a bitch” with wobbly lips and his tightening grip on the reverently rolled coat. Dear lord (and by lord, I mean Guy Norman Bee, who seems determined to kill me one day with his magical and mad directing skills), I’ve never seen such an emotion-wracking opening five minutes. Sheesh.

But Jensen (and Mr. Bee) were not done with me just yet. Those bastards. They had to go and bring on A Poignant Moment between Bobby (the fabulous Jim Beaver) and Dean. It went a little something like this:

Bobby: Share your feelings.
Dean: Nah.
Bobby: That’s horse crap, but I’ll always be here, waiting for you to feel your feelings.
Dean: Yeah, yeah, yada yada let’s do couples yoga yada yada… Big Bad…
Bobby: Idjit.
Dean: Must. Not. Smile. But I can totally smirk.
Bobby: Heh heh… point made.

My heart gave a squeeze the wrong side of painful when Sam told Dean that Hallucifer suggested that Dean was not real. Oh man, how could it get worse? But then… Dean confronted Sam about how to tell the difference between hallucination and reality. His whole “believe in me” monologue was worthy of a standing O. I had to pull out my already damp hanky for that scene.

The cast of Leviathan hosts were interesting to me, particularly Annie (the little girl who knew where babies come from). As someone who is terrified of creepy kids, I would have liked to see Annie stick around as a Leviathan for a little while. It’s pretty cool how they learn from their host bodies. That stands to reason since they were locked in Purgatory thousands of years ago without a window topside. Edgar (Benito Martinez) seems to be the liaison between “the boss” and the human-hosted Leviathans. Benito did an impressive job of portraying an ancient evil with subtlety and aplomb. Dr. Gaines (Cameron Bancroft) eerily reminded me of Pestilence from Season 5. I wonder if that bit of casting was done by accident. Either way, Cameron Bancroft did well in the role. I imagine we’ll see both Edgar and Dr. Gaines in future episodes.

Oh, and zOMG, I jumped like crazy when we saw the Leviathan’s true face (or at least its teeth and… tentacles?). I haven’t been truly scared by a Supernatural episode in quite a while. It was a wonderful and hair-raising treat!

So, I was a fan of Kim Rhodes’s Sheriff Jodie Mills in past episodes, but she kind of drove me crazy in this one. I cannot believe she followed Dr. MonsterFace, MD for as long as she did. When you are a close personal acquaintance of Bobby Singer, wouldn’t you have picked up the damn phone a bit earlier? I get what Ben Edlund needed to happen. They needed someone in the know inside the hospital to get word to the boys, but it smacked of deus ex machina to me. It would have been better if Sheriff Mills had been given anything to do after she called Bobby. But no… they just shoved her in a taxi and sent her on her way. It was a (sloppy) shortcut I’m not used to in Supernatural.

I’m not exactly sure what to say about Sam’s ordeal. It’s breaking my heart and my way of coping is to close my eyes, put my fingers in my ears and go lalalalalala. Unfortunately, this episode plucked the fingers from my ears and duct taped my eyes open. The writers have always loved to poke at Sam with a stick to see how deep his brow can furrow and how deep the pit of Sam’s despair actually is (they dropped a pebble down that pit seven seasons back and they are still waiting for the splash). Poor Sam. But really, maybe this is good. I mean… it has to be good, right? They are going to fix him. I trust the writers/producers/Sera. I trust the writers/producers/Sera. I trust the writers/producers/Sera. (Repetition helps; try it.)

By the way, Jared Padalecki is doing admirably with the rapidly shifting emotions of Sam. His face is so expressive; it’s a gift. Hey… does his hair look thicker to anyone else? It’s so… luxurious.

I wonder how long they will continue to torture Dean. He’s watching his brother fall apart. He saw his BFF die (lalalalalala). He might have lost Bobby. He broke his leg. He’s drinking like a damn fish. Seriously, despite his claim that he “keeps [his] marbles in a lead freakin’ box” I worry about him. Sometimes a rock needs to just be a guy for a while and not a rock, you know?

Mark Pellegrino is kicking ass and taking names as Hallucifer. I hate him, which I count as a win for Mark. If I didn’t absolutely loathe him, what would be the point? (I tip my jaunty hat to you, sir.) So as much as I hate him, I cannot wait to continue on this trippy trip down Hell’s Memory Lane. I was a little worried when he flickered out of Sam’s noggin’ after Dean’s intervention… but then he POOF came back in the ambulance, yay! Wait… it’s probably wrong that I want him to stick around since Hallucifer = Sam’s epic emotifest. Hm. Color me conflicted.

Okay, no more avoidance… I cannot wrap my head around the fact that THEY TORCHED BOBBY’S HOUSE! What the bleep bleeping hell? They already DID that to The Roadhouse. And now… now… whimper… not Bobby’s. And where is Bobby? Did he… is he… Oh, I can’t even type it. I refuse to believe it. I mean… NO. Let’s just agree to Not Think About It until next week. Huh, I guess there is a little more avoidance. Sorry gang, I can’t talk about the possible deaths of Cas and Bobby in one review. My head will explode.

Hats off to Ben Edlund for writing words powerful enough for me to rewind certain scenes over and over again. This episode was just wrenching. Ugh. Here are a few of my favorite quotations from this week, compliments of the great Ben Edlund:

Dean: Don’t let Satan change my presets.

Bobby: Foot surgery; died this morning. [NOTE: I’m adding this one because as it happens, I’m undergoing major foot surgery at the end of this month, so this was pretty terrifying to hear.]

Dean: This discussion does not require a weapons discharge!

Dean: I know a thing or two about torture. Enough to know it feels different than the pain of this regular stupid crappy… this.

Dean: I am your flesh and blood brother. I’m the only one that can legitimately kick your ass in real time… Believe in that. Believe me, okay? You’ve got to believe me and make it stone number one and build on it. Dean: You better not be in that crater back there. I can’t… if you’re gone, I swear I am going to strap my Beautiful Mind brother into the car and I’m going to drive us off the pier…. You said you’d be here. Where are you?

What is to come next week? I can’t bear to watch the spoilers, but I can’t bear to sit idly by and wait! The last we saw the Winchesters, they were heading straight for the belly of the beast (Sioux Falls General Hospital)! Oh noooo! Dr. MonsterFace, MD is there with his monstrous hospital administrative support staff!

Oooh, and what’s this? There was a nanosecond’s flash of Castiel in the “Stay tuned for scenes from next week’s Supernatural” at the very end. Does that mean he’ll be making an appearance next week? Fingers crossed!

Damn, I am IN LOVE with Season 7. How about you? Why not make it your goal this week to convince one new person to get on board the Supernatural Train? Try hosting a “Get To Know The Winchesters” party (you know you’ve been meaning to re-watch Seasons 1-6 again)! Go forth and spread the good word, folks!

Bekah’s Been Drinking:

Well, I pretty much drank this whole episode… again. I drank whenever there was a mention of Hell/the Pit/ the Cage or a Sam hallucination. I got to 14 (give or take 6). Not the worst I’ve had, but I sure did feel a little bit like Castiel in “99 Problems” by time it was all said and done.

Next week, join me in drinking every time there is a Leviathan on screen. Tee hee. We’ll switch to casual sipping after the first 13.

Writer's Block: And the forecast is…

evil_knitter — Tue, 27 Sep 2011 00:00:48 GMT

I'm an autumn girl. I adore October, specifically. I like a little nip to the air that is just this side of COLD.Just enough to make the tip of my nose cold. Maybe a little drizzle in the morning, giving way to cloudy with a touch of sun peeking through... but not so much that you need sunglasses. Huh. Basically cold and dreary, lol.

I want to have a sweater or a jacket with a fancy scarf. Maybe a pair of light gloves in the evening. My ideal climate is the Pacific Northwest where it is my version of autumn more than not! I live in Virginia Beach where our autumn is approximately 4.3 hours in late October.

Episode Review: Meet The New Boss

evil_knitter — Mon, 26 Sep 2011 23:54:39 GMT

For those of you who might not have known, I'm the episode reviewer at SupportSupernatural.com. Below is my review of 7.01 "Meet the New Boss". Obviously, spoilers for episode 7.01.

"Meet The New Boss" Review

Supernatural 7.01: Meet The New Boss
Written by Sera Gamble
Directed by Phil Sgriccia
Music: “Slow Ride” by Foghat and “These Boots Are Made For Walking” by Nancy Sinatra

Welcome to Season 7! We picked up mere seconds after S6’s harrowing finale, which was just what I wanted to see. I needed resolution after a summer of knuckle-biting and fretting about the new order… what with a new god (or would it be God) in town.

There is no way I could start this review without talking about the masterful performance given by Misha Collins this week. He played each of his roles with such finesse that it makes the possibility of him not being around each week an even bigger heart ache. I have noticed that Misha has been very careful to say that Castiel is not the new Big Bad. He never really said that he wasn’t playing the new Big Bad. The man is a freakin’ genius; towing the company line in such a pervasive manner. SO Misha. I would be more than okay with Leviathan-living-in-Cas being the Big Bad for this Season. I’m hopeful that Cas is alive in there and that the Winchesters will work toward ganking Levi (yeah, I’m on a nickname-basis with Leviathan) without killing Cas. Misha was fantastic at the maniacal monster powerful enough to (potentially) overtake a juiced-up angel. The gleam in his eyes, the creeptastic grin… YES. Let’s see more more more!

The Cas fans out had to be relieved to see our favorite trenchcoated angel redeemed. The “Save Castiel” campaign was a success! Cas felt regret and sought to make amends before he died (well, his supposed death). If Cas is truly gone, at least he went out the same Cas we all fell in love with. So… Cas, if you’re dead… RIP good friend. (But he’s totally not… I’m sticking to that delusion as long as possible!)

It was heartbreaking to see Sam suffering hallucinations about his time in the Cage. I knew it was coming—and that it is surely to be a how-do-we-fix-it theme of Season 7—but I was not looking forward to it. It is interesting to see how Sera Gamble and Phil Sgriccia envisioned Hell since we saw so little from Dean’s time in the Pit. Maybe it’s a little twisted, but I was always curious to see the Supernatural spin on it. The meat hooks were a nice touch, especially with the dangling, uh, meat. I do wish Sam would have been honest with Dean and Bobby about what was happening to him. Hello? Sam? Did your brother not live through Hell? Didn’t Bobby see you through the demon blood detox debacle? It’s frustrating to see Sam fail to realize his strong support system time and time again. Bobby is picking up on the signs, but Dean (as always) is reluctant to be proactive when it relates to his little brother.

It was a shock to see Lucifer back. I saw Mark Pellegrino’s name in the opening credits, but figured he’d take the form of a flashback. I never even imagined he’d be back as an actual character! And what?! Are we about to be Dallas-ed by the producers? Is Sam still stuck with Michael and Lucifer in the Cage? Did all of Season 6 not really happen? (Personal Note Here: That might not be an awful thing.) It’s a shocking idea, but really, I have come to expect to be shocked by Supernatural at every turn. I’m sure there would be a certain gnashing of teeth should that come to pass, but I think it might border on ingenious. That would open up a door for the producers to have a freakin’ second try at this whole thing! Is it the weeny way out? Probably. But I’m up for it.

About Death. I was glad to see him back. I have a great love for Death as a character. It was a ballsy move (even for the Winchesters) to try to make Death their bitch. Nice effort—loved that Dean thought to get Death a happy meal—but they had to know that Cas would cotton on to what they were doing. I mean, hello… he’s GOD. So, nice effort, but no dice. Julian Richings was as divine as he was fear-inducing. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again… perfect casting there. I thought I was going to choke on my beer when Death asked Cas if they should kickbox after Cas freed him. I would have paid GOOD MONEY to see that go down. Hilariously delivered.

MARK A. SHEPARD. Just the name alone should say it all, but because I’m slightly in love with the man, I’ll say a little more. Nancy Sinatra’s song (“These Boots Were Made For Walking”) was the most perfect choice ever made in Supernatural history (excepting, of course, “Carry On My Wayward Sons”) for Crowley’s grand entrance. Finding Crowley in a beat-up RV in a campground watching antennae’d TV was hysterical. Oh how the mighty have fallen! Crowley is always looking for the best way to survive, and he’s found it in his new (er, old?) post as King of Hell. Technically, King is just an honorific. He has no true say in the souls he gets—and he certainly doesn’t get a voting seat in the Heaven/Hell Parliament. The brothers summon Crowley to find out some answers—in the smallest Devil’s Trap ever—and Crowley seems torn: to conspire or not to conspire… that is the question. In the end, there is only one way that could have gone, huh? Of course he will conspire. I’m not sure that conspiring against God and Death was such a good way to go, but I’m confident that Crowley will snake his way out of consequences. (Yay!)

Oh, here’s something that concerned me. The way the boys looked. I’ve always enjoyed that rugged and dirty quality to their clothes, hair and general air. But in this episode, they looked polished and coiffed. The product in Jensen’s hair was beautiful… but not for Dean. Especially when he’s in overalls to fix the damn Impala! He had, like, NO grease and/or other detritus on him. I date a mechanic. I know that is not in the least bit accurate. Details, people! Supernatural fans need authenticity! Oh, and this goes for Sam, too. He was tortured by hallucinations, but damn, he looked good-- and artfully rumpled. Too good for a man battling his own ginormous set of demons (or you know… Satan). I have my fingers crossed that this was a one-off and that the producers are not setting the course for the boys to have that glossed over 90210 look about them. Sweet Jesus, please… don’t… do… it.

The angles in this episode rocked my world. Cas in the politicians office was a particular favorite of mine. Phil Sgriccia astounds me at the best of times—and this was definitely one the best times. The darkness in the episode (both in themes and in lighting) was excellent, and well-balanced with humor. The couple that witness the negotiations between God/Death/Winchesters was a stroke of brilliance. This episode has rocketed to my Top 5 Episodes Ever of Ever.

I guess it is impossible to be in love with this episode without singing the praises of Sera Gamble. I know she has been vilified by some fans, but she has proven—with this one little episode—her worth to the series. It was amazing. The one-liners alone were first-class. The Death/Cas interaction was on the money. The targets of Cas’ smiting… priceless. She even managed to point out Dean’s all-hours drinking without poking at it with a big, obvious stick. Sera… well done. Well done like a son of a bitch.

Bekah’s Back To Drinking:

Well, I pretty much drank this whole episode. I was a nervous wreck about the whole Cas business, so I gave myself a free pass to get rip-roarin’ blitzed. Next week I’ve decided to drink anytime there is an image of Hell and/or the Cage, be it hallucination, flashback or “real”.

Writer's Block: Hey Mr. DJ, keep playing this song…

evil_knitter — Tue, 13 Sep 2011 01:16:12 GMT

Any song the Indigo Girls play live. It gives me chills to hear the crowd singing along... especially Power of Two (a Dean/Sam song if there ever was one... I guess one could argue the Dean/Cas point), and Moment of Forgiveness (Dear God, so sad it's just BRILLIANT-- and it's totally Dean/Cas at the end of Season 6!!), Get Out The Map, Shame On You and perhaps the most cut-your-wrists-sad song IN THE WORLD, but it's an awesome kind of sad: http://youtu.be/x_dP6E5Po1E (Ghost by Indigo Girls... for some reason I can't use the link feature on this one).

Old school New Kids on the Block
New school NKOTB (especially Full Service)
The Hairspray movie soundtrack (especially Ladies Choice" and You Can't Stop the Beat)
Le Bal Masque by La Compagnie Creole (seriously... download it today... I dare you to be down when you jam out)
"Bust A Move" by Young MC
Pretty much anything by The Laurie Berkner Band (especially Victor Vito and Pig On Her Head)

And lastly, the happiest song in the world:

That Thing You Do by The Wonders

Writer's Block: Back in the day

evil_knitter — Wed, 08 Jun 2011 13:33:39 GMT

Uh, YES. I was a rabid New Kids On the Block fan. Every inch of my walls from floor to ceiling was covered in posters and pictures. Actually... so was the ceiling. I spent the night in a parking structure in a seedy city to get concert tickets. I convinced my mom to let me FOLLOW them to concerts up to 6 hours away one summer. It was intense.

This one show, I constructed a life-size doll of Donnie Wahlberg with a friend and toted him to a show. We were on the second row (woot!) and in the middle of the show, the Kids spotted the doll. They had to stop the show because they were laughing so hard. Once the show was over, they sent out their security guard (Biscuit for those of you who remember) to take us backstage so they could meet the doll... and us.

See? Intense. But that's not the worst part.

I did what any natural born fangirl would do: I wrote fanfiction. But here's the thing... there was no internet back then (at least not in my world), so I thought I was writing this amazingly unique thing that set me apart from any other NKOTB fan in the world. That's not so bad, right? I mean heck, I've written fanfiction as an adult; no big whoop.

But see, I wrote myself into my fanfiction. Hell, I wrote my mother into my fanfiction. It was epic... and novel length. I hired friends to beta it (although I called it editing) and then I wrote it out in long hand and bound it. I made a cover page (my early attempts at "photoshop"... read: scissors and a piece of tape). I gave it a title... DONNIE WAHLBERG MARRIED MY MOM.

Here's the kicker... when I met Donnie at that concert with the doll (best marketing tool ever, btw), I gave him the "book" to read! Hand to Godstiel... I gave it to him. He looked at me like I'd lost my effing mind, but then he smiled, handed the "book" off to Biscuit and smiled (sorta) for a picture with me.

I'd like to say I was very, very young when I did this. If I'd been 10, it would've been okay. But no, I was a couple of weeks shy of 15. I should have known better. Oh wait, there's more! When we got home from the show, I was so full of squee that I couldn't sleep. I had tucked a personal letter into the "book" that had my phone number on it. I should mention that I started the letter thusly: "Yo, peep this..." Ahem. Yes. Peep this, indeed. Anyway, I was convinced that Donnie would read the "book" and be utterly captivated and call me. Maybe he'd ask me to come on tour a la "Almost Famous" and I would be their official writer (idek). Maybe he'd beg for me to meet with his friend who could have the book published and widely distributed. Maybe he'd actually fall in love with my Moms (who was dope, yo).

You might be surprised to learn that he never called. I waited by the phone for days. I checked the mailbox obsessively for a letter/ thank you card/ signed photo/ anything. Nothing ever came. To say I was heartbroken would be an understatement.

I recently found the draft version of Donnie Wahlberg Married My Mom. It's pretty damn humiliating, but a writer friend read it (because how could she miss the opportunity to openly laugh at me) and gave me kudos for it. She said it was highly creative and very well written considering my age. Huh. Awesome. I scanned the cover page so you guys could peep this on Megaupload here: http://www.megaupload.com/?d=H9V7N3B3.

So, while the whole thing makes me cringe, I can't be too beat up over it. It gave me a passion for writing, as well as my first lesson in open rejection of my writing. I even still love NKOTB. I still have a poster on my wall and my "I <3 Joe" shiny mirror plaque (custom made at a theme park while at a concert they performed when they were still opening for Tiffany! Tickets were $8, zOMG) on my shelf at work. I no longer apologize for being a NKOTB super fan... but I don't often tell the story of Donnie Wahlberg marrying my mom.

:)

Bad Romance: The Duke of Azureberry and The Earl of Middlewestmoreland

evil_knitter — Thu, 03 Feb 2011 04:08:13 GMT

Title: Bad Romance: The Duke of Azureberry and The Earl of Middlewestmoreland
Authors: evil_knitter and gwennie3579
Gift for: wildsky_sheri as part of deancastiel's "Secret Angels 2010" gift exchange
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Purple prose
Spoilers: All aired episodes
Word Count: ~9,300
Notes/Prompt(s): Dean and Cas are trapped in a cheesy romance novel by a demon and have to follow the plotline to escape once the story ends.

Summary: Dean, Sam and Cas wake up titled, rich and in the midst of a scandal, courtesy of a little prank of the supernatural variety. Sam is betrothed and not happy about it… neither are Cas and Dean. The trio must play their parts to find their way out of this, another effed up Winchesterian adventure. Not AU!

Bad Romance: The Duke of Azureberry and The Earl of Middlewestmoreland

The sound of chirping birds and the feel of a cross-breeze over his bare skin woke Dean. He stretched grandly and yawned, letting his joints crack and settle in for the long day. The mattress at his back was fluffy and warm, a rare treat in the Winchester Tour of America’s Worst Motels. He smiled, a little self-satisfied smirk, because Sam hadn’t chosen this bed. It had looked droopier, but damn if that didn’t make it better.

“Will you be sleeping the day away, my lord?” a crisp English accented voice broke Dean’s reverie.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean yelped, reaching for the gun beneath his pillow and coming up empty-handed. He jumped to his feet, both hands curled and ready to defend himself the old fashioned way. “Who are you?”

“It is I, Pinkerton,” the man said, taking a series of steps backward. He held a robe of suspicious material in front of him. “I have been your manservant for well on fifteen years, my lord.”

“You… what?” Dean crouched lower and scanned the room. It was not the dingy motel room he’d gone to sleep in. The walls were papered in deep burgundy damask with velvet drapes hanging sumptuously around the large French windows. He took in the dark wood armoire and valet stand on the far side of the room before returning his attention to Pinkerton. “Where am I?”

“Y-your country estate, my lord,” the trembling man stuttered. “L-Lawrencia.”

“My country estate?” Dean blinked and came out of his crouch. “What the hell?”

A blood-curdling shriek that sounded vaguely familiar pushed Dean back into his crouch. He whirled toward the door, laying in wait as the shrieking got louder and closer. He categorized the creatures that could make such a noise: banshees… pissed off teenage spirits… Sam.

“Dean!” Sam flung the door open and ran full tilt toward his brother. Or, at least, Dean thought it was Sam. It was hard to tell, as his brother had sprouted breasts, waist-length hair and was dressed in what could only be described a chemise. With lace. “Dean, I’m a girl!”

“Madam!” Pinkerton flung his arm over his eyes and turned to face the wall. “Where is your robe?”

“Sam?” Dean blinked at the much shorter, and yet eerily identical version of Sam. He blinked again when Sam came to a halt directly in front of him. He wrinkled his nose at the overpowering smell of lavender that wafted off her skin. Obnoxious smell and breasts aside, Sam didn’t look like a girl. He just looked like a shrunken and pubescent Sam. “Okay, please tell me I’m dreaming? Punch me, maybe I’ll wake up.”

“Madam,” Pinkerton said in a much aggrieved voice, “where is Mistress Singer?”

Dean and Sam raised their eyebrows and turned to the distressed manservant. “Mistress Singer?” they said in unison.

“There you are!” A gruff, clearly feminine voice snapped into the room, followed immediately by a tall woman with a robust bosom and a severe bonnet covering her hair. “What are you thinking, Lady Samantha, traipsing around in such a state? And coming to your brother’s bedchamber? Scandalous!”

The Winchester brothers—siblings—stared in abject horror at the woman before them. The broad nose, the hooded eyes, the wrinkles… it was Bobby Singer with boobs.

“Bobby?” Sam breathed.

“I beg your pardon,” the older woman’s hand fluttered at her throat. The lace at the cuffed edge of her sleeve danced with the movement. “No one but family calls me Bobbie. You will address me as Mistress Singer, or, if you must, Mistress Roberta.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Dean muttered.

“What has gotten into the two of you?” Mistress Singer gasped, scandalized by Dean’s oath. She hurried to make the sign of the cross over her chest. “Your parents, God rest their souls, would be outraged by your behavior. One child running about in her underthings, and one taking the Lord’s name in vain.”

“We need to find Cas,” Dean said, to the room at large.

“Azureberry is arriving shortly,” Mistress Singer said, looking down her nose at Dean.

“Cas is Azureberry?” Sam asked, just to be sure.

“You silly girl,” the stern woman version of Bobby rushed forward and grabbed Sam’s arm. The seriousness of the situation was the only thing that saved Dean from guffawing. “You know full well who Azureberry is.”

Sam shot his older brother a distressed look over his shoulder, but allowed Mistress Singer to drag him from the room. “Find Cas,” he said, more than a little disturbed by the tinkling sound of his own voice. “And then, for the love of God, find me.”

**

“The Duke of Azureberry,” a dour-faced servant intoned, bowing as Cas and a strange woman entered the lush drawing room. “And the dowager Duchess of Azureberry.”

Dean stood, dazed and confused, beside a long bar well stocked with sherry, brandy and wine. He held a crystal decanter in one hand, a glass in the other, fully intending to drink some sense into the situation.

“Dean,” Cas said in a rush of relief. He stopped just inside Dean’s circle of personal space and stared at him like he was an oasis in the middle of the Sahara. “We are not in Nebraska anymore.”

“Kansas,” Dean said automatically as he corrected the quote. He set the decanter aside, relieved beyond reason to have Cas in eyeshot. “We’re not in Kansas anymore. Who’s your friend?”

“Why, I’m the dowager Duchess of Azureberry,” the old woman approached with her gloved hand held aloft. Dean stared at her, refusing to take the proffered invitation to kiss out a greeting. “I am here to see my son settled into a well-matched marriage.”

Cas made an indignant sound and stalked away from his alleged mother.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Dean said, tallying up the female residents of the estate in his head. He made a horrified face once he’d done the math. “You’re telling me that Cas—the Duke of Azureberry—is here to marry… Sam?”

“Perhaps,” the dowager Duchess said with a coy smile and a flash of red eyes. “But let’s not spoil the ending.”

“Demon,” Dean hissed, reaching for the gun he usually kept his waistband, only to find it missing. He looked down in despair at the skintight pantaloons. He knew then that the colorful waistcoat did not hold his flask of holy water, the same way he knew there was no knife in his knee-high boots, which had been polished to a blinding sheen.

“The name’s Loki,” the old woman said, dipping into a curtsy.

“Not a demon,” Cas pointed out helpfully. He tugged at the rigid collar that sat high against his neck. “Loki is a god.”

“Wait, you’re Loki?” Dean asked, coming out of his instinctual crouch. “The god Gabriel was pretending to be? I mean, when he wasn’t pretending to be a trickster?”

“The very same,” Loki grinned and fiddled with her—his?—reticule. “Gabriel is a great friend and I’ve always admired his work. The time he put you in the television? Oh man, that was hilarious.”

“So what’s this?” Dean gestured to his ridiculous outfit and the ostentatious room. “Is this your little homage to Gabriel?”

“Exactly,” Loki said, pleased that Dean had cottoned onto the idea with very little prompting. He’d always heard that the older Winchester was as smart as the bratty one, but he’d also always doubted it. It was not generally possible to be both smart and hot as the fires of Hell.

“How do we get out of here?” Cas asked with a hint of resignation and then irritation. “And how did you make me human? Where is my grace?”

“Well, as to that,” Loki tapped her nose and winked. “Gabriel gave me a bit of insight on how to contain your grace for the duration of this little experiment. Worry not, I will return it to you as soon as the story is complete.”

“You’re human?” Dean asked, his voice loud and angry. He turned on Loki with bullets of pure rage shooting from his eyes. It was one thing to screw with him and Sam, but Cas was off limits. “First you make Sam a girl, then you put me in these ridiculous pants, and now you make Cas human? Oh, I’m going to enjoy killing you.”

“Kill the mother of your sister’s betrothed?” Loki taunted. “I somehow don’t think that’s how you want this story to go. The gallows are not a fun place.”

“What are the rules?” Cas asked again, smoothly maneuvering between Dean and Loki.

“There are no rules,” Loki said with an innocent smile. “There is a plot.”

“A plot?” the angel and human asked as one.

“Yes,” Loki said, squaring her lace covered shoulders. “You see, Lady Samantha has been promised to the Duke of Azureberry since her birth, but she is a headstrong whelp and wants to marry for love. Azureberry is determined to marry Lady Samantha because it was his father’s dying wish. Meantime, we also have the Earl of Middlewestmoreland, an unabashed rake, breaking hearts from here to London, and losing the family’s wealth to boot.”

“Who’s the Earl of freakin’ Middlewestmoreland?” Dean asked, knowing he was going to regret the answer. And then, with resigned trepidation, “Please tell me it’s not me.”

“Of course it’s you,” Loki laughed. “Who else would it be?”

“Son of a bitch.” Dean dragged a hand over his face. The Apocalypse was a thing of the past and still he was getting dragged into bizarre situations. Where was the vacation he so desperately needed?

“Go on, Loki,” Cas suggested, ignoring the pointedly disgruntled look Dean leveled at him.
“Middlewestmoreland needs the marriage to replenish the family coffers, else he’ll have to start selling off heirlooms and get a job.”

“Perish the thought,” Dean said.

“Exactly so,” Loki said, red eyes dancing merrily.

“Okay,” Dean clapped his hands together and glanced at Cas. “Let’s go – we gotta get you to the church on time. I’ll even be the best man. Or the ring-bearer. Whatever.”

“I beg your pardon,” Cas said, shocked and offended. “Dean, there has to be another way. I don’t want to marry Sam.”

“It’s just for this stupid game,” Dean said, working very hard to keep the fuse on his temper long. It wouldn’t do to lose his cool this early in the game. He’d save his epic, world trembling tantrum for after they were safely back on the Mothership. “You won’t really be married to him.”

“Au contraire,” Loki said with a series of tsks. “Castiel is an angel. Once the sacred vows are said… well, I’m sure you can imagine. The divorce rate amongst angels is pretty low.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I’ll leave you two to sort it out,” Loki said, tugging her gloves daintily over her fingers. “The game begins now. I’ll check in on the progress periodically.” With that, the god vanished, leaving behind one pissed off hunter and his awkward angel.

Dean refused to look away from Cas, who was studiously dusting his fingers along the liquor cabinet. The game—the plot—was easily resolved with a quickie Vegas-style wedding, but the virginal angel was refusing to play ball.

“You are angry,” Cas said with a sigh. “Please try to understand.”

“Oh, no, I get it.” Dean stalked toward the smaller man, managing to look impressive and menacing, despite his tight pants and lace collar. “You’re letting your ridiculous heavenly ideas get in the way again.”

“I’ve held this belief since I was created. This is not a whim designed to irritate or complicate matters.”

They glared at each other, neither refusing to back down, as if the stony silence could somehow find an accord between the two men. Granted, the Dean and Castiel Staring Smack Down had worked in times past, but as the moments ticked by, no progress was made.

“Dean!”

Sam’s voice cracked like he was still stumbling through puberty, drawing Dean’s and Castiel’s eyes away from one another. He crossed the room dressed in a frilly ice-blue dress with a square neckline and flounced skirts. A darling satin blue ribbon encircled his waist and created a fat bow that sat low on his back.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Cas whispered in shock. His eyes widened and made several slow circuits from Sam’s slippered feet to his curled and upswept hair and down again. Sam fidgeted and blushed under the scrutiny. “Sam, what has Loki done to you?”

“Loki?” Sam croaked. “Loki did this to me? Why?”

“You’ve got to marry Cas,” Dean said, focusing his eyes on the wall behind his little brother. He could not have a serious conversation with him while Sam’s hair was caught up in so much damn ribbon. “You do that and we get to go home.”

“Let’s find a church,” Sam said immediately, with great urgency.

“Lady Prudence over here says no.”

“Dean,” Cas groaned, and tried to duck his head, but his neck’s movement was impeded by his high collar. “If I could, in good conscience, marry your brother, you know I would.”

In normal circumstances—and what the hell is normal anyway?—Dean and Sam both would have fallen over themselves laughing at such an inane sentence. But these circumstances? Yeah, not normal.
Dean quickly gave Sam the details of their predicament, not sparing any insult or defamation of character when it came to the angel’s part in it. At the end, Sam sank down on the fainting couch and dropped his head into his hands.

“Lady Samantha,” Mistress Singer’s long-suffering voice snapped into the room like a bull whip. “Sit up. And close your legs!”

“Marry me, Cas,” Sam begged, sitting straighter and trying to situate his long legs into a comfortably feminine position. “Please, please marry me.”

Mistress Singer swayed on her feet, beyond scandalized at her young charge’s outrageous words. Young ladies did not prostrate themselves at the feet of their betrothed.

“Sam,” Cas said, and wiped his eyes, suddenly very tired, which was new for him. A curious throbbing sensation pricked up behind his eyes. “I’m not going to marry you.”

Mistress Singer collapsed next to Sam in a dead faint. Sam twitched his skirts and slid down the couch, away from the heap of his chaperone. He did feel slightly guilty for vexing the older woman, but honestly, the conversation was bound to go better without her constant shrewing.

“It’s a game,” Sam said, trying to get to his feet but finding himself tangled in his petticoats and crossed ankles. “Sonofabitch! Cas, you’ve got to help me, man. We’ve got to get out of here.”

“We will find another way,” Cas said, pressing his fingers tightly against his eye sockets. “I think I have a headache. I need to lie down.”

On cue, the butler (whose name happened to be Pennysworth) returned, back straight and nose in the air. “Your grace, your mother has left,” he said with great importance. “I have had your trunks transported to your room. If you come this way, I will lead the way.”

“My room?” Cas dropped his hands from his face and sighed. “I am to stay here?”

“Yes, your grace,” Pennysworth said, slightly unnerved by the question and steely blue glare fixed on him. “For the wedding.”

“Whose wedding?” Cas asked. His voice dropped lower and rumbled through the thick air in the parlor and slapped into the poor butler’s face.

“Y-yours, your grace.”

“Son.of.a.bastarding.bitch,” Cas bit out, rounding on Dean with a thunderous expression. “Did you know about this? If you knew about this, I swear I will smite the crap out of you myself.”

“No, I didn’t know,” Dean snapped back, taking a step closer to his friend (although if you had asked Dean at that moment, he would have punched you for calling Cas his friend). “But since it’s already planned, you are going to do it. Marry Sam.”

“No.”

“I’m going to kick your ass.”

Cas’s face screwed up in a foreign expression, although Dean had very little trouble reading the disbelief and condescension there.

“You’re human now, bitch,” Dean reminded him as he pounced across the thin divide between them.
Sam registered the moment Cas understood he was in danger. His disbelief fluttered away and was replaced by fear. The slam of bodies was loud in the room. Pennysworth gave a shocked squeak unbefitting his station and quickly backed out of the room. Sam grabbed his skirt in his fists and ran to intervene.

“Dean,” Sam hollered, his voice dissatisfying and high pitched. “Stop! You’re going to hurt him!”

“That’s the plan,” Dean grunted as he wrestled Cas to the floor and straddled him. He pulled back, his fist frighteningly high. Beneath him, the angel squirmed and shielded his face. “Hold still, you pompous assnozzle.”

“Stop it,” Sam latched onto his brother’s arm and tried to jerk him away. Sadly, his strength was that of a teenage girl and all he managed to do was hitch a ride on the downward trajectory of Dean’s punch. “Aaah!”

Mistress Singer returned to consciousness and quickly righted herself, momentarily offended that no one had fetched the smelling salts to set her to rights. All thoughts of indignation fled when her eyes landed on the rolling mountain of clothing and skin on the floor. She blinked, trying to work out what exactly she was seeing.

“Samantha Ingrid Middlewestmoreland,” she bellowed, jumping to her feet and stomping across the room. “What the bloody, buggering hell are you doing?”

The snapping and swinging trio froze. Dean, still straddling the not-so-angelic angel, held Cas’s neck with one hand and his brother’s hair with the other. The fingers of one of Cas’s hands wrapped Dean’s wrist and the others were clawed and firmly clenched around Dean’s jaw. Sam’s fist hovered over Dean’s kidney, his dress mussed and hitched around his waist, displaying his cotton petticoats. They blinked at each other as they huffed in exertion.

“In all my years,” Mistress Singer continued, her dander fully up and on display. She shifted her stately bosom and conveniently forgot her foul language. “I have never seen such a display. You are lucky no one has arrived for the wedding party. The scandal this little episode would create! I will never be allowed in respectable establishments again! My reputation will be ruined.”

Sam yelped when his chaperone clamped her fingers around his arm and pulled him away from the fray. Dean and Cas remained in place, but Sam could detect a touch of humor dancing behind his brother’s eyes.

“You, young lady,” the formidable woman barked as she dragged Sam out of the room. “Upstairs. I will send your maid up to assist with your bath. You are not to come out of your room until I say.”

Sam considered rejecting the idea of needing a bath or a maid, but thought better of it and scurried away, his satin slippers hissing across the carpeted stairs as he went.

“As for the two of you,” Mistress Singer wheeled, a pre-emptive index finger held aloft and jabbing. Her cheeks were spotted red as if she’d given into the temptation of a fourth glass of sherry before bed. “Acting as if you are still in short pants, frolicking in the garden with your nurse! This childish behavior must cease at once. If you do not care a whit for Lady Samantha, at least care for your own reputations, tattered as they are!”

Dean shared a confused glance with Cas.

“Azureberry,” Mistress Singer did not pause in her verbal vomit. She had held her tongue long enough. “You may have been able to force society to accept you back after your last indiscretion, but they will not be so easily bought this time! And you, Middlewestmoreland, your part will only be forgiven if Lady Samantha is married to Azureberry. You know this.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean asked, releasing his hold on Cas’s neck without comment or apology. “What did I do to piss off society?”

“It’s what you both did,” the woman said, her face and neck flushing angrily. “To be found in such a way! Together! Scandalous!”

“Together?” Cas tilted his head where it still rested against the plush carpeting.

“Oh hell no,” Dean scrambled to get off Cas’s lap, noticing for the first time how thin the fabric was stretched over his thighs. He turned his back on his sprawled fisticuffs companion and pinned Mistress Singer with his eyes. “You are going to tell me everything, or so help me god, I will toss your flouncy ass out on the street.”

“Hmph,” the lady sniffed, managing to look disgruntled even as her blush bled from mauve to crimson. “It is not a tale for a woman to tell.”

“Oh you’re going to tell us, lady,” Dean growled, the lace of his cuffs quivered where they hung tattered from the fight. “Right the frick now.”

“There was always talk of Azureberry and you,” Mistress Singer began, but then stopped, her eyes trailing to the bar behind Dean. “Perhaps a spot of sherry?”

“Cas,” Dean snapped his fingers and pointed to the bar. “Pour Mistress Singer a large glass of sherry.”

Cas rose from the ground in a single, graceful movement and hurried to obey. He wanted to hear the story as much as Dean did, because after all, it was his wedding day looming heavy in the horizon.

“You two were always close when you were boys,” Mistress Singer said after a healthy swig of her medicinal courage. “Always scampering away to do god knows what in the woods. You’d be gone for hours, then come back flushed and laughing as pretty as you please. There was never a day that did not see the Azureberry and Middlewestmoreland heirs together.”

“We were friends as children,” Cas summarized for Dean, which earned him a roll of eyes.

“But that’s not what,” Dean gagged and swallowed over his next words, “ruined our reputations.”

“Hardly,” Mistress Singer snorted a very unladylike snort and tried another taste of sherry. The tip of her nose shone a high pink. “What did that was being caught in flagrante delicto in the library during the Earl of Crowley’s musicale.”

“In flagrante delicto?” Dean asked, a sinking sensation in his stomach.

“That’s Latin for ‘while the crime is blazing’,” Case supplied and for once, Dean was glad for it. “It is used colloquially to refer to sexual activity.”

Mistress Singer eeped and gulped her sherry, telling Dean that Cas had gotten it right in one.

“We?” Dean licked his lower lip and turned to look at Cas instead of the drunken informant who was stumbling back to the fainting couch. “Cas, we engaged in sexual activity?”

“So it seems,” Cas hummed. The corners of his mouth turned up and he appeared very amused. His eyes, one might say, danced merrily.

“You have got to be kidding me!” Sam shouted from the top of the stairs. He lifted his hem and descended the extravagant staircase as quickly as his encumbered legs would allow. “I’m supposed to marry your big gay lover?”

“Samartha!” Mistress Singer hiccupped and tried again. “Sammytha.”

“No way, dude,” Sam ignored his hawkeyed chaperone and stomped over to Dean where he stabbed him in the chest with one of his newly feminized fingers. “I refuse to be Cas’s beard.”

Cas’s fingers ran over his chin as he imagined Sam taking up residence on his face. He shuddered and decided he’d much rather Dean was his beard, if he had a choice.

“Pardon me, my lords,” Pennysworth was back, his serious face drawn taut and his nose not nearly as high in the air. “The first carriage has arrived.”

“No!” Mistress Singer shoved her now-empty glass at the servant and grabbed Sam’s arm. “We must make you presentable. Come!”

Left alone together, Cas and Dean cleared their throats and toed at the carpet, demonstrating that even in their awkwardness, they were together.

“Yes, well,” Pennysworth cleared his own throat and clicked his heels together, drawing attention to himself. “Perhaps you both would enjoy some time with your manservant? The ball will begin in three hours.”

“Right, of course, the ball,” Dean looked down at his shirt, creased and wrinkled. His legs jerked into action, leaving his brain to scramble for purchase in this strange new world. “Come on, Cas.”

Cas hurried to follow, the fight forgotten and the pair once again united in their stand against their fucked up life.

**

The country estate of the infamous Earl of Middlewestmoreland was filled to the brim with people of importance—or so Dean assumed. They huddled together in groups of three or more, whispering behind gloved hands and fluttering fans. Their eyes never failed to find Dean in the room and then bungee away as if lingering too long would drag them into the scandalous air that surrounded the cad.

Dean ran a finger around the ridiculously starched collar and tried to steady himself. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, close to Pennysworth, waiting for Sam and Cas to make their appearance. Loki had appeared again, gleefully reminding the trio that Samantha and Azureberry were to be married in two short days, and as such, must act as a young couple in love. Dean had gotten his hands all the way around Loki’s neck, before Cas had hauled him away. I do not love Sam, Cas had said, his breath skipping across Dean’s ear. But I will pretend until we can figure this out.

Dean had nodded tersely, thrown by the sudden eruption of nervous flutters in his belly at Cas's awkwardly sincere pledge. There was something like a promise in the gentle whisper, something that felt a little like potential, a little like a spark of electric about to ignite and blaze to life, lighting up all the dark corners and lurking shadows Dean kept locked up tight inside.

He swallowed hard, remembering the all-too-brief moment, then told himself to shake off such thoughts, and focused instead on how goddamn itchy the lace dangling out of his shirt cuffs was. He was so caught up in fiddling with the stiff fabric that he barely noticed Cas coming around the corner, moving to join him at the foot of the stairs. He was alone; Sam had been shuffled off somewhere just after dinner, preparing for what Mistress Roberta called his "big entrance." Dean felt his eyes go wide when Cas stepped into his space, standing close, close enough to touch, close enough to --

"Dean," Cas said, gripping his arm and looking up at him with concern. Dean didn't -- couldn't -- know the expression on his face at that precise moment, but whatever it was made Cas's liquid blue eyes go the color of midnight, and brought those deep creases across his forehead. Dean had never in his life wanted anything more than to reach up and smooth those lines away, had never wanted anything more than to see Cas's face free of all the worry, all the tension of the last few years.

His arm moved then, seemingly of its own accord, lifting his hand to Cas's face. Dean ignored the jolt of shock that fired through the angel's eyes like a bolt of blue lightning, instead concentrating on running the pads of his fingers over Cas's forehead, light and fluttering like the peacock feathers arranged in a vase next to the pianoforte in the corner.

Cas didn't move, barely breathed, and Dean watched as his eyelids flickered shut and a soft sigh escaped his lips. It was too much for Dean to handle. Too much, and not nearly enough. Glancing around to make sure no prying eyes were seeking them out, Dean inched closer, pushing his fingers up into Cas's hair, running them through the silky locks, infinitely softer than Dean would ever have imagined. Cas gasped, eyes opening wide in shock then falling closed again, slow and languid as Dean continued exploring each hair, each inch of scalp, each curve and indentation with his fingers.

There was something about Cas, Dean thought, though he'd never quite been able to put his finger on it, something that drew Dean in like a helpless child. Something like gravity, like Cas was the only thing keeping Dean earthbound sometimes, though really Dean thought it was probably the other way around.

That same gravity was pulling him in now, dragging him closer and closer, hand buried in Cas's hair and eyes fixed firmly on Cas's gently parted lips. There was so little distance between them, so small a gap that closing it would be the work of a mere second, perhaps less.

And Dean wanted to close it. He wanted to, and he knew it then with a fierce certainty that jumped in his chest and tried to crawl out his throat, but he swallowed it down, afraid of what the words might sound like. Around them, the noise and laughter of the crowd gentled to a low buzz, and there was only them, only this. Dean leaned in, eyes sliding shut, and --

"May I present, the Lady Samantha of Middlewestmoreland!"

The booming voice of the valet snapped Dean's attention, drawing him back into the moment and away from Cas as quickly as he dared move. Cas watched him back away, something like disappointment in his eyes, and Dean couldn't help feeling it a little himself.

Dean, desperate for something to do with his hands, feigned a coughing fit, and then became suddenly very interested in the invisible wrinkles he found in his jacket. He devoted a full minute to tugging them straight, while Cas looked on, half amused and half put out. Above them, Sam was fidgeting on the stair landing while the crowd clapped politely, ooohing and ahhing over the sumptuous lines of his -- her -- gown.

It was, of course, the same damn gown Sam'd worn to dinner, the same gown they'd ooh'd and ahhh'd over then, too, and Dean had a moment of burning bitter hatred for the inanity of high society.

But still, he couldn't help but grin a little when he caught sight of Sam, his earlier awkwardness forgotten, or at least pushed to the back of his mind for a brief while. Sam most decidedly did not look amused, nostrils flaring and lips clamped together tight, giving the crowd a tight smile when Dean knew the whole time all he really wanted was to cut their throats and bleed them dry.

The thought made him grin harder.

The crowd watched expectantly as Sam stood there, shifting from foot to foot, face flushed with heat and the weight of everyone's gaze on him, and he swore to himself that he wouldn't just kill Loki, he'd torture him first. Scratch that. He'd sic Dean on him, then he'd kill him.

The crowd's quiet murmurs grew slowly louder, and Dean looked over his shoulder to see many a confused gaze and raised eyebrow among them. He glanced back at Cas, then up the stairs to Sam, and then to the impatient countenance of the valet. Finally, Mistress Roberta appeared at Cas's elbow, as she reached up to pinch him sharply on the underside of his arm.

Cas let out a noise halfway between a hiss and a shriek, and the crowd pressed closer, curious to see what was going on.

"She is a lady," Mistress Singer said in Cas's ear, low and deadly serious. "Go up there and escort her down. Now."

Cas nodded, scurrying up the stairs before Roberta could get off another pinch. He met Sam at the landing, reaching forward awkwardly, not sure what to do, and the two shuffled around, trying to figure out who should take whose arm. Finally, Sam slid his arm through Cas's, and the crowd gave an approving round of applause. The band struck up at just that moment, and there was more clapping as the onlookers began to disperse, coyly searching for dance partners.

"What now?" Cas asked, leaning toward Sam and speaking out the side of his mouth. Sam shook his head, the same constipated expression on his face.

"I have no idea."

"Should we dance?"

That won Cas a look. "You want to dance? With me?"

"Of course I don't," the angel growled, and Sam thought there was more of Dean in him than he probably realized.

"But you just said --"

"Let's just get this charade over with as quickly as possible, alright?"

Sam nodded, watching Cas closely. He seemed... off, somehow. Flustered. The normally cool and collected angel was ruffled, and Sam wanted to know why. He tugged on Cas's arm and gave a meaningful glance down at the stairs. Cas got the idea and began to guide them down into the hall. They reached the bottom of the stairs, where Dean was waiting with an unreadable look on his face. Cas tried to meet his eyes, but Dean glanced away, then walked stiffly to the refreshment table while Cas led Sam onto the floor.

“This is odd,” Cas commented, tugging Sam into the crowd and twirling him around. At Sam’s questioning look, he smiled. “You are shorter than I am.”

Sam laughed at that, because yeah, he’d noticed that he had to crane his neck to look up at Cas as they danced. He hadn’t had to do that since he hit that monster growth spurt at fifteen. It was disorienting, but he liked it in the same way he liked the novelty of blue cotton candy instead of pink. His laughter was high and –dare he say it—tinkling. The dancing couples passing by shot them approving looks that made Sam flush.

“You’re blushing,” Cas said, bringing their joined hands up to lightly brush against the pink skin of Sam’s cheek. It was an intimate gesture that would have made Mistress Singer gasp, had she seen it. “I’ve never seen you do that before.”

Sam’s blush deepened and he ducked his head. He was absolutely not attracted to Cas, but his newly acquired estrogen seemed to enjoy the flattery well enough. The ballroom was crowded with people looking for a reason to condemn Dean to societal exile, and for some reason, Sam cared. He understood, logically, that the world they found themselves in was fictional and that it did not matter in the least if Society ostracized his brother or not, but yeah, he cared.

Cas’s hand tightened around Sam’s waist as they rounded the corner of the dance floor, his lead sure and strong. Truth be told, he had enjoyed dancing as an angel—even more so as a human. He felt like he was flying and he couldn’t control the laugh that bubbled up. It ripped out of him, sounding rusty and discordant.

That laugh, as Cas and Sam danced past, was what made Dean abandon all sense of decorum and rationality. He had never heard the angel laugh out loud before – never – but there it was, loud and endearing, all because of Sam. The twist in his gut was low and unfamiliar. It pissed him off and he rebelled against it.

But then, before his brain got the memo to chill the hell out, he found himself on the dance floor, his hand yanking Sam away from Cas. The music kept up its soft waltzing tune, but the closest dancers stuttered to a stop, openly watching the scene before them.

“That’s enough,” Dean growled as he pushed Sam behind him and glared at Cas and his stupid confused face. “Enough. You don’t get to do this.”

“Dean,” Cas said in a pointed voice, shifting his eyes to draw Dean’s attention to their audience. He had no idea what Dean was angry about, but he knew that the middle of a crowded, very interested dance floor was not the best place to find out. “Perhaps we should seek privacy.”

“You aren’t marrying Sam,” Dean said, reaching behind him to shove Sam farther away. Behind him, Sam made whispered pleas for his brother to shut up. “You just can’t.”

A delighted giggle pierced the air, but was quickly muffled behind a hand. Scandal was afoot!

“Dean,” Cas said again and took a step forward, putting him within arm’s reach of the angry man. Tension snapped and snarled between them, almost tangible with its force. “We will talk about this later. Not here.”

“Come on, man,” Sam whispered, firmly positioning himself between the angel and his brother. The silk of his emerald green skirts slid over the ankles of both men. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is part of the plot. I have to dance with Cas.”

Cas looked down at the silk swirling against his hose-encased legs. The fabric was softer than any other he had felt and it tickled. The corners of his mouth twitched up as he raised his head to look back at the Winchester brothers. He wondered if Dean knew how good silk felt. He didn’t get a chance to ask because the man in question had turned on his well-shod heel and stalked up the stairs and quickly out of the ballroom.

Sam turned along with the rest of the crowd to watch Dean go. He pinched his features together as he replayed the events leading up to his brother’s explosion. He’d had a good laugh at Sam’s cleavage quivering behind the square-necked evening gown. He’d eaten damn near a whole pig at dinner. He’d paced impatiently at the bottom of the stairs until Sam and Cas had made their appearance. His face had been impassive, if not a touch amused… until the dance. Sam idly pulled at the fat curl his maid had left dangling in front of his right ear. Cas had done splendidly, holding Sam close enough to lead him around the floor, but not so close as to start tongues wagging. It had been fun, actually, and they had laughed together.

Oh. Sam’s features rubber banded back into shape. Cas had laughed with Sam. Oh.

**

Two flights above the whispering of the throng in the ballroom, Dean stormed into his bedroom, ripping at his uncomfortable shirt. Pinkerton flashed to existence at his elbow, like a goddamn angel, begging his employer to treat the delicate fabrics with care.

“Look at my face, Pinky,” he said, standing still and glowering down at his valet, “and tell me if this is the right time to lecture me about my wardrobe.”

“Right you are, my lord,” Pinkerton stuttered and bowed his way out of the room.

Dean struggled out of his confining clothes, using the full force of his strength to throw them around the room. He grunted in dissatisfaction when there was no crash or destruction of property. The need to break something was immense. He picked up the small silver boot brush on his dresser and lobbed it at ugly framed landscape painting over his bed. The canvas easily gave way, ripping across the valley of yellow sunflowers.

He turned back and picked up a shoehorn and gave it the same treatment. His boots followed suit, smudging the wallpaper and delivering a boom that sent a wave of relief crashing down his body.

The door to his room opened and Dean, still in his fine fit of rage, snatched the cigar cutter from the dresser and hurled it without looking. “Get out!”

“And you call me a girl?” Sam snorted and patently ignored his brother’s directive. “I can’t believe you are throwing a freakin’ tempter tantrum because I danced with your man.”

“Don’t, Sam,” Dean warned and after a lifetime of goading his older brother, Sam listened and fell silent. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched Dean pace the room in his skin-tight breeches and nothing else. “First, Cas is not my man. And B, that’s not the point.”

“Okay,” Sam said, reaching up to pull out the first of hundreds of pins in his hair. There was no way he was going back down to the ball, plot be damned. “So what’s the point?”

“The point?” Dean stopped mid-pace and turned glittering and angry eyes on Sam. “There is no point!”

“Okay,” Sam said again, adding another pin to the steadily growing pile in his lap. “So there’s no point to this little display. Is that what you’re telling me?”

Dean leveled a glare at his absurdly dressed little brother. Who the hell thought Sam was a girl? He had an Adams apple for the love of God.

“Dean,” Sam said in his new, soft voice. “It’s okay. I don’t want Cas.”

“And you think I do?”

When Sam didn’t answer immediately, Dean’s face flushed. He turned to the crystal decanter that Pinkerton had laid out for him—Pinky was a good man, Dean decided—and poured himself a tall glass. He drained the whiskey in three large gulps and poured another round.

“He’s your best friend,” Sam said into the silence, as if that explained everything.

“You are my best friend,” Dean countered.

“I don’t count, jerk,” Sam sighed. “The two of you are joined at the damn hip. And I haven’t heard a story from you in years that hasn’t started with ‘Cas says’ or ‘Cas thinks’.”

“Whatever,” Dean mumbled, rolling his glass in his palms. He was in no mood to be introspective. “We’ve got to get out of here. Cas has got to marry you.”

“You just disrupted a freakin’ ball to tell Cas not to marry me,” Sam reminded him. “I can hardly keep up with your mood swings, man.”

There was a soft knock at the door. Both brothers eyed it warily, neither in the mood to play the roles Loki had forced upon them.

“It’s me,” Cas’s gravelly voice bled through the door. Dean steadfastly held his position in the middle of the room. “Dean, let me in.”

“Not now,” Dean said. He shot Sam a quelling look when he huffed and rolled his eyes.

“Dean,” Cas sighed and laid his head against the door. There was something about the way Dean’s eyes had flickered when he’d said you just can’t downstairs. It was jealousy, yes, that much had been apparent, but there was more there. “Please talk to me.”

Dean made no move.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Sam said, unconsciously whispering. He didn’t want to bear witness to whatever weird DeanandCas moment was about to happen. “Open the door and talk to him.”

“You’re going to make me do this with a door between us,” Cas said and it wasn’t a question. He propped his forearm on the doorframe and chuckled. “You are the most dramatic human I’ve ever seen. Fine, I’ll do this, but you better listen to me.”

Sam stared at the wrinkles in his dress. He missed jeans and flannel.

“I would give anything,” Cas said, his voice echoing in the empty hallway. “I would do anything. For you. I would not—could not—hurt you. This thing with Sam—”

Sam’s head jerked up and he found Dean’s eyes shooting poison-tipped darts at him.

“You know there is nothing,” Cas said. “Sam is my friend. I would as soon marry him as I would Bobby.”

The corners of Dean’s mouth turned up slightly as he pictured Bobby in a wedding dress and blushing beneath a veil.

“I wish Loki would have chosen you,” Cas said, his voice barely a whisper through the thick door. “It would have been easier that way. I would marry you, Dean, without question.”

Dean’s shoulders tensed and the tips of his ears reddened. He looked at Sam, panic flooding his veins and drowning him.

“If you don’t open that damn door,” Sam hissed, retreating to the far end of the room, trying to blend with the thick curtains. While he was perfectly fine with his brother tapping the ass of an angel, he didn’t need to have a starring role in the hook up. “I swear to God, I’ll murder you.”

Dean found his legs moving beneath him. His hand, without his permission, flung the door wide. He was distracted from Cas’s slumped and drawn form by the passing of a Big Mack Truck on the highway. It took the length of a full blink for Dean to realize they’d been transported back to the Love and Leave Inn, and more importantly, back to the present.

He tore his eyes away from the scenery and looked at Cas, who was back in his suit and trench coat. He had never been so glad to see the frumpy uniform. He grinned, but when Cas straightened in the doorway and turned his intense gaze to Dean’s face, the grin morphed into an open-mouthed shape of shock. Oh shit.

Cas opened his mouth to speak, but Sam beat him to the punch. “My dick is back!”

**

It took less than two minutes for Dean to find the keys to the Impala and hightail it to the only bar in town. He ordered Tequila, forsaking his preferred whiskey as it reminded him too much of silk skirts and lace. After his third shot, he asked the bartender to leave the bottle. He had one goal: Get as shitfaced as possible, as quick as possible.

His brain played Cas’s last words on a loop. I would marry you, Dean. He took another shot, not even tasting it as it flowed over his tongue. So, okay, maybe that made his chest constrict in ways he didn’t want to admit. He’d almost kissed Cas in a crowded ballroom. Part of him—a large part—was pissed that he hadn’t given in to the impulse.

“You are so dense,” a man said as he took the stool next to Dean and reached for the bottle of Tequila. “I put you in a freaking romance novel and you still don’t get it.”

Dean didn’t turn his head to look at Loki. He couldn’t kill him and he had no urge to engage him.

“Gabriel warned me you would fight it,” Loki chuckled to himself and took a swig directly from the bottle. “Pride is a bitch, Dean.”

“Yeah? Well, so are you,” Dean said and then winced. It was not one of his better comebacks. “What, exactly, do you want from me?”

He finally turned his head, but Loki was gone. Son of a bitch. He took another shot and returned to his brooding. Fine, yes, he wanted to kiss Cas. He would do it. Eventually. He just… needed some liquid courage.

The familiar flutter-flap of wings didn’t make Dean jump. He expected it, really.

“Hey Cas.”

“Dean.”

Dean poured a shot of Tequila in his glass and slid it to the angel, who drank it down in a flash and chased it with a dose of silence. The glass appeared back in front of Dean, the demand for more evident.

“Are we going to talk about it?” Cas asked as Dean tripped more Tequila in the glass.

“You’ve been talking to Sam again, haven’t you?”

Cas’s lips quirked. “Guilty,” he said and drank again. “But are we? Talking about it?”

“No.”

“All right then,” Cas drummed his fingers against the bar. “Pour me another.”

The noise in the bar rose as a large group entered and claimed a high top in the center of the room. The bartender hurried to take their orders, leaving Cas and Dean with the muted television as their only company. They both tilted their heads back, watching a game of soccer.
Cas sipped at his drink and Dean shelled a peanut. They were close enough that their elbows knocked together frequently. The first touch made them jump, but as the minutes ticked by, they settled into the intimacy.

“Offside,” Cas said with a nod at the screen. “Brazil was offsides. Indirect free kick to South Africa.”

“You know about soccer?” Dean asked incredulously. At Cas’s nod, he made an impressed sound. “Well, aren’t you just full of surprises?”

Cas shrugged and pushed the rest of the Tequila away. Dean followed suit, placing the half-empty bottle back on the bartender’s ledge. He’d pay for the bottle, but he’d lost his appetite for it.

“What else are you keeping from me?” Dean asked, turning on his stool to face Cas’s profile, his knee brushing along the side of the other man’s thigh. “What are the deep, dark secrets of Mr. Castiel ‘You-Should-Show-Me-Some-Respect’ Angel of the Lord?”

“I do not have deep, dark secrets,” Cas said with a small smile. “You just haven’t asked. I will tell you anything.”

“Hmm,” Dean grinned. “Favorite color?”

“White.”

“White?”

“Yes,” Cas nodded. “It reminds me of home.”

“Favorite TV show?”

“Um, Destination Truth,” Cas said and then chuckled embarrassedly at his admission. “Josh makes me laugh.”

“I love Destination Truth!”

“I also like Jeopardy and The Brady Bunch.”

Dean laughed, his body shaking from it. His knee bumped into Cas’s thigh again.

“May I ask a question?” Cas said softly as Dean’s laugh puttered into a chuckle. At Dean’s nod, he asked: “Why do you like Doctor Sexy, M.D.?”

“I don’t,” Dean answered reflexively, but then sighed. He couldn’t let Cas strike out into the terrifying terrain of honesty alone. “I like to watch it to forget about our effed up reality. An hour a week I can pretend the worst thing happening in the world is Dr. Wang flubbing her licensing exam.”

“As if Dr. Wang would flub that,” Cas teased.

“Favorite song?” Dean fired.

“I have not heard many songs,” Cas said, pursing his lips. “But I liked that song about the rain. The one Sam sings in the shower.”

“Oh,” Dean blinked and nodded as if surprised. “It’s called ‘I Love a Rainy Night’ by Eddie Rabbit. Not one of my favorites, but it’s been Sam’s happy shower time song since he was a kid. He says you can’t be unhappy when you’re singing that one.”

“I agree,” Cas beamed and then started singing. “I love to feel the rain on my face, to taste the rain on my lips in the moonlight shadows puts a song in this heart of mine. Puts a smile on my face every time.”

Dean swallowed a walnut-size lump and licked his lips. He had no idea the angel could sing. And man, could he sing.

“Well I love a rainy night,” they sang together. “Oooh-ooh!”

“You sing much better than Sam,” Cas said with a smile. “What is your favorite kind of pie?”

“Cherry,” Dean said instantly, but then shook his head. “Apple. No, lemon,” he grinned at Cas. “Damn, I don’t know. It depends on my mood, but seriously, there is no such thing as bad pie, so all of it is my favorite.”

“Okay,” Cas nodded and waited for Dean’s next question. It was like playing a rapid-fire version of Jeopardy only they weren’t phrasing their answers in the form of a question. He couldn’t remember ever having as much fun. “Your turn.”

“Are your wings really black?” Dean asked, because he’d only gotten a glimpse of them that first night in the barn. They’d been expansive, black and frightening.

“No,” Cas smiled. “They are ivory. What you saw was my projection. I wanted to, uh, impress you.”

“I almost crapped my pants,” Dean admitted with a bark of laughter. “Wait, so are they as, uh, big as they looked?”

“Oh yes,” Cas’s smile widened into something approaching pride. “My wingspan is quite large.”

Heat filled Dean’s cheeks with a blush strong enough to make his freckles disappear. He stuttered out an outrageous sound of incredulity and scooted back on his stool, breaking the connection between his knee and Cas’s thigh.

“Come on,” he said, pitching his voice into his gruffest, most manly register. “Let’s head back to the motel. I’m sure Lady Samantha is—damn.”

“What?” Cas asked as he slid off his own stool.

“That joke isn’t even funny anymore,” Dean complained with a beleaguered sigh. “Stupid Loki, ruining twenty solid years of name calling.”

It was with great laughter that the pair climbed into the Impala. Dean drove the few miles to their motel at a speed most snails would consider slow. He wasn’t ready for the easy conversation—and enlightening Q&A session—to end. He was learning more about Cas in a single night than he had in the past three years.

He learned that moles were Cas’s favorite animal—because of their hilarious noses. And that he’d once followed a rainbow and found that, yes, there was a pot of gold at the end. He found out that Cas’s favorite smell was leather and gun oil (which made Dean succumb to another humiliating fit of blushing). He learned that Cas’s favorite city in the entire world was Savannah, Georgia, because he liked the accents, the porch fans, and the magnolias.

The car rolled into a parking space in front of their room door. Dean cut the engine and palmed the keys, listening to the car settle into stillness. He twisted at the waist to look at his date.

Whoa, he thought, freaking himself out. But then he kept looking at Cas, who was smiling at him beatifically, his elbow propped up on the back of the bench seat, his face resting against his palm. He realized and was able to admit, at least to himself, that yeah, he was on a date. He took another moment to consider his feelings—ignoring the full-blown chick flickness of that damn thought. He was… happy. Or something close to it. He wanted to continue to talk to Cas about his favorite things and memories. He wanted to always have his knee brushing Cas’s leg. He didn’t want Cas to leave, ever-ish.

Well, son of a bitch. Dean shook his head, feeling a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. He was pretty impressed with the speed at which his brain was catching up with his subconscious. He wanted Cas. He wanted Cas, and not in the tear-off-your-clothes-and-wake-up-the-neighbors way, either – well, okay, not in that way exclusively – but more in the take-turns-cooking-dinner-and-argue-over-the-remote-before-we-pass-out-on-the-couch kinda way. Dean was suddenly pretty damn sure he could handle that.

“Yeah,” Dean said, a propos of nothing. “Yeah, okay.”

He reached out and wrapped his fingers around Cas’s wrist, tugging gently. Cas lifted his head, eyes impossibly wide and velvet blue in the dark interior of the car, and allowed Dean to pull him across the bench seat. He licked his lips in an unconsciously human behavior he’d picked up from Dean, and Dean’s eyes traced the path of the angel’s tongue, heat flaring in his belly.

“Yeah,” Cas whispered, repeating Dean’s words as he tipped his face up, giving Dean a soft smile, full of promise. “Yeah, okay.”

They leaned forward and met in the middle, lips barely touching, and Dean couldn’t have said which one of them closed the gap first. It was a first date kind of kiss, curious and tentative, the kind that’s over almost before it starts, but so good it leaves you aching for more. They pulled back as one, staring at each other in wonder. Cas’s blue eyes fell to the other man’s lips, astonished and captivated as Dean’s tongue swept between them. With a soft sound made in parts of sighs and quiet, barely stifled groans, they came together again, kissing the kiss of second dates. Open mouths and touching tongues, a whimper traded back and forth.

When they pulled back for the second time, the windows of the Impala were foggy and opaque around them. Dean huffed a shaky laugh and pressed his forehead to Cas’s.

“Finally,” Cas said, his voice higher than normal, a bare hint of a tremble underneath the grit and gravel.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Are we… good?” Cas asked, trying out the question the Winchester brothers frequently used with each other.

“We’re more than good, Cas,” Dean said, pressing a quick kiss to the angel’s swollen lips, reveling in the knowledge that he could now do so whenever he wanted. “Remind me to send Loki a fruit basket.”

The End

Eat, Drink, Laugh

evil_knitter — Thu, 03 Feb 2011 03:57:21 GMT

Title: Eat, Drink, Laugh
Gift Fic for: alwaysawkward in the deancas_xmas 2010 gift exchange
Rating: PG Pairings: pre-slash Dean/Cas
Spoilers: Season 6, all aired episodes
Wordcount: 2355
Summary: Dean is tired of Cas being… Cas-like. He wants to teach the poor guy how to do stuff—like eat a darn hamburger.
Author notes: I had a hard time with this prompt because of the gen-ness of it. This is my first pre-slash story. I hope I didn’t mutilate your prompt too much!

There was something about Castiel that bothered Dean Winchester. He’d known the angel for years, and honestly, there’d always been something about the guy—angel—whatever—that bothered him. It wasn’t one thing Dean could point to and go “hey, I don’t like that”. It was more a feeling and a general not-rightness that weighed heavily around his neck, like a damn albatross.

What it was… was the way that Castiel, you know… was.

He hadn’t mastered human facial expressions. He couldn’t turn an idiomatic phrase to save his preternatural ass. He didn’t understand why Ghostbusters is the best movie ever made. He wouldn’t stop flitting from place to place with a thought even though they had a perfectly awesome car and kick ass music that was guaranteed to make any journey a hell of a lot more entertaining than poofing away.

And sometimes, he just sat and watched. It was more than sometimes. The guy liked to just sit and stare at nothing for hours. It would’ve been all right if he zoned out in front of a Lifetime movie marathon or whatever the jerk would watch if he bothered developing any opinion on TV programming.

He ignored waitresses of all persuasions—even when they were smokin’ hot and easier than popping a tick. He always ate like it’s a chore. And that right there? Yeah, Dean thinks, that was the big one, or at least one of the big ones. Watching the dude eat a burger a few nights prior had made him (okay, had almost made him) lose his appetite. It had been all delicate bites and wiped fingers without even one moan of delight.

The digital clock by the bed was partially broken. Its red numbers were only half visible, so it was either seven o’clock or three o’clock. The sun was already down, so Dean assumed it’s seven. Which would explain why his stomach growled like a bitch. Sam had gone on a reconnaissance mission, and really, the more time RoboSam kept out of Dean’s hair, the better.

“Okay, Cas,” Dean said, breaking the interminable silence they’d endured for well on three hours. “Dinner time. And if you say you’re not hungry, I’m going to rearrange your face.”

“I like my face the way it is,” Cas said, touching his fingers to his cheekbone. His face remained impassive, although his eyebrows did that funny little come together thing that always meant the guy was puzzled. “You don’t have the power to rearrange it, Dean. You… oh. Oh, you meant you will punch me, thereby causing my features to shift as my occipital bones break. Is that correct?”

Dean laughed because there was just something about hearing Cas finally get something that made him happy. All of his hard work was paying off. He’d spent hours trying to catch Cas up on life. It wasn’t like he wasn’t smart. The guy was an encyclopedia of knowledge and could speak every language ever created—including Elvish and Klingon, which was wrong on a few levels. So the fact that Cas couldn’t get things like the epic awesomeness of worn out jeans and tits was unfathomable.

Unless.

Unless Cas was just fuckin’ with him. Which would be… something.

“Come on,” Dean said, tossing his friend a thick coat. “I’m starving. And tonight I’m teaching you how to eat like a human.”

“I prefer my own coat,” Cas said as he dodged the coat Dean sent sailing through the air. “And I know how to eat like a human.”

“It’s damn near freezing, Cas,” Dean said with a roll of his eyes. See, that’s what he meant. Cas didn’t understand that his grubby tan trench coat was not only ugly, but also wildly inappropriate in the middle of a Minnesotan winter. “You’ll look like an idiot if you go out in what you’ve got on. In fact, hold up. You’re not going out with me wearing dress shoes.”

Cas rolled his eyes up to the left and then back down the same way, not quite recreating Dean’s own roll. It seemed to fit Cas’s not-quite-right and not-quite-wrong state of being.

“Here, put these on,” Dean said as he tossed a pair of jeans and long sleeve Henley at his clueless friend. “I think my spare boots will fit you good enough for dinner.”

With a great heaving sigh, Cas put the clothes on—with nothing more than a blink of his eyes. Dean looked beyond the obvious freakiness that the angel just mojo-changed in front of him, and was relieved that the clothes weren’t too baggy on the angel. Hell, he even looked… kind of good. Whatever.

“Come on,” Dean snapped, too angry at nothing to notice that Cas still had on his dress shoes.

**

They drove to Paul’s Pail at the far end of town, bypassing several TGIFriday’s and Biggerson’s along the way. It was a well-known fact amongst burger aficionados that truly great moments in burger history always went down at places like Paul’s Pail. It’s establishments like Paul’s that have been cited a dozen times or more by the Health Department, but refuse to change their ways. Patrons looking for burger nirvana were rarely put off by pesky State investigations into tainted seafood or Hepatitis C. Don’t have the surf and turf—always sound logic when more than one menu item was misspelled… Chinese restaurants notwithstanding—and you’re golden.

Dean pressed his elbows to the table top, always mindful not to touch the surface with his bare skin, at least not until he had enough whiskey in his bloodstream to kill the inevitable parade of germs. He grinned at Cas, already anticipating the greasy masterpiece awaiting them.

“What’ll you have?” the haggard-looking waitress asked without ever lifting her eyes from her order pad. Ah well, not all waitresses are hot, or as in this case, doable.

“Bacon cheeseburger fries and the coldest beer you’ve got on tap,” Dean said, shooting the woman a broad smile because, hey, Dean Winchester never discriminated. “Two of each, sweetheart.”

After she sidled away—with a discernible limp, Dean noted—Cas touched the table with two of his fingers. Before Dean could yelp out a warning about the danger of bacteria and Funk with a capital F, the table changed before his eyes. What was with Cas putting his mojoing skills on display?

Gone were the thick layers of grim and aged nicotine. Vanished were the deep scratches and cracks on the surface. Left behind was a smooth and shiny table that stood out as the exception in the room filled with thirty-year-old tables.

“Dude!” Dean hissed, keeping his voice low. “What’d you do that for?”

“I did not want you to become ill,” Cas said, unfurling his paper napkin and smoothing it over his lap. “There were many lower levels of life inhabiting this table. I smote them.”

“You… smote them?” Dean asked with an eyebrow flourish. “Jesus, Cas. You can’t do that! The dirt, man, it’s part of the experience.”

“I did not smite the dirt,” Cas assured him. “I merely sent it away. But the flesh-eating virus, the streptococcus and the sperm… those I smote. I suppose I shouldn’t have smote the sperm, but it was at the end of its life cycle since it was not likely to find an egg on this table.”

Dean glanced at the gleaming table. He had to admit, he was pretty okay with Cas eradicating the flesh-eating virus, but most especially the sperm. He was one hundred percent in favor of sex on tables, but come on people, do the world a solid and sanitize!

“Hang on,” Dean said, pointedly touching the table with his hands. “You can see the germs?”

“Yes,” Cas nodded and his lips curled like he was almost smiling. “I see them as clearly as I see you.”

“Are they as hot as me?” Dean teased with a wink and a smile.

“No,” Cas said adamantly. “Their core temperature is significantly lower than yours.”

“My—” Dean barked out a surprised laugh. “I meant—”

“I understood you,” Cas said. He turned his attention to the waitress who paused in placing the beers and ketchup on the table. “I was making a joke.”

“Did you boys do something to this table?” the waitress—Lola according to her nametag—asked. She ran her finger along the edge, trying to remember if it had always looked that pristine.

“Just wiped it down with lemon juice,” Dean said with a pointed look at the angel. He was gratified that Cas took the hint and mojoed a lemon-shaped bottle of lemon juice and a rag into existence. Seriously, Cas was just like that Staples’ Easy Button; he loved it. “My friend’s a little germphobic. Makes him feel better.”

“It does,” Cas agreed.

“Well,” Lola volleyed her glance between the two men, but really, what harm was a little elbow grease from customers? “All right then. Your order’ll be up in a sec.”

“You made a joke?” Dean asked as soon as Lola drifted away. “Since when do you make jokes?”

Cas shrugged with only his left shoulder and picked up his draft beer. He took a healthy draw and made a satisfied sound. “That’s good.”

“You like beer now?” Dean asked after taking his own sip. There was something about the way Cas looked at him—like he’d finally popped the lock on a tricky pair of handcuffs—that made him clear his throat and look away. Something had changed; a switch had been flipped.

“Yes,” was the answer that came several seconds after a normal human would’ve replied. And that right there was another thing about Cas that made Dean… something. The brevity of his answers with no extra information was par for the course, but that night, Cas broke tradition. “You think I am without emotion or intelligence.”

“I never said that,” Dean objected at once, latching onto the word he could process and deal with without too much fanfare. “I know you’re smart.”

“Yes, I am,” Cas said. “And I have emotions, too, but I see no reason to display them before everyone I meet.”

“Huh,” Dean said. Lola was back, unloading her tray with their food without comment, although her eyes stared at the table without blinking.

“This looks delicious,” Cas said and picked up his burger. Dean watched him take the first bite. Two chews in, Cas closed his eyes and hummed in the back of his throat. “Fantastic.”

“You enjoy food?” Dean asked, letting his exasperation show.

“Of course.”

“Of course, he says,” Dean grumbled. The angel had been playing him this whole time. He didn’t need Dean’s direction on anything. “So why don’t you ever show any emotions?”

“Feelings can render me incapacitated,” Cas explained, licking mustard from his fingers. “I do not want my enemies to know I care for humanity, or take joy in life on Earth. Should they ever discover that fact, they would use that knowledge to manipulate me. You are the only one I share my emotions with.”

“Generally anger,” Dean pointed out with a grin.

“You tend to bring that out in me,” Cas laughed, and it sounded like he should always laugh.

“But when we’re with Sam and Bobby,” Dean shook his head, trying to understand. “They are not enemies.”

“Bobby was possessed once,” Cas said, his eyebrows pulling low. “And Sam has no soul. They would betray me if they were compromised.”

Dean toyed with his glass as he considered what the angel was saying. There was, of course, a flaw in Cas’s logic. Dean had been to Hell; he’d tortured souls. And yet, there sat Cas, letting his emotions flap in the wind.

“I could turn on you.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” Cas said and leaned forward until his chest hit the ledge of the table. “You are different.”

“Whatever,” Dean shifted and picked up his drink; he still hadn’t touched his burger. That was enough sharing—and thinking—for one night. “So, Funny Man, tell me a joke.”

“I just heard one from Joshua,” Cas said, his eyes dancing. “A man walked into a bar.”

Dean nodded in approval. He loved a good A Man Walked Into A Bar joke.

“He said…” Cas continued with a huge grin. “Ouch!”

“Awww man,” Dean laughed but shook his head. Figures Joshua would like that sort of lame-o joke. “That sucked.”

“Fine, your turn.”

“Okay, okay, I’ve got one,” Dean wiped his fingers on his jeans and leaned forward, matching Cas’s position. “Why did the monkey fall from the tree?”

Cas shrugged and shook his head, inviting the punchline.

“Because he was dead.”

“That’s horrible!” Cas said but chuckled.

“Why did the second monkey fall from the tree?” Dean asked in follow up, his smile growing larger with each second.

“He was dead as well?” Cas guessed.

“No,” Dean shook his head and leaned a little closer. “Because he was stapled to the first monkey!”

Cas blinked three times in quick succession. His mouth slowly opened and Dean thought he might be on the verge of being bitched out for animal cruelty when finally-- finally-- Cas started to laugh. He slapped the table with the palms of his hands and pushed himself away. His head fell back and let his laugh rolled from his belly and out of his mouth, loud and unaffected in a way Dean had never heard before.

So he hadn’t gotten the opportunity to teach Cas anything. It was okay, because that laugh right there? There was something about it that made Dean… something. Something good.

THE END

Sala-gadoola-menchicka-boo-la, or, Three Nuts for Cinderella (gift for Princess Aleera)

evil_knitter — Sat, 22 Jan 2011 20:00:27 GMT

Title – Sala-gadoola-menchicka-boo-la, or, Three Nuts for Cinderella
Author—evil_knitter
Gift Recipient—Princess Aleera
Rating – PG
Pairings/ Characters– Castiel/Sam, Dean/Jo (barely hinted at), Gabriel/Kali (implied), Ellen, Chuck, Zachariah
Spoiler – AU, so nothing really specific as long as you know about the angels and Chuck.
Summary- Based on this prompt: “The classical fairytale of Cinderella, but with a twist; think good stepbrothers, double-dates, and a glittery Godmother of your own choice.”
Word Count – 6,338
Disclaimer – Nothing is mine.
Notes – I tried to get some singing into this thing, but the boys refused to sing overly much. I hope this is anywhere close to what you were looking for.

**

Once upon a time, there lived a handsome little boy with cinder dark hair and indigo eyes by the name of Castiel. He was beloved by all who knew him, but most especially cherished by his father. He was an unaffected child, jubilant and carefree. His voice was always raised in song, bringing smiles to those who happened to hear him.

But then tragedy befell the boy. His father disappeared while at work and after a month’s frantic search, was proclaimed dead. Castiel was left in his stepmother’s care. His songs stopped and his bright eyes dimmed along with his smile. Despite his stepbrothers’ best efforts, melancholy gripped the boy tightly in its grasp. For years, Castiel threw himself into his work, refusing to stop to play with Dean or Gabriel when they invited him. He scrubbed the floors, hand washed the draperies, prepared lavish meals, tended the animals in the barn behind the house.

“I want to do it,” Castiel said when Gabriel tried to wrestle the mop away from him on a particularly sunny day. “Go find Dean. He will go swimming with you.”

“It helps me think,” he said when Dean tried to shoulder him away from their fat bellied cook stove. “Go find Gabe. He will go to town with you.”

“I don’t mind,” he said when his stepmother Ellen tried to snatch her dirty stockings out of his hands. “I am sure Dean or Gabe will sit with you for luncheon.”

The Harvelle family loved Castiel, so they gave in to his peculiar desire to clean his life away. They dismissed the majority of their staff when it became apparent that Castiel would growl and snap at anyone daring to rob him of chores.

“It’s not that I enjoy it,” Castiel said one day, mainly talking to himself, but the mice he was feeding table scraps stared at him with rapt attention. “The cleaning and cooking. But I do not want to marry one of the ridiculously coiffed girls in town. I like it here. It is my father’s home and I want it well maintained. Is that so bad?”

The chubbiest mouse, who Castiel secretly called Gustav—Gus for short, twitched his pink nose. Castiel thought that was indicative of the mouse’s support, for which he was glad.

“Tumble outta bed and I stumble to the kitchen,” Castiel sang lowly to himself, as was customary when he started a new project. “Pour myself a cup of ambition, and yawn and stretch and come to life.”

“You’re killing me, Cas,” Dean groaned as his stepbrother meandered past bearing a ladder over his shoulder. “Can’t you just give it a rest?”

“Jump in the shower and the blood starts pumpin’,” Castiel sang and winked. “Out on the street the traffic starts jumpin’. The folks like me working nine to five.”

“If I break both of your legs,” Gabriel joined in, tugging at the ladder to make it heavier. “You’ll have to sit still, won’t you?”

Castiel loved his stepbrothers, but they were a pain in his keester. He wanted to work; he needed the distraction. His father’s death was still fresh in his mind, even though five years had since past.

“The apples won’t pick themselves,” Castiel pointed out and tugged back on his ladder. Dean had made off with his wooden barrel, but it was easier to find another mode of apple transport than to get the ladder out of a tree—or from the roof—or from wherever Gabriel would hide it. “Don’t you have a call to make on Kali this afternoon? I was sure I told you her footman came around with an invitation to tea yesterday.”

“Yeah, but you’re my brother,” Gabriel said, not releasing his hold on the ladder. “I don’t want a servant, Cas, I want a brother. Get a servant pick the damn apples.”

“You have Dean,” Cas said with a sigh. “And we don’t have any servants.”

“Because you fired them,” Dean called from his perch beside the lake. Castiel could see his apple barrel bobbing in the middle. It wouldn’t sink and he was sure he could swim out later to retrieve it. “Come on, Cas. You’re twenty. It’s time you stop dicking around. You need to get laid.”

Castiel kept his lips shut tight over his mouth. He knew what he was, but he felt no need to tell his brothers. He had made the mistake of telling his father, and it had killed him. He had confessed to his father just before the man went to his office in the palace. Castiel had not seen his father since. He was certain that the man had simply abandoned his family in lieu of shouldering the embarrassment of a son who longed for a husband instead of a wife.

He trained his eyes on a spot over Dean’s shoulder, across their property, where a white horse and carriage lumbered down the dirt lane. It was obviously an envoy from the palace, where King John and his lovely queen Mary resided. The five-pointed star encircled by flames rode proudly on the red flag carried by the lead rider.

“A palace rider,” Gabriel exclaimed, letting go of the ladder at once. “I wonder what they want. Did you pay the taxes, Cas?”

Castiel put the ladder down, curious despite himself. It had been many years since any representative from the palace had made the arduous trek to Harvelle Manor. Castiel’s father had been of importance, as the king’s chief advisor, but his disappearance had quelled the royal family’s interest in the Harvelle family.

He was technically the man of the house, as the oldest son and his father’s only blood relative. As he followed Gabriel and Dean to the house, he tried to smooth down the front of his coarse work shirt and brush the dust from his britches. Even if there had been time to change to receive the palace visitors, he was not in possession of anything finer than linen shirts and leather pantaloons. He was not one to entertain; his clothes were sturdy and made for hard work.

The trio reached the front stoop as the carriage drew to a stop. A footman dressed in a smart red uniform and top hat folded down the stairs to let out its passenger. A stately older man with very few gray hairs left on his head descended the velvet-padded stairs and approached the boys with his head held high.

“Welcome to Harvelle Manor,” Castiel said with a bow of his head.

“I am Lord Zachariah,” the man said, looking down his nose at Castiel. “I am looking for Castiel Harvelle, or failing that, Ellen Harvelle.”

“I am Castiel Harvelle,” Castiel said and blushed over the state of his clothing. He was fairly sure that he had chicken feed in his hair.

“Indeed,” Lord Zachariah sniffed and adjusted his lacy cuffs. “In that case, King John and Queen Mary wish me to extend an invitation to your family. The Princess JoAnna is of marriageable age and is to be presented at Court this evening at a lavish ball. The presence of every eligible man in the kingdom is requested at the presentation.”

“My lord,” Castiel began, seeking for an escape from an evening of marriage-making. “I am afraid—”

“We’ll be there,” Dean said abruptly, stepping in front of his startled older brother. “Ready to be presented, and mostly presentable.”

Gabriel snickered into his hand.

Lord Zachariah nodded tersely, turned on his booted heel and made quick work of returning to the carriage. Two quick raps on the carriage roof, and he was off in a cloud of dust and hoof clops.

“Whyever did you do that?” Castiel demanded, shoving Dean out of his way. “I do not have time to prance around at a ball, lavish or otherwise. I will write the king a note giving my apologies and you will deliver it to him.”

“I won’t,” Dean said and looked to Gabriel for support, which of course he found. It was always the two of them against Castiel and his bizarre ideas. “You are coming to the ball, even if we have to dose you with laudanum to get you there.”

“And when we are there,” Gabriel added in a growl. “You will smile at the pretty girls and like it.”

Castiel ground his teeth together. If he did not adore his brothers as entirely as he did, he would beat them soundly for their impertinence. He watched as the two dashed into the house, calling for their mother, delivering the news of excitement and trips to the palace. There were limits, Castiel decided, to the weight he could bear, but he had yet to reach it. He would attend the ball, he would dance… but he would deflect any pointed questions from anxious mommas attempting to foist their daughters upon him. It was not a sound plan, but it was the best he could do.

**

Castiel sighed at his reflection. He had borrowed a jacket from Dean, but it was ill-fitted in the shoulders. The pantaloons he’d found in an old trunk of his father’s were terribly outmoded and his boots were scuffed. No mother would be looking to marry her daughter off to him after all.

Down the hall, he could hear his brothers laughing and teasing each other as they chose their ascots and cuff links. His stepmother’s smoky voice rose above them in an attempt to call them to order and decorum. It was a lost battle before it had been waged, Castiel knew, but he smiled at Ellen’s tenacity at even trying.

He slipped down the stairs without being detected and headed to the pumpkin patch by way of the back door. There were bugs on the leaves earlier and he wanted to check if the mixture of herbs had done anything to dispel them. As he wandered the rows, reaching down to rub the leaves and vines between his fingers, he considered his life. He was destined to live in the house with his stepmother forever. His brothers would marry and carve their own paths, but he would remain behind.

Loneliness. It was an emotion he recognized and did not welcome. He shoved it aside and focused once more on the pumpkins peppering the path.

“You don’t have to be lonely, Castiel,” a voice broke the relative silence of the twilight. Castiel swung around and was shocked to see a small man with a scruffy beard standing a few yards away in the shadows of the willow tree.

“Who are you?” Castiel demanded, taking a series of steps forward to confront the trespasser. “What business do you have here?”

“My name is Chuck,” the man said, stepping out of the shadows to reveal an ice blue suit with billowing pants and fitted jacket. The fabric sparkled in the rapidly disappearing light of day. “And I am your fairy godmother.”

“But you’re a man,” Castiel said, which struck him as odd because there were other more important questions he could have started with.

“Right, yeah,” the fairy godmother Chuck said with a roll of his eyes. “I know that, but hey, that’s the job title. One day I was resting on my laurels and then next, boom, I was assigned to fairy godmother duties. I’ve filed a complaint with the Head Fairy In Charge, but politics, man. Anyway, here I am.”

“Be that as it may,” Castiel shook his head and decided his best course of action was to round up Dean and Gabriel and escort the mentally disturbed man from their property. “I am in no need of fairy godmother services. I bid you a good evening, sir.”

“Wait, wait,” Chuck rushed forward, sending a spray of glitter into the air. Tiny iridescent wings propelled him through the air, albeit gracelessly. “I have to see this through, man. If I screw up another one of these, I’m headed to tooth fairy duty for sure. Come on, there’s got to be something.”

“My apologies, but no.”

“Give me a minute,” Chuck said, rubbing his hand over his forehead. His dark eyes narrowed as he took full stock of Castiel. “Oh, is that all? You need to hook up?”

“To… what?”

“You know,” Chuck gesticulated broadly, ending with a pelvic thrust between his outstretched arms. “A lady friend. A wife.”

“I do not.”

Chuck blinked and narrowed his eyes again. Castiel shifted from foot to foot as a prickly feeling danced along his spine and over his scalp. He got the distinct impression that the feeling was coming from the man eyeballing him like a prize hog.

“Oh,” Chuck finally said with a snort and an obscene hand motion. “I’ve got it now. You want a man.”

Castiel gasped and hurried to clap a hand over the fairy godmother’s mouth.

“It’s not a problem,” Chuck mumbled from behind Castiel’s palm. He snapped his fingers and a twinkly silver wand appeared in midair. He backed away from Castiel and brushed glittery dust from his lapels. “Look, the rules are clear. You want a man, I’ll get you a man.”

“No,” Castiel groaned. He was starting to believe the fairy was indeed a fairy. “Just go away.”

“No can do, buddy,” Chuck said with an apologetic grimace. “Let’s see. I’ll start with… yeah, okay, here we go. Look, there’s going to be some… singing, so yeah. Just. Okay, now here we go.”

Castiel stood in the clearing, his mouth hanging open as he watched sparks zap out of Chuck’s wand.

“Sala-gadoola-menchicka-boo-la Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo,” Chuck sang as he drew large patterns in the air. The air danced with the magic that Castiel never thought existed. “Put 'em together and what have you got? Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo.”

The air responded to the words, twirling and carrying the sparks from the wand to his feet, where they gathered into a thick band that glowed and started a slow circular progression up his legs. It tickled, he thought.

“Sala-gadoola-menchicka-boo-la Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo,” Chuck sang on, twitching his wand up to guide the glowing light up Castiel’s body. The fairy swayed back and forth as he worked, a maniacal grin on his face. “It'll do magic, believe it or not. Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo.”

Castiel glanced down and was shocked to find a pair of slick black britches had replaced his old-fashioned pants, hugging his thighs and skimming his legs. He stared in wonder at the light as it melted away his linen shirt and Dean’s too-large dinner jacket and poured a sumptuous silk shirt and neckerchief over him. A wide sash of purple bearing the Harvelle family crest of a crossroads with an angel hovering in the air draped over his left shoulder and clasped at his hip with a heavy silver buckle.

“Now sala-gadoola means menchicka-boolaroo,” Chuck continued on, spinning around Castiel and flicking his wand. The scruff along Castiel’s jaw vanished and the tangles in his wavy black hair disappeared with a quick yank of pressure. “But the thingmabob that does the job is Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo.”

“What the--?”

“Wait, there’s one more verse I have to get out,” Chuck said, stopping his dance and twisting his mouth in consternation. “You mind?”

“Um,” Castiel shrugged and shook himself. Chuck’s singing was atrocious, but he was too polite to mention it. “No, go ahead.”

“Sala-gadoola-menchicka-boo-la Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo,” he crowed at the top of his voice, which made Castiel’s eyes bug out. He turned toward the house, but neither Dean nor Gabriel appeared. “Put 'em together and what have you got? Bibbidi-bobbidi bibbidi-bobbidi bibbidi-bobbidi-boo!”

The silence was glorious and Castiel took a moment to revel in it.

“I’m done,” Chuck said, his tone offended, as if Castiel could have at least applauded. “Here’s the fine print. You have until midnight to find the prince of your dreams, after that it all goes vamoose. Got it? Midnight. Vamoose.”

“Chuck,” Castiel held his hands out to examine the detailed stitching of the shirt. “Thank you for the lovely clothing, but you are mistaken. I do not seek a husband.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever,” Chuck waved Castiel away. When Castiel did not move to walk away, Chuck sighed. “Look, go to the damn ball and enjoy it. If you happen upon a prince, hook it up. If you don’t, my bad. No harm, no foul. But seriously, midnight and vamoose.”

Castiel took a moment to process the strange words the fairy used to express his thoughts. It was as if the funny little man was from a different time and place, which would stand to reason if he was, in fact, a fairy.

“Cas?” Dean called from the front steps, where he stood next to his mother and Gabriel. “You better not be in that damn pumpkin patch getting dirty!”

“Get your ass in that carriage and go dance the night away,” Chuck gave Castiel a shove, but it did little more than temporarily unbalance the deceptively strong man. “Look, man, you can walk over there, or I can whip up a little fairy dust to carry you. Your choice.”

Castiel started walking, his head still foggy from the unexpected turn of events, but certain he did not wish to arrive at the carriage by way of fairy express.

“Remember,” Chuck said. Castiel paused and glanced over his shoulder. “The poofery disappears at midnight. You have five hours to make the magic happen. Hop to it, grasshopper.”

With one last swish and flick of the wand, Chuck disappeared, leaving Castiel to wonder what, exactly, Gabriel had slipped in his tea to make his hallucinations so vivid.

**

It took one hour to traverse the road to the palace, which suited Castiel just fine. He had more than enough explaining to do to fill the time. By time the Harvelle family pulled up to the palace gates, Dean and Gabriel had laughed themselves into coughing fits at the story their brother had woven about fairies in blue suits with nonsensical songs.

“What a charming story,” Ellen said, patting her stepson on the arm just before the footman opened the carriage door. “You have a gift for fantasy, Castiel.”

The family traveled up the wide staircase and through the heavily guarded front hall to the sunken ballroom. Couples dressed in their best satins and silks twirled around the floor under the watchful eye of King John and Queen Mary. Beside them sat a handsome young man whose foot kicked impatiently at his father’s throne.

“That’s Prince Samuel,” Ellen said, leaning up to whisper at Castiel’s ear. “He is eighteen and gossip in town is that he does not wish to procure a wife.”

“Perhaps in a few years,” Castiel murmured as his eyes cataloged every detail of the prince’s visage. He was beautiful and pouting, a combination that made Castiel’s stomach flutter nervously.

“Perhaps,” Ellen agreed, her hand tightening on Castiel’s forearm briefly. “Or perhaps he is in search of a husband instead.”

Castiel stumbled over his unfamiliar boots. His head snapped around to stare at his stepmother, who was smiling at him in her exceedingly knowing way. A warm flush crawled up his neck and colored his face.

“Come along boys,” Ellen said aloud, clamping her hand firmly on Castiel’s elbow. “Let us make our greetings to the King and Queen.”

The walk around the circumference of the room was long and made in half the time Castiel would have liked. His thoughts were stuck on his stepmother’s seemingly casual acceptance of Prince Samuel’s preference in the marriage market. The way she mentioned it to him alone—it gave him pause. He had long hid himself for fear of his family’s reproach. It was possible, he had to allow, that he had been incorrect in his assumptions.

So deep in thought he was that Castiel did not hear his family’s formal presentation to King John and Queen Mary. Only Ellen’s tug on his arm reminded him to bend low at the waist in supplication. As he straightened, he found Prince Samuel’s eyes trained on his face.

“Castiel,” King John rose from his throne and offered his hand to his former advisor’s son. “When last we met, you were a pocky boy with knobby knees and a cricket’s voice. You have come far in that department, I see.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Castiel said, blushing under the weight of kingly praise. He was acutely aware of the prince and kept his peripheral vision trained on him. “And thank you for inviting my family to such a magnificent affair. I am pleased to see you and your family have continued to flourish.”

King John laughed and clapped Castiel on the shoulder. “Come,” he said, steering Castiel to an empty chair at the right hand of his son. “Sit with us a moment and make my son’s acquaintance. I fear he is bored with these proceedings.”

“Father, please,” Prince Samuel got to his feet and bounded down the dais. “Let me take Castiel on a turn about the grounds. I need fresh air if I’m to stay awake and watch Jo dance all night.”

“Very well,” King John waved him away. “But be sure Castiel has a chance to dance with your sister. I would count him high in consideration for her hand.”

Castiel swallowed around a lump sitting high on his tongue. He cursed the fairy godmother Chuck, as well as his lot in life. How could he refuse the king, should he decide Castiel was to marry his daughter? He tensed, ready to run and flee the kingdom forever, but the touch of fingers to his wrist held him captive.

“Quick,” Prince Samuel said in a low voice that shot warm air over his cheek. “Before he changes his mind and makes you dance with every woman in sight. Come on.”

It was only after the crisp air of night had him in its embrace that Castiel thought of his family, standing at the edge of the dance floor where he had abandoned them. He glanced over his shoulder, but did not see them through the colorful, dancing crowd.

“Prince Samuel—”

“Sam,” the prince corrected with a grin. “Call me Sam. But not Sammy. Jo calls me Sammy and I hate that. Are you called Cas? Castiel is a lot to wrap my tongue around.”

Castiel thought that his head just might explode. He had heard the word tongue a thousand times over, but never before had the word given way to a deep throb in his gut. Images of the prince’s tongue barraged him and pushed the throb lower.

“Cas?”

“What?” Castiel licked his parched lips and shook his head. “Oh. Yes, yes, my brothers’ call me Cas.”

They walked in companionable silence, Sam’s fingers still firmly wrapped around Castiel’s wrist. The lawn behind the palace was home to a remarkable fountain and paths surrounded by intricately pruned shrubbery. Castiel delighted in the geometric shapes and the sound of the perpetually running water as it gurgled from the mouth of a great fish.

“I think I could make a fountain like that,” Castiel said suddenly and then flushed. He had no business speaking to the royal son about such trivialities. “I mean…”

“Oh yeah?” Sam turned to smile at Castiel. “That’d be neat. I like to make my own arrows.”

“Do you hunt?” Castiel asked before he could force himself to remain silent. It had been years since he had interacted with anyone of importance outside his family. It was best, he’d thought, to keep hidden away.

“Yeah,” Sam said in what Castiel was learning was his own particular cadence. It was closer in comparison to the fairy godmother Chuck’s than to King John’s. “My dad likes to hunt; so does my sister and mother. I prefer to read and study.”

“I used to study theology,” Castiel offered and found his steps aligning with the prince’s. “But when my father died, I abandoned the field. Now I run the family estate.”

“That’s cool,” Sam said and wrinkled his nose. His fingers stretched out and danced down Castiel’s palm. “My dad doesn’t let me do anything of importance. I don’t think he trusts me.”

“Maybe he does not want to burden you,” Castiel offered; distracted by his thundering heart beat. He shifted slightly, pulling his shoulder up to make his hand slip—accidentally—into Sam’s. “You should continue your studies. It will make you a wise king one day.”

“Oh, I won’t be king,” Sam snorted and kicked a pinecone in his path. His fingers threaded with Castiel’s and squeezed gently. “He says if I don’t marry, he will not leave me the crown. And I won’t marry; I won’t.”

“It seems a lot to give up,” Castiel noted, delivering his own squeeze to Sam’s fingers. His palm was sweating with nerves and confusion, but he would never pull away on his own. Sam’s hand was the first one to ever be pressed palm-to-palm with his own. “Why not find a nice girl so the crown can be yours?”

“Because there are more important things than a stupid hat,” Sam said as he led Castiel to an alcove under the main ballroom’s balcony. The music spilled over the ledge and found their shadowy spot. “Like dancing. Will you dance with me?”

It did not occur to Castiel to jerk away or remind the prince of societal norms. He simply stepped into the taller boy’s arms and gazed up at the face of beauty. Never had Castiel dared to dream of a dance with a handsome man on the palace lawn. He had never even allowed himself to fantasize talking to another like him.

“I like you, Cas,” Sam said, one hand trailing from Castiel’s shoulder to his hip. The prince’s hand burned through the fabric of the other boy’s clothes and left a mark. “Will you come to court? Be my… be my… courtier?”

“Your courtier?” Castiel exhaled the breath he’d been holding for too long to be healthy. “You want me to be your courtier?”

“Yeah,” Sam smiled with one side of his mouth, but his hazel eyes were darting around in confusion. “I think so. We could…”

“A courtier serves the royal family,” Castiel said and drew away from Sam’s chest where it bumped so casually against his own. He found the space of air between them gave him full—well, mostly full—use of his faculties. “I have no desire to serve you.”

“You don’t?” Sam’s smile transformed into a delighted grin, but just as quickly fell to a serious line accompanied by half-closed eyes. “Tell me, Cas, what do you desire? Do you desire me?”

“I…” Cas stammered as Sam hauled him against his chest once again. “You…”

“What if I desire to serve you?” Sam continued as he bent forward, leaning close to Castiel’s open mouth. “What if I desire you?”

“That would be,” Castiel gulped in a lungful of air to sustain him through the night. “Acceptable.”

Sam closed the last gap between them—the tiniest space—and kissed Castiel firmly. At first, Castiel could not distinguish his heartbeat from the tolling of the clock from the nearby bell tower.

Midnight. Vamoose.

Castiel jerked away, suddenly embarrassed. The prince desired the expertly fashioned Castiel Harvelle… not Cas who wore dirt beneath his nails and shirts that felt like the wrong side of a goat. He had to go. Immediately.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said as disentangled his arms from Sam’s. He stumbled away on shaky knees. “I have to go. It’s nearly midnight.”

“Don’t go,” Sam made a move to grab Castiel’s hand, but the smaller man slipped between the bushes and jogged toward the line of carriages at the front of the palace. The prince gave chase, but he was not accustomed to running and was much slower than his game. “Cas! Cas, wait!”

But Castiel had thrown himself into the Harvelle carriage and barked the order to leave—with great haste. He would send the driver back to the palace immediately to collect his family, after he was closer to home, closer to reality. He leaned his elbows on his knees and let his head fall. Behind him, he could hear Sam’s honeyed voice calling his name, but he didn’t dare look back.

It was on the strike of midnight that his clothes vamoosed.

**

“You missed the drama,” Gabriel said, tossing an apple into the air and catching it on his way into Castiel’s bedroom the next morning. “Dean’s been arrested for taking liberties with Princess Joanna.”

“What?” Castiel sat up in his bed, all thoughts of Sam vanishing into panic for his brother. “Have they taken him to the Tower? Why aren’t you dressed? I must go to him!”

“You are too easy,” Gabriel chuckled as he climbed onto the foot of his brother’s bed. “Calm down. He’s in the kitchen pigging out on that pie you made yesterday morning.”

“Cruel,” Castiel accused and sank back beneath his covers. “One day, Dean really will be arrested, and I will not believe you.”

“You always believe me, Cas,” Gabriel laughed and took a bite of his apple. “So why did you bail? Did you suddenly remember a sewing emergency here? Did you little mice friends need a new wardrobe?”

“Shove off,” Castiel grumbled. It was one time—one time—many years ago that Castiel had tried to force little hats and jackets on the mice that gathered to receive scraps at the back door. Gabriel had never let him live it down. “I was tired.”

“Then why was Prince Samuel so agitated when he returned from your walk?”

Castiel’s eyes tightened at the corners. He had hoped that Sam had returned to his father’s side and become distracted by the glittering party and his pretty guests.

“He’s sending a carriage around this afternoon,” Gabriel continued as if his news was nothing more than the weather report. “The prince wants you to have tea with him. Why would he want that, Cas?”

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean said as he entered the room, licking stray strawberry sauce from his fingers. “Why would Prince Sammy want that?”

“I do not know,” Castiel said, pushing himself against the wall to face his brothers. His stomach flipped and twisted at the news. The prince wanted to see him again. A smile forced its way to his lips, despite his Herculean effort to prevent it. “I cannot explain. But I cannot go.”

“Dude,” Dean said and contorted his features into a perfect picture of incredulity. “Sometimes you are so stupid. Like, too stupid to breathe.”

“No,” Gabriel defended his brother with a smack to Dean’s shoulder. “He’s just clueless. Although clearly he thinks we are stupid.”

“I never!” Castiel exclaimed. His brothers were tricksters (especially Gabriel), but he would proudly tell anyone who would listen that his brothers were both clever and quick-witted.

“Is that why you keep pretending not to know?” Gabriel asked. Castiel tilted his head, confused by the vague question. There was plenty Castiel did not know. “Seriously, Cas? We know you prefer men.”

Castiel felt his jaw open wide and his arms fall heavily against the mattress.

“We figured you would tell us,” Dean said and flopped down beside Castiel. “We joked you. We even tried to push you into dancing with a girl so you would be forced to admit it. You, Cas, are the most stubborn son of a bitch in the world.”

Castiel gasped for air, but there appeared to be none left in the room. He heard his squeaked attempt to draw for oxygen, and in a second—with a swear that would have made Castiel blush had he not been in the process of dying—Gabriel was forcing his head low with a hand on the back of his neck.

“Breathe, Cas,” he said with a laugh. “It’s okay. We’ve known for years. Your father told us. It’s okay.”

Before he could groan at the ignominy, the doorbell rang and echoed up the stairs. All three boys froze and stared at the open door. From below, they heard soft steps approach the door and open it to the visitor.

“Oh my god,” Castiel whispered. “Is it the prince’s carriage?”

Dean scrambled off the bed and darted to look out the glass-paned window. He nodded his head when he spied the easily recognizable flag. He was about to draw away and return to his brother when the carriage door open and Prince Samuel descended, casting his gaze up to the windows lining the front of their home.

“Balls,” Dean cried and ducked low, turning to look at Gabriel in horror. “It’s the prince himself. He’s here!”

“Oh my god,” Castiel said, only louder than before. His eyes rounded to match his open mouth as he sat in shock amongst his bedclothes.

“Right,” Gabriel bounced off the bed and snapped his fingers. “Let’s just call that fairy godmother of yours. Chop, chop, bro.”

“I can’t ‘chop chop’,” Castiel said with a shake of his head. “I didn’t ask for Chuck to come before. I don’t know how to get him now. You have to go to Sam; tell him I’m ill.”

“Sam?” Dean boggled. “You call the prince Sam? To his face?”

‘”Dean, focus,” Gabriel said with another snap of his fingers. “The friggin’ prince is here to court our brother. We need a plan.”

“Boys?” Ellen called a moment before she glided into the room. Her kind eyes were glazed over with the shock of having a royal son materialize in her entryway. “The prince is here to call on Castiel.”

“No,” Castiel pulled the covers over his head with a petulant whine. His life had been set; he had accepted his fate as his stepmother’s companion, tied to his father’s house without true happiness. “No, send him away.”

“Send away the prince?” Ellen hissed and hurried to uncover her stepson. “What is wrong with you, my little love?”

The sound of boots clicking on the polished floor made the entire Harvelle family tense and wait for the inevitable.

“Excuse me, I couldn’t help but overhear. I’ve been very rude,” Prince Samuel said softly from just inside the bedroom, his eyes on the object of his affection. “Cas, I am sorry. I will go.”

With a quick turn on his heel, Sam disappeared, leaving the room filled with Harvelles silent and shocked. Castiel held the blankets aloft as his legs twitched and tensed to chase after Sam. He had never been in love before, but he thought the fizzy bubbles in his stomach might be a symptom of the condition.

“Wait,” he whispered. Dean startled from his place beside his brother. Gabriel turned a surprised face to his mother. Castiel cleared his throat and said in a loud clear voice: “Wait! Sam!”

The front door opened, but did not close. The sounds of the horses snorting in the cool morning air drifted up the stairwell. There was no evidence of Prince Sam’s sure step across the graveled rock of their drive. Greatly heartened, Castiel scrambled to his feet and ran from the room. He did not bother to quibble over his wrinkled nightshirt or bare feet.

“Sam,” Castiel shouted from the top of the stairs, leaning precariously over the railing. “Don’t go.”

Sam turned slowly in the doorway, tilting his head back to look at Castiel. His lips stretched wide in a joyous smile. “I will stay when you order me to do so,” Sam said without hesitation. “And leave under the same condition. I am yours, if you come to me, here and now, and tell me you love me as I love you.”

It was a long trip down the wide stairs of Harvelle Manor, but when Castiel reached the bottom, Prince Sam had moved to meet him at the landing. He grinned so widely that a dimple popped into view.

“Hello, Sam,” Castiel murmured, casting his eyes down in an attack of self-conciousness.

“Hello, Cas,” Sam said and Castiel could hear the amusement in his voice. He started to blush, but Sam’s palm against his cheek distracted the flow of his blood. He leaned into the touch, enjoying the simplicity of love. “Am I yours?”

“Yes,” Castiel nodded, his eyes snapping up to Sam’s. He wanted to see the man who loved him and who he would love forever. He wanted to rehire the servants and spend his days in the company of the beautiful prince. He would return to his studies so he could sit with Sam and learn together. He would leave Harvelle Manor to his stepmother and brothers and go find a life with Sam. All of that and more. “As much as I am yours.”

When Sam bent down, his intention to kiss Castiel clearly splashed across his face, Castiel leaned up on his toes to meet him halfway. The sound of applause at the top of the stairs did not shake the prince and his love apart. Castiel wound his arms around Sam’s neck and pressed himself closer, ready at last to love openly and passionately—with his family’s blessing.

It was several months later when Castiel Harvelle wed Prince Samuel in a traditional royal wedding, with King John and Queen Mary in attendance. The celebration spilled into the streets and lasted a solid week. No one was more pleased than Castiel Harvelle’s father, who watched from Heaven with the fairy godmother Chuck at his side.

“You did well, Chuck,” his father said with a familiar pat on the little fairy’s head. “You have a gift for matchmaking.”

“That’s your way of telling me I’m stuck in this gig, isn’t it?” Chuck asked, his wings drooping at the back.

Castiel’s father laughed, but vanished before he delivered an answer.

“Damn,” Chuck sighed, and leaned forward on his cloud to watch Prince Sam pull Castiel into his arms and kiss him soundly. “They want kids. I’m going to need a bigger wand.”

The End

Cloudy (Jen) With A Chance of Misha, 4/4

evil_knitter — Tue, 28 Dec 2010 04:29:26 GMT

Continued from here

~~Misha~~

Misha dunked a piece of bread into the chocolate fondue pot in the middle of the table and chewed while he listened to his date rattle on and on about the manuscript he was writing. Jensen’s light green eyes were bright and his cheeks were rounded out from a broad smile. Misha was one hundred percent sure that he could listen with rapt attention for hours, but Jensen coughed into his hand and blushed.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he smoothed his green napkin in his lap. “I tend to go on when I talk about my projects.”

“I had no idea you write,” Misha said, purposefully not accepting his apology. The only thing he wanted was to hear more—more of anything Jensen wanted to say—except, of course, apologies. “Have you ever tried to have them published?”

“Oh,” Jensen flushed and cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. I have six books on the market right now. It’s a series, but what I was telling you about, with the fairies, that’ll be a new series, if my publisher likes it.”

“Really?” Misha leaned back in his chair, shocked, which wasn’t an easy thing to do. “What’s the series?”

“I doubt you’ve heard of it,” Jensen prevaricated with a shrug. “It isn’t a huge seller.”

“Even still, tell me.”

“It’s called The Piper Peck Chronicles,” Jensen said with a hefty exhale. “It’s for kids. Girls, really.”

I know Piper Peck!” Misha lunged forward with a huge grin. He laughed and gripped the table to keep his enthusiasm contained. “I read Piper and the Peckish Papers to my class last year. But… wait… you’re Jenny Merriweather?”

“Oh god,” Jensen laughed and hid his face with his hands. “How embarrassing.”

Misha really did try to prevent his laughter from erupting, but he was so amused that there was no hope for it. He was at dinner with the very manly Jenny Merriweather, author of his favorite children’s series, about a precocious twelve-year-old girl with a penchant for solving neighborhood mysteries.

“I never should have told you,” Jensen groaned.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me earlier,” Misha said after he’d recovered use of his faculties. “You are a famous author!”

“Hardly,” he disagreed. “No one knows what I do except my family and now you. Besides, they’ve never been best sellers.”

“Why did you write them?” Misha asked, more curious than ever by the man across from him. “If you weren’t comfortable using your own name?”

“They started out as stories for Imogen,” Jensen explained, smiling at some memory that clouded his eyes briefly. “I would tell her a little bit every night. Jared told me to write them down so she could have them when she was older, so I did.”

“So they are your first attempts at writing?”

“Nah,” Jensen laughed and dipped a piece of bread into the chocolate. “I have an MFA from UCLA.”

“You…” Misha scrunched his features together in confusion. He suddenly felt as if he had only just met Jensen for the first damn time. He had mistakenly assumed he knew everything he needed to know about the beautiful man who rocked his world with his damn lips at that bar in September. If there was one thing he hated, it was being wrong.

“I guess I got a little wrapped up in Jared’s career,” Jensen said into the silence. “He started getting more and more scripts to read, so I helped out. And then Immy came. There just wasn’t time for me to pursue writing until Jared told me to write down Piper.”

Misha’s mouth felt tired as he curved his lips into a smile. It was a good kind of tired; the kind he got after running in the evenings. Jensen was a good man; ambitious enough to earn an MFA, but caring enough to put his dreams on hold to support those he loved.

“What?” Jensen asked, shifting uncomfortably under Misha’s intense scrutiny.

“You’re amazing,” was Misha’s honest answer as he tucked several bills into the little black payment folder. He stood up from the table and held his hand out to Jensen. “Let’s go.”

Jensen took his hand without hesitation or embarrassment. He didn’t say anything as they wound their way through the crowd and out to the Range Rover. Jensen opened the passenger door and Misha slid into the seat, but he held out his arm to prevent the door from closing. He twisted so he faced Jensen, with his feet skimming the ground.

“Come here,” Misha said and Jensen stepped forward to fulfill the request. The partially closed door with its darkly tinted window hid them from view. It would have to do, as Misha did not want to wait a second longer to kiss Jensen for the first time. Well, the first time they’d both remember in the morning. “I’m going to kiss you.”

“Then stop talking about it,” Jensen said, taking another step that put him firmly between Misha’s legs. “And do it.”

Misha laughed, the sound rolling around his chest like a purr. Jensen smiled and reached for his date. The first touch of lips made Misha’s eyebrows rise. There was a softness that had been missing the night before. There was no desperation, no rushing. Their mouths opened together and shared a breath. It was delicious.

“Come home with me,” Misha murmured in between kisses that vacillated between sweet and filthy.

“No,” Jensen groaned, swore and pulled away. He pushed Misha back in his seat and ran a hand over his face. “No, not tonight, not yet.”

“Right,” Misha let his head hit the headrest. “Slowly.”

“You still interested?” Jensen asked as he looked down to toy with his keys. Misha had to smile at the sheepish stilt of his voice. He was so freaking cute when he tried to be all aloof and unaffected.

“Slow is good,” Misha said around his smile. He touched his fingers under Jensen’s chin in order to pull his face up. “I can work with slow.”

**

~~Jensen~~

Six dates with Misha had Jensen seriously reconsidering his decision to keep his clothes on. The man could sell shoes to a snake with that slick voice and those pretty words of his, but for Jensen, it was the way Misha touched him when they kissed. His long fingers were sure and strong against Jensen’s waist, or gentle and tentative as they brushed his face. There was coiled and ready passion, lurking just beneath the surface, and the fact that he held it back because Jensen asked him to was heady. But honestly? Jensen wanted Misha’s restraint to snap.

With a sigh, he put his key in his front door, ready to retreat to his bed for some serious thought about Misha naked, but before he made the effort to turn it, Jared pulled it open.

“There you are,” Jared said as Jensen freed his key. “We’ve been waiting for you. Didn’t you get my text?”

“Your text?” Jensen felt around his pocket for his phone, but it wasn’t there. “Shit. I must’ve left my phone at—” He clamped Misha’s name down, refusing to share it with Jared. “What are you doing here? I thought you had Immy at the hotel with you tonight.”

“She wanted to come home,” Jared shrugged and followed Jensen into the living room where Genevieve sat curled in a chair with Tyson nursing at her breast. “She’s in bed. While we’re here, we wanted to talk to you about Christmas.”

“What about it?” Jensen asked, careful to keep his eyes firmly averted as Jared sat on the arm of Genevieve’s chair.

“We want to take Im back to Texas with us.”

Jensen blinked slowly. The Christmas Festival, just two days away, signaled the start of Seattle Waldorf’s Winter Break—three full weeks without classes or PTA meetings. Jensen had been looking forward to curling up in front of the fire and introducing Imogen to the fantastical world of Narnia. He had bought the box set, thinking she would get so involved in the story that he would read himself hoarse during the hiatus. He thought they’d finish up by going to check out the latest movie in the series at the mall… maybe with Misha in tow.

He hadn’t accounted for Jared wanting to abscond to his parents’ for a traditional Padalecki Christmas. Of course Jared wanted to go home for Christmas; their family had made that same trip every single year of their relationship. It had always been Thanksgiving at the Ackles house and Christmas with the Padaleckis. It made sense for Jared to go to his family to show off his new son. But Imogen, too? With Genevieve?

“I don’t know,” Jensen started, his lips pulling down into a frown that was sure to give him wrinkles. “She might not be comfortable with that.”

“She loves my parents,” Jared said at once. He threaded his fingers together—Jensen noticed their wedding ring was still there—and hunched forward, bringing him closer to Jensen. “They’re her grandparents and they want to see her.”

“It’s not them,” Jensen said, jabbing a finger toward Genevieve, who was looking intently at Tyson, her cheeks flushed pink. Maintaining his daughter’s comfort had a tendency to make him brutally honest and frank. “It’s her.”

“She has to move beyond that,” Jared snapped. “She only hates Gen because she thinks you do.”

“Yeah, well.”

“Jensen,” Jared said, and it was a warning, but he was no longer bound to Jared so it did little more than ruffle his feathers.

“It might not be very Christian of me,” Jensen said and he had to work hard to keep his voice level so it would not travel up the stairs. “But I’m not quite to the forgive and forget stage yet. I will play the happy fucking family when Immy is around, but not right now. Right now, I can feel what I damn well please.”

“No you can’t,” Jared jumped up and moved into his ex’s personal space. “She is the mother of my child. You need to show her a little more respect.”

“The fuck I do—”

“Enough,” Genevieve said as she got to her feet. Both men looked at her, waiting as she settled Tyson—who Jensen could admit was cute as hell—into his carrier to sleep. “This has to stop. Jensen, I’m sorry. I should have quit as soon as I realized I had feelings for Jared. I am sorry I made him love me, but I can’t undo it.”

“You’re apologizing,” Jensen asked with a lifted eyebrow. “For stealing Jared?”

“Yes,” Genevieve sighed and held her hands out as if she was asking for benediction. “I’ll say it outright: I am sorry I stole Jared.”

“Jesus… Christ…” Jensen stepped away from Jared and the encroaching Genevieve. “I don’t care about that. Not anymore.”

“But…” She shot Jared a look, but he was too busy staring at Jensen with wide eyes.

“You have no idea,” Jensen chuckled and shook his head. It wasn’t funny, god damn it wasn’t funny, but he laughed anyway. “I don’t want him. You did me a big fucking favor, lady.”

“Hey,” Jared exclaimed, daring to be offended. He wrapped an arm around his girlfriend and tried to lead her from the room. “Come on, Gen, we don’t have to do this.”

“Yes we do,” she insisted, pushing out of Jared’s hold. Jensen could never say she didn’t have moxie by the truckloads. “If it’s not because I stole Jared, then why do you hate me?”

“You asked Jared to walk away from Imogen,” he said, pouring the disgust he felt into the words, aiming them like darts and taking his shot. “You’re a mother, but you have no problem asking Jared to give up his daughter. How can you come here and pretend to love Immy when your end game is to take her father away?”

“I—” She looked like Jensen had slapped her with a cinder block. Her face exploded into all-over scarlet before draining completely of color. “How did you… Jared… did you… tell him that?”

“Uh,” Jared said. “Yeah.”

“I should have known,” she said and Jensen took a little pleasure in seeing her deflate. “I only wanted him away from you, Jensen, not from Imogen. It’s always you, Jensen. Don’t you know that?”

“What?” Jensen asked at the same time Jared said: “Gen, stop.”

“He’s always going to love you best,” Genevieve continued, crossing her arms over her chest in a gesture that looked like she was cold rather than defensive. Jensen felt a pull of something in his gut, but he was pretty damn sure it wasn’t pity. “No one stands a chance against you. It’s not fair, and I had an idea that was the case, but I hoped I was wrong.”

“That’s not true,” Jared said quickly, standing in the middle of the room, halfway between Genevieve and Jensen. His head swung back and forth between them.

“Then take the ring off,” Genevieve ordered quietly. Jensen’s eyes followed hers to Jared’s left hand. “Take it off right now and put it away for good.”

The clock over the mantle ticked off a handful of seconds. Jensen could see the tension and stress roll up Jared’s spine and pull his shoulders closer to his ears. He knew in those sparse seconds that what Genevieve said was true. Jared wasn’t quite finished with Jensen; that was the reason he’d come to Seattle—and stayed; that was the reason he had hit on Misha; and that was the reason he was still wearing his ever lovin’ wedding ring.

His knees tried to buckle, but Jensen held tightly to his control. It was everything he’d hoped for… a year and a half ago. He’d held on to the hope that Jared would tire of Genevieve and come running home, begging for his forgiveness. He’d written dozens of scenarios in his head, each ending with him and Jared happy again inside their LA home with Imogen between them.

But not anymore. Now, when he envisioned moments in a happy home, Misha was there, telling embellished stories from his youth and folding junk mail into origami pigs. Yeah, it was a little soon to have those sorts of thoughts, but he didn’t try to quash them. No one had to know that he indulged in such a girly fantasy.

“Jared,” he began, girding himself with a deep breath. “Take the ring off. We are done forever. You damn near destroyed me when you left. I will never fully trust you again, so even if I would consider going back, I couldn’t do it. Not to me and sure as hell not to Immy.”

“Jensen,” Jared whispered and it was an anguished plea.

“No,” Jensen said, closing his eyes and shaking his head. He did not doubt his feelings or his decision, but he did still love Jared. It was difficult to see him in pain. “I’m set on this, Jare.”

“Is there someone else?”

“Yeah,” Jensen nodded and smiled; he couldn’t help himself. “Yeah there is.”

“Misha?”

Jensen nodded again.

“Yeah,” Jared sighed. “I figured. You’re not very slick with your late-night PTA meetings and hours-long grocery store trips. Is it serious?”

“I think so,” Jensen said, working hard to keep a grin at bay.

“Imogen doesn’t know,” Jared said as he dropped onto the couch. “You haven’t told her.”

“No, of course not,” Jensen sat on the far end of the couch, angling his body toward Jared, but keeping a sizeable distance between them. He saw Genevieve slink back into her chair from the corner of his eye. “I don’t want to do that until I’m sure. She’s been through enough.”

“I really fucked up,” Jared said, rubbing at his eyes. “Didn’t I?”

“Yeah,” Jensen agreed.

They sat together, the three of them, in silence, broken only by Tyson’s gentle whimpering in his sleep. Jensen wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Jared held his left hand out in front of him. Three sets of eyes trained on the silver ring that held so much emotion, memories, and intentions.

“Take it off, Jared,” Jensen said softly. He had taken care of Jared for so long; it was second nature to comfort him, to ease him into and through difficult decision. This was no different than convincing Jared that saying yes to Spiderman was an excellent career move. “We’re done, and I think you know it.”

“I…” Jared started, his hands opening and closing around nothing but air.

“You don’t want me anymore,” Jensen continued before he could hear whatever Jared wanted to say. It was not open for debate. “You wanted Genevieve and now you have her. Don’t fuck that up because you don’t want me to move on.”

Jared nodded jerkily, and Jensen could see that he’d planted the essential idea. If he sat there long enough, if he used the perfect words, Jensen could have Jared stupidly in love with Genevieve.

“You love Gen,” he said and gestured with his hand for the silently crying girl to come. He swallowed around the nickname, hating himself for facilitating the relationship that had once caused him unremitting pain. He watched as she wrapped herself around Jared’s shoulders, her dark hair sliding over them both, obscuring her face and his rapidly rising and falling chest. “I’ll always be here—as a friend—if you need me, but that’s it. You two are welcome to stay in the guest room. I’m off to bed.”

Jensen got to his feet and walked from the room, leaving the huddled pair on his couch. They could stay or they could go. It didn’t matter to him. He stopped by Imogen’s open door and watched her sleep for a moment. She slept with an intensity that made him smile. Her face was pulled in on itself, as if she were concentrating on a terrifically difficult puzzle. He wanted to smooth her brow with the pad of his thumb, but he knew that was a sure way to wake her, so he rolled away from the doorframe and continued down the hall to his room.

Genevieve and Jared’s muted voices chased him into his bedroom, but he could not make out any of their words. He collapsed onto his bed and listened to the sound of the conversation below. He hadn’t really thought what it meant to reject Jared, if it had really been rejecting him. There had been no declaration, thank God, but the truth of what Genevieve said had been evident on Jared’s face.

He had turned his back on the man he’d loved for so many years. Not too long ago, he would not have been strong enough to do that. He had to consider the possibility that he was simply trying to mask his true feelings in order to save face. And so he did. He thought long and hard, examining every twinge in his gut, every stab behind his eyes.

But he found that he was sure. He did not want Jared, even if there was no Misha to consider. If anything, he was glad (as he had told Genevieve) to be out. He didn’t want the Hollywood lifestyle, and he didn’t want Jared.

A knock on his open door drew his attention.

“Hey,” Jared said, a grimace stretching his lips wide. “I’m sorry. About all that.”

“It’s okay,” Jensen said. “Did you guys get everything worked out?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall just inside the door. “Well, mostly. She’s upset, but says she understands. You were my first love, man. It’s not… I mean, that’s intense. I guess I just freaked out.”

“Yeah you did,” Jensen agreed with a short laugh. He pushed himself into a sitting position. “And I get it. Your first love is always a part of you, but there’s no going back, Jared.”

“I know,” Jared shifted against the wall and glanced over his shoulder, out into the hallway. “We’re going to go ahead and stay here tonight. We don’t want to take Tyson back out. It’s freezing balls out there.”

Jensen laughed at the crass weather update. “Cool,” he said. “You know where everything is.”

“Good night, Jen,” Jared said as he pushed away from the wall. “See you in the morning.”

And for once—just the once—Jensen didn’t correct his ex. Jared was his first love, too, so there was a part of him that would always love him, cater to him. They would be entangled for the rest of their lives, thanks to their much beloved daughter, but from that point forward, there would be boundaries—clear and understood boundaries.

**

~~Misha~~

“You look ridiculous,” Jensen told Misha as he helped him secure a spongy red nose to his face. “We could have done this without a clown.”

“I enjoy it,” Misha assured him. His face had been painted white with a garish red smile and purple eye shadow. His pants were Harlequin print and his shirt bright yellow. “Do you think the hat is too much?”

“Mish,” Jensen laughed and tugged at his red suspenders, bringing them closer together, which was such a good thing these days. “I don’t think there’s such a thing now that you’ve gone all in with the bowtie and the floppy shoes. How in the hell did you get so adorable?”

“It’s a burden,” Misha said with a grin. He reached out and touched Jensen’s ear and pulled back with a quarter in his hand. “Ta-da.”

“Adorable,” Jensen grabbed Misha’s hand and kissed the back, which should have been too hokey for Misha to bear, but really, it made him grin like a loon. He was mad about Jensen’s unconscious little tics and countrified sayings. “But ridiculous.”

“Daddy, come on,” Imogen squealed as she bounded into the room, her hair caught up in two bouncing pig tails. Fuckity fuck. “Madison and Dillon are already bobbing for apples.”

Jensen jerked away so quickly that Misha stumbled. He righted himself quickly enough and waved at Imogen.

“Were you kissing?” Imogen asked with one raised eyebrow. She reminded Misha of Jensen when she did that and that was just weird as shit.

“What?” Jensen yelped. “No!”

“Oh,” she twirled her hair around her finger and sucked in her lower lip. “Well, come on then. Papa and Gen are here.”

Misha watched Jensen’s face turn an unattractive shade of pale green; sea foam, he thought. They’d been so careful to keep their relationship on the DL, always mindful of Imogen. Only two days ago had Jensen caved and told Jared. He had expected that conversation to leave Jensen tetchy, but the exact opposite was true. The man was more affectionate and more open, but until Imogen knew, there was a wall between them.

“Why would she think that?” Jensen asked as soon as Imogen disappeared from the room. The sea foam was retreating into a sheen of white with freckle-shaped polka dots. “Do you think Jared told her? I’ll kill him.”

“Let’s go find out,” Misha said and wished he wasn’t dressed up like Blipo the freakin’ clown. “It will be okay, no matter what, okay?”

“I wanted to tell her,” Jensen said as they started out of the room, a respectable distance between them. “I was going to tell her before Christmas, but now she’s going to Texas with Jared and Gen. I don’t want to tell her and then ship her off for two weeks, you know?”

“You want to tell her?” He stopped in the hall and waved on a group of upper classmen. “That’s… wow. Are you sure?”

“I am,” Jensen smiled at him, and he was pretty sure that if they weren’t in the hallway of the school, there would be a kiss or at least a hand squeeze. “I want her to know you as Misha, not just as Mr. Collins. And I want her to see me happy.”

“Oh yeah?” His upper body bent toward Jensen as if he were a sunflower in the early morning sunrise. “I make you happy?”

“Hell yeah you do,” Jensen took a step closer, stopping just short of touching Misha in any way. He leaned down, positioned his lips close to Misha’s ear, and said: “And tonight, I want to make you happy.”

“Oh my god,” Misha gulped, hoping to God and Vishnu and Buddha too that he was not misinterpreting Jensen’s meaning. “Tonight—?”

“There you guys are,” Jared called from the end of the hall, a baby cradled against one shoulder. “Imogen said you were dawdling. Hurry up; If the clown doesn’t make an appearance soon, there may be bloodshed. Mrs. Dodd’s voice has reached octaves so high that I’m sure only dogs can hear her—what a godsend.”

“Sorry for the delay,” Misha said, smoothly stepping away from Jensen, who had not bothered to take distance on his own. “A slight balloon emergency, but we’re good now.”

As he approached Jared, he spied a small woman standing slightly behind him. Ah, Misha thought, the home wrecking whore.

“You must be Ms. Cortese,” Misha extended his hand and gave her his best professional (read: aloof) smile. “I’ve heard many things about you. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Please call me Gen,” she said in a voice that tried so hard not to waver. Poor little thing. She looked as sheepish as a lamb to slaughter. Of course, Misha had always loved lamb chops. “It’s nice to meet you as well, Mr. Collins. Immy has raved about you.”

“Imogen is a bright and lovely girl,” Misha said, deliberately not extending the invitation of familiarity to her. “It is a delight to have her in my class. Shall we see what pleasures await us in the gymnasium?”

“I love the outfit,” Genevieve said, gesturing to Misha’s person and sonuvabitch Misha had forgotten that he was dressed like a Ringling Brothers’ reject. Well, Round One to the whore. “It’s cool that you’re willing to make a fool of yourself in front of your students.”

“Yes, well,” Misha straightened his bowtie and inclined his head. “As Shakespeare once said: ‘A fool thinks himself wise, but a wise man knows himself to be a fool.’ So, there’s that.”

Jensen’s chuckle drew Misha’s aural attention, but he kept his eyes on Genevieve to see how she would interpret the Bard’s words. Ha. Round Two to the fool.

“It’s okay, Mish,” Jensen pressed the flat of his hand to Misha’s back and bent close to his ear again. “We’ve made our peace. You can call off the attack.”

Jared laughed and hauled Gen against his side. Her face squished into chest as he hugged her tight and kissed the top of her head.

“I was looking forward to Round Three,” Jared said, grinning broadly. “I think the two of you are going to be bosom buddies in no time.”

“Did you just say bosom buddies?” Jensen asked, which was an excellent question as far as Misha was concerned. “You’re such a dork.”

“Shut it, Ackles,” Jared laughed and turned their little group toward the gymnasium doors. “Let’s go get our Festival on.”

**

“Okay, what the hell is going on?” Vicki asked after the first wave of students left clutching Misha Collins Original Balloon Animal Works of Arts. “Jensen is paling around with the Cheating Ex and the Baby Mama? And you, too? I saw you come in with them.”

“There have been some great strides made in peacemaking recently,” Misha said, although he had yet to hear all of the details of that historic event.

“What does that mean?”

“That I don’t have to actively revile Gen—that’s the home wrecking whore’s name—anymore,” he said as he restocked the blue balloons on the makeshift table to his right. “Which is good because, seriously, hating someone is hard work, and you know how I feel about hard work.”

Vicki snorted and wiped the brushes they were using for face painting on a clean paper towel.

“I think tonight is the night with Jensen,” he said, trying to keep the heat out of his cheeks—and his pants.

“Oh my god,” Vicki laughed so hard she had to put down her brushes. “That was so Sixteen Candles or some shit.”

“Fuck you,” Misha said, but he had to admit to the lameness of his declaration. “Also, I think that’s actually a quote from Dirty Dancing.”

“In all seriousness,” Vicki said, her face morphing with startling ease into her Serious Look. “I’m thrilled for you. You’ve managed to keep it in your pants for over three months. That’s impressive.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to come before he gets his lips on my—hi there, kids!” Misha smiled broadly and turned on his clown charm. Imogen was amongst the group looking up at him with grins of anticipation. “What creation will you have from the Majestic Blipo?”

“Hey, Blipo,” Vicki whispered behind a cupped hand at his ear. “Just whip yourself up a cock ring out of your little balloons and you’ll be fine.”

Misha let go of the balloon he had just blown up. It soared into the air, completing two whirligigs before falling at his feet. The students laughed uproariously and cheered for him to do it again.

From across the room, he caught sight of Jensen standing in a semi-circle of parents, watching their children enjoy the Festival. Their eyes met over the crowd and Jensen winked.

And yep, Misha let go of another damn balloon.

**

~~Imogen, Age 16~~

“Dads,” Imogen called from her bedroom. She was seriously starting to freak the fudge out. It was her sixteenth birthday and she didn’t have a darn thing to wear to her party. “Daddy!”

“What’s wrong?” Jensen skidded into the room, a dishtowel slung over his shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

“Jeez, no,” she rolled her eyes and flung herself on her bed, right on top of the huge pile of clothes that no one would be caught dead wearing, especially not to their Sweet Sixteen party. “I don’t have anything to wear! How am I supposed to go to my very own party wearing these gross old things?”

“Why don’t you see what Gen sent?” Jensen asked, grinning down at her like a cat that ate the canary. “You normally like what she sends.”

“Gen sent a package?” Imogen leapt from the bed and ran from the room, yelling over her shoulder. “Is it by the door? I can’t believe I didn’t see it!”

She could hear her father laughing as she snatched up the sizeable box and darted back to her room. He already had the scissors in his hands by time she plopped on the floor. He crouched next to her, ready to ooh and ahh as appropriate.

“Hey guys,” Misha rounded the corner, his hair wet and dripping onto his white undershirt. Her dads were so gross. “Did I hear the shriek indicative of a clothing parcel from Gen?”

“We haven’t opened it yet,” Jensen said, holding out his hand to Misha. “You’re just in time.”

Imogen slit the packing tape and hastily handed the scissors off to Misha. She pulled piece after piece out, stopping to rub the soft fabrics between her fingers and hold them out for Jensen and Misha’s approval.

“I like that one best,” Jensen said an hour later, because he was the most awesome of all of her dads when it came to clothes. He would sit and let her try on clothes forever, giving his opinion and letting her, like, try stuff on a second and third time if she wasn’t sure. “You’ve always looked gorgeous in dark blue.”

“I agree,” Misha said as he rummaged through her jewelry box for the perfect accessories. “Hm. Jen, I don’t think anything in here is going to work.”

“No?” Jensen leaned back and glanced in the open box. His eyes wrinkled at the edges, which reminded Imogen just how old he was. “Ah, crap, you’re right.”

“What!” Imogen cried, hurrying over to inspect the situation herself. She was sure she had a pair of faux sapphire earrings that would be perfect with the dress.

“How about these?” Misha asked her dad, but she couldn’t see what he was holding.

“Those are perfect,” Jensen said emphatically. “It’s like they were made for her.”

“What are perfect?” Imogen asked, dancing on her tiptoes to see what the heck they were talking about anyway.

“Happy birthday, monkey,” Jensen said, closing the box and handing over a dark red jewelry box.

Imogen jumped up and down before she ever opened the box. She’d known for a long time that it was a tradition in the Collins family to give a girl turning sixteen her first piece of real jewelry. She hadn’t expected to receive it until her party, but if it was something that would match the dress, she guessed they wanted her to wear them right away.

The box opened and there sat a beautiful necklace with matching earrings. The necklace was made up of dozens of leaf shaped jewels, each surrounded by glittering diamonds that caught the light and shone brightly in her eyes. At the bottom of the necklace—dipping down to an apex that would settle low on her neck—was collection of three leaves surrounding one diamond.

“Dads,” she breathed, picking the necklace up to finger, much like she’d done the fabric in Gen’s care package. “It’s gorgeous. There’s one leaf for each of you.”

“And a diamond for you,” Misha said.

“I love it,” Imogen croaked, clutching the necklace to her chest. “I can’t wait to wear it.”

“Gen made that dress especially to match,” Jensen added with a satisfied smile. “Jared has the other part of your present.”

Her other-other dad was the one to generally spoil her relentlessly, no matter what the other two said. It was fun to watch them fight about it because in the end, her other-other dad always got his way, which meant Imogen got her way. Yeah, she loved having three dads—and an awesome stepmom.

“Honey, I’m hoooome,” Jared’s voice boomed from the foyer, followed by thunderous footsteps on the stairs.

“Im?”

“Tyson!” Imogen thrust the necklace into Jensen’s waiting hands and she ran off to tackle her baby brother. She didn’t like to admit it, but she missed the little jerk. He always tagged along with her friends when he came to visit, but whatever. She was happy to see him even if he was a butthead.

“Happy birthday!” Tyson shouted and pulled the top on a little can of compressed confetti.

“Oh no,” Jensen groaned because of all her dads, he was the one who liked things just so.

“Oooh,” Misha laughed, holding his arms up and dancing into the messy cloud of drifting papers. “Look, Jen, confetti; it’s a parade!”

Imogen and Tyson let Misha take their hands and twirl them around in a highly uncool way. She would never tell her friends about this moment. Her friends thought her dads were cool; she couldn’t let them down by telling how truly dorky they really were. Dancing in the hallway? Shah.

“Tyson,” Jared groaned as he joined the impromptu party. “I thought I told you no. Look at this mess.”

“Dad!” Imogen took a flying leap into her strongest dad’s arms. He didn’t so much as grunt as he caught her and hefted her high above his head. She squealed like a little girl even though she so wasn’t. “Where’s my present?”

“You greedy little thing,” Jared teased as he set her back on her feet. Little pieces of confetti landed in his hair and she thought that he looked very much like that last scene in Spiderman 5, where he had saved Mary Jane again and there had been a huge celebration in the streets.

“Not greedy,” she corrected him. “Just impatient. The Other Dads already gave me theirs. And Gen sent hers by mail. It’s all down to you, Pops. Give up the goods.”

“All right, you little monkey, here,” Jared reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys with a big red ribbon tied to the ring. “Happy birthday.”

“No fudgin’ way,” Imogen gaped at the keys she held. “A car? Dads… I can keep it, right?”

Jensen and Misha laughed, which was totally unfair because a car was way spoil-y.

“Of course you can,” Jensen finally said, after a brief shoving match with Jared. “Go out there and see if you like it.”

Imogen flew down the stairs with Tyson at her heels. She heard her dads exchanging greetings, slaps on the back and hugs. They would come outside, all of them together, as soon as they got their lovey-dovey how-ya-doin’-mans out of the way.

Outside, beside an adorable little green convertible—Imogen couldn’t tell, or care, what the make and model was—stood Gen. It was Gen who got her tears of happiness as they hugged hello. She saved them all for her stepmom, because while her dads were awesome, it was better to cry with a mom. They always wanted to get her to stop crying, even if she was happy. Gen understood that sometimes tears were the perfect thing.

Later that night, Imogen would put on her fancy new dress and a pair of strappy high heels and pretend to be grown up. She’d show off her new car and her amazing jewelry. She’d dance with her dads as if it was a chore.

But for now, for a few more hours, she would be her Daddys’ little girl. All three of them.

THE END

Cloudy (Jen) With A Chance of Misha, 3/4

evil_knitter — Tue, 28 Dec 2010 04:24:10 GMT

Continued from here

The lights were on at Misha’s house. It was a small coral colored duplex snuggled between two similar structures on either side. A rainbow flag flew proudly over the doorway of the house to the left of Misha’s, and a black flag with a purple triangle flew over the doorway of the house to the right.

Jensen sat in his car across the street and watched as Misha walked in front of the living room window, giving him an unfettered view. He seemed to be tidying up, moving stacks of books from one side of the room to the other, all the while moving his lips—singing, Jensen guessed. He looked happy—excited.

If he walked into that house, Jensen would be starting something with Misha. They would move forward into something that had the potential to kill Jensen dead. There was no way, he thought, that he could survive another heartache like the one after Jared left. He didn’t care if it made him a coward—he was scared. Scared of trusting, of loving, of Misha. He pulled out his phone.

Can’t make it tonight. Sorry.

Jensen watched from the car as Misha read the text in front of his window. His shoulders drooped and his eyes closed and stayed that way for several seconds. When he opened them again, he tapped out a text that did not match his physical reaction.

No problem. I'm grading papers anyway. Rain check?

Jensen watched Misha stare at his phone, waiting for a reply. After three minutes, his lips formed a swear (fuck) and put his phone to his ear. He started gesticulating as he paced and talked. There were a few steps to the left of the window that stole Misha away from Jensen, but he always reappeared just as Jensen reached for the ignition. He had to be talking to Vicki, Jensen figured, which made him blush. He would have to face Vicki everyday of Imogen’s third grade year, and now she knew he’d stood up her best friend. Wonderful.

He started the car without further hesitation. He needed whiskey and a blowjob. Being in Capitol Hill, there was no shortage of bars that would yield him both in short order. He pulled up to the first one he saw—Madison Pub—and hurried inside. It was surprisingly low-key, with a traditional pub feel to it. A quick scan of the room told him that yes, Madison’s would get him what he needed.

He shed his heavy jacket; happy he’d chosen a fitted tee shirt for his failed date with Misha. He’d almost worn his favorite, knobby fisherman’s sweater, which would have done him no favors in his pursuit of sex. A tall blond eyed him from across the room. With a quirk of his brow, Jensen gave him the all clear to make his approach.

“Hey,” the man said when he got close enough for Jensen to smell his Aqua Gio cologne. “What are you drinking?”

“Jameson, straight up,” Jensen said, leaning his back against the tall bar ledge. The guy was attractive in the most traditional sense; big muscles, broad shoulders, tapered waist, artfully mussed hair. He could have been a catalog model, so yeah, he’d do.

“You look familiar,” the guy was saying when Jensen bothered to pay attention. “What’s your name?”

“Ross,” he said automatically giving his middle name. He and Jared had been Out cover boys several times and were revered in the gay community—until, of course, the community had turned on Jared for going straight. The last thing Jensen wanted was to be a trophy fuck or worse, have his trolling in the tabloids the next morning.

“I’m Chad,” the blond said, although Jensen didn’t care.

The bartender put a glass of Jameson in front of Jensen, which he greedily drank down. After a second, he finally turned to Chad, letting his eyes fall half-closed.

“I’m not looking for anything outside of tonight,” he said, not bothering to use his best flirty voice. If Chad wasn’t interested, he’d just move on to the next contender. It wasn’t his usual M.O., but Jensen was desperate to forget. “So, you wanna?”

Chad’s blond eyebrows—so different than Jared or Misha’s—lifted in shock. His laugh came out as a stutter. “Well all right then,” he said. “Your place or mine?”

“Neither,” Jensen said, reaching out and trailing a finger down Chad’s toned arm.

“Yeah, okay,” Chad drained his own drink and stood. He moved toward the bathroom behind the kitchen, throwing a come hither look over his shoulder that, under different circumstances, would have made Jensen roll his eyes.

It didn’t take long for Chad to pull Jensen into a stall and slam him against the graffiti-covered wall. Jensen avoided the kiss Chad aimed at his mouth, letting the man lick and bite at his neck instead.

“No marks,” Jensen snapped at a particularly sharp bite. He settled his palms on Chad’s shoulders and applied pressure, ready to skip the foreplay and get to business. Guilt was already seeping into Jensen’s chest, but he batted it away and concentrated on Chad’s smirk as he sank to his knees.

His head jerked back and hit the flimsy wall behind him as Chad swallowed him down. Months, he thought as Chad worked. It’s been months. Jared had always loved sucking his cock, and looking back, he should have known the last time was The Last Time. Jared had used every trick he’d known—including some Jensen couldn’t remember him using before; He’d damn near worshipped his cock, taking his time and ultimately crying when Jensen had finally come.

Jensen thrust hard into Chad’s mouth, punishing him for sins of Jared’s past. He looked down to remind himself that the blond gagging around him was not his ex.

“Sorry,” he had the decency to mumble. He planted his hands on Chad’s head to prevent the other man from pulling away. It felt good, but he had no desire to draw the experience out. The whiskey was working its magic, warming and relaxing his muscles. He kept his movements shallow, and when he felt his orgasm rushing up on him, he pushed Chad away and stroked himself once, twice, and came with a relieved grunt.

His head hit the wall again and he briefly considered repaying the man’s favor, but Chad was already working it out on his own. Jensen tucked himself back into his jeans and politely waited while Chad finished. He widened his stance to avoid getting a shot of come on his shoes.

“Thanks,” Jensen said, his hand on the door before Chad was finished moaning through his release. “I needed that.”
**
~Misha~

It didn’t take long for Vicki to convince Misha to meet her at Madison’s for a round of post blow-off drinks. School night or not, being stood up for the first time in a decade warrants at least three shots. He waved to Vicki as he made his way from the front door to the bar, but before he made it five steps, he was ambushed from the side, knocking him off balance.

“Watch it,” he snapped, shoving at the body using his as a support beam. “Drunk assho—Jen?”

“Heeeey, handsome,” Jensen pressed back into Misha and smacked a kiss on the side of his neck.

Misha’s mouth worked, opening and closing, but no sound came out. Jensen was standing next to him, not curled up around Seth at home, but in the middle of a gay bar in his own neighborhood. He’d been stood up, but he’d apparently misjudged the reasons behind it.

“Are you drunk?” Misha finally managed to get out.

“Definitely,” Jensen said unrepentantly as he started pushing Misha towards the bar. “You need to catch up.”

Misha didn’t resist as they approached the bar, where Vicki watched with wide-eyed surprise. The bartender lit up like the Griswold’s house at Christmas when he saw Jensen.

“Back so soon?” The bartender asked with an audacious wink. Misha thunked against the bar, Jensen’s weight pressing against him from behind.

“Misha needs a drink,” he declared before asking: “What do you want, Mish?”

“Two Cowboy Cocksuckers,” Vicki suggested, staring openly at the man she’d only ever seen inside the hallowed halls of Seattle Waldorf, looking stuffy and staid in his collared shirts and casual blazers.

“Make it three,” Jensen slurred. “I need another one of those.”

“I don’t think Chad qualifies as a cowboy,” the bartender laughed as he poured the shots into three glasses. He’d yet to acknowledge Misha or Vicki’s presence, even though they stood between Jensen and the bar. “But he’s one a hell of a cocksucker, huh?”

Misha whipped his head around to gape at Jensen, who’d thrown his head back and laughed loudly. He played the words again in his head, and he was fairly certain that Beefy McBiceps was insinuating that Jensen had gotten a blowjob from some plebe named Chad.

“He was all right,” Jensen said and pulled a face Misha had never seen before. “The Russian Judge gives him a five for technique and a three for creativity.”

Beefy slammed his fist on the top of the bar and roared with laughter. “Damn, Jensen,” he said once he settled into a chuckle. “This round is on me.”

“What the hell?” Vicki asked, poking Misha in the side to get his attention. “He stood you up so he could score a backroom blowjob? Let’s get out of here.”

He listened to Jensen and the bartender trade a few more lines of innuendo and outright flirting before he admitted Vicki had a point. He downed his shot, licked his lips and gently pushed Jensen’s weight away so he could free his body. He twisted slightly and followed Vicki away from the bar.

“Hey, wait,” Jensen grabbed him by both arms and jerked him back. His feet stumbled over themselves, but before he could fall, he hit Jensen’s chest. “You just got here. Don’t leave.”

“You didn’t want to see me earlier,” Misha said before he could stop himself. Damn, his words sounded as pouty as his voice. He coughed once and forced himself to regain control. “You stay here and continue the destruction of your liver. Fun, wooo!”

“I want to go with you,” Jensen wrapped his arm around Misha’s middle and bent him slightly forward. He nuzzled into the back of the other man’s neck, using his teeth to nip at the tender skin not covered by Misha’s dark hair or his blue shirt. “It’s about time we screw, don’t you think?”

“What the hell?” Vicki’s concerned voice broke through the sudden hazy fog of impending bad decisions banging around in Misha’s head. He couldn’t think of a reason why he shouldn’t engage in some extracurricular activities with the man he’d wanted since first laying eyes on him.

“I—I don’t think I should leave him like this,” Misha said on a gasp as Jensen licked the skin he’d just bit. “I can’t let him drive home. It would be irr—irresponsible to leave him on his own.”

Vicki snorted, unimpressed by his weak good Samaritan act. She patted his chest and said something that sounded like ‘baseline tortellini signals bare’, but he was pretty sure that wasn’t right. It was difficult to focus on anything that wasn’t Jensen’s mouth. She left him on his own, just like a good best friend should when a pretty ass presented itself for the taking. God, he loved the woman.

Jensen manhandled him around, bringing them chest to chest. There was no hesitation when the kiss finally came; both mouths met, open and ready to play. If he’d stopped to search his memory, Misha would not have been capable of finding a dirtier kiss than that one. Standing in the middle of the moderately crowded Madison Pub, with Rufus Wainwright warbling through the speakers, they moaned and gasped and grabbed and twisted. When loud catcalls and applause broke through their bubble of sexual tension, it was Misha that pulled away.

“Jen, wait,” he stepped away when Jensen moved to kiss him again. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Yeah, okay,” Jensen staggered forward and slung an arm over Misha’s shoulders, leaning heavily into his side. He pressed his lips to whatever skin he could find and let Misha steer them from the bar. “Your place or mine?”

Misha chuckled, gripping Jensen’s waist tight. The thought of fucking Jensen in the same house as Jared held a certain appeal, but Imogen… Christ. He paused with his key in the door of his car.

Jensen pushed against him, angling their faces to kiss again, but Misha held tight to the thought of Imogen and pushed him away.

“No, wait,” he said with a beleaguered sigh. “This is a bad idea. We have to stop.”

“What?” Jensen let his hands drop to his side. His eyebrows tilted down in confusion. “Why?”

“You’re drunk,” Misha said, waving a hand in the air to encompass Jensen generally. “Really drunk. You’ll regret this when you sober up. I don’t want you like this.”

“You don’t want me?”

“Jesus, Jensen,” Misha said with a roll of his eyes. “Don’t go all Bella Swan on me now. I said I don’t want you like this. You know damn well I want you. But I want you when you’ve decided that you want me—when you’re sober.”

“You’re an idiot,” Jensen said fervently.

“Yeah,” Misha agreed. He opened the passenger side door and carefully lowered Jensen into the seat, who grumbled about fairness and cock teases. “What’s your address?

“I don’t even fucking know,” Jensen laughed.

“Right,” Misha said, feeling justified in his decision to put a kibosh on the drunken sex. He ignored his dick’s angry throb of protest. “Give me your phone.”

The familiar phone was thrown at Misha with little regard. He fumbled in the air a few seconds before settling the phone in his palm. He slid his finger across the screen to unlock it, tried valiantly to ignore the smiling picture of Imogen missing her two front teeth, and went to Jensen’s contacts. He found the name he wanted and pressed dial.

“Hey man,” Jared said in greeting. The familiarity of those words jabbed Misha in the gut.

“Uh,” Misha started and then cleared his throat. “Jared?”

There was a pause. “Who’s this?”

“This is,” he rubbed his fingers over his forehead and screwed his courage to its sticking point. It was official. He was in Hell—the level reserved for horny teachers who lusted after damaged single fathers, where the punishment was awkward phone calls from bar parking lots. “This is Misha Collins. Imogen’s teacher? Jen’s, uh, Jensen’s friend?”

“Ah.”

“You called Jared?” Jensen sputtered from inside the car, reaching out to snatch the phone away, but Misha simply stepped away.

“Jensen is a little drunk,” he said into the phone. “I need your address so I can get him home.”

“He doesn’t handle alcohol well,” Jared said with a laugh. “Did he drink whiskey?”

“I’m not sure,” Misha prevaricated. He eyed Jensen, who was lolling his head on the back of the seat, moaning. “I found him like this. Why?”

“Whiskey is his fuck or fight.”

“Then, yes,” Misha said, thinking back to Cowboy Chad, and the way Jensen had used his tongue to count and catalog every single one of Misha’s teeth. “I think he’s had whiskey. A lot of it.”

“Did he punch…?”

“No.”

“Ah.”

Misha leaned his forehead against the top of his little sedan and sighed. This was the most inappropriate conversation he’d ever had with a parent—outside of damn near everything he’d ever said to Jensen.

After a few more beats of silence, Jared gave him the address in Queen Anne. He closed the passenger side door and made his way to the driver’s seat. By time he buckled his seat belt, Jensen was asleep.
**
Misha gave himself a minute to admire the beautiful Victorian house before opening his door. He wasn’t surprised by its size, given how Jensen openly complained about the hulking and largely unnecessary space. He reckoned he could fit his little house inside it five times over.

Before the engine stopped clicking, Jared was in the driveway, hands out and ready to assist. “Hey,” he said when Misha got out. “He’s asleep, huh?”

“Yeah, passed out before we ever left the parking lot,” Misha confirmed. “His car is still there.”

“I’ll send someone over to get it,” Jared said, opening the door and reaching in to unbuckle Jensen. “Thanks for getting him home safely.”

“Leave me the fuck alone,” Jensen snarled at Jared and tried to bat his ex’s hands away. “Why couldn’t you just stay away? You already have everything. Let me have this.”

“Jen,” Jared huffed and bent low to snag an arm around his waist. “Let’s talk about this tomorrow, without the whiskey.”

“Don’t you dare call me that,” Jensen said, renewing his struggle to get free. “Only Misha can call me that.”

“Hey, hey,” Misha hurried around the other side of the car and snuck a hand between Jensen and Jared, the latter of whom was staring at Misha with narrowed eyes. “Jen, hey, come on. He’s just trying to help me get you inside.”

“I don’t need his fucking help,” Jensen said. He gestured widely at the house and the driveway, where his Range Rover was probably always parked. “He’s got me set up like a god damn kept woman. I don’t need any of it!”

Misha spared a glance at Jared, who had stepped away with pinched features.

“Why are you wearing the ring?” Jensen yelled, holding onto the open car door to keep his balance. “What the fuck is that about? You left us. Take it off!”

The situation was rapidly deteriorating. The fuck seemed to have fled the scene, leaving only the fight. There was no reasoning with the whiskey flowing through his system. Given a choice between the two, there really was no choice. Misha inhaled through his blush, steadfastly refused to acknowledge Jared’s presence—except of course Jared as a witness to what he was about to do was the reason for the blush—and moved closer to Jensen.

“Come on, Jen,” Misha whispered, pressing his cheek in order to Jensen’s to speak directly into his ear. He could smell the alcohol just under his skin, and wafting off his breath. “Let’s get you inside, get you undressed…put you to bed.”

Jensen made a sound that Misha categorized as a whimper and then twisted to press their lips together. Misha allowed the kiss, letting him lick and suck and drive for a handful of delicious seconds.

“There it is,” Misha breathed, running a hand up the other man’s side. He could almost pretend it was just the two of them, standing in the chilly Washington air, lazily kissing the evening away at the end of a perfect first date.

“Please,” Jensen begged, which needed no further description. He said the word the way people moan for water after crossing an unforgiving desert, and damn if Misha wasn’t the one with the frosty cold canteen.

All Jensen wanted, Misha reasoned, was a little relief; a little closeness, a little sex. What was the harm in giving in to such a pretty plea? There was nothing left for Misha to do but start for the front door. As he helped Jensen brush past Jared, he ducked his head.

The foyer lights were down low when Misha pushed the front door open. He cast a quick look around, surprised by the simplistic theme of the décor. Before he could make a courteous comment, Jensen had him pushed into the corner, crushing the ficus tree living there. Thirty seconds, Misha thought as he opened his mouth once again to Jensen’s tongue. Thirty more seconds and I’ll put an end to this.

Jared shut the door and stood just inside Misha’s field of vision, reminding him of things he didn’t want to remember. Namely? That Jensen did not belong to him.

He used his grip on Jensen’s hips—how did they get there?—to steer Jensen toward the stairs. Jared slipped under one of Jensen’s arms and peeled him away from Misha. When Jensen made loud protest, Misha moved closer and drew Jensen’s other arm over his shoulder. As the unlikely trio made their way up the stairs as the drunken man continued to pepper Misha’s face and neck with mouthing little kisses. It was the longest trip of Misha’s life; he was exhausted by time their bizarre threesome shouldered their way into Jensen’s bedroom.

“There you go,” Misha said as Jensen sank into his cushy bed. With a sigh, he rolled onto his stomach and hiked one leg up almost to his chest. All thoughts of sex seemed to be forgotten in favor of sleep. “Sleep well, Jen.”

It was anticlimactic to say the least. Fuck my life, Misha thought as he turned to leave the room.

“Thanks for bringing him home,” Jared said, following him out. He clicked the light off, but left the door open. Misha hoped Jensen wouldn’t choke on his own vomit in the middle of the night.

“I didn’t mean any disrespect,” Misha said as they descended the stairs. “It’s just… you said it was fuck or fight. I figured, you know, one was better than the other.”

“I get that,” Jared said with a grin. They stood in the foyer, awkward and shifting. “Good thinking. Sorry if it was a hardship.”

“No, no,” Misha shook his head and hedged his way to the door. “Anything for a friend, you know?”

“So you’re Imogen’s teacher,” Jared said unnecessarily. He propped one of his stupidly muscular Hollywood pin-up boy shoulders against the front door, barring Misha’s escape. “How’s she doing in your class?”

Misha blinked as he tried to shift mental gears. Jared wanted to talk about his little girl’s progress in second grade just minutes after Misha’s tongue had been in his ex-husband’s mouth. Yeah, he needed a minute before he could turn on the Mr. Collins Teacher Routine. He could normally rely on his desk to keep a discernible divide between him and the parents. He could shuffle his papers and flip through his grade book in order to maintain his position of authority.

He didn’t have any of those tools at his disposal for his parent-teacher conference with Jared Padalecki, who was towering over him like some ridiculously hot Big Foot. He made an indignant sound. He was tired of these men unbalancing his world.

“Perhaps it would be best to discuss Imogen’s studies at the school?” He finally suggested, pointedly putting a hand on the doorknob. “It’s getting late…”

“Right, sorry,” Jared offered him a smile that crooked the sides of his mouth, but didn’t move away from the door. “Did you want to stay over? There’s a guest room.”

“Aren’t you staying in there?” Misha asked and then had to fight to keep from punching himself in the face. “I mean…”

“There’s room for two,” Jared said, sliding his shoulder across the door to lean over Misha. “If we get close.”

“Jesus,” Misha jerked away, nearly falling over the ficus tree again. Leaves fell to the floor at his feet in a little ficus tree temper tantrum that Misha could totally relate to. “I really do have to go.”

Finally—finally—Jared pushed himself upright and opened the door for Misha. He wasted no time in speed walking down the driveway and practically throwing himself into his car. He barely checked the traffic on the quiet street before roaring away—well, as much roaring as a Toyota Corolla could muster.

Jared Padalecki had hit on him. Even after seeing Jensen clinging to him, Jared had made a very blatant move. Jensen had always been vague about what had happened between he and Jared, but Misha had been able to secure some of the details through Google (he was not proud). The infamous Jared Padalecki—the only out gay actor who could carry a mainstream movie to the top of the lists—had announced his engagement to a woman named Genevieve Cortese, as well as the expected arrival of his first biological child, a little over a year prior. He’d found dozens of rumors that pointed to Genevieve as the live-in nanny to Jared and Jensen’s adopted daughter, Imogen. There, of course, had been a scandal; but Misha had never cared enough to pay attention—until he’d met Jensen.

“That dick,” Misha said into the silence of his car.

He scraped his fingers through his hair and slapped the steering wheel in frustration. Part of him wanted to close himself off, to walk away from whatever had been developing between him and Jensen.

“He’s not worth it,” Misha muttered, but as soon as the words were out, he scoffed at the sentiment. “He is worth it.”

There was no way he would let himself be chased away by a pretentious actor so bored by his life that he had to cultivate misery and drama in the lives of others. He would not allow Jared to infect his friendship with Jensen. If Jared was looking for a fight—a competition—then Misha was happy to oblige. To the winner went the spoils: Jensen. Game fucking on.
**
~Jensen~

The incessant beeping of his alarm clock was slow to pull Jensen from his comatose-like sleep. He didn’t open his eyes when he groped his night table to slap the snooze button. The damage was done, he was awake, but he instinctively kept his eyes tightly shut. He could feel—oh god, he could feel—the throbbing in his temples that reminded him of his time in the whiskey bottle.

His memory was full of blurry images that made very little sense. He had cancelled his plans with Misha and had gone to a bar in Capitol Hill. He recalled the early rounds of Jameson with unerring clarity, but it got fuzzy somewhere around the time Misha had shown up. There was something about a phone call… and a ficus? Oh. And the blowjob from that guy… what was his name?

“Daddy?” Imogen whispered from his bedside as she pulled back the covers and slipped in for their traditional morning snuggle. Jensen jerked in surprise and blushed a guilty red as he violently shoved the image of a blond man on his knees to the recesses of his mind. Imogen’s tiny feet rubbed against his jean-clad legs, seeking warmth for her cold toes. “Why did you sleep in your clothes?”

“I was really tired,” he whispered back, causing his head to give an additional stab of pain. He swallowed and determinedly continued their morning routine. “Did you sleep well?”

“I dreamed that I lived in Barbie’s Dream House,” she giggled and pushed her head into the crook of his arm. He curled his forearm around her, pulling her closer. “I was a ballerina. Ken was there.”

“Of course he was,” Jensen said. “How about Skipper? Was she there, too?”

“Oh yes,” Imogen nodded. “We had a fancy party and I had to wear my Easter dress and gloves. It was pretty cool.”

“Sounds it,” he agreed and tentatively opened his eyes. He didn’t have the luxury of nursing his hangover; his daughter needed breakfast and a ride to school. She did not need to see him sick after a night of indulgence. “What do you want for breakfast this morning? Cereal?”

“Waffles,” she corrected him. “I’m starving.”

Gah, he thought as his stomach flopped over itself.

“I’m going to wake Papa up,” she said, pulling away from Jensen quickly, as if she’d just remembered her other father’s presence. Shit. Shitshitshit… he had forgotten. That meant that the half-formed memory of his arm slung around Jared’s shoulder…was Misha there?… was more than likely real.

“I’ll lay your clothes out on your bed,” Jensen called after her. She turned back to roll her eyes to let him know that she knew how it worked.

He sat up slowly, more willing to baby his traitorous body with his daughter out of the room. Cupping his head in both hands, he stood and staggered to his bathroom. He downed several aspirin and so much water that it sloshed dangerously in his stomach. After brushing his teeth and a hot shower, he felt more human and headed down to make breakfast.

“Morning, sunshine,” Jared greeted him as soon as he crossed the threshold to the kitchen. “How you feeling?”

“Fantastic,” he mumbled as he pulled out the ingredients for waffles. He felt the muscles of his back tensing and disagreeing with his proclamation, but he pretended not to notice.

“So, about last night…” Jared started, but trailed off when Imogen skipped in, her Tinker Bell shoes shooting red lasers into Jensen’s sore eyes. “Uh, the Book Fair is today?”

“Crud,” Jensen said as he cracked eggs into the waffle mixture. He’d promised to introduce Jared to Misha at the Book Fair—and to the joys of parental involvement. “Yeah, okay, Book Fair. Do you have your list, Immy?”

“I want the Camp Rock Mad Libs,” she said, diving into her book bag for the newspaper-print Scholastic Books ad. “And the Guinness Book of World Records. And the poster with the kitten on it. Oooh, and the Harry Potter box set.”

“That’s a tall order,” Jensen said with a warning glance at his daughter. “We talked about this. You have a fifteen-dollar budget. Christmas is around the corner.”

“But Dad,” Imogen whined.

“Don’t but Dad me,” Jensen cut her off as he put the syrup and milk on the table. “Fifteen dollars.”

“Jensen,” Jared said with a laugh. “I think we can afford more than that.”

“See?” Imogen crawled into her chair. “Papa says—”

“I said no,” Jensen snapped, his voice louder than normal. His brain slammed into the back of his skull in protest. He turned toward Imogen and Jared with a spatula held out in front of him. “One more word about it and you get nothing, you hear me? And Jared, there is no we, so butt out.”

Imogen’s cheeks and neck flushed a bright pink as she flinched away. Son of a bitch, Jensen thought, angry at himself for taking his frustration out on his daughter. He took a step toward her, but she made a mouse of a sound and hurried out of her chair, straight into Jared’s outstretched arms.

“Maybe you should just let me handle the Book Fair,” Jared said, as if he was capable of doing anything remotely responsible. Jensen wanted to claw the superior expression from his face. “If you’re snapping at us over fifteen dollars, I can’t imagine you’ll do better with kids you aren’t supposed to love.”

“No, I,” Jensen stammered, embarrassed. He’d never really yelled at Imogen before; she was a biddable and easygoing child who always followed the rules. “Immy. I’m sorry I yelled. I have a headache.”

He took another step closer to his frightened daughter—and didn’t that just kick him in the teeth, Imogen frightened of him—but Jared shook his head. Instead, he retreated to the stove and wordlessly cooked several large waffles. By time he put them on a serving dish in the middle of the table, Imogen had returned to her own chair and was telling Jared about Justin Bieber’s new 3D movie, which was due out at Christmas.

“Why don’t I see about getting tickets for the LA opening?” Jared suggested, sounding almost as excited as his star struck daughter. He grabbed two waffles and doused them with syrup and butter.

“Omigod!” Imogen squealed, her hands waving in front of her chest like she was seizing. “Could you really? Madison would freak.”

“It could be one of our dates,” Jared added.

“Silly Papa,” Imogen laughed and rolled her eyes, but Jensen knew she loved her dates with Jared.

It was stupid, really, but Jared insisted on Imogen sharing five ‘dates’ with him before he would allow her to actually date a boy. From Jensen’s memory, they’d already racked up way more than the requisite five, but the tradition remained.

“Let me make a call,” Jared said, obviously proud of his ability to enchant his daughter, his number one fan. “Justin and I are with the same agent, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I didn’t know that,” Jensen said before he could remind himself that he didn’t care. He’d been involved in the Hollywood game so long that he knew all the players. “Isn’t he with Creative Arts? What happened with United Talent? You’ve been with them for years.”

“It was time for a change,” Jared said with a shrug. “UT can’t handle the major deals like Creative Arts can.”

“Right,” Jensen turned his attention to his own waffle, which he coated with raspberry jam from the northern part of the state; Washington was a gold mine of fresh fruit products. He’d canceled his subscriptions to all the Hollywood dailies—and weeklies and monthlies. Now he read Mother Jones and Poets & Writers.

“You never really liked UT,” Jared said after a beat of silence.

“That’s true,” he nodded. The move from United Talent to Creative Arts marked the first time that Jared had made such a big career decision without consulting Jensen. Rather, it was the first one Jensen had heard about. He offered Jared a small smile because it turned out that it didn’t hurt like he’d expected it to. “Sounds like a good move.”

“I’m going to marry Justin Bieber,” Imogen said, still breathless at the mere idea of meeting her idol. “I just know it.”

Jared and Jensen exchanged horrified looks and then laughed together. It didn’t matter why they were laughing, Jensen decided, it just mattered that they were laughing. Together, like they were friends.

Maybe today will not suck, Jensen thought.

**
Jensen leaned against the counter at his post in the library, willing his head to stop throbbing. The first wave of students filed through the double doors, chattering in excitement. He nodded at the teacher—he knew them all by now—as she followed the students in.

“Wow, I forgot how exciting book fairs were when we were kids,” Jared remarked as he restocked a tub of scented pencils near the cash register. He leaned next to Jensen and grinned as a bevy of giggling girls braved a glance his way. “This is awesome.”

A second class arrived and the library was officially at capacity. Jensen pushed himself upright and sighed. He liked to walk around and make suggestions to the kids, but he was tethered to the check out.

“Go ahead,” Jared said with a laugh and shove at Jensen’s shoulder. “I know you want to go out there. I’ll handle this.”

“Yeah?” Jensen took a half step toward the crowd, but hesitated. “You sure?”

“I used to work at the Taco Shack, remember?” Jared said. “If I can handle hungry Texans during the lunch hour rush, I think I can handle these kids.”

He didn’t need any prodding after that. Despite his headache, Jensen really did want to get involved with the children. He wandered around and talked to the students he knew, and introduced himself to those he didn’t. Time slid away like it always did when he was working in the school and before he realized it, Imogen was hugging his waist.

“Hey, monkey,” he said, returning the hug even though his hands were full of How to Train Your Dragon books. “Did you find your books?”

“We just got here,” she said, already looking around at the brightly colored displays. She spotted Jared across the room and waved happily at him. “I’m going to look around. I saw a Junie B. Jones book I haven’t read yet. Maybe I’ll get that instead of the Mad Libs.”

She was off before he could tell her that he’d already squirreled a copy of the Junie B. Jones behind the counter with Jared. He smiled after her, glad that he knew his daughter so well.

“You look like you’re feeling better.”

Jensen whirled around and came face to face with Misha, who stood a respectable distance away. His face flushed in embarrassment, for he was positive that he’d made an ass out of himself in front of the teacher the night before.

“Hey, Misha.”

“Don’t worry,” Misha smiled kindly. “I’m not going to talk about last night; not here anyway. Except to say I want to try again, without Chad or the whiskey.”

“Chad!” Jensen snapped his fingers; glad to have a name for the faceless blond that blew him the night before. He flushed as soon as he realized Misha stood watching him with forced amusement. “I mean, um. Look, I’m sorry for whatever I might have said. Or, you know, done.”

“You don’t remember,” Misha said. It wasn’t a question.

“Mr. Ackles,” Imogen’s friend, Madison, tugged on his sleeve, saving him from further humiliating himself. “Imogen said she is going to meet Justin Bieber. Is that true?”

As he worked to temper the little girl’s excitement, Misha disappeared into the crowd. Jensen had never been so thankful for a rabid Bieber fan in his life. He led Madison through the sea of kids to meet Jared, who Madison swore was her favorite—after The Biebs, of course.

“Misha said you don’t remember anything,” Jared said, in a low voice that didn’t carry to the students queued up to pay for their books.

“Really, Jay?” Jensen said in exasperation. “You want to talk about this now?”

“Nah, nothing to talk about,” Jared said with a brilliant smile at the pretty little girl in front of them. She blushed a hideous shade of violet and stumbled away, her Charlie Bones book clutched to her chest. “Or least, there must not be. Dude, you were all over that man, so if you don’t remember it, then yeah, I’d say there’s probably nothing to talk about.”

“Oh god,” Jensen groaned. He didn’t remember, not really, but that was par for the course for him when it came to heavy drinking. He’d managed to resist Misha for so long—only to blow it in a night of extreme stupidity. “Wait. You… saw? How did you…?”

“Misha drove you home,” Jared said with a shake of his head. “You nearly destroyed the ficus when you tackled him.”

“God,” Jensen whispered and fell into a plastic chair beside Jared. “I do remember something about the ficus.”

“Oh hey,” Jared said as if he just remembered something important. Jensen rolled his eyes, because he knew his ex like he knew himself. That oh hey meant that Jared was about to tell him something that could potentially lead to a fight. Jensen braced for impact. “Genevieve and Tyson will be here tomorrow.”

“Fantastic,” Jensen groaned and slid his right hand into place, covering his mouth and lower jaw. Just what he needed; the bitch that thought Imogen was disposable. He fought the urge to punch the ever-loving shit out of Jared—Seattle Waldorf had a zero tolerance for violence.

“We’re going to stay at the Alexis,” Jared continued as he handed a teenage boy his change and an autograph. “I thought maybe I could take Imogen with me for the weekend; let her hang out with Tyson on neutral ground or something.”

“What happened to her coming next week?”

“I’m not sure,” Jared admitted and when Jensen looked at him, he could tell Jared was tired. “She texted me a couple of hours ago to let me know.”

“I need to talk to Misha,” Jensen said without meaning to do so. He felt his cheeks heat up under Jared’s stare. “To apologize.”

“Right,” Jared shrugged and leaned his hip against the counter. The tide of children was ebbing as the lunch hour neared. “He is crazy hot. I don’t blame you for trying again. Hell, I went for it.”

“You what?” Jensen froze from his shoulders to the very tips of his toes, shod as they were in soft Italian leather. It was there, the bottom, waiting to drop out from under him. If Misha had—if Jared had… he couldn’t even finish the thought.

“You know,” Jared said and tilted his head and simultaneously lifted his eyebrows. “You were passed out and he was there, apologizing for kissing you, saying he just did it to get you inside. I figured he wasn’t interested in you.”

“But Genevieve,” Jensen said, his stomach clenching ominously.

“Yeah, well,” the younger man shrugged and chuckled. “He shot me down, so no worries.”

Jensen was appalled. He’d never been confronted by Jared’s cheating so directly, so cavalierly. Was that how it’d always been? Jared reaching out to take what he wanted, regardless of his relationship status? He didn’t envy Genevieve… not anymore.

“Good on you for getting back in there,” Jared continued with a punch to Jensen’s shoulder. “If someone sympathy kissed me, though, I’d probably just let it go.”

He hadn’t expected Jared to blatantly lie to him, not about Misha at least. He had no vested interest in Misha, hell; he had no vested interest in Jensen. He nodded because Jared was expecting some sort of response to his cruelly aimed words.

“You’re right,” Jensen jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the exit. Had Misha not sought him out so quickly, Jensen would have believed Jared’s version of events. “I just… need a few minutes. You got this under control?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” Jared pressed his lips into a thin line and creased his brow. “Take all the time you need, man. That guy’s a dick. I’m here if you want to talk it out.”

Jensen backed away, carefully schooling his features into feigned disappointment. Actually, it wasn’t feigned at all. He was well and truly disappointed that Jared had let him down yet again. He’d thought they’d be able to salvage some sort of friend-based relationship, but the fact that he was willing to continue to deliberately hurt him was proof enough for Jensen that that would not be the case.

He walked slowly from the library, taking a left toward the lobby instead of the right that would take him to Misha’s classroom. If he went out the front door of the school and skirted the side of the building, he could enter the building again near the gym and double back to Misha without being seen.

As he walked along the sidewalk, wrapping his arms in front of his chest against the crisp Seattle air, he rolled Jared’s words around his head. He gathered his ex had propositioned Misha, and Misha had turned him down. He was surprised Misha hadn’t mentioned that pertinent fact to him—although not really. He could believe that Misha would not wield his knowledge as a weapon against him.

Jensen blinked against the realization that someone cared about him enough to 1) turn down sex with Jared Padalecki and 2) not want to hurt him.

In less time than he could make sense of, he found himself hovering outside of his daughter’s classroom, cautiously peering in between the plastic beads of the curtain in the doorway. Imogen’s tiny feet dangled from her chair, her heel knocking rhythmically against her chair, sending bursts of red lights skittering around the room. The other students didn’t seem to notice; perhaps they’d grown accustomed to her fidgeting.

Misha stood next to the Promethean board, coaching a student through a complex sequencing exercise. He was crouched down to the boy’s level, both hands on his knees, as he explained why the quarter followed the nickel and then the penny. His smile had crinkled the edges of his eyes, and it took Jensen’s breath away. As he straightened to allow the boy to try again, he caught sight of Jensen.

“Go ahead, Dillon,” he said with a reassuring pat on the boy’s shoulder. “Ladies and gentlemen, please take out your spelling books and review the list for the test on Friday. I am stepping into the hallway and I want you all to be as quiet as Lux and Bonnie, okay? Blaine, I’m leaving you in charge.”

Jensen stepped away from the doorway, wanting to avoid the watchful eyes of the class. He was not a stranger to the room, but his arrival always caused a small wave as the students updated him on their recent accomplishments.

“Is everything okay?” Misha asked as soon as he was out of the room.

“Why did you leave Blaine in charge?” Jensen asked, letting his nerves get the better of him. “He’s a troublemaker.”

“Did you disrupt my class to question my decision-making abilities?” Misha asked with a shake of his head. Jensen took in his serious look—made more severe by his buttoned waistcoat, pinstriped pants and fiery red pocket square—and swallowed his nerves. “Come on, Jensen, just say it.”

It was too late to back out, but damn, Jensen wished he’d taken a moment to come up with some intelligible words before he’d burst into Misha’s classroom. Yeah, he seriously wished that were the case.

“I, uh.”

“Well, that’s a start,” Misha taunted him. Jensen had never realized how cold those blue eyes could get. “Could we hurry this along so I can return to my class?”

“Just shut up and give me a minute,” Jensen reached up to cover his mouth, but changed his mind. He was done nursing his pain. “I’m sorry I don’t remember last night.”

“It’s fine,” Misha sighed and shifted as if he intended to return to his classroom. “Look, I need to—”

“I said give me a minute,” Jensen said and reached out to grab Misha’s arm. With one firm yank, Misha was tethered to Jensn’s chest. Highly inappropriate, but for just a moment, Misha allowed it. “I want to remember, you idiot. Next time. Next time, I want to remember.”

Misha blinked at him, his head tilted slightly back to make up for the scant inches that separated them in height. Jensen stayed still, letting the other man look his fill. He watched in fascination as the blue of Misha’s eyes thawed out and turned warm and sparkling once again. And Jesusgod, had he really used the word sparkling to describe Misha’s eyes?

“I want you to remember, too,” Misha said in not much more than a whisper.

“Slowly,” Jensen said with a significant glance toward the classroom where the noise level was steadily increasing, despite Blaine’s supervision. “We’ll start with dinner tonight.”

“Don’t stand me up again,” Misha commanded.

“I won’t. And… about Imogen,” he said and his forehead crinkled out of habit. “We’re a joint package, but I need to know where this is going before I let her in. We have to be discreet.”

“Mum’s the word,” Misha said, finally letting his lips to curve into a smile. “I’ve got to get back in there. Blaine was an awful choice, wasn’t he?”

“Wait, one more thing,” Jensen said with an apologetic bend of his head. “I know what Jared did. And that you said no.”

Misha nodded, the smile slipping from his face so quickly that Jensen wanted to use the tips of his fingers to drag it back into place.

“I would never,” Misha said, his voice deeper than normal. He sounded like he’d burned his throat with ash from a barrel fire.

“Thank you. Thank you,” Jensen said, increasing the pressure of his fingers around the other man’s arm. They didn’t speak for the space of several heartbeats as the sincerity of Jensen’s words wrapped around them.

“So you mentioned dinner?” Misha asked, finally breaking the silent spell. He moved away from Jensen, but so slowly that Jensen understood the reluctance.

“Yeah,” he grinned. “How about something in your neck of the woods?”

“It’s so cute,” Misha said, stepping close enough to whisper in Jensen’s ear. Jensen shivered and tilted his head closer to the rush of air tickling him. “That you say things like ‘in your neck of the woods’. Yeehaw, Cowboy.”

Jensen sputtered out a laugh and pushed Misha away. “Get back in there and teach my kid something useful,” he said. “I’ll pick you up at six.”

He watched as Misha pushed the beads aside and entered his classroom with, unless Jensen was much mistaken, a little skip to his step. Misha clapped his hands together and praised the class for their attempt at silence, which was, he told the class with a wink, one of the hardest direction they’ll ever try to follow.

Yeah, Jensen thought as he headed back to the library and Jared, silence was difficult to maintain. He wondered how long it would take before he could no longer swallow down the angry words threatening to break through his teeth to get at Jared. If he were a betting man, he decided, he wouldn’t bet against the house on that one.
**
Continue to Part 4

Cloudy (Jen) With A Chance of Misha, 2/4

evil_knitter — Tue, 28 Dec 2010 04:13:43 GMT

Continued from here

~Jensen~

“We don’t have the budget for a clown,” Jensen said with a weary shake of his head. It was the tenth committee meeting about the Holiday Festival, and he was frustrated. The women on the committee—he was of course the only father involved—had ideas much bigger than their already sizeable budget could support. “We’re already over budget by a thousand dollars. A clown would add another five hundred, easy.”

“But a Holiday Festival without balloon animals and face painting isn’t worth having,” Mrs. Shuttleworth said with a sniff. “It just isn’t right.”

“That’s what you said about the horse drawn carriage and the real-beard Santa,” Jensen reminded her. “We don’t have the—”

“If you say ‘budget’ one more time,” Mrs. Dodd chimed in, her nose pinking up in her ire. “I’ll scratch your eyes out. St. Bridget’s is having a clown.”

“Good for St. Bridget’s,” Jensen said, working hard to keep his temper in check. “But we do. Not. Have. The. Budget for a damn clown.”

“Greetings, ladies,” Misha cooed as he swept into the room, twenty minutes late, as per his usual. Jensen was quick to take in his slim-fit trousers, sweater vest and red tie. “What’s clucking in the hen house?”

“Do you even know how offensive that is?” Jensen snapped even as the women tittered in flirtatious amusement. “The meeting started at eleven o’clock. Where have you been?”

“Shaping the minds of our future,” Misha shot back, wedging a chair between Jensen and Mrs. Dodd, despite the available space further down the table. “So, catch me up. What did I miss?”

“We need a clown!” Mrs. Shuttleworth cried.

“There’s no money for a clown,” Jensen responded, throwing his pen across the table and leaping to his feet. He wondered what an aneurysm felt like, because he was seriously worried about the pounding vein in his temple. “Unless you want to dress a homeless guy in floppy red shoes and give him a can of paint from Home Depot, there’s no budget for a clown!”

“Well, I never,” Mrs. Dodd said, her eyes glittering despite the shocked look she adopted.

“Perhaps I can offer a solution,” Misha said, reaching up to touch the tips of his fingers to Jensen’s wrist. “Please, Jensen, have a seat.”

“Fine, what is this fantastic idea that the brilliant Misha Collins has conjured?” Jensen flung himself into his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. He knew he was acting like a grumpy child, but really, the women were impossible to please.

“Aw, he thinks I’m brilliant,” Misha teased, sharing a conspiring look with the Shuttleworth and Dodd bitches. “So sweet.”

“Misha,” Jensen ground out. He was used to the other man’s ostentatious flirting, but he knew it didn’t mean anything when they were in front of an audience. Misha flirted in that way with everyone. No, it was the more intimate things he said when they were alone, or could not be overheard that made Jensen crawl to the very edge of his resolve.

“I can be the clown for the bargain-basement price of free.”

“Excuse me?”

“I went to Clown College—”

“Of course you did,” Jensen said with a sigh. He closed his eyes and took a moment to add ‘attended Clown College’ to the list of reasons he could never date Misha.

“My face paintings are works of art,” Misha continued as if Jensen hadn’t spoken at all. “And my balloon animals are considered National treasures.”

“Oh, Mr. Collins,” Mrs. Dodds flapped her hands in front of teary eyes. “I should have known you would have the perfect solution. And Clown College? Aren’t you just the most clever man ever?”

Jensen snorted.

“You doubt my skills, Jensen?” Misha asked, leveling him with the full weight of his ridiculous eyes and gravelly voice. “Do you need a demonstration?”

Jensen blushed straight down to his toes. He could feel a fine sheen of sweat break out between his shoulder blades. See, that was the flirting that was dangerous to Jensen’s state of mind. The subtle, double entendres that floated over the heads of Seattlite housewives. He coughed and feigned choking on a non-existent crumb to cover the color of his face.

“Here, let me,” Misha reached into his pants pocket and slowly pulled out three long strips of rubber. Jensen watched the movement steadily, never knowing what to expect from the infuriating man. “Sit back while I blow these. Up. I’ll show you what I can do.”

Mrs. Dodd and Mrs. Shuttleworth clapped their hands and chattered happily about having such a talented and capable teacher at Seattle Waldorf. But Jensen, he was soldered to his chair, trapped watching Misha stick the rubber between his lips at close range. When Misha’s tongue flicked against the furled rim of the rubber to draw it into his mouth—oh, it was a balloon, of course he happened to have balloons in his pocket—Jensen exhaled sharply and curled his fingers around the agenda in front of him.

The balloon blew out, sticking obscenely from Misha’s mouth in an inescapable phallic shape. Jensen wanted to call foul. No fair tormenting him when he could not walk away without stirring the gossip mongering pot. All he could do was stay there and watch as Misha blew and twisted the three balloons into a long-stemmed flower with an adorable ladybug (complete with sharpie spots colored on) perched on its side. With a quirk of his eyebrows, Misha inclined his head in a mockery of a bow and presented the flower to Jensen.

“That’s fantastic!” Mrs. Shuttleworth exclaimed, reaching out to pluck the flower away from Jensen. She turned to Mrs. Dodd, who joined her in examining the balloons from several different angles. “You’ve got the job!”

Jensen forced himself to swallow and release the crumpled paper in his hands. His eyes tracked the flower being manhandled by Macbeth’s witches and wished it would pop.

“I can do it again,” Misha said softly, leaning against Jensen’s shoulder. “It doesn’t have to be a one time thing.”

“Knock it off,” he hissed, pushing the teacher away from him.

“Imogen is having a rough day,” Misha said in same soft voice. Jensen flinched at the news and found himself scooting closer to the man holding essential information about his child. “We are working on our family unit in Social Studies. The kids are creating family trees.”

“Dammit, Misha,” Jensen groaned, slapping his palm to his forehead. “You couldn’t have warned me?”

“I am sorry about that,” Misha said. “I should have called you. But honestly, I thought she would be okay. She has two parents and two sets of grandparents, right?”

“Yes,” Jensen said, casting a look at the room’s other two occupants. They were hunched over the layout of the Holiday Festival, paying the two men no attention. “But we haven’t heard from Jared in two weeks now. He’s on location in Cambodia, so the phone connection is unreliable at the best of times.”

“I see,” Misha sucked his lower lip into his mouth and slid it between his teeth absently. “You said he was coming to visit her soon, right? For the holidays?”

“Yeah,” Jensen said, rubbing his eyes and sitting upright again. “Bringing the whole family along, too. Imogen is not happy about that. I’ve had to increase her therapy to twice a week since she found out. She was looking forward to having Jared all to herself.”

“Let me help, Jen,” Misha said, laying a hand on the other man’s forearm. Jensen startled at the nickname. No one had called him Jen since he’d been potty trained.

“How?” he asked instead of denying the offer. He turned his head to look at Misha, too listless to pull away from the hand trapping his arm.

“I’ll think of something,” the teacher said with a squeeze.

“I’m so tired, Misha,” Jensen muttered. The words fell out of his mouth before he could dam them up with muddy betrayal and sharp brambles of lies. “I don’t know what to do anymore. I try and I try, but she’s getting worse. And Jared is so wrapped up in his work—in his new family—to realize she is suffering.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Misha said abruptly, jumping to his feet and pulling Jensen along. “Ladies,” he said over his shoulder as they walked out. “I simply must borrow Jensen to look at a faulty light in my classroom. Please carry on without us, but do mind the budget.”

Misha steered Jensen down the hall in the opposite direction of his classroom and directly into the teachers’ lounge. They were alone in the room, which smelled of garlic and coffee.

“Sorry, I had to get you out of there,” he said after he’d locked the door behind them. He motioned for Jensen to sit in one of the many chairs scattered around the room. “I didn’t want the hounds to descend.”

“Thanks, I’m okay,” Jensen said, trying to laugh off his temporary weakness. Imogen had a med check after school. And he needed to swing by the grocery store for milk. He needed to call a chimney sweep to clear the flue. There was too much to do for him to pander to his self-pity. “Dealing with those women make me insane. At least in LA I got to deal with the nannies instead of the god awful mothers.”

“It’s understandable,” Misha said. “For you to be tired, I mean. You are a single parent of an emotionally labile child. When was the last time you had fun?”

“Do PTA meetings count?”

“No.”

“Ah, well then,” Jensen’s forehead wrinkled in thought. A week ago, he’d taken Imogen to the Space Needle for a bird’s eye view of their new city, but she’d had a panic attack and added a fear of heights to her ever-expanding list of phobias. Before that, he’d tried a whale-watching trip to Orca Island. She’d really liked that, but then inexplicably cried all the way home. He’d tried, God help him, he’d tried everything he could to help his little girl, but he failed at every turn. “I can’t remember.”

“How long since you’ve had a night out with friends?” Misha asked, pocketing his hands and rocking back onto his heels.

“Los Angeles,” Jensen admitted, flushing under the weight of his shame. “I don’t have friends here.”

“You have me,” Misha reminded him. They had shared countless hours on the phone together, but somehow, they never managed to spend time together outside of school.

“You don’t count,” Jensen countered. “You’re Imogen’s teacher.”

“I’m her teacher and your friend. Why do you have such a hard time accepting that?”

“Because—” Jensen swallowed down desperate words, but they choked him as they clung to the walls of his throat, screaming for release. He turned his back on the infuriatingly persistent man and stared at the row of floral teacups lined up with military precision over the microwave.

“Because why?”

“Because I want you,” Jensen rasped, letting the words go, scraping his throat with their barbs. His hand came up unbidden, clamping across his lower jaw for a brief moment, but Misha’s hand was there, tugging it away again.

“Don’t do that, Jen.”

“Dammit,” Jensen growled and whirled around to face his tormentor. His legs propelled him forward without warning, landing him inside the other man’s bubble of air and space, where he was caught and cradled by two strong hands. The soft wool of Misha’s sweater vest tickled his cheek and moved rhythmically beneath his palms. “Don’t call me that. Don’t.”

“Why not?” Misha murmured, tilting his head to speak directly into Jensen’s ear. He trailed his fingers up Jensen’s back and over his shoulders, where they slid down his chest like a raft down a waterfall. “Jen.”

The touch was light, but the intention was firm. Until that day it had been months since anyone but Imogen had laid hands on him. Except, of course, Misha who asked for neither permission nor forgiveness for constantly trouncing the physical boundaries of a parent-teacher relationship. His hands moved over Jensen’s torso with confident possessiveness, and Jensen pressed into it.

When Jensen turned his head, he knew he’d given up the first and last of his defenses. Misha’s eyes had darkened into two glittering pieces of coal. He drew in a sharp breath at Misha’s dilated pupils, bizarrely recalling a documentary about love on The Discovery Channel. Something about dilated pupils being a sign of sexual attraction and love.

“Attention please,” the crackly voice of the office secretary came over the intercom. Jensen ignored it in favor of narrowing the distance between them. He licked his lips as he ducked his head the smallest degree to line his mouth up with the man who had tormented his thoughts for weeks. He was about to cross a line, but he couldn’t think of a reason why he shouldn’t. “Mr. Ackles, please report to the Clinic immediately.”

In the space of a blink, Jensen had wrenched away from Misha and tore from the room, sprinting down the hall with his head bent for speed. Worst case scenarios reported by the dozens, saluting his imagination as they marched past and dug foxholes behind his eyes. Imogen with internal bleeding following a playground fall. Imogen developing a latent bee allergy and going into anaphylactic shock. Imogen kidnapped. Imogen dead.

“No, no, no,” he chanted as he ran toward the nurse’s office. He’d stopped by earlier that day, on his way to the committee meeting, to drop off several boxes of Camp Rock Band-Aids, just because he’d found them on sale. He rounded the corner and ran into a familiar, solid wall of sinew. Jared. He didn’t pause to consider his ex’s sudden appearance, but instead shoved Jared to the side to gain entry to the clinic. “Immy! What happened?”

“She fainted,” Mrs. Valley said from her perch on the tissue-paper covered cot where Imogen’s still form laid. The nurse held a stethoscope to Imogen’s chest and held up a finger for silence.

He felt his knees connect with the hardwood floor, but there was no pain, only panic. He picked up his daughter’s limp hand and pressed it to his lips, prayers tripping around his head and out his mouth.

“Jen,” Misha squeezed through the door and folded into a kneel at Jensen’s side, his fingers sweeping a strand of hair off Imogen’s cheek. “What happened?”

“She fainted,” Jensen managed, comforted by Misha’s presence. Guilt burned a hole into his stomach; he should have been in the committee room, directly across the hall from the clinic. He should have been there the moment Imogen was brought in instead of giving in to his selfish desires. Without turning to face Jared, he asked: “What are you doing here?”

“Daddy?” Imogen’s voice barely cut through the tense silence permeating the room. “Where’s Papa?”

“I’m here,” the voice he knew as well as his own made Jensen flinch. Across the cot, Jared slowly lowered himself and took Imogen’s free hand. His eyes briefly met Jensen’s before skittering to Misha and finally falling back to his daughter’s. “Hey there, monkey. You gave us a scare.”

“You’re really here!” she squealed and shook her hand free from Jensen’s grasp in order to throw her arms around her other father’s neck. She buried her face in his neck and shuddered with overwhelming emotion. “Don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave, please don’t leave me, Papa.”

Jensen sat back on his heels, his hands falling to his thighs, the force of adrenaline rushing out of his pores left him empty and cold. His stomach twitched painfully and he considered throwing up, but in the end, he just sat there and watched his daughter beg and cling. Did he smell the same? Had he lost weight or gained muscle? Was he still cold from the air outside? Did she even remember how it felt to be held in those strong arms?

Jensen remembered. He shook his head and cringed against the unwanted memory.

He didn’t want to be hurt that Imogen had pushed him away for Jared’s brand of comfort. When they had been together as a family, he wouldn’t have thought twice about Imogen’s choice. Circumstances had changed drastically though, so he was hurt. He had sacrificed everything, but Jared was the hero in Imogen’s eyes. Yeah, it hurt pretty fucking bad.

Beside him, Misha reached out and covered Jensen’s hand with one of his own before leaning close to whisper words of support. He didn’t really understand them, but he allowed the soothing sound to keep his hysteria at bay.

“I’m going to stay for a while,” Jared was saying to Imogen. He tugged at one of the curls framing her face and watched it bounce back into place. “At least until Christmas.”

“You’re staying for Christmas?” Imogen and Jensen both said; hers was asked in breathless awe, while his was filled with suspicious accusation.

“Yeah, if that’s okay,” Jared said, once again twisting to look at Jensen. “Angelina broke her ankle, so filming is on hold for a couple of months.”

“Genevieve?” Jensen mouthed, casting an anxious look at the back of Imogen’s head. They had had ten solid years to perfect their lip-reading skills before they’d separated, and Jensen hoped they’d retained the skill.

“LA,” Jared mouthed back. “Talk later.”

“Will you stay at home?” Imogen asked hopefully. “You can tuck me in at night. And make me banana pudding!”

“I’ll be in Seattle, Immy,” Jared maneuvered until he was sitting on the cot, pulling their daughter into his lap. His back was toward Jensen, so all the kneeling pair on the floor could see of Imogen were her small feet, encased in light-up Tinker Bell tennis shoes. “But I don’t think staying with you—”

“It’s fine,” Jensen said quickly, desperate to cut Jared off and forestall Imogen’s heartbreak. He tugged his hand away from the weight of Misha’s and absently rubbed at his mouth. “There’s plenty of room.”

“Jen,” Misha said lowly. “Is that really a good idea?”

He swung his head to face Misha, to explain his reasoning, but Jared was there first.

“I’m sorry,” Jared twisted to look at Misha, his voice neutral but his eyes hostile. “Who are you?”

“Misha Collins,” he said with a polite incline of his head. “Imogen’s teacher.”

“Right, well,” Jared’s eyes tightened in the corners. “Thank you for your concern, but this is a family matter. I am taking my daughter home.”

“That is, of course, your prerogative,” Misha said without missing a beat. He stood, smoothing his dark gray sweater vest with busy hands. “Should I find someone to take your shift at the book fair tomorrow, Jen?”

“Oh, uh, no,” he said, pushing upright as well. “It’s fine, I’ll be there. Thanks Mr. Collins.”

“Yeah, my pleasure,” Misha replied after the briefest of pauses. His face and neck flushed for the first time since Jensen knew him. He reached out and ruffled Imogen’s hair. “Feel better Imogen. Don’t forget to study for the spelling test on Friday. Good day Mr. Padalecki… Mr. Ackles.”

Jensen watched Misha walk out of the room, noting the man’s stiff back and quick steps. He checked his body’s call to action, the insane compulsion to follow Misha and finish what had been disrupted in the lounge. With a deep breath, he forced his tense muscles to relax. He had been fighting the urge to give in to Misha’s relentless pursuit for over a month; he’d gotten good at convincing himself he didn’t need it.

The friendship that had blossomed from the pursuit was invaluable to Jensen, despite his earlier attempt to disavow it. Misha was right; they were friends. They had shared hundreds of texts since they’d met—some about Imogen, but most were not. They had talked on the phone—actually talked—so much that Jensen gave thanks for unlimited mobile minutes. Yeah, he had taken it all for granted.

There was little doubt that he’d hurt Misha by calling him Mr. Collins. He wasn’t even sure why he’d done it. Imogen had heard him call her teacher by his first name more times than not. But Jensen had never told his daughter that Misha called him almost every night after she was tucked into her monsterless bed. He never told her that Misha listened to his worries about Imogen’s future or about his plans to write children’s books. She didn’t need to know that Misha told her father about his love of carpentry or regaled him with stories from his youth as a nomad. There was an implied veil of secrecy that hung heavily between Jensen-and-Imogen and Jensen-and-Misha.

“What’s his problem?” Jared asked after Misha had disappeared. Mrs. Valley discreetly slipped into her office in the back of the clinic, clicking the door shut.

Jensen didn’t respond. He looked down at Jared and Imogen, his gut twisting viciously. Regardless of how Jared wronged him, there was no escaping the fact that he was still family—and would be for the rest of their lives, thanks to Imogen. The tether was there, as strong as steel.

“Let’s get out of here,” Jared said, scooping Imogen into his arms and leading the charge out of the room. It was just like it had been for years and years, Jared in the lead Jensen at his right hand. “I’ve got a car waiting.”

“I have to grab Immy’s coat and backpack from Mr. Collins,” Jensen said, reaching out to stop Jared by grabbing his arm. “Wait for me in the lobby. Your driver can follow me to the house.”

It didn’t take long for Jensen to make it to Room 22 and step inside. The children were so accustomed to his presence in the room that no one even looked at him. Misha’s eyes narrowed at the intrusion, but he did not pause in his lecture about Christopher Columbus. Jensen silently gathered Imogen’s thick sweater and her Spider Man backpack (Jared’s turn as Peter Parker had revived the film franchise the previous summer).

He paused at the door on his way out and turned to look at Misha as he paced in front of his oversized Rand McNally world map. He listened to the lecture, which seemed to get bloodier and favor the Native Americans more and more as the seconds ticked by, until it became apparent that Misha intended to ignore the man he’d tried a hundred times over to stalk, seduce or otherwise sway.

Fuck, Jensen thought and quickly left the classroom, just as a few interested sets of eyes swung his way. He slung the backpack over his left shoulder and drew his phone out of his pocket, jabbing at the screen as he headed to the parking lot.

I’m sorry, he typed. Please call me.

A quick look at his watch told him Misha would not retrieve the message for another hour and a half when the final bell sounded. He checked the battery on his phone and turned the volume up, for fear of missing Misha’s response.

“Everything okay?” Jared asked as Jensen approached them in the lobby. Imogen had her arms clamped around her Papa’s neck and her legs locked around his torso, looking to all the world like she never meant to release her hold. “The freckles are out.”

“It’s fine,” Jensen said with more snark than he intended, annoyed by Jared’s ability to read him, even after a year apart. No one else would have discerned the subtle darkening of his freckles, or rather, the paling of his skin. “I was just worried about Immy.”

“Do you want to grab some lunch?” Jared asked as they walked toward the dark SUV patiently waiting to whisk him away. The two men fell in step together, an unconscious move that their legs remembered well. “I’m famished.”

“I can pull out the leftovers from last night,” Jensen offered, which made his ex’s lips turn up. Jared loved Jensen’s cooking almost as much as he loved his own mama’s. “It was just meatloaf and mashed potatoes, but I could turn it into a sandwich.”

“Oh my god,” Jared groaned. “I love you.”

Jensen snapped his head around to glare at Jared, who was looking back at him with a panicked expression on his face. They both looked at Imogen, who seemed to be drifting off to sleep in Jared’s arms.

“I’m sorry,” Jared stammered.

“Why don’t you send your driver away,” Jensen said with a sigh. He headed toward his car, fingering the beaded key chain charm Imogen had made him in kindergarten. #1 Dad. Damn right he was. “You can ride with us.”

“It was just an expression,” Jared continued with his awkward apology. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“I get that, Jay,” Jensen cut him off, pulling open the back door for Jared to settle Imogen into her booster seat. “Go get your bags.”

“Papa, don’t leave,” Imogen’s hands clamped around one of Jared’s, suddenly wide-awake. Her eyes ricocheted around the car and her breath came out in labored pants. “Stay.”

Jared turned his face away from Imogen, toward Jensen. It both saddened and satisfied Jensen to see his ex face-to-face with the emotional damage he’d done Imogen. Jared had managed to avoid the worst of it; keeping his contact to telephone calls and video chats. The depth of the little girl’s anxiety could only be understood in person.

“I’ll get your bags,” Jensen said with a sigh. He stretched around Jared to lean into the car to stroke Imogen’s face. “Papa is right here, staying with you. Calm down, monkey, deep breaths.”

Imogen nodded jerkily, but tugged Jared closer to her. He stood back and watched as Jared climbed over Imogen and sat on the lumpy middle seat, draping an arm around the back of the small booster seat. Imogen twisted and wrapped her ankles around Jared’s knee, trapping him in place as best she could.

~Misha~

Misha moved up and down the wide aisle of the grocery store, trying to visualize the list he’d left on his kitchen counter. The list was scribbled on his ironic WWJD post-it pad (or, as he called them, Jeezits), which was next to the phone in the kitchen. He could picture Jesus’ somberly raised two fingers as well as the little check boxes along the bottom where you could choose “Yes”, “No”, “Maybe” or “Hell no” in response to the pre-printed question: “Would Jesus do it?”

He knew there were five things on the list that he was sure Jesus himself would likely buy… but he could only think of one thing: Tequila and lots of it. Jesus always struck Misha as a Tequila man.

He blamed Jared Padalecki for his stunning lack of list recall. He was strung out and tense from the kiss-tease he’d been forced to endure at the hands of Jared Padalecki. He’d been close enough to kissing Jensen that their noses had brushed together and their breaths mingled. They’d been so close to acknowledging the attraction that had sparked to life in that bar before they’d truly met. That had all come to a screeching, skid marking stop with Jared Padalecki’s unexpected arrival.

Jensen had been quick to dismiss him—called him Mr. Collins for Chrissake—when Jared decreed it was time to go home. The connection he thought he’d forged with Jensen snapped life a rotted branch beneath the weight of a well-fed bobcat.

He was willing to bet a large portion of his earnings on the fact that Jensen was hung up on Jared like a coat on a hook. It didn’t take a master of observation to see the chemistry between the two. They had practically eye fucked over the top of Imogen’s head, and Jensen had been quick to dismiss him to be alone with his ex.

Leaning on the pushcart in front of him with his forearms, he tossed his phone from one hand to the other. In his inbox was a text from Jensen that he’d yet to open. He wasn’t in the market for canned apologies or wordy excuses.

“Okay, look,” Vicki said as she approached carrying a bag of frozen peas and a package of English Muffins. “You’re starting to piss me off. Give it to me.”

She dropped her food into the cart and snatched the phone out of her friend’s hands. Two pointed clicks later, she had the message open and read it aloud: “’I’m sorry. Please call me.’ Huh. I thought there’d be more.”

Misha took the phone back and stared down at the four-hours-old message. I’m sorry. Please call me. He snorted a humorless chuckle. Figured Jensen would want to talk it out instead of relying on the comfort of the texted word.

“Are you going to call him?” Vicki asked after another few minutes of silent cart pushing. She reached out for a box of Raisin Nut Bran and crossed it off her shopping list, which Misha thought she was using just to gloat.

“Not while his ex-husband is living in his house,” Misha said definitively. When it came to ex drama, he wanted to be as far away as possible. “They were together for years. There’s no competing with that.”

“Oh, Mish,” Vicki slid her hand into the crook of her friend’s arm. “Not only could you compete with that overgrown galoot, you could wipe the floor with him. Hell, he can’t compete with you.”

“My ego just can’t get enough of you,” he said, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “But I can’t call. It’s one thing to chase a man; it’s quite another to go in guns blazing to break up a family.”

He stopped in front of the cookie display and picked up a package of Double Stuffed Oreos. They weren’t on the Jeezits list, he knew that for a fact, but the stomach wants what the stomach wants.

“You should call him,” Vicki insisted and added a package of Nutter Butters to the cart. “You guys are friends, and friends call each other. Especially when an ex shows up to crash on your couch. He needs you right now, Misha.”

He sighed and rolled his eyes at her flawed logic. He and Jensen weren’t friends—not exactly. They were more… what were they? He’d called himself Jensen’s friend in the teacher lounge. He remembered being quite adamant about that point. But it all changed (didn’t it?) with their almost kiss. The dynamic had shifted in the space between heartbeats. The mutual attraction had been laid bare and there was no way to throw a robe over it now.

“I’ll text him,” Misha finally said. He pulled his phone out and sucked his lower lip as he considered his message. Vicki smiled and hovered at his elbow, reading as he typed. “No worries. Out with Vicki now, but will be home by 7 if you want to talk.”

“That’s good,” Vicki approved before he hit the send button. “Nice and neutral.”

It was as they were carrying their purchases to Misha’s car that Jensen responded: I could use a drink. You up for it?

“Oooh,” Vicki said, shoving their last bag into the trunk. She waited until they were inside the car, with Misha staring at his phone screen, until she said her piece. “Invite him over.”

“A bar would be better,” he said, more to himself than to his friend. He wasn’t sure if he could resist chasing a kiss if he got Jensen alone, his decision not to disturb a family notwithstanding. “Safer.”

“No way,” Vicki grabbed the phone. “I’m sending him your address. Talking at a bar is ridiculous. And really, Mish, could you be more dense? He wants to have drinks with you.”

“I got that.”

“Have Drinks is code word for fuck, you dumbass.”

“I don’t think so,” he objected, keeping his eyes trained on a family of four headed toward the store. Two kids, one father, one mother, just like God and society intended. “He probably just wants to tell me the teacher’s lounge was a mistake. That he wants Jared back.”

“What gives with the punk-ass attitude?” Vicki returned the phone. She was his best friend, hands down, but sometimes she could be a tad vicious with her honesty. Of course, that was one of the reasons he loved her. “He’s finally coming after you, and you’ve, what, changed your mind?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I want him. And I think I want Imogen, too.”

“Um, eew?”

“Jesus, Vicki,” Misha cringed and then laughed when he belatedly picked up on the joke. “You are so twisted.”

“Seriously,” she folded a leg up and turned her whole body to face Misha. “You’re talking about the kid? You haven’t even kissed the guy yet.”

“I know,” he leaned his forehead against the steering wheel. “I wish I could have just fucked him that first night we met. I think the missed opportunity is fueling this madness.”

“That’s possible,” Vicki said softly. Misha rolled his head to peer at her, the invitation to continue clear in his eyes. “But not probable. You like him and you haven’t kissed him. It’s like you’ve done things right this time. You got to know him.”

He closed his eyes and rolled his head away again. Damn her perception. He did know Jensen—knew that he was creeped out by dragonflies but loved Praying Mantes, that he wanted a very specific kind of cat (an Oriental, because they are like dogs, but are cats), that he hated the SUV Jared bought him, that he hated Justin Bieber but knew the lyrics to every one of his songs, that Stonehenge was his favorite place in the world, that his mother’s house always smelled like lilacs, that he practiced Tai Chi, but thought yoga was lame.

“What do I do?” He asked. It was not like him to doubt himself, and he did not like it.

“Talk to him,” Vicki said at once. Her hand slipped into his hair, curling the strands around her fingertips. He loved that Vicki was so tactile, so he tilted his head closer to her. “Try telling him how you feel. Even if he thinks he wants Jared back, you owe it to yourself—and to him—to let him know all of his options.”

“That’s just a lot of words for honesty, right?”

“Honesty?” Vicki pulled her hand away to press it to her chest like she was offended. “Who said anything about honesty?”

“My apologies,” he grinned and reached for the keys in the ignition. “Well, if honesty is off the table, I need to stop at the liquor store. Jesus needs some Tequila.”

“Of course he does, sweetie,” Vicki said, buckling her seatbelt. “The son of God is such a lush.”

~Jensen~

Jensen stood at the counter in the kitchen in front of three bottles of pills and a purple pill minder with glittery yellow stars stuck to each day of the week. In the middle of the stars were the first letter of the corresponding day of the week. He’d made it fun for Imogen to take her medications. He didn’t want her to feel like she was different, or at least any more different than she would always be. Imogen had two daddies. That was different enough.

Three pills for three diagnoses: A mood stabilizer, an anxiety pill, a depression pill. Just like it did every time he refilled the little purple box, Jenson found himself swept up in a storm of hatred. He hated Jared and what he had done to his precious little girl. He ground his teeth, much to his dentist’s horror, and fought to keep his emotions under tight control. It wouldn’t do any good for Imogen to see his anger. Her therapist had cautioned him that she needed to see him strong and positive.

He had forgiven Jared for cheating. He had forgiven him for breaking his heart. But he had not forgiven him for what he’d done to Immy. He wasn’t sure if he ever would. And Jared coming back to town on some misguided mission to help Imogen recover was just that. Jensen knew that when Jared left, Imogen would be more wrecked than when he’d kept his distance.

“You shouldn’t grind your teeth,” Jared said from behind Jensen. Jensen didn’t flinch; he’d heard his ex shuffling down the hall moments before he’d made his appearance in the kitchen. “I can see your jaw jumping like a show pony all the way from here.”

“Yeah, thanks mom,” Jensen grunted, not turning around. His shoulders drew together across his back, his guard duly raised. “Where’s Immy? I didn’t think she’d let you out of her sight this soon.”

“She’s on the couch, asleep,” Jared said, moving to the coffee maker, which was in the same exact location as it had been in their shared Los Angeles home, nestled between the sink and the Humpty Dumpty cookie jar. “Do you want a cup?”

“Sure,” Jensen said. He finished sorting the pills and put all of the bottles in a lock box. The box went up on the top shelf, behind the cereal.

“Is that really necessary?” Jared asked, dropping into a kitchen chair with a familiarity that disturbed Jensen to his core. He heard Misha’s words in his head, asking him if Jared’s stay in his home was a good idea. “What kid goes after more medicine?”

“One who’s severely depressed,” Jensen snapped, shutting the cabinet door with more force than he intended.

“Yeah, okay,” Jared said quietly. He sipped at his coffee and held out his hand, gesturing to the chair in front of him. “Come talk to me. Tell me how she’s been.”

“She’s been miserable,” Jensen said honestly, sitting and pulling his steaming cup in front of him. “She misses you like crazy. Asks me every damn night if you’re coming home.”

“I know,” Jared said, and for a moment, Jensen felt guilty for telling him such a horrific truth. “I asked Gen to give me a week alone here before she came up. I don’t know how to make this better. How do I make this better, Jensen?”

“No way, you dick,” Jensen said with a laugh. He didn’t understand how it was possible for him to laugh with Jared over such a heartbreaking topic, but he wasn’t about to stop to question it. “You have to sort that out yourself. I will say that you need to be here more. She doesn’t understand why we came here. She misses LA.”

“No one misses LA,” Jared contradicted. He smiled wryly at Jensen. “I wanted her to grow up without the damn paparazzi following her around. We always loved it up here, near the mountains. You said it grounded you; reconnected you to the earth. I just thought…”

“Yeah,” Jensen said and fell into silence that wasn’t uncomfortable in the least. It was like that between the two of them. After the initial awkwardness of the break up, they had fallen back into easy conversation—although they tended to fight more often than they had as a couple.

“Look,” Jared cleared his throat and pressed his elbows into the oak table. Jensen’s eyes found a dot of jelly that must’ve slipped off Imogen’s toast that morning. It sat dangerously close to Jared’s right elbow, but he said nothing. “Gen and I are not doing great.”

“That’s too bad,” he said, taking another sip of coffee. His internal pettiness gave a HA! of pleasure at the news. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Immy,” Jared said, moving his elbow so that it dragged across the strawberry jelly mess. “She thinks I should cut and run.”

The coffee cup in Jensen’s hand crashed into the table with enough force to crack the cup up the sides, right across the World’s Greatest Dad proclamation. Coffee dribbled out of the fissure, but he didn’t care.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He hissed, mindful of Imogen asleep just one room away. “How could you do that to her, Jared? She’s your daughter as much as she’s mine!”

“I would never do that,” Jared snapped, leaning over the table to glare at Jensen.

“Is that why you never visit her?”

“Yes,” Jared said after a pause, as if he did not want to answer the question at all. “I didn’t know what to do. She was pregnant, Jensen. I was trying to do the right thing.”

“That’s hilarious.”

“You know what I mean,” Jared said, lifting his hand to drag it through his hair. The jelly clung to his white shirt, distracting Jensen’s vision. “I was trying to be there for her and then for Tyson. I knew you were taking care of Immy.”

Jensen stood up, swiping the leaking cup from the table and walking it to the sink. He braced himself against the counter and stared out the window, focusing his eyes on the orange and purple sunset over the Puget Sound. He loved the view from that window; it made washing dishes infinitely more bearable.

“I want more time with Imogen,” Jared said from just over Jensen’s right shoulder. “I told Gen that losing my daughter is not an option. So here I am, asking for more time.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, for now it means that I’m here. And I’ll be here for as long as I can manage. I’m going to spend as much time with Imogen as possible.”

“You can’t disappear again, Jared,” Jensen warned.

“I don’t plan on it,” the other man said, pouring more coffee into his cup and returning to the kitchen table. He sipped in silence for a few minutes, his eyes taking inventory of the house he’d paid for. “I want to meet Imogen’s therapist. And her teacher.”

“You already met her teacher,” Jensen said with a snort. “You were a dick to him.”

“Yeah, well,” Jared laughed, not apologizing. There wasn’t much in his life that he’d ever had to apologize for. Jensen both envied and pitied him.

“She has a therapy appointment on Thursday,” Jensen said grudgingly as he opened the cupboard for a new cup. The I Love Men cup had been a Christmas gift several years back from his sister, Mackenzie. It still made him smile. “Maybe you can… come with me to work the Book Fair tomorrow? I can introduce you to Misha again.”

“Misha, is it?” Jared asked with a sly grin. “Is there something going on with you two?”

“No,” came the quick response that made him cringe internally. He wished he had honed his lying abilities like Jared had. The best he could do was deflect and redirect; he was good at that. “He’s been good to Immy, really took her under his wing. She trusts him, which is a big thing for her.”

“I get it, Jensen,” Jared said sharply, slapping the palm of his hand onto the table. He shoved his chair away and got to his feet. “Imogen doesn’t trust anyone since I left. She hates women since I left. She’s broken since I left. I fucking get it, dude.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You have to quit trying to punish me,” Jared continued, his long legs taking huge strides around the kitchen as he paced out his frustration. “I know I messed up, but I don’t need you on my ass every minute I’m here.”

“Jared,” Jensen said in a loud, clear voice full of command making Jared stop and swing his face around to glare at him. “I wasn’t taking a hit at you.”

“Well, maybe you should,” Jared mumbled, heading back to the table again. Jensen had forgotten how antsy Jared could be, never sitting or standing in one spot for longer than thirty seconds at a time. “Man, I messed up.”

Jensen could only agree with Jared if he opened his mouth, so he kept it shut and let his ex wallow in his self-deprecation. It was good that the younger man felt something akin to remorse. There was hope, Jensen thought.

“Papa?” Imogen’s small voice made both men jump and straighten.

“Hey there, monkey,” Jared opened his arms in invitation. Imogen did not hesitate to skip across the room and throw herself into his lap. “Nice nap?”

“Yes,” she said and twisted the thick silver ring Jared wore on his right middle finger. Jensen hadn’t noticed it before; it was the match to the one he had hidden in the back of his sock drawer. “Daddy doesn’t wear his ring anymore. Why not?”

Jared’s eyes came up and locked on Jensen’s bare fingers. His forehead creased and then smoothed. Jensen couldn’t stop the spasmodic twitching of his face. He was suddenly exhausted by the emotional roller coaster of the day. He didn’t understand why Jared was wearing his damn wedding ring, or why Genevieve let him. All he wanted was to run away, far away where he could not feel anything. He craved the numbness he’d known the first month after Jared had left. He had functioned like an automaton, going through the motions of life for Imogen, but when the house was quiet—in a way it never had been before, even when Jared had been working on location for weeks at a time—he let the apathy wind its way through his senses. He would sit entire nights on the edge of their bed and stare at the half-empty closet.

He shook his head and refocused on the scene before him. Jared was talking to Imogen softly, smoothing her hair behind her ears. She was crying quietly, but he managed to quell the urge to go to her. Jared would comfort her; he had to because Jensen himself was in no position to do so.

“I’m going to head out for a bit,” Jensen said, pulling his car keys from the pocket of his jeans. “Give you guys some time alone. There’s a ham in the fridge and fixins in the pantry.”

He bent and kissed the top of their daughter’s head, the exact spot Jared had just caressed so lovingly. He could smell Jared’s skin on her and he pulled back abruptly. The need to escape before Jared completely overwhelmed him was undeniable. It had taken him months to let go of the love he had for Jared, and while he was in no danger of loving Jared like he once had, it was unsettling to be so surrounded by the man.

“Take care of her,” Jensen directed.

“I will,” Jared said, and for the first time in a year, Jensen believed him.

Continue to Part 3

Cloudy (Jen) With A Chance of Misha, 1/4

evil_knitter — Tue, 28 Dec 2010 04:08:31 GMT

Title: Cloudy (Jen) With A Chance of Misha
Pairing: Jensen/Misha, past implied Jared/Jensen
Rating: R briefly, mainly PG-13
Summary: Jensen is a single father. Misha is the slightly unhinged teacher of his seven year old daughter, who is battling with the emotional fallout of her fathers’ divorce. Way less depressing than that sounds, lol.

Word Count: 29,000
Warning: Sorta a kidfic. A bit of H/C, I guess. Asshole!Jared and NotNice!Genevieve.
Disclaimer: I think Genevieve Cortese is generally awesome. She would have to be for Jared to love her. I am SO sorry I made her the way I did, but dang it, it fit the story.
AN: Written for CloudyJenn for the spn_j2_xmas fic exchange. You gave me a prompt that just would NOT let me go. I wish I had a few more weeks to really get this right. There are a few parts that really need to be developed, so I will probably throw you a few additions over time. Hope you don’t mind!

~Misha~

“Do you come here often?” Misha asked and then mentally kicked himself. “Don’t answer that. What a hideous line. I apologize.”

The man beside him laughed, making his light eyes dance in amusement. “It’s all right,” he said, the smallest drawl decorating his words. “I don’t come here often. I just moved to town.”

“Oh,” Misha sipped his gin and tonic, trying to choose his next words with care.

“Before you ask,” the man before him said with a grin. “Yes, it hurt like hell when I fell from Heaven.”

He couldn’t help it; really, he couldn’t, so he laughed. “Hi,” he said, extending his hand toward the stranger. “I’m Misha.”

“Jensen,” the still grinning man shook the proffered hand.

“So what brings you to not-so-sunny Seattle?”

“Family,” Jensen said vaguely. He grimaced slightly at the word, but Misha let it slide. Talking about his many family issues in a bar was not high on his Do It list either. “What about you? Are you a native?”

“Born and raised,” Misha confirmed. “What part of the city do you live in? I’m in Capitol Hill.”

“Queen Anne,” Jensen said, raising his beer to his lips. Misha stared at the fullness of those lips as they touched to the bottle.

“I work near Queen Anne, in Meadowbrook,” Misha said at last, trying and failing to look away from Jensen’s mouth. He wanted to get off the small talk train. He’d always found it tedious. He had ventured out to blow off some steam before the school year began on Monday. “Look,” he said, clearing his throat. “I don’t do this often but do you want to get out of here?”

Jensen blinked his surprise, as if he hadn’t realized the possibility that someone would hit on him in a gay bar. It was endearing, Misha decided.

“I,” Jensen started, but was cut off by the ringing of his cell phone. Misha raised an eyebrow at the Party in the U.S.A. ringtone. That was way gayer than he’d expected, given the new Seattlite’s rugged exterior. Jensen snatched the phone up and started moving toward the door. “Hey monkey, what’s up?”

Monkey? So the guy had someone at home. Misha sighed and took a long draw of his drink. He hadn’t invested too much time or energy, but he’d been looking forward to seeing what magic those lips could work. He let his eyes roam the darkened room. He seriously needed to get laid before dealing with the little bastards on Monday—or, he corrected himself—before dealing with the little bastards’ parents. God, he hated teaching in a private school, but the money was good. He sighed and tried to not think about school, because thinking about his kids was not helping his libido.

“Hey,” Jensen’s voice came from Misha’s left, making him jump. He let a smile creep across his face, all thoughts of school vanishing. “I’ve got to bail. Family stuff, you know?”

“It’s cool,” Misha said, trying not to let his disappointment show. “I get it.”

“But…” Jensen pulled that distracting lower lip between his teeth and trailed his eyes over Misha like he was cataloging every inch of his skin for future at-home reference. “I definitely would have.”

And just like that, he was gone. Misha blinked as the man’s words filtered through. He would have. He curled his fingers at the flash of images that information brought—slick skin, stretched mouths, sweat—and found he was crushing a small slip of paper. He unfolded it and saw ten numbers—ten little numbers that were instant gold—and a name. Jensen.

Well, hot damn. Misha pocketed the number and put his empty glass on the bar. Good enough.

~Jensen~

Jensen navigated the downtown Seattle streets with trepidation. Coming from Los Angeles, he had been looking forward to a relatively light flow of cars at nine o’clock on a Thursday, but from the red taillights blinking at him from every direction, it seemed that expectation was dashed. The journey to the bar had been his first foray out of the house alone, and his first attempt to meet new people. He glanced at the empty backseat out of habit, looking for his constant companion: his seven-year-old daughter, Imogen. He craved adult interaction—and activity. He hadn’t gotten laid since his Big Gay Divorce… god, he missed sex.

He’d been so close to landing the gorgeous man with the dark eyes. He hadn’t even had a chance to make a move—or accept the very welcome invitation to dot dot dot. He loved his daughter with his entire being, but damn, monsters under the bed? Monsters were cockblocking him. He’d tried to reason with her, but there was no reasoning with a frightened seven year old.

As he pulled up to the Victorian monstrosity he now called home, he took a minute to wallow in the self-pity he generally kept hidden away. Eleven years ago, he’d been young and in love with life and his boyfriend, Jared. Six years ago, still fantastically in love, the pair had taken the next logical step and adopted one-year-old Imogen. Two years ago, during California’s small window of legalized gay marriage, they’d tied the knot. A year ago, still very much in love, Jensen had the rug pulled out from beneath him. Over a decade of his life was washed away with the tsunami of a single phone call.

It wasn’t as if Jensen had never known that Jared found warm bodies to fill his bed when he was out of town on location. It had always suited him to follow President Clinton’s ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy when it came to Jared’s extracurricular activities. As long as Jared came home to Jensen—as long as Jared was discreet—Jensen could turn a blind eye.

He never felt threatened by whatever on-set dalliance Jared dabbled in. In fact, Jensen had never once questioned his standing as Jared’s partner. He wasn’t an insecure Hollywood ‘wife’, worried every moment that Jared would trade him in for a younger model. He loved Jared unconditionally and had always bragged reciprocity from Jared.

Until the moment—the very second—that everything came crashing down. The phone call had come just minutes after Jensen had walked Imogen into her classroom in Los Angeles. He’d answered the phone with a cheery hello and launched directly into the news that their little girl had won the starring role in the school’s production of “Goldilocks and the Three Bears.”

“Jensen,” Jared had said in a voice that made his knees lock. It was the voice Jared had used several years prior to tell him his beloved dog Icarus had been hit by a car.

“Oh god,” he gripped his phone until the hard plastic groaned from the pressure. “Jay, what’s wrong?”

“Jensen, god,” Jared said again, with a sigh that broke across the inevitable international two-second delay. “I don’t know how to… Jensen, there’s someone else. We’re in love.”

Jensen blinked, waiting for the words to make sense. He understood the definition of each word individually – there’s, someone, else, I’m, in, and love—but he struggled to derive the hidden message they contained. He turned to stare at the front of Imogen’s school where the bell signaling the start of the day had just rung. He could go back inside and ask Ms. Maurer to explain the words, use them in sentences and give him the etymology of each. She could conjugate each verb for him. I met, you me, he/she/it met, we met, they met. I am, you are, he/she/it is, we are, they are. In love.

“Jensen,” Jared said his name again, as if personalizing the trauma would make it easier. As if anything could. “Are you there?”

“I’m here,” Jensen said, the steadiness of his voice surprised him. Inside of his head, words were slamming against the back of his eyes threatening to seep out. “I’m right here where you left me, Jared, taking care of our daughter and waiting for you to come home.”

“Don’t be like that,” Jared said, but Jensen didn’t know what other way to be.

“How do you want me to be?” Jensen asked. He needed Jared to tell him because in all of their years together, he’d never considered the possibility that Jared would ever actually fall in love with one of his toys. “When are you coming home so we can talk about this?”

“I’m not coming home,” Jared said quickly. There was a voice in the background that was familiar… that should have been less audible.

“After twelve years, this is how you want to do this? Over the damn phone?”

“I,” Jared huffed out breath. Jensen could hear the shuffling of bodies clearer than normal. “Come on, Jensen.”

“Am I on speakerphone?”

“No, of course not,” Jared said, but his voice was suddenly easier to discern. Jensen closed his eyes again, briefly praying for the strength to survive both the heartache and the humiliation. “Look, I’m not coming home. I’ll send my assistant to pick up some of my things.”

“No fucking way,” Jensen snapped. He was dying, he was sure of it, from the pain, but dying had to wait. “You have to come home, to help me explain to Imogen—”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Jared prevaricated. “You won’t be able to change my mind about this. There are things that—”

“I’m talking about Immy, Jared,” Jensen ground out. He was an Ackles, dammit, and that meant never begging for scraps. If Jared wanted to leave him, well, he had to let him go, but he would not stand by and allow him leave the little girl who believed Jared hung the damn moon. “She’s your daughter and she misses you. She at least deserves an explanation in person.”

“Jensen—”

“Who is it?” Jensen cut off his ex—he gulped at the word—before he lost his nerve. Jared breathed heavily into the silence. The sound of his guilt was deafening. “It’s not like I won’t see it in the news soon enough. Tell me the fucker’s name.”

“Genevieve,” Jared blurted. The voice in the background—even more familiar now that Jensen had a name to match it—fluttered nervously. “It’s Gen.”

Jensen nodded to himself. The nanny. How cliché, he thought. Genevieve Cortese had been Imogen’s nanny since the day Jensen and Jared had brought her home. Imogen loved Genevieve like a sister, a best friend, a home-wrecking whore.

“How long?” Jensen managed to force out. How long had he been the nanny and Genevieve been the lady of the house? How long had Jared called home hoping for Genevieve to be the one who answered? How long had they laughed at Jensen’s naïve loyalty and blinding ignorance?

“Not long,” Jared said, which Jensen instantly took as a lie. He waited for the silence to crush his ex into honesty. “Fine, it’s been two years. Dude, she’s pregnant.”

The air inflating Jensen’s lungs disappeared as if he’d been tossed into the vacuum of space without an insular suit. His throat worked spasmodically to draw in a new breath, but there was no oxygen left in his world.

“Say something,” Jared ordered, his words gruff and choppy. That tone—that tone—was Jared trying to hide his tears. That tone pissed Jensen off; how dare Jared get to be the one to cry. “Jensen, please.”

“Get your ass home now,” Jensen growled, the phone shaking against the side of his face. “You have twenty-four hours to get back or—”

Jensen swallowed the rest of his threat, which would have consisted of taking Imogen away forever. He would never do that to his daughter. Regardless of the gutting pain and searing betrayal, he would not subject Imogen to the loss of her father.

“Just get here,” Jensen said. He hit the end button on his phone and tossed it onto the dashboard. He covered his mouth with his palm, desperate to keep the horrified sob building in his chest contained. He had to maintain his composure. If he lost it, he would not be able to regain it before Imogen got out of school in six short hours. After eleven years of being flush with love and happiness, six hours was not long enough to wring all of the grief from his body.

Jensen blinked, pulling himself out of the memory. Looking up, he saw Imogen leaning against her window, staring down at him. He pulled his hand away from his mouth, unsure when he’d clapped it there, and hurried up the walk.

The house was too big, but Jared’s guilt had always been eased by forcing money on Jensen. Not that he didn’t appreciate being able to stay home with Imogen. The little girl needed his undivided attention as she tried to sort through her feelings about the divorce.

“What are you doing back so soon?” the babysitter, Danneel, jumped off the couch in surprise. “Is everything okay?”

“There’s apparently a monster under the bed,” Jensen said with a smile, digging money out of his wallet and handing it off to Danneel. “Thanks for coming over.”

“This is too much,” Danneel said, looking at the bills in her hand. “I was only here for an hour.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jensen angled toward the stairs, but paused. “How was she? Did she give you a hard time?”

“Nah,” the young red-head forced a bright smile. “She was… fine.”

“Look,” Jensen sighed and approached the girl with apologetic hands out. “She’s having a tough time. Her other father,” he stopped short, not wanting to tell a stranger that Imogen distrusted women since Genevieve had stolen her family away. He coughed and tried again. “She misses her other father. We’re, uh, separated.”

“It’s okay,” Danneel offered a more genuine smile. She picked up her purse and shrugged into her denim jacket. “I’d be happy to sit for Imogen again. Maybe I can take her to the park or to a movie or something.”

“That’d be awesome,” Jensen said louder than he intended. He laughed and ran his hand through his short hair. No sitter had offered to return since Jared had left. Imogen was hell bent on punishing any and all women; especially those in child care services. “She could use a friend.”

“I’d like that,” Danneel said and Jensen thought she might not be a liar. Go figure. “You’ve got my number. Give me a call anytime.”

Jensen stood sentry on the front porch as Danneel got in her car and pulled out of the driveway. As soon as her taillights were out of sight, he turned back and headed up the stairs to deal with monsters.

“Hey, monkey,” he said, sitting on the edge of the canopied bed. The blankets were askew in a way that was unique to Imogen. “How’s the monster situation?”

“Contained,” Imogen said with an impish grin. “I’ve got it trapped in the closet.”

“Good girl,” Jensen leaned down and kissed her delicate brow. Imogen was as pale as a porcelain doll with a mop of curly strawberry blonde hair. The only resemblance she bore Jensen was the splash of freckles across both of their noses. “I’ll take it out back and release it back into the wild.”

“You should just kill it,” Imogen suggested. She only looked like Jared when she creased her brow… like she did when she discussed monsters. “You always let it go, and it always just comes right back.”

Jensen let his daughter tug his hand until he was stretched out on the bed beside her. She dug her cold toes under his hip and rubbed them together. He wrapped her in his arms and dropped another kiss on her forehead while he considered how to respond to his darling daughter ordering a hit on an imaginary monster. He figured her therapist would want to hear about this conversation.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah?”

“Is Papa coming home soon?” She asked in a tiny voice that made Jensen’s skin burn. It was the same question she’d asked him every single night for a year.

“Sorry, Immy,” he said, working hard to control his heartbeat beneath his little girl’s cheek. “Your Papa still lives in Los Angeles with Genevieve and your little brother. Remember?”

“He’s not my brother,” Imogen denied with heat.

“Tyson is your brother,” Jensen insisted. God, he was tired of defending Jared and his new family. His temper gave a tug on his gut. Damn Jared for leaving him to deal with these doubts. Damn Jared for sending Jensen and Imogen to Seattle like they were his dirty little secrets. “Papa, Gen and Tyson are coming to visit you in a couple of months. They’ll want to see your new room and hear all about your new school. Won’t that be nice?”

“I hate Papa,” Imogen whispered, as if the words were dirty and could do harm. Jensen’s heart lurched. “And Gen. And Tyson. Tell them not to come. I don’t want to see them ever again.”

“It’s okay to miss him,” Jensen said, squeezing her closer and swallowing past the sudden bile in the back of his throat. “He loves you so much, Immy. He wishes he could be with you every day.”

“Then why isn’t he?” She asked with the brutal bluntness of childhood. Imogen knew no fear when it came to questioning the father who caught all the stray monsters in her room; the father who had never left her, not one day in her whole life. She knew he would never tell her lies, and for the most part, she was right.

There was no answer he could offer to absolve Jared that did not include a lie. He could tell her that he missed her Papa, too. Or say that it had been both of their decision to separate. He could tell her that her fathers still loved each other very much, but that sometimes love wasn’t enough. He could lie to Imogen, but he refused. He refused to grant Jared absolution for breaking his daughter’s heart. Instead, he pulled the blankets over both of them and hummed Imogen’s favorite Justin Bieber song until she fell asleep.

After several indulgent minutes of listening to his daughter’s deep, even sleep-breathing, Jensen eased out of the bed. He tucked the blankets around her little body and smoothed her bangs away from her eyes. Back in his own room, he plugged his phone into its charger and noticed a new text message.

Thanks for the digits. Can I call you tomorrow? Misha

Jensen smirked down at the message. He’d almost—but not quite—forgotten the man with the startling features and graceless pick up lines. Were his eyes blue, maybe brown? It had been impossible to tell in the darkened bar.
Sure. Family thing at 10, but anytime after. Jensen

He changed quickly into his pajamas and huddled beneath the covers. The early fall air was crisper in Seattle than in LA. Jas as the warmth of the blankets seeped into his bones, his phone chirped. He stared at it without moving for a full minute before deciding he had to know what—if—Misha had responded.

The next morning, Jensen pulled up to Seattle Waldorf School with fifteen minutes to spare. Imogen sat in the backseat with a fierce frown pulling her heart-shaped mouth into a pout. It had been a struggle to get her dressed and out the door to attend the school’s Open House. She wanted her old school with her old friends and was angry with her father’s patient but firm insistence that she give Seattle Waldorf a chance.

He consulted the heavy card that had been mailed to their house with Imogen’s class assignment. It was the only second grade class at Seattle Waldorf since the school only allowed three hundred students, ranging from preschool to twelfth grade, at a time to walk their sacred hallways. Mr. Collins, Room 22.

Batting down the urge to drive away and keep Imogen home, Jensen rolled out of their overstated Range Rover. He and Jared had argued extensively over their daughter’s education. In the end, since Jared held the purse strings, he’d gotten his way. Imogen was promptly accepted into Seattle Waldorf after one pointed call from megastar Jared. The principal wasn’t a fool; adding the daughter of Jared Padalecki to the school’s roster would only inflate their status as THE school in Seattle.

“Come on, Immy,” he bit back a sigh and unbuckled his daughter’s seatbelt. “I bet Mr. Collins is awesome. Papa called ahead and asked him to give you a desk next to the window. Wasn’t that nice?”

And douchey. But he kept that thought on a tight leash.

Imogen took her father’s hand, but let her feet drag as much as she dare. Jensen didn’t call her on the attitude because he was as nervous as she was. It was the first teacher meet and greet he’d tackled without Jared’s charming confidence. It was easy with Jared by his side; they hadn’t needed to say ‘Imogen has two daddies’ because they’d obviously been a family. But now? How did he tell a stranger that his kid had two daddies who were divorced—with one daddy shacking up with the nanny and their heterosexually-induced spawn while the other was banished to the wilds of Washington with nothing but a shiny new car, a fat bank account and a swollen house? Fuck, Jensen thought not for the first time since waking up.

His phone chirped and he instantly touched the screen, curious. Misha, the display told him. He opened the message as he tugged Imogen across the parking lot.

I have a work thing at 10. Can’t wait to call. You are in my head, causing trauma.

We talked for 30 seconds, Jensen typed one-handed. What trauma?

In less time than Jensen thought possible, he had Misha’s reply: Lips. You have lips. I’ll admit to being shallow.

Jensen laughed in surprise and self-consciously sucked his lower lip between his teeth. Funny, he replied. Don’t you have lips too? I’m suffering no trauma. We should remedy that at once.

“What are you laughing at?” Imogen asked as they climbed the last stair to the school. She paused and nervously twisted a strand of hair around a finger.

“Nothing, monkey,” Jensen turned the phone off and slid it into his pocket, completely focused on his daughter once again. He tried and failed to beat down the flash of guilt he felt for engaging in flirty texts while his daughter clearly needed him. He picked up a brightly colored map in the lobby. “Room 22 is this way. Let’s go.”

He oohed and aahed over the artwork hanging on the walls, pointing out a Jonas Brothers library poster that made Imogen blush and slap at her father’s hand. Children both younger and older than Imogen wandered the halls, but the little girl kept her eyes downcast. Room 22 stood like a beacon at the end of the main hall. Whimsical music poured out of the open door, mingled with gales of laughter. Finally interested in her surroundings, Imogen pulled Jensen toward the sound while simultaneously burrowing further into his side.

“Welcome to Room 22!” A happy voice boomed before Imogen and Jensen had wrestled their way through the rainbow-inspired beads that hung in the open doorway. “I’m Mr. Collins and you are—oh my god!”

Jensen froze, eyes locked on the man standing beside a large cherry wood desk in a jester’s cap and a gingham apron. Misha.

“Daddy look!” Imogen released Jensen’s hand to rush to the terrarium on the desk at Misha’s side. “Turtles. Come here!”

Jensen wanted to look at the turtles. More than anything in the world, he wanted to look at those damn turtles. He wanted to tear his eyes away from Misha’s horrified expression, but his eyes refused to cooperate. It was only after Misha turned his head to properly greet Imogen that he snapped out of his statue-like posture. He shook himself, thankful that at least one of them was pretending to be an adult and consider their surroundings.

“Ah yes,” Misha said as he crouched down to Imogen’s level. “These are my turtles. That one is Drydraluxlaloud, but you can call him Lux. The other one is Bonnie Brae the Second. As for me, I’m Mr. Collins.”

Imogen barely managed a how-do-you-do before she turned her eyes to the turtles once again. Jensen couldn’t help but inch closer, smiling at his daughter’s joy. It’d been too long since he’d seen that look.

“Do you want to touch Bonnie’s shell?” Misha asked, standing up to reach inside the terrarium.

“Yes, please,” she said breathlessly. She turned her face up to Jensen, eyes twinkling with exuberant curiosity. “May I?”

Jensen nodded as Misha carefully lifted the turtle, who stroked its little forelegs through imaginary water. Several other children gathered around their teacher, eager to be included.

“Does anyone know what kind of animal turtles are?” Misha asked the assemblage. The kids stared in rapt attention as Misha cradled the turtle in his palms. School had not officially begun, so the kids did not bother to respond. “Turtles are reptiles, just like snakes and lizards.”

“Eeew,” the girls complained, while the boys made appreciative sounds.

“We’re going to learn all about reptiles this year,” Misha grinned at his students as if he was just as excited at the prospect as the other boys in the room. Jensen felt himself falling under the same spell the teacher had cast on the kids. He glanced at Imogen, but her eyes were trained on Misha. He’d never seen anyone earn the immediate worship of his daughter. “And,” Misha continued. “We’re going to learn about one other kind of reptiles: Dinosaurs!”

“Ooooh,” the kids chorused, because really, dinosaurs are cool.

“Daddy,” Imogen whispered urgently. “Come touch Bonnie’s shell. It’s so cool.”

“Nah,” Jensen said with a shake of his head, absently taking a step back. “I’ll just watch.”

“Come on, Daddy,” Misha said, sliding his gaze to Jensen’s face. His eyes were the purest shade of blue Jensen had ever seen. “Don’t you want to touch? No reason to be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid of the turtle,” Jensen muttered as he drew close and held out his hand. Misha grabbed the extended hand and guided Jensen’s index finger to the back of Bonnie’s scaly shell. Jensen’s collar felt two sizes too small where it clung to the base of his flushed neck.

“Gently,” Misha cautioned, his deep voice pitching lower, cutting through the din of childish chatter with ease. “One finger is a good way to start.”

The flush crawled up Jensen’s face, scalding his skin and leaving him marked. He eased his hand away and chanced a look at the other man’s face. He hadn’t noticed the little lines around his wide-set eyes the night before. He openly stared at the man he’d almost gone home with and knew a moment of regret—and relief. The meeting could have been ten more kinds of awkward if they’d painted each other white the night before.

“Are you okay?” Imogen asked, jarring Jensen to his core. He was definitely not winning any Father of the Year awards with his inattentiveness.

“No worries, Immy,” he said, ruffling her hair. She was the one person for whom he would sacrifice anything for—mind-blowing sex (for he was sure it would be) included. He slid his hand down to Imogen’s shoulder to ground him and offered Misha a polite and detached smile. “I’m Jensen Ackles and this is my daughter Imogen Ackles-Padalecki.”

“Misha Collins,” the teacher responded automatically, rearranging his expression from flirtatious to professional. “Nice to meet you both. Imogen, your desk is by the window. Why don’t you see if you can find it?”

Imogen darted off, pausing long enough to cast her father one last look as if she was afraid he would disappear. Jensen’s heart clenched at the sight. He’d taken his little girl to a therapist immediately after Jared left, but their move to Seattle had disrupted her recovery. She hated losing sight of her father, which promised to be difficult with school starting in a handful of days.

“As you can see,” Misha said in a voice colored with derision. “I assigned Imogen a window seat as your husband requested. I generally do not accept seating requests, but the principal was adamant I do anything necessary to make Imogen’s time with us comfortable.”

“Okay, look,” Jensen said, dismissing the seating arrangement for a moment. “Obviously, you can’t call me later.”

“Obviously,” Misha agreed at once. “I don’t enable cheaters. I talked to your husband last week—”

“I’m not a cheater,” Jensen said with a grimace. “And he’s not my husband. Not anymore. Things have been… difficult… for Immy. I wanted to talk to you, uh,” his cheeks stained and his tongue tripped. “I mean, I wanted to talk to Imogen’s teacher about the situation…”

He trailed off, distracted by a dark curl lying against the other man’s forehead.

“Jensen?”

“Right, sorry,” Jensen pulled at the fabric of his shirt, wondering when the shirt had become too small. Maybe he shrank it in the last wash. “Imogen is taking the split poorly. She’s got some anxiety issues now and is in therapy. The window thing, that’s because she is claustrophobic now. She never was before, but. Anyway, thank you for letting her have a window seat. I’m sorry if Jared bullied you into it instead of explaining. Things have been… well. It doesn’t matter.”

He exhaled sharply and rubbed his palm against his mouth. He hadn’t said that many adult-sounding words at once in months.

“I’m sorry,” Misha said softly, pressing his own palm to Jensen’s arm. “I didn’t realize. Of course Imogen should have what she needs. I will pay close attention to her; make sure she is involved and included in class. No need to worry while she’s here, Jensen. I’ve got her.”

“I didn’t want private school,” Jensen said for no reason. “I wanted to keep her home. She needs so much attention.”

“She’ll be fine,” Misha said firmly, giving his arm a squeeze. “We will work together to make sure of it. Okay?”

Jensen nodded and tilted his head down to blink at the fingers wrapped around his forearm. He could feel the five-striped heat straight through his blazer. It was the first touch he’d experienced—outside of Imogen’s—since Jared had kissed him farewell that last time, before Jensen had known his world was scheduled to implode. And he didn’t even remember that kiss; he hadn’t known he should have committed it to memory.

“Go on,” Misha said, gesturing with his head to Imogen where she chatted with a classmate. He tugged Jensen’s arm in the same direction to snap him out of his silence.

Before he could react, Misha had gone, moved on to the next parent waiting to demand special treatment for their kid. Jensen made it to Imogen’s desk, where she’d taken to enthusiastically coloring on a sheet of paper before her. He leaned down to see her work, but his eyes could do nothing but track Misha’s movements around the room. The man moved with a sure-footed grace that would make dancers want to study him and any sexual being alive want to fuck him.

“Daddy,” Imogen interrupted his insane stalking and inappropriate thoughts with a hand on his reddened cheek. “You have a fever.”

“I’m fine, monkey,” he said, turning his head to kiss Imogen’s palm. He silently cursed his carelessness for the ninth time since he’d entered Room 22. He was in his daughter’s classroom; Misha was her teacher. With a new resolve, he pushed his attraction to the depths of his stomach, letting the acids there eat it away. He would focus everything on Imogen; she needed him a hell of a lot more than he needed to get off. “What are you drawing?”

“Turtles,” she said, holding the paper up to show two shaky oval shapes with giant eyes and smiles. “Can I send it to Papa? He likes turtles.”

“He sure does,” Jensen agreed, although he knew Jared was scared of snakes and other reptiles by extension. “We can stop by the post office on the way home. How about that?”

Misha’s raucous laughter filled the room and Jensen’s eyes immediately found the source of the sound. The teacher and hapless pick-up artist juggled three apples for a new contingent of students and parents. His mouth was open in a carefree smile, his eyes tracking the apples intently.

Damn, Jensen thought. This is going to be a long year.

**

~Misha~

After the last kid had gone, Misha crumpled into his desk chair, tossing his silly hat to the side. He could barely remember any of the children’s names—save one. He castigated himself for his failure. It had always been a mark of pride that he knew his kids’ names before the first day of school. This would be the first year in his long career that he could not boast to that accomplishment in the teachers’ lounge.

He scrounged through the Student Information Sheets the parents had filled out after his brief presentation on the syllabus and learning objectives for the year. He didn’t give a rat’s ass which spoiled brat had a peanut allergy or wore diapers at night; he was after one sheet in particular. Imogen Sofia Ackles-Padalecki. Age: 7. The word mother had been crossed out and replaced with “Father #1”: Jensen Ross Ackles. Age: 34. Occupation: None. Address: 1516 7^th Avenue West. Phone: Misha recognized it at once.

Further down the page was the actual father blank, beside which Jensen had added a #2. Jared Tristan Padalecki. Age: 30. Occupation: Actor. Misha paused; he’d known that before he’d met Imogen or Jensen. Jared Padalecki’s name had been tossed around at every meeting the principal had called since the start of summer. Of course Misha had seen the blockbuster movies that seemed to pop up every July 4^th weekend. He’d had no real opinion of the man until now. Now he considered Jared Padalecki a pompous tool, but Misha allowed that his judgment might be impaired by a pair of freckled faces.

The information kept coming. Imogen had no mother and no allergies, but was on medication to help control her frequent panic attacks and soothe her post-traumatic depression. Jensen was willing to volunteer at every school function, regardless of how mundane or demeaning his role. Had he really volunteered to be dunked in the Homecoming Festival’s popular Dunk-a-Dork booth (or whatever it was called)? He was also available to act as Teacher-Parent Liaison (Room Mom), citing his experience in four previous classrooms. His handwriting exuded confidence with boldly crossed Ts and large swirling Ys in the hastily scrawled note at the bottom of the page.

“Imogen is my life,” Jensen had written, and Misha noted that the pen had dug into the paper fiercely at that. “I will do nothing to jeopardize her happiness or education. I hope I can count on your continued assistance in that regard.”

Misha read the words three times in quick succession. The message was clear: back off. With a sigh, he retrieved his phone from his top desk drawer and dialed his closest friend—and fellow teacher—Vicki.

“’Sup, Teach?” Vicki said instead of hello.

“Remind me,” Misha said, hoping for casual curiosity. “What’s the Seattle Waldorf policy on dating the parent of a student?”

“Why, Mr. Collins,” Vicki laughed. “Are you after a little P? Or T and A?”

“Ha, like PTA,” Misha huffed instead of laughing, which was abnormal, considering how much he’d actually enjoyed the joke. “So… the policy is…?”

“There is no official policy,” Vicki said into her phone even as she crossed the threshold into Room 22, grinning at her friend. “You can’t date students, which is gross anyway, but the policy is mum on dating parents.”

“Interesting.”

“Isn’t it though?” Vicki sat on the edge of Misha’s desk and looked at him with presumptuous expectation. “This is where you divulge details, Mish.”

“There are no details,” he shrugged. “Just a hot single dad. He volunteered to be Room Mom.”

“You’ll be working closely with him, then,” Vicki said with a wicked nod that reminded Misha of his friend’s area of expertise: human sexuality. How she ever landed a job teaching third grade, he’d never know. He hypothesized it was either an epic lie on her resume, or one hell of a blowjob. Either way, Vicki had turned out to be a fantastic teacher. “Does he seem interested?”

“He’s hyper focused on his daughter,” he said without a bit of the disgust he normally used to mock parents who swore Little Timmy was the sun in their planetary solar system, but never actually did anything with the kid. “He had a bad break up and the kid’s got some emotional problems. She looks at him like he was Buddha come to Earth.”

“All little girls worship their fathers and hate their mothers.”

“Thanks, Freud,” Misha rolled his eyes. “But Imogen has two fathers and zero mothers. But that’s not the point. The point is can I ask him out?”

“Yes,” Vicki nodded without hesitation. “Definitely. Just don’t screw him in the cafeteria. They fired the last teacher that did that.”

“So, we can screw in the gym?” Misha asked, training his features into a mask of solemnity. “Just so I’m clear on the rules.”

“I’m off,” Vicki laughed and jumped off the desk. “I’ve got to finish decorating my Welcome Board. I have ten little flowers to cut out. Want to help?”

“I’ll be down later,” he said although he could make a list of ninety-nine things he’d rather be doing. He had no intention of helping her, and he was sure she knew it. “I have to finish up a few things here first.”

After Vicki left, Misha picked up his phone once again. He’d promised he wouldn’t call Jensen, but he hadn’t said anything about not texting him.

So that was awkward. Still want to talk.

He tapped his fingers as he waited for a reply. With a blip, it appeared in under a minute.

No, Jensen said. You’re Im’s teacher.

Did you know it’s not, in fact, against the rules for us to date?

Are you asking me out? Was Jensen’s response.

I am if you’re saying yes, Misha tapped out with a smirk tugging on his lips.

No, Jensen sent back and nothing else, no matter how long Misha waited.

He dropped the phone and flicked it across the desk in irritation. He sure as hell wasn’t going to beg. Even if there had been a spark of attraction—lust, whichever—they hadn’t even had a conversation that didn’t revolve around Seattle neighborhoods or Jensen’s seven-year-old. He could forget easily enough.

Except.

He picked up his phone again. Fair enough. Friends? You ARE the new Room Mom after all.

It took five full minutes for Jensen’s reply to come: Just friends. Don’t call me Room Mom.

Misha smirked even though no one was around to appreciate it. Feeling a sudden burst of goodwill, he got to his feet and headed toward Vicki’s classroom around the corner. Maybe he would convince her to make tissue paper flowers instead of boring cutouts.




Continue to Part 2

The People In Your Neighborhood

evil_knitter — Thu, 25 Nov 2010 16:44:47 GMT

Title – The People In Your Neighborhood
Rating – PG13
Characters, Pairings – Jensen/Misha, Jared, Sera Gamble, variety of Muppets and Muppeteers
Genre- Humor, Muppet crossover (lol, yeah)
Word Count – 9,000
Disclaimer – Nothing is mine. Woe.
Spoilers – None.
Warnings – Human on Muppet violence, schmoopy crack.
Summary- The Supernatural boys have been invited to appear as guest stars on Sesame Street. What could POSSIBLY go wrong?

Art – Go see the fantastically fun art HERE by tringic

Author Notes— Thank you to the lovely and massively creative tringic for her amazing art, which is only surpassed by her dedication to this project. She was an outstanding partner in this venture and I am so proud of what we have accomplished together. Where possible, I used the actual names of those involved on the Sesame Workshop payroll.

The invitation came on a Friday afternoon, just as the cast and crew of Supernatural was breaking for lunch. A giddy Sera Gamble skipped up to the table where Jensen, Jared and Misha sat, still in costume and munching on sandwiches.

“You guys won’t believe what I just got,” Sera very nearly squealed, waving a brightly colored sheet of paper above their heads.

Three sets of eyes tracked the movement of the paper, but it was Jared who spoke up first. “Our first Emmy nomination?” He asked, which produced two snort-chuckles from his friends.

“Of course not,” Sera scoffed, but then grinned. “It’s even better.”

“Antici…” Misha said, trailing off.

“…pation,” Jensen continued for him.

“Is overrated,” Misha finished with a wink at Jensen. “We are agog, waiting for the moment you decide to tell us your news.”

“You’ve been invited to appear on Sesame Street,” Sera said in a rush. She thunked the paper she held in the middle of the table, upsetting the salt.

“No freakin’ way,” Jared dropped his sandwich and snatched up the letter from Sesame Workshop. Apparently, his significantly junior age meant he remembered his time with the characters on the Street fondly. “This is huge! I’m in. We’ll do it, right Jen?”

“Of course we will,” Jensen said, craning to read the letter over his best friend’s shoulder.

“There’s a law that makes saying no to Big Bird illegal,” Misha said, calmly taking a bite of his turkey and provolone on sourdough. He was pleased for the Js, of course he was, but damn, appearing on Sesame Street was a lifelong dream of his. His quasi-celebrity status was a blessing and a curse. He was popular within the fandom, but a virtual unknown outside of it. “I can’t wait to see it.”

“Dude,” Jensen pulled away from the letter with a grin. He took a sip of water before flicking his eyes to his boyfriend. He knew Misha’s feelings about Sesame Street… and just how deep those feelings ran. “They invited you, too.”

“No way,” Misha said with a brittle laugh, which was generally not his style. He leaned closer to the letter, but couldn’t quite get close enough to actually read the words. His eyes locked on Jensen’s, sharp and full of warning. “Don’t fuck with me, Jen.”

“The invitation is for all three of us,” Jared confirmed with a grin and pushed the letter in Misha’s direction. “Dude, this is going to be awesome.”

“They want me, too,” Misha said, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. He looked at Jensen, whose smile was threatening to break his face in half, and then to Jared who was practically vibrating with excitement.

“Of course they do,” Sera said with a shove at his shoulder. “Why would you think otherwise?”

“I’m going to Sesame Street,” Misha said softly, taking a moment to let the words roll sweetly around his brain before he jumped out of his chair and held his arms wide over his head, tilting his head back and looking very much like a praying angel. “I’m going to Sesame Street!”

The time between the invitation from Sesame Workshop and the actual shooting dragged abysmally, leaving the boys with an inordinate amount of excited energy to spend. Jared’s mother sent him a box set of classic Sesame Street episodes and a routine was born. Every day after shooting wrapped at Supernatural, the trio retired to Jared and Jensen’s house to watch a few episodes.

“I want to do a remake of the classic ‘Near/ Far’ skit,” Jared said with a wistful sigh. “Grover rocked that.”

Jensen and Misha watched as Jared shuffled to the far end of the living room and shouted “Far!” and then shuffled back to stand directly in front of them and shout “Near!”

“I want to work with Gordon,” Misha said. “And Maria.”

“But they aren’t even monsters,” Jared stopped short on his way back to Far. “You’ve got to pick a monster.”

“Gordon and Maria have been on Sesame Street since its inception,” Misha countered. “Think of the insight they have into the magic of the series, or on the ability to entertain an audience for decades. They are as important to the cast as the monsters themselves. Plus, we already work with monsters every day.”

“Dude!” Jared’s face twisted at Misha’s apparently offensive words. “Show some respect. Snuffalupagus is a lot different than a damn daeva or shrtiga!”

“Hey,” Jensen said, interrupting what promised to be a deep and philosophical debate on the relative importance of humans over Muppets. “I wonder what the letter of the day will be.”

There was a beat of silence and then.

“I hope it’s Q,” Misha said at the same time Jared said: “I hope it’s J.”

“And the number of the day will be…?”

They all looked at each other, swapping grins and then together they said: “Thirteen!”

It was an old joke, or as old as jokes between them ever got. They worked on Supernatural where urban legends were cannon fodder for their scripts. When it came to numbers, there was only one that had been dragged through the mud of superstition: thirteen. No matter what, whether they were together or not, if the occasion ever called to choose a number, the stock answer from any of them—all of them—was thirteen.

Sure, it wasn’t a terrifically funny joke, but it was theirs nonetheless.

**

“Hey, Jen,” Misha said as they tucked into Jensen’s inordinately comfortable bed. Jensen made a sound of acknowledgment in the midst of his usual happy-sleepy-time sounds, and waited for the other man to continue. “The monsters… do you think… you know what, never mind; it’s stupid. ‘Night.”

That peaked Jensen’s curiosity like a cat that spied the red light of a laser pointer on a wall. He rolled to face Misha and raised his eyebrows in a clearly interested way. It was rare that the outspoken man gave pause to the thoughts banging around in his overlarge brain, but when it happened, it was only a matter of time before those thoughts leaked out. All Jensen had to do was wait.

Misha’s brow crinkled, pulling his dark eyebrows over his eyes. His lips turned down pensively as he worked through whatever riddle had stumped the great Misha Collins.

And 3… 2… 1… blast off…

“It is ridiculous,” he finally managed to say, the shaking of his head clearing the thought-induced wrinkles from his face. He flashed an embarrassed smile—another rarity from the Misha Collins Collection—and laughed. “It’s just, my mother told me the monsters on Sesame Street were—are—real.”

“So did mine,” Jensen said, his own lips curling into a nostalgic smile. “She hired a Cookie Monster for my fourth birthday party. Scared the crap outta me because he was so huge.”

Misha laughed at the thought of tiny little Jensen red-faced and clinging to his mother’s legs, crying so hard his freckles nearly popped off. He’d seen the Ackles Family Photo Albums over Thanksgiving and damn but the guy had been adorable, even back then.

“My mom had this extravagant mythology,” Misha said once the laughter had died and he’d settled Jensen against his chest. Jensen understood that confessions of childish beliefs were always easier when eye contact was severed. “She convinced us that all the monsters in the world lived in a place called Monster Land.”

“Monster Land?” Jensen chuckled. He loved—loved—hearing Misha talk about his childhood. It always gave him a clear look at the path that led to the man he’d become. “Sesame Street is in Monster Land?”

“God, no,” Misha sounded offended, which made Jensen chuckle harder. “Only bad monsters live in Monster Land. I know, it sounds insane, but it gets worse. Mom told us that there was no way the bad monsters could ever get to us—and eat us—because Monster Land is very far away.”

“How far away?”

“Exceedingly far away.”

“So, where is it?” Jensen asked, willing to play the eager listener.

“Mom never gave me coordinates,” Misha admitted, his voice going soft and pensive. He ran his fingertips idly over Jensen’s tee shirt. He sighed and started again: “But it’s so far away that monsters would have to take a car, and then a train, and then a boat, and then a taxi, then a subway, then an airplane, and a dogsled, and an elevator, and then a motorcycle just to get to our house.”

“Wow,” Jensen said, because he wasn’t sure what else he could say, given the topic.

“I know,” the other man said with a laugh that rumbled his chest. “Wait… I think I forgot the rocket ship. Yeah, there should’ve been a rocket in there somewhere, but I can’t remember the exact order anymore.”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters,” Misha said without a trace of humor.

Jensen waited for the rest of the story, but sometimes Misha stopped stories when he felt like it, not when the story was actually over. “Mish,” he prodded gently. “What about Sesame Street? Where is it?”

“Oh,” Misha said as if he’d forgotten what they were talking about, but Jensen was pretty sure that was just another one of his ways to insure he always had the upper hand in conversations. “Sesame Street is in Pennsylvania.”

“Pennsylvania?” Jensen laughed at that because, yeah, it was funny. The crazy ass things his boyfriend was in the habit of saying was in Jensen’s Top Five Reasons Why He Adored Misha. “How do you know that?”

“Because I’ve been there,” Misha said patiently, which stopped Jensen’s laughter short. “Mom took us one autumn. The waterslides weren’t open, but everything else was. I rode the Super Grover Roller Coaster until I puked.”

“Wait,” Jensen pushed up to lean on his elbow and look at Misha skeptically. “Did you say roller coaster?”

“Yes.”

Jensen jumped as Jared knocked on the open door and leaned in. He seemed unfazed by Jared’s eavesdropping, mainly because it happened so often. “Are you talking about Sesame Place?”

“Yes!” Misha snapped his fingers and pointed victoriously at Jared. “That’s it! Sesame Place. It’s in Pennsylvania, right?”

“Yeah,” Jared folded himself onto the foot of the already full bed, crossing his legs and settling in for an uninvited visit. Seriously, sometimes Jensen thought they should make a Boundaries Chart for Jared. “I went there one summer. The waterslides were awesome.”

“Damn,” Misha scooted up to the headboard and leaned against it, giving Jared more room and a carte blanche to stay for a chat. “I told myself they sucked so I wouldn’t mind missing them. But I always knew… damn.”

“We can go during summer hiatus, darlin’,” Jensen offered, to which Jared laughed but nodded his instant agreement. “We’ll do every single waterslide they have. And ride that coaster ‘til we puke.”

“They’d call the police on us,” Misha said with a grimace, even as he touched Jensen’s face in a quietly appreciative gesture. “Three grown men traipsing around—childless—in a preschooler’s fantasy world. Yeah, we’d end up some beefy convict’s prags. Especially you, Jen.”

“What?” Jensen sat up quickly, ready to defend his manhood. Gay sexin’ with Misha notwithstanding, he was the manliest man he knew. He was a freakin’ Texas-bred cowboy, for the love of God. “Why me?”

“Dude,” Jared laughed loudly. “Have you seen your lips?”

Jensen blushed a flattering shade of mauve—the same color of his mama’s country kitchen curtains. Yeah, his lips… “Touché.”

**

“Every day when I make my way to the tubby,” Jared led the happy trio in a rousing round of the familiar classic Ernie song as they maneuvered the crowded Vancouver airport. Several other travelers paused, looks of joyous recognition on their faces—whether from the song or the actors, Jensen couldn’t be sure, but hey, everyone could appreciate a good rendition of the Rubber Duckie song. “I find a little fella who’s cute and yellow and chubby. Rub-a-dub-dubby!”

They sang it twice, and then settled into humming “C Is for Cookie” and “Doin’ the Pigeon” as their plane took off, on their way to New York’s Kaufman Astoria Studios to shoot their Sesame Street episode.

“Hey,” Jensen reached over and touched Misha’s knee where it jiggled like the spirit of a coffee bean possessed it. “Easy there, tiger. You okay?”

“Yes,” was Misha’s answer, without any further commentary. Jensen waited for the convention-ready ‘thank you’ that Misha employed to close a topic of conversation, but it didn’t come. Instead: “Should you be touching me here?”

“Is there somewhere else you’d rather I touch you?” Jensen asked with an audacious wink, even as he discreetly withdrew his hand.

“You know,” Jared commented from his seat across the aisle as he flipped through the character synopses the Sesame Workshop people had messengered over that morning. “It’s creepy to hear you to mack on your secret gay lover while I’m reading about the genesis of Prairie Dawn and Abby Cadabby.”

“Maybe you should check out the one on Bert and Ernie,” Misha suggested, surreptitiously pressing the outside of his right foot to Jensen’s left. “Their gay love is epic.”

“How many times, do you think,” Jared looked up with a contemplative look. He ruined the serious consideration with a grin worthy of dimples. “Can we say ‘gay’ in the next ninety seconds?”

“Depends,” Misha bit his lip and scratched his chin. “Are we talking gay seconds?”

“Are gay seconds different than straight seconds?” Jensen asked. Sometimes—sometimes—his boyfriend and best friend were dangerous to his mental health. He was willing to let it slide because Misha’s leg had ceased its restless bouncing at the promise of zany conversation.

“Well, yeah,” Jared said as if everyone in the world knew this elementary fact. “Gay seconds always show up twenty seconds after the straight ones.”

Jensen laughed because of the three of them; it was Jared (the breeder) who was always late. Like, always. Like, gay late.

“Right,” Misha nodded sagely. “That’s Gay Standard Time. If a party starts at 8:00 GST, that means it really starts at 10:00 SST.”

“SST?” Jensen repeated, just to clarify. “Straight Standard Time? Is there a Bi Standard Time?”

“Nah,” Misha snorted. “They just bounce back and forth between SST and GST.”

They laughed together as they continued to gay up First Class. As God—and United Airlines—intended.

The set of Sesame Street made Misha’s heart skip. He stopped short of pressing a quelling hand to his chest, instead turning to share a deeply satisfied grin with his friends. To his left, he spied a huge green screen. To his right, Hooper’s Store— Christ on a stick! Hooper’s Store! Directly in front of him was the stoop of 123 Sesame Street, where countless monsters, humans and guest stars had sat. A PA darted past carrying a familiar teddy bear, heading to a big bird’s nest— Big Bird’s MF-ing nest —peaking around the back of the green screen.

“Jen,” Misha breathed, reaching out to curl his long fingers around the other man’s forearm. Jensen turned his head to focus his attention on his boyfriend. “This is… amazing.”

“Right,” Jared interrupted, as was his apparent right as The Best Friend. “They have an honest-to-God set. And there are Muppets. Our jobs blow.”

“Oh my god,” Misha’s grip on Jensen’s arm turned into a frantic tug as he pointed at a man lounging in a chair in front of the green screen. “Do you know who that is? That’s Kevin Clash!”

“Elmo?” Jensen asked. “That guy is Elmo?”

“Yes,” Misha leaned forward on the balls of his feet, ready to sprint into Kevin Clash’s personal space and full-on fangirl out. “I want to meet him. Come on, let’s—”

“Welcome to Sesame Street!” A strong feminine voice stopped them in their tracks. Dammit. Misha turned on his best Misha ‘Wrecks In Effect’ Collins smile and let go of Jensen’s arm. “We are so pleased to have you here. I’m Carly, and I’ll be taking care of you during your time on the Street. Right this way; I’ll show you to your dressing room.”

Misha shot one last look of longing toward Kevin Clash and then followed Carly, listening intently to her running monologue on all things Street. The scripts were in the dressing room; a table read scheduled for noon; on-set rehearsal at five; and filming to start at eight the next morning.

“The refrigerator is well-stocked so help yourselves,” Carly said as she ushered them into a large, shared dressing room. “I’ll let you get settled and then I’ll walk you around the set.”

“Look,” Jared said from next to the table in the corner. “They have juice boxes.”

“Juice boxes!” Jensen laughed, but scurried over to see for himself. Misha was hot on his tale. “I haven’t had one of those in years. Hook me up. Do they have gra—”

“Dibs on grape,” Misha foxed his way in front of Jensen and snatched up the sole purple juice box.

A laughing kafuffle ensued as three grown men tried to lay claim to the liquid form of happiness. As they hit the couch—Misha on bottom, Jared on top—the door to the dressing room opened again.

“Excuse me,” Carly said with a pointed clearing of her throat. She waited as the men disentangled and stood in impromptu poses of casualness. “Is everything all right in here?”

“Quite all right,” Misha said. “Simply a gentlemen’s disagreement.”

“A juice box incident,” Jared supplied with a grin while Jensen hid a laugh behind a cough.

“Thieving jerk,” Jensen said, which made the other two howl with laughter. Yeah, their jokes weren’t funny.

“Jensen,” Elmo said as he sat on Jensen’s knee. “Will you sing Elmo a song?”

“I have the perfect song to sing you, Elmo,” Jensen said as scripted. He beamed down at the fuzzy red monster, truly starstruck. “In fact, you can help me sing it. Would you like that?”

“Oh, yes, Elmo would like that very much!” Elmo cleared his little throat. “You start, Jensen.”

Music flooded the set. Jensen knew that if he looked to the left of the lead camera, he would catch sight of Misha and Jared. It didn’t normally bother him if they watched him film scenes on the Supernatural set, but at Sesame Workshop, it was different. He was so far out of his element that it was as if the element ceased to exist all together.

This is the song
La la la la
Jensen’s song.
La la la la
La la la la
Jensen’s song.

“Um, Jensen,” Elmo tapped Jensen’s chest and turned his monster eyes up. “Excuse me, Jensen, but…”

“What is it, Elmo?” Jensen asked as the music abruptly stopped. “Don’t you like my song?”

“But Jensen is singing Elmo’s song!”

“No, I’m pretty sure that’s my song,” Jensen said seriously as he watched Misha out of the corner of his eye. His boyfriend had one hand over his mouth and one pressed to his stomach as if trying to stave off a loud fit of manly giggles. “Do you like it?”

“No, it’s Elmo’s song!” Elmo said firmly with his little red hands flailing. “Listen, listen. Elmo will sing it for you.”

This is the song
La la la la
Elmo’s song.
La la la la
La la la la
Elmo’s song.

He loves to sing,
La la la la,
Elmo's song.
La la la la,
La la la la,
Elmo's song.

“Hey,” Jensen let his eyes grow comically large. “Your song sounds just like mine!”

“But it’s Elmo’s song,” Elmo’s little shoulders drooped into a pout.

Jensen felt a little like a dick and wanted to assure the little monster that he was only saying the words the writers demanded he say. At the last minute, he reminded himself that Elmo Monster was, in fact, not real and therefore had no real emotions.

“What’s up, guys?” Zoe the orange monster asked as she approached the scene. Jensen waved at her. “Why are you sad, Elmo? Jensen, why is Elmo sad?”

“Jensen is singing Elmo’s song,” Elmo explained in a small voice. “But he says it is Jensen’s song, not Elmo’s song.”

Jensen chanced another look out of the corner of his eye at Misha, who was watching with intensity only he could muster.

“Oh dear,” Zoe said with a shake of her head. “What are you going to do?”

“I have an idea,” Jensen said. Both monsters turned their faces to him in eager anticipation. He couldn’t help but smile. “Let’s share. We can sing it together.”

“Sharing is a great idea!” Elmo exclaimed, his bright smile back in place.

“Ooh! Ooh!” Zoe hopped in place. “Can I share, too?”

“Sure, Zoe,” Jensen said smoothly. He cleared his throat and hummed the tune to signify the start of their performance.

This is the song
La la la la
Jensen’s song.
La la la la
La la la la
Jensen’s song.

Elmo bopped his head from side to side.

La la la la
La la la la

He loves to sing,
La la la la,
Elmo's song.
La la la la,
La la la la,
Elmo's song.

Zoe twirled with her arms high above her head.

I love the music.
I love the words.
That's Elmo-Jensen-Zoe’s song!

Jensen snapped his fingers as the monsters leaned in close for their big finale. He could make out Jared doing his infamous monkey dance behind Misha and the camera, but refused to be baited.

We wrote the music.
We wrote the words.
That's Zoe's,
that's Jensen’s
That's Elmo's song!

Oh, Yeah!

“Will you knock it off?” Oscar the Grouch popped out of the garbage can to Jensen’s right, a banana peel stuck to the top of his head. His face scrunched up in ten types of disdain. “Sharing and caring time is over!”

Oscar disappeared with a bang of his garbage can lid.

“Cut!” the director, Jon Stone, called. Loud whoops and whistling came from Misha and Jared who had no sense of decorum.

The Muppets surrounding Jensen fell away with an abruptness that made him wince. He’d managed to ignore the Muppeteers just out of the camera’s field of vision for the entire take, but now there was no denying them. The magic of Sesame Street was held together by men and women in black jumpsuits and wires.

“That was great, Jensen,” Jon said with a warm smile. “Quality stuff. We’re going to re-set and get straight into Jared’s scene with Super Grover.”

“Wait,” Jensen held out his hand to stop Jon from disappearing in a whirl of scripts and PAs. “That’s it? One take?”

“Sure,” Jon said, his brow crinkling in the middle. “It was perfect. Were you happy with your work?”

“I… guess,” Jensen shot Misha a look, but his boyfriend had cornered Kevin Clash and had Jared snapping a picture of the pair with his phone. “I’m just not used to one take.”

“It’s rare around here, too,” Jon admitted with an impressed nod of his head. “But you nailed it. I’ll check out the dailies and if we need different angles or shots, I’ll let you know. But really, great work.”

Misha joined Jensen as soon as Kevin and Jon moved away. Jensen didn’t shy away when his boyfriend hugged him. “That was excellent,” Misha said, dropping a secret kiss on Jensen’s neck before pulling away. “I think that was the best work I’ve ever seen you do.”

“Hilarious,” Jensen said, rolling his eyes. “Maybe I’ll finally score that Emmy.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Misha said, his lips pulled down into what Jensen called Misha’s Serious As A Heart Attack Face.

“Look,” Jared said as he trailed behind Carly, who despite her short legs, kept leaving Jared in her dust. “I’m just saying that a cape is an obvious choice.”

“Super Grover has a cape because he’s Super Grover,” she said for the third time. “There’s no reason for you to have a cape.”

“Can’t I be Super Grover’s apprentice?”

“You have the script in your hand,” Carly stopped suddenly and wheeled on Jared. He stepped away from her fiercely jabbing index finger. “Does it say anything about you being Super Grover’s apprentice?”

“No,” Jared grinned his very best grin. He had conquered hundreds with his very best grin. Carly would be putty in his hands in 3…2…

“Well then,” she said with a shake of her head. “You are not his apprentice and you do not get a cape. End of story.”

Jared watched, flummoxed, as Carly stalked away. He turned to share his disbelief with Jensen and Misha, and they did not disappoint.

“Dude,” Jensen said with wide eyes. “The grin didn’t even make her pause. You must be losing it.”

“Or she’s a robot head,” Misha added, to which his friends rolled their eyes.

“I’m going to find Jon,” Jared decided. He shouldered past his friends and spent ten minutes searching the set for the director. He found him huddled around a projector with several Muppeteers. “Hey, Jon. You got a minute?”

“Sure, Jared,” Jon disengaged from the group. “Is this about the cape?”

Jared spared a few seconds to be impressed by Carly’s quickness. Hell, word traveled fast on the Supernatural set, but Carly was clearly out to set the land-speed record in tattletaling.

“Uh, yeah,” he said, which was disappointing because he meant to go in with guns blazing. He tried again. “Think about it! Super Grover and me, superheroes and best friends!”

“I don’t have a problem with it,” Jon said. “But the script has already been written and approved. The blocking is set out for the existing script. If we change now, we will have to redo all of it.”

“I’ll help,” Jared said quickly. He never dabbled in writing, but he’d made plenty of notes on scripts before. “We can get the script to mimic the existing blocking scheme. All I want is a cape, man.”

“Okay, okay,” Jon laughed and clapped Jared on the shoulder. “I appreciate your passion for the show. We are technically ahead of schedule since Jensen got his in one take. Let’s talk to the writers about the changes.”

Three hours later, Jared emerged from the writer’s room with a new, handwritten script and a victorious smile. He bounded onto the green-screen set and shook hands with the Super Grover Muppeteer.

“Okay, let’s run through this one time,” Jon said from his chair. “We’ll roll cameras to see if the blocking still works. Here we go people. Action!”

“Welcome to Super School, Super Apprentice Jared,” Grover said in his warbling voice. Jared grinned because he was there, acting with freakin’ Super Grover. “The first thing you need to learn is how to put on your hat. We do it like it like this.”

Grover put his silver helmet-like hat on his blue head, grunting and muttering the whole time. Jared mimicked Grover’s movements and sounds, tucking his floppy hair into the brim of the hat the costume guru had managed to procure in quick order.

“Good,” Grover said, nodding his head imperiously and causing his hat to slip slightly to the side. He threw in his Model Face for free. “You look very dashing, Jared.”

“It’s important to look your best while fighting crime,” Jared said, reaching out to adjust Grover’s hat. “That’s in the Super Handbook, right?”

“Correct,” Grover handed Jared a red cape. “The cape is next. There are ties to keep it in place. We put it on like this.”

“Cue Super Grover!” Jon called. Jared held his mark as the Grover Muppet was replaced with a Grover Muppet with his Super Grover cape already in place. The Muppeteer, dressed in a green bodysuit, strapped Grover into place around his body for the full-body action sequences. A PA handed Jared a much larger cape and scurried off set. “We’re still rolling. Action!”

“I tie it around my neck, right?” Jared said as he made a hasty bow. “Is this good?”

“Excellent,” Grover said. This time his nod did not disturb his hat. Jared assumed it was sewn directly into the Muppet’s head. “Do you see this lightning bolt on my chest? See it? Right here? With the G?”

“Ah, yes,” Jared bent down to squint at the Super Grover insignia, as scripted. “That’s so awesome. Do I get one, too?”

“Every Superhero needs one,” Grover decreed, his high voice wise and excited. “ I have created an insignia just for you, Super Apprentice Jared. Taaa-DA!”

Jared remained still as a costumer hurried into the shot and slapped a cloth insignia to his chest. Her fingers smoothed the fabric a little longer than probably necessary, so Jared flexed his pecs and winked at the girl. She blushed the color of red wine and ran away.

“This is so cool!” Jared crowed, which was not scripted, but sounded great and true. His insignia consisted of a tornado with a brilliant red J in the middle. It was perfect. “Thanks, Super Grover!”

“Are you prepared for your flying lesson?” Super Grover asked, rolling his little shoulders and neck to warm up. “It is tricky, so you should pay close attention.”

“Like this?” Jared asked and leapt into the air. It was here that Jared would be shot flying into the air with the ease of a seasoned superhero. He moved to his next mark and pretended to land after his successful flight, bouncing a little on his heels. “How was that, Super Grover?”

“Ah, very… very good, Super Apprentice Jared,” Super Grover looked up at him in consternation. “Now, watch me.”

Super Grover backed up, shook his hips and took off running (which would be looped to look like a lengthy run as opposed to the two steps the Muppeteer actually took). Grover gave a long, loud war cry. Jared knew the special effects crew would add footage of Super Grover flying at an uneven, loopy clip through the sky, eventually colliding with a duck.

“So you see,” Super Grover panted and pressed a fuzzy hand to his chest. “That is how Super Grover flies.”

“Did you mean to run into that duck, Super Grover?” Jared asked seriously. “Should I run into a duck next time?”

“Perhaps it is time to practice your name,” Super Grover suggested. He lifted one leg and one arm, reminding Jared (inappropriately) of Captain Morgan. “Sup…..ER Grover!”

“Okay,” Jared copied Super Grover’s stance as best he could. “SUP…..er Jared!”

“No, no,” Grover shook his head and tsked his lips. “It’s Sup…..ER Grover!”

“Okay,” Jared found his pose easily enough and tried not to laugh. “SUP…..er Jared!”

“No. Sup….ER!”

“SUP…..er.”

“Sup…..ER!”

“SUP…..er!”

“Gah,” Grover faceplanted into his palm. “You are very stubborn, did you know that?”

“Cut!” Jon yelled from his chair. He approached Jared with a happy look on his face. “That was great stuff. I think the marks work well. We’ll re-set and do it for real. After that, we’ll need to get some shots of you flying. I think this scene is going to be really fun for our viewers.”

“And for Jared,” Misha called from half a room away.

“Hey, I’m all about the kids,” Jared laughed.

“And the cape,” Misha said, because Jared could never have the last word where Misha was concerned.

Misha sat serenely in a chair at the steps in front of 123 Sesame Street. His scene with the legendary Kermit the Frog was moments away. Jon had insisted that Misha improvise an interview with Kermit about life and working on television. It wasn’t necessarily the Sesame Street experience he’d been looking for, but he wasn’t crazy enough to pass up the opportunity to work with the world’s most famous frog.

He’d managed to convince Jensen to take Jared very far from set, afraid that Jared would make inappropriate attempts to break his concentration. It was a valid fear after all of the inane shenanigans Jared had subjected everyone on the Supernatural set to over the years. The last thing he wanted was Jared sneaking a foot onto his crotch, or dropping trough and making a helicopter out of his dick.

“Misha,” Jon came over with a middle-aged man. “This is Steve Whitmire, the voice of Kermit the Frog.”

“Mr. Whitmire,” Misha promptly got to his feet and offered his hand. “What a pleasure. It’s an honor to meet such a legendary voice.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” Steve said with a strained smile. “Please call me Steve. I’m a fan of Supernatural, so I’m looking forward this.”

Misha noticed Steve had not said he was a “big fan”, which was what almost everyone he’d ever met said. If he’d had time or the inclination, he would have rolled the implication around, searching for hidden meanings. But they were on a schedule and in less time than he thought possible, he was resettled into his chair, facing Kermit the Frog. Steve sat in a small alcove behind the stoop where Kermit was perched, hidden from the camera, but still in Misha’s line of sight.

“So, Misha Collins,” Kermit began, clearing his throat once before continuing on. “You are a television actor.”

“That’s right, Kermit.”

“You act on a television show called Supernatural,” Kermy continued with a sage nod. “As the angel Castiel, one of the least interesting characters on television today.”

“That’s right,” Misha smiled broadly and settled in for a stress-free interview with America’s favorite Muppet. “I—wait, what did you say?”

“You played a pivotal role in undermining the Apocalypse,” Kermit barreled on. Misha widened his eyes at Steve, who was steadfastly ignoring him. “You could argue that had Castiel not intervened, then your brother Gabriel would still be alive. Isn’t that correct, Mr. Collins?”

“Oh for the love of—” Jon jumped out of his seat and came forward, waving his arms above his head. “Cut! Cut! Steve, we talked about this.”

“What’s going on here?” Misha asked, getting to his feet and turning to the director. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the Muppet on the steps. “I get the distinct feeling that Kermit does not like me.”

“No, no,” Jon said, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “It’s nothing personal, really. It’s just that Steve… is… let’s say emotionally invested in Supernatural.”

“Did his investment go sour or something?”

“Steve, look,” Jon said in a whisper that easily carried across the stage. “Let it go, man. It’s not Misha’s fault. You know that, right?”

“Of course,” Steve said stiffly, not relinquishing his spot just out of sight.

“We good?” Jon asked Misha.

“Uh,” Misha said, struck unusually dumb by the strange situation. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and quickly tapped out a message to Jensen to get his ass back to set ASAP PDQ…BBQ. “Yeah, let’s do this.”

The first few questions were mundane. How did you become an actor? What’s your favorite thing about working on Supernatural? What do you do between takes to pass the time? But then, things got wonky again.

“Would you say,” Kermit asked, leaning forward on his perch as if his little froggy question was of great import. “That you manipulate the emotions of your female fans? That you used their hormonal overdrive to catapult you to star status, thereby insuring your continued appearance on Supernatural, despite the fact that your character’s story arc ceased to exist at the end of the almost-Apocalypse?”

“Jesus, Steve!” Jon hollered.

“What is your problem, man?” Misha demanded. “What did I do to you? Fuck your girlfriend? Steal your lunch money? I mean, what the hell?”

“We don’t allow that kind of language on Sesame Street,” Kermit sniffed. Misha was amazed to find Kermit was looking down his non-nose at him. “I thought you are supposed to be a professional!”

“Excuse me?” Misha goggled. He was finding it difficult to talk back to Kermit the fucking Frog. All of his years as a highly trained word ninja were useless to him against his fuzzy new nemesis.

“Steve, seriously,” Jon snapped. “Keep it in your pants. We’re still rolling.”

“Is it true you ran eight-three kilometers in one day for your charity, Random Acts?” Kermit asked, rapid-fire style. It almost sounded like an accusation in Kermit’s nasally voice, so Misha eyed him suspiciously, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Uh, yes, that’s right,” he finally answered when Kermit tilted his head and gave his little head an impatient shake. “I took pledges from the public. We ended up earning just over ninety-thousand dollars for Random Acts.”

“And you are doing what with it?” Kermit prompted. Misha relaxed a little, because he could not see how that particular line of questioning could end badly. Talking about charity always made people more, well… charitable.

“Our purpose is to spread kindness throughout the land,” Misha said with a smile. He truly loved talking about Random Acts and their simplistic, yet far-reaching mission. “We go out into the world and try to make people smile.”

“Because smiling is more important that feeding the hungry?” Kermit asked, employing that stupid sage smile again.

“No!” Misha spluttered. He hadn’t spluttered since that night back in 1989 when Cindy McQueen had grabbed his crotch and led him like a dog on a leash up the stairs to her bedroom. “There are plenty of organizations that are dedicated to the bigger issues. Random Acts has chosen to—”

“Waste money giving bikes away to people who most likely hawked them the same day,” Kermit interrupted. “Nice.”

“What’s going on here?” Jensen’s low voice cut through the silence that followed Kermit’s latest attack. Misha swung his head around to shoot his boyfriend an exasperated look. “Did Kermit just insult Misha?”

“Steve!” Jon slapped his palm against his arm rest and pushed to his feet. His face had turned an early spring tomato shade of red.

“I think you who said it best, Jensen,” Kermit quipped, his mouth open wide, one finger in the air. “Misha is a whore!”

It was not a moment Misha was proud of, not by a long shot. He doubted seriously that he would ever tell this particular tale at a convention, or even over Thanksgiving dinner at home, where wild stories ruled the holiday. No, no. This moment was best left to those who had witnessed it. Thank Christ for non-disclosure clauses.

He jerked forward out of his chair and launched himself at the little green Muppet. His long fingers wrapped around the green wool even as his body’s momentum carried them over the stoop of 123 Sesame Street, into the alcove where Steve Whitmire huddled.

“Misha!” Jensen and Jared yelled as one, both of them sprinting onto the set and grabbing at his arms as he threw punch after punch.

Here’s the thing about Misha: He’s as slinky as a cat. He slipped out of their desperate grasps with ease and continued to wail on both Muppet and Muppeteer-slash-dickhead. He unleashed a torrent of curses that would make Bob Saget blush with shame.

“It’s your fault!” Steve shrieked from the bottom of the star-studded heap. “Your fault!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Misha demanded, pinning the man’s arms beside his head. Kermit had rolled away and was vacantly grinning at the brick wall.

“It’s his wife,” Jon blurted as he worked his way into the fray, grunting and shoving as he went. “His wife called out your name in bed.”

“zOMG,” Jared said succinctly.

“She…” Misha released his hold on the voice of Kermy and scrambled from his straddled-over-his-hips position. That was never the right position to be in when discussing such delicate matters. “My name? But… do I know her?”

“Sheila has an insane crush on you,” Steve groaned, wiping a weary palm over his face. “She watches dailymisha on Livejournal like a hawk. Saves those damn pictures to our hard drive—we have one thousand and thirty-two of them on our hard drive. And that’s not counting the gifs!”

“Daily Misha?” Jensen asked with his eyebrows three inches higher than normal. “What the…?”

“You remember that episode where Castiel says ‘it’s not of import’?” Misha asked, and thankfully, Jensen took the note.

“Hey, man,” Misha leaned over and offered Steve his hand. “How long have you been together?”

“Twenty-five years,” Steve said, but refused to take Misha’s hand, opting instead to lie resolutely on the ground.

“See that? That’s love!” Misha said, grinning in order to cover his mounting panic. He had physically assaulted Kermit the ever-lovin’ Frog. In front of cameras. “Come on, man. She doesn’t really want me. She wants you.”

“Nothing wrong with a little fantasy,” Jared put in. Misha hoped he shut up, but of course he didn’t. “You can’t tell me you don’t have a hot piece on reserve in the spank bank.”

Steve’s eyes flickered up to Jared and then away. Ha! Misha loved Jared’s stupid mouth sometimes. He offered Steve his hand again, and that time, Steve took it and let himself be pulled upright.

“The chick from Transformers,” Steve said after smoothing down his hair.

“She’s hot,” Jared said with an approving nod.

“Hey, uh, look,” Steve said with a cough, turning his body but not his eyes toward Misha. “I’m sorry about all of this. It’s been, uh, a stressful week. No hard feelings?”

“Don’t sue me,” Misha said, clapping Steve’s shoulder perhaps a little harder than strictly decorous. “And you’ve got yourself a deal.”

Misha was happy when he finally got to put that damn frog in his rear view mirror. He never liked Kermit to begin with. Seriously, his girlfriend was a pig and his best friend went “waka-waka-waka.” Misha couldn’t take a frog seriously under those conditions.

Jensen left Misha in their dressing room with a new grape juice box and a Jared. He was Not Pleased by the treatment his boyfriend had received at the hands of Steve Whitmire. Misha had been the most excited of the three of them to appear on Sesame Street, and so far the experience was falling way below the eager man’s expectations. Jensen took Misha’s disappointment personally and set out to cure it.

He got directions to Jon’s office from a passing crewmember and headed that direction with his shoulders and jaw squared. He intended to demand—yes demand— that Misha be given another scene, possibly something with Jensen so he could keep an eye on the proceedings. He didn’t care if it was with Herry the Monster or The Count or Slimey the Worm. He had to find a way to salvage Misha’s dreams.

Jon opened the door to Jensen’s firm knock and did not look surprised to be face-to-face with a disgruntled guest star.

“You’re here to talk about The Misha Debacle, aren’t you?” He asked, pulling out a tube of antacids and chucking a few in his mouth. Under normal circumstances, Jensen thought idly, Misha would love knowing he had an actual debacle named after him.

“Yeah,” Jensen said, using his ultra-deep voice to subtly declare his displeasure. His lips stretched into a firm line of determination. “This was Misha’s dream, man, and your boy damn near killed it. You need to put him in another scene.”

“I don’t have a script for any other scenes.”

“Not my problem,” Jensen stepped forward, using his height to intimidate the shorter man. He never went in for physical intimidation, not normally, but when it came to Misha… yeah. He regretted his decision not to bring Jared, who was freakishly as protective of Misha as Jensen himself. Seriously, Jensen thought, boundaries; they should talk about it. “You’ll figure it out.”

“I need a day,” Jon said, backing away. “I have Bert and Ernie scheduled for the afternoon. I’ll write him into that scene.”

“That’s perfect,” Jensen said, slapping the director’s arm in approval. He turned to go, pausing at the door long enough to say: “Have the scripts and shooting schedule delivered to the hotel. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

Jensen led the charge onto the set the next morning, his grinned matched twice over by Jared and Misha on either side. Jon had picked up the gauntlet Jensen had thrust into his gut and ran with it. The scripts delivered to their hotel early that morning were golden. All three men were given roles to play inside of the infamous Bert and Ernie apartment. There was singing, there were paperclips… there was a rubber duckie. Score.

“Here’s hoping no one else’s wife has a Misha obsession,” Jared laughed and held out his fist for a Wonder Triplets Fist Bump of Friendship and Other Manly Things. Yeah, it was another one of their things that no one else got.

“I wonder if the Bert and Ernie guys are gay,” Misha said after delivering the aforementioned bump with good cheer.

“Bert and Ernie are totally gay,” Jared said. “Duh.”

“No, no,” Misha said and jerked his head toward the two men hovering behind the limp Bert and Ernie Muppets. “I mean, the guys. The ones who play Bert and Ernie.”

They fell silent as they outright studied the Muppeteers, Eric Johnson and Allen Richardson. There was an understated give and take play to their interactions with each other. It was like watching two ferrets playing in a crinkle tunnel. Or kids chasing and running from waves at the beach. Or… like watching Jared and Jensen.

“Not gay,” Jensen said the same time Misha said: “Way gay.”

“Your gaydar is busted,” Jensen accused, making Jared laugh. “You thought I was with that dork when we first met.”

“Eew,” Jared said, twisting his face around an instant visual of his best friend grinding up against him. “No offense, man, but just… gross.”

“None taken. And may I had hork?”

“Hork?” Misha asked.

“It’s his vomit sound,” Jared supplied.

“Ah. Hey,” Misha said with his head slightly canted to the right. “I wonder if Eric and Allen have RPS written about them.”

Jared bent double, long arms wrapping around his stomach, as he laughed outrageously loud. His face turned a serious color of purple that would have concerned Jensen had he not seen Jared’s amazing laugh of lung deprivation before.

“Surely not as much as is written about you and Jared,” Misha continued, earning him a strangled swear from Jared as his laughter died.

“Ugh,” Jensen said. Having Misha as a boyfriend required a certain amount of bizarre extracurricular reading. Misha loved to torture him with the dirtiest NC-17 pieces he could find. Sadly, they routinely involved him and Jared doing stuff he was not comfortable imagining. “Ugh.”

“Hey guys,” Eric said with a bright smile as the trio finally reached the set. “You ready to rock this?”

“Morning guys,” Jon called from his seat beside the main camera. His brows clenched together briefly as he made eye contact with Jensen, who nodded coolly. “Everything’s ready… so… find your marks.”

The shooting went on for a while with Jon taking extra care to perfect each shot and every line. He gave Misha leave to improvise as he saw fit, which made the man’s lips curl up and his eyes shine. By the end of the day, Misha’s joy had clearly been restored.

“Thank you,” Misha murmured as he hugged Jensen close.

“For what?”

“I know what you did,” Misha said softly. “So thank you.”

Jensen just smiled, admitting nothing. There was no need to let his boyfriend know the lengths to which he would go to keep that ridiculous mouth smiling. Misha with a little knowledge was Misha with a lot of power.

“Come on,” Jared shoulder bumped his way through the hug, not ever caring about interrupting tender moments between his friends. “The car’s here. Let’s go.”

“I can’t wait to see the whole show,” Misha said, settling into the back of the dark SUV. He linked his fingers with Jensen’s where they were out of sight from the driver.

“Do you think they’ll ever invite us back?” Jared asked, leaning forward so he could look at both Jensen and Misha beside him.

Jensen leaned forward so he could look at both Misha and Jared beside him. Misha glanced between Jensen and Jared. They shared quirked eyebrows and smothered laughter.

“Hell no!”

Jared followed closely behind Jensen as they ran across the Supernatural set, darting between riggings and extras on their way to Misha’s trailer. Without pausing to knock, Jensen flung the door open and bounded inside, skidding to a stop in the middle of the room. Jared oofed into his side, nearly unbalancing them both.

“Hello,” Misha said serenely, sliding into one of Jensen’s faded University of Texas sweatshirts. He was already in a pair of DNA-patterned pajama pants and thick wool socks. “You’re here for naptime?”

“Aren’t you adorable?” Jared laughed, shoving away from Jensen. “Where did you find those pants?”

“I like to think they found me,” Misha said with a shrug.

“Focus,” Jensen said to the other two, drawing a black DVD case out of his jacket. Seriously, the Winchester brothers had the biggest inside-jacket pockets known to man. You could smuggle a watermelon in it, which he knew because they’d tried it—successfully—one night. “Look what just came.”

“Are we really going to watch porn together?” Misha asked, lifting an eyebrow. “Because that might be a little weird, even for the three of us. Boundaries, social norms, et cetera.”

“It’s our Sesame Street episode,” Jensen said, disregarding his boyfriend’s sarcasm. Jared knew from experience that that brand of Misha Sarcasm meant he’d recently tweeted about world domination or turnips. Twitter turned the man from quirky to insane in 180 characters. “Jon just sent it with a basket of cupcakes.”

“Oh yay!” Misha rushed forward and snatched the DVD from Jensen’s hands. “Where are the cupcakes?”

“Um.”

“You ate them all, didn’t you?” Misha asked Jared directly.

“Jensen helped,” Jared said, never missing an opportunity to throw his best friend under the Misha Bus.

“I saved you one,” Jensen reached back into his inner pocket and pulled out a carefully wrapped, although slightly smooshed chocolate cupcake. Misha’s face lit up and he took the proffered treat. “Now, let’s watch the show.”

They fell into their normal places on Misha’s couch—Jensen in the middle, Jared to the left, Misha to the right—and waited for the screen to flicker to life. Misha held on tight to Jensen’s hand, his excitement barely contained.

After the traditional theme song, and a piece featuring Herry Monster and Abby Cadabby, came Jared’s Super Grover scene. The men laughed uproariously, enjoying the simple editing and special effects that had Jared flying high above the city with his arms extended a la Superman.

An animated bit about the letter of the day (W, as it turned out) and a moment with Big Bird searching for his missing teddy bear, and then it was Misha’s heavily edited interview with Kermit. They all groaned and expressed their surprise that the bit had made the final cut at all. After a few minutes, Jared pulled out his horrific Kermit impression and started asking Misha questions about Jensen’s rumored ability to suck chrome off a bumper. They laughed so hard they had to pause the DVD to recover.

Jensen’s scene with Elmo and Zoe was sweet and made them all smile. Misha complimented him on a flawless performance, and Jared gagged when they shared a brief kiss, even though he agreed with Misha’s evaluation.

The episode went on to “Elmo’s World” and then back to Big Bird who, with Maria’s help, found his teddy bear. Finally, the camera focused on Bert and Ernie.

“I’m going to take a bath, Bert,” Ernie said, already wearing his shower cap and clutching a towel, a back scrubber and his rubber duckie. Bert made a sound of acknowledgment, but did not turn to his roommate. “Say, Bert, what are you doing?”

“Counting paperclips, Ernie,” Bert said without inflection. He gingerly moved one silver paperclip from one pile to another. He appeared to be just a few clips away from completion. “Twenty-three…”

“That can’t be right, Bert,” Ernie said. “There has to be at least ninety-four paperclips there!”

“Gah!” Bert covered his eyes with his little yellow Muppet hands. “Ernie! Now I have lost count. I have to start again. This is going to take all day.”

A knock at the door interrupted Ernie’s reply. He managed to open the door while maintaining his hold on his bath items. There stood Jensen, Jared and Misha, smiling and saying “hi” all together.

“Misha!” Bert ran across the room, looking simultaneously disgruntled and relieved. “Thank goodness you are here. I need help counting my paperclip collection! You are my best counting friend. Will you help?”

“Of course,” Misha said, laying a hand on Bert’s little shoulder and following him back to the counter where the paperclips sat. “Should we start with the number one? Or maybe start at the end, with number one hundred?”

Bert laughed with Misha at the unfunny math joke while Jensen, Jared and Ernie watched.

“I’m off to take my bubble bath,” Ernie told the J’s. As he headed toward the washroom, Rubber Duckie fell from Ernie’s arms and landed on the floor with a squeak. “Have fun with your paperclips, Bert!”

“Oh no!” Jensen pressed his hands against his chest and stared at the floor. “Look, Jared! Ernie dropped Rubber Duckie!”

“He can’t have a bath without Rubber Duckie,” Jared gasped. He shared a worried look with Jensen. “What do we do? Should we tell Bert?”

“Six,” Misha said with authority, dropping a paperclip on the smaller pile. He turned to Bert. “You know, Bert, I love counting things, but I also love the letter W. Did you know that?”

“Misha!” Bert held a paper clip mid-air. “I am the President of the National Association of W Lovers! I love the letter W!”

“We better not interrupt them,” Jensen said to Jared. He bent to pick up Rubber Duckie. “We can take it to Ernie.”

With that, the scene cut to Jensen poking his head into the room where Ernie sat in a tub overfilling with Bubbles. He seemed to be searching for something.

“Looking for this?” Jensen asked, offering Rubber Duckie to Ernie with a sympathetic look. Ernie clapped his hands and took the duckie. “You dropped it and I picked it up.”

“Thank you, Jensen!” Ernie hugged Rubber Duckie close, giving it a squeeze. “This fella is my best little buddy. I would be so sad without him.”

“I know what you mean,” Jensen said. “I have one of those, too!”

“You have a Rubber Duckie like mine?”

“No,” Jensen reached through the open door and dragged Jared in by his arm. “But I have a Jared!”

Ernie and Jensen shared a laugh when Jared lifted his shoulders in a shrug and gave a honk-honk.

From the other room, Misha and Bert traded W words.

“Walrus!”

“Wednesday!”

“Welcome!”

“Warts!” This one from Misha.

The skit faded out into the closing credits.

“This episode of Sesame Street was brought to you by the letters W and Q,” Big Bird said as he hugged his teddy bear tight. “And the number thirteen.”

The screen turned blue and there was the briefest moment of silence before Jared, Jensen and Misha burst into loud and overlapping words. They fist bumped and knocked into each other, congratulations peppering the air.

“There’s only one more thing to do,” Jensen said when they settled back into the couch. He shot Jared a conspiratorial glance and reached one more time into his goodie-hiding jacket.

“What?” Misha scooted away from his boyfriend and looked concerned. “Do we need to reshoot anything? It looked great, but I could see where they might want to—”

“No reshoots, dude,” Jared grinned. He should worry, he thought briefly, that he was so involved in his best friend’s relationship, but whatever. “We got you something.”

“Here,” Jensen handed over a thick envelope. The sheepish expression on his face surprised Jared and he stood up to give the lovers some semblance of privacy. “It’s really lame.”

Misha tsked at the possibility of a lame gift and then opened the package. He pulled out airline tickets and several brochures. He took inventory and read the information quickly. Blue eyes darted away from the papers and landed on Jensen’s face with something akin to worship.

Jared backed away with a grimace. He should have anticipated Misha’s sappy response to such an awesome present and made himself scarce before the big reveal. He’d be subjected to a Monkey Misha hanging off his shoulders later. That was Misha’s way of saying thank you to Jared, although he’d never understood how having a six-foot tall dude wrapped around his back counted as a show of gratitude, but hey, that was Mish.

“Sesame Place?” Misha asked Jensen, completely ignoring Jared.

Just before Jared managed to escape, he saw Misha launch himself at Jensen, pushing him back on the couch. Thank god, he thought, I was just sitting there! That would’ve been awkward.

“Hey, Jared,” Misha called out as soon as the trailer door opened. Jared paused and glanced over his shoulder. His friends were wrapped together, but all hands were accounted for, so shew. “Monkey Misha will find you later.”

Jared laughed, even though it wasn’t really funny. Nothing they ever did was actually ever funny. But yeah, that was okay.

Final A/N: Sooo, this was my first Reverse Bang. I am thrilled that I got to work with tringic. She made this experience a walk in the park. I still can't believe she let me write a fist fight between Misha and Kermit. I mean, really? Could this chick be ANY cooler? I had such an amazing time. I got this ridiculous smile on my face every time I saw a new email from tringic, because I knew she'd be sending new ideas (Jared's insignia? Allll her). I giggled so hard at the bathtub scenario she sent... oh dear.

THANK YOU, Zoe, for being such a kick ass person. And an unbelievable artist to boot!

Trick or Treating Dean

evil_knitter — Sun, 31 Oct 2010 16:23:22 GMT

Title – Trick or Treating Dean (Cracky kid!fic)
Author—evil_knitter
Rating – PGish
Pairings/Characters – Dean/Cas, Sam, OFC
Word Count – 2,191
Disclaimer - All characters and original plots belong to Eric Kripke, The CW, Wonderland, etc. No disrespect or copyright infringement is intended.
Spoilers – This is part of the –ING Dean ‘Verse. You don’t need to read the others to read this one, but hey, why not check them out?
Summary- Set several years in the future in the –ING Dean ‘Verse. It’s Dean’s first time ever trick or treating… sorta. Sam likes to ruffle Cas’s feathers, and so does someone else.

Master Post for -ING Dean 'Verse

***

Dean palmed the keys to the Impala, humming the refrain of “Darkside of the Moon” as he reached for the black plastic bag on the floorboard. He was proudly amused of his purchase—and eager to show it to Cas.

“They just woke up,” Sam said as Dean bounded onto the porch. “I made cider. It’s on the counter if you want some."

“Cider?” Dean paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Dude.”

“It’s for tomorrow night,” Sam defended his actions. He rightly interpreted Dean’s ‘dude’ as ‘that’s Martha Stewart gay, man’. “Every house is supposed to have something to share with the parents out with their kids.”

“Dude,” Dean said again. He had a magical gift for imparting entire paragraphs of thoughts with that one little word. In this case, he merely meant ‘that makes it way gayer.’

“What’s in the bag?” Sam asked, because yeah, okay, making hot cider for the desperate housewives of Palmyra Way was pretty gay. He didn’t bother reminding his brother that he had only made the cider to help out Dean’s very gay angel. “If it’s anything from Nancy’s Nook, please lie to me.”

“It’s a costume,” Dean said with relish.

“I told you to lie to me!” Sam clamped his eyes shut before Dean could whip out whatever leather/latex/rubber monstrosity he procured for his Special Time with Castiel.

“It’s for Mary-Claire,” Dean said and then leveled Sam with a piercing glare. “Why do you always go to my sex life? It’s weird the way you fixate on that, don’t you think?”

“Fixate?” Sam spluttered in embarrassed outrage. “You—the two of always—son of a—jerk!”

“Settle down, bitch, I was just messing with you,” Dean laughed at his brother’s discomfort and then gestured toward the house. “Come inside and see what I got our girl.”

Sam obediently followed, but only because when it came to his niece, he was wrapped tighter than a coil around a clicky pen. She wasn’t quite two years old, but none of the men could remember their lives before her.

Mary-Claire Winchester sat in the middle of the living room floor, a sprawl of blocks fanning out from her as if she was Godzilla and had just leveled Tokyo. Her hair was flaxen and hung straight to mid-shoulder, where it abruptly curled into fat ringlets down her back. She grinned up at her Daddy and held her arms out for him to pick her up. It was the one dictate that Dean never hesitated to follow.

“You spoil her,” Cas said from his perch on the couch where he folded miniature jeans and plaid shirts in pastels. It wasn’t really an admonishment, seeing how Cas was no better on the spoiling front.

“Of course I do,” Dean admitted before returning his full attention to his daughter. Mary-Claire babbled nonsensically—and earnestly—to Dean, pointing at the mess on the floor. Her crazy-blue eyes were wide and pleading… and distinctly puppy-like. Dean cast a look over his shoulder at his little brother. “Did you teach her the puppy-dog thing?”

“I plead the fifth,” Sam said, which meant ‘hell yeah, because I know from experience how well it works on you. Gotta give the girl a leg up.’

“Pup-pee gog?” Mary-Claire squirmed in Dean’s arms, looking for the aforementioned pup-pee gog. “Da? Pup-pee gog?”

“Sorry, kiddo,” Dean said. “No puppy gog, uh, dog. But I did get you a present.”

“Pwe-cent!” Mary-Claire clapped her hands, her anti-possession bracelet tinkling from the movement, and struggled to get down. Dean put her on her feet and crouched down to bring himself closer to her level. “Wot pwe-cent?”

“A costume for Halloween,” Dean told her, reaching for the bag leaning against the couch. “We’re going trick or treating tomorrow. Do you remember I told you about trick or treating?”

“Yes,” Mary-Claire said even though Dean was pretty sure she was just placating him so he’d give up the goods.

“You were serious about that?” Cas asked as he rolled a pair of tiny socks into a ball. “I thought we were going to stay in and hand out candy with Sam. It’s getting cold. I don’t want Mary-Claire to get sick.”

“Dude,” Dean said with a patient sigh. Cas pursed his lips because he understood that Dean meant ‘she’s a perfectly healthy toddler, not an ebola-inflicted octogenarian.’

“We never got to trick or treat when we were kids,” Sam said even though it was more for the benefit of hearing his own voice than educating his audience. “The McWinchester has to go trick or treating.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call Mary-Claire The McWinchester,” Cas growled. He slid off the couch to sit behind his daughter, just in case her still unsteady legs gave out on her. “She’s not two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun.”

Dean laughed, because he loved Cas’s dry delivery.

“I can call my niece anything I want,” Sam ruffled Mary-Claire’s hair, making her giggle. “Isn’t that right, McWinchester?”

“Yes, McWincessta,” she said, reaching out to wrap her pudgy fingers around one of Sam’s ginormous fingers, even as she looked desperately between her fathers. “Pwe-cent now?”

Dean reached into the bag and slowly drew out a white costume. Glitter fell to the floor around his heavily booted feet.

“Oh my god,” Sam laughed and quickly swung his head to capture the look on Cas’s face. “What do you think, Cas?”

“What is that?” Cas asked. His head jerked to the side in a Cas-of-old curious tilt that was mirrored by Mary-Claire. “A ghost?”

“Salt!” Mary-Claire shrieked. “Saaaaalt!”

Sam grinned at The McWinchester’s ability to quickly assess and diagnose a ghostly situation. Cas and Dean grimaced and ignored it. They would Have Words with Sam later about the things he was teaching their daughter.

“No,” Dean reached back into the bag and pulled out a set of feathery wings. “It’s an angel.”

Cas’s mouth fell open with an audible pop. Sam barked out a series of almost painful laughs. Mary-Claire squealed and plunged her hands into the soft feathers that reminded her of her own beloved Papa’s wings.

“Do you like it?” Dean asked the little girl who pushed the wings to her face and laughed as they tickled her cheeks.

“There is no way in H-E-double-hockey-sticks that Mary-Claire is going trick or treating as an angel,” Cas said, and while he kept his tone even for his daughter’s benefit, his blue eyes were spitting H-E-double-hockey-sticks-fire at Dean. “You know angels don’t look like, like, Precious Moments figurines! Plus, it’s… it’s… blasphemous! Yes, it’s blasphemous!”

“You’d rather her go as a wendigo?” Dean asked, not as successful at keeping his voice neutral. He gently tugged on the wings in Mary-Claire’s hands; pulling them away and shoving them back in the bag. When she whined and strained toward the bag, Dean shot Cas an injured look. “I thought you’d like it. I’ll take it back and get the fudgin’ ladybug or something.”

“But…” Cas said feebly. Sam’s puppy-dog look might work like wax paper on a metal slide for Dean, but Cas’s weakness was the forward curl of Dean’s shoulders that screamed disappointment… and Dean darn well knew it.

“Angel,” Mary-Claire whimpered, her fingers opening and closing around the air above the costume bag. She turned her freckled face to Cas and blinked, her ridiculously curly eye lashes kissing the tops of her round cheeks. “Papa, angel pwease?”

“Son of a female dog,” Cas sort of cursed. Dean smirked because he knew that Cas could never resist Mary-Claire’s one-two punch of ‘Papa’ and ‘pwease’. “Yes, my littlest love, of course you may be an angel for Halloween, the most ungodly day of the year.”

Dean shared a celebratory grin with his tiny daughter before handing her her wings. A white headband fell out of the bag and rolled to the floor.

“Is that a halo?” Sam asked, leaning over Dean to pick up the headband with its wire and sparkly gold pipe cleaner circlet above. “Fudgecicles,” he said, because cursing was strictly prohibited around The McWinchester. “It totally is. Cas, do you have a halo? Can we see it?”

“You know very well that I don’t,” Cas said in a sing-songy voice as Mary-Claire showed him her glittery wings. “And for the record, Sam, you breed with the mouth of a goat.”

Dean threw back his head and laughed, because that was pretty darn funny, even if it wasn’t in Enochian.

“Show me,” Mary-Claire stood in front of Cas and tilted her head quizzically. Cas returned with a tilt of his own. Dean secretly thought the pair of them looked like they’d injured themselves after a night at The Roxbury. “Wings, Papa. Pwease. Show me.”

“Oh, of course,” Cas stood up in a single stretch of muscle, reminding them all that he was made of stronger stuff than man. “Come on. I don’t want to burn Uncle Sam’s eyes out of his sockets.”

Mary-Claire giggled at that and let her Papa swing her into his arms. They always went behind the house for Angel Show and Tell Time. Cas had learned the hard way that wings had the propensity for smashing every single dish in the kitchen, and breaking the spindly-legged chairs in the living room. Although he tended to conveniently forget those important facts whenever Ikea released a new catalog.

“That kid is priceless,” Sam said reverently, watching Cas disappear out the back door with the most-loved little girl in the world in his arms. Dean knew Sam loved Mary-Claire more than any human that ever lived, including himself, and he was okay with that.

“You know The McWinchester thing bothers Cas,” Dean said with a chuckle.

“Dude,” Sam snorted. “You’re the one that came up with that one!”

“And if you ever tell Cas that,” Dean leaned forward to make sure Cas had made it all the way outside. He valued his sex life. “I’ll kick your balls into your brains.”

“Nah,” Sam waved him and his honest threat off. “I like to torment him too much to ever give you credit for it. Are you really taking Mary-Claire trick or treating?”

“Just a couple of houses. Then we’ll come back here and hand out candy,” Dean admitted. “It’ll be too cold to keep Mary-Claire out too long. I don’t want her to get sick.”

“You live to torment Cas, don’t you?” Sam shook his head and grinned. “You’re as overbearing as he is. I don’t envy Mary-Claire’s future boyfriends.”

“Shut the fudge up,” Dean yelled, scrambling to his feet like a demon had just burst down the front door and started to read rhyming poetry. Of the small number of things Dean Winchester was scared of, the thought of his much-worshipped daughter dating was at the very top. “God, Sam. What’s wrong with you? She’s only two!”

Sam laughed loud and long. Taunting Cas and Dean about The McWinchester’s future dating life was his favorite past time. Of course, it also made his stomach coil and his skin crawl, but really, he had at least eighteen years to get used to the idea. Because dating? Yeah, no way in You-Know-Where would Mary-Claire Winchester be dating until she was at least twenty. Probably twenty-two, and only if the guy could pass the requisite tests and background checks. And then, Sam swore, they’d tale her with weapons in hand.

“I’m going outside,” Dean groused, scooping up the rest of Mary-Claire’s costume as he went. “Why don’t you come with?”

“Jerk,” Sam said, because seriously, he liked his eyes. And because he really wanted to see Cas’s wings, and he couldn’t.

“Bitch,” Dean threw back, because his daughter wasn’t in earshot. He paused at the back door and watched Mary-Claire run with her arms out like an airplane and her wings strapped to her back. Cas trailed behind her, slightly hunched over as he slowly shuffle-ran in her wake. His wings rippled and glittered in the crisp fall air. Wait… glittered? He slid open the glass door and called out: “Hey, Cas, why are your wings all glittery?”

“Gwitter!” Mary-Claire hollered, turning to pelt Cas with a handful of shimmery sparkles.

“That’s why,” Cas said seriously. “There was a packet of the perfidious stuff attached to the wings. Your daughter discovered it.”

“It looks…” Dean swallowed a laugh. He knew it would take a lot of work to get the glitter out of Cas’s feathers, but the slightly purple sheen really was quite becoming. “Um, hot. No, really, it’s totally hot.”

“This was your idea,” Cas reminded him with an accusing point at their joyous child’s wings. His perturbed features smooth at once into a happy smile. He would sacrifice anything to see Mary-Claire laugh like she was in that moment, even if it meant allowing her to believe that her Papa desperately needed purple glitter on his wings.

“Best idea ever,” Dean said with a grin of the inordinately pleased.

“Agreed,” Cas said with a nod of the perpetually happy.

“Gwitter!” Mary-Claire said with a giggle of the unconditionally adored.

~The End~

Watch Castiel Watch (cracky)

evil_knitter — Tue, 28 Sep 2010 02:14:17 GMT

Title – Watch Castiel Watch
Rating – G
Pairings/ Characters– Castiel, Misha Collins
Word Count – 774
Disclaimer – Nothing is mine.
Spoiler – "Swan Song" and Run Misha Run!
Warnings – A weird little Castiel and Misha crack fic.

Summary- Written for the prompt "Cas has decided to stalk Misha Collins" at the Between Season CasParty at haruslex's journal.

**

He had heard talk of a human who was doing random acts of kindness in the post-Apocalyptic world. The angels spoke highly of this man. Several times Castiel had encountered dewy-eyed sighs from the cherubs as he passed by, the name Misha Collins tripping between them. After Joshua named a brilliant blue flowering vine after this Misha Collins, Castiel decided to take action. He had to see what the angelic hubbub was about.

He flitted to Earth and nabbed a park bench in Boston and watched as Misha Freakin’ Collins and a small contingent of women handed out popsicles to the children playing on the dilapidated monkey bars and seesaw. Castiel couldn’t help but tilt his head in wonder as the children and their parents laughed and hugged the man.

Two weeks later, he returned to Misha Collins, who sat on a dirty floor, surrounded by dirty children and dirty mattresses. He read from a book—“Cat in the Hat”, Castiel determined—and made ridiculous faces at his audience. The children laughed and cheered. Before Misha Collins left, he gave each child a new book. Castiel blinked, not understanding the purpose of the books, as the children clearly needed a new home instead of reading material.

A month after that, Castiel found Misha Collins running in Washington, a cell phone in his hand and an iPod strapped to his waist. Castiel followed Misha Collins for hours, not understanding where Misha Collins was going, or why he seemed so happy to be running. He watched in curiosity as cars drove by and honked, the passengers cheering and holding up signs reading “Run Misha Run.” Castiel returned to Heaven, frustrated and determined to abandon his quest to understand Misha Collins.

He hadn’t taken but two steps inside the Gates when Castiel realized the angels had all abandoned their posts. There was a line of souls waiting to be processed into Heaven, but there was no angel with a roster in hand. He made his way to the very edge of Heaven, where the angels liked to gather to watch human life.

“Brothers, sisters,” Castiel said. “What is so interesting that you have forgotten your purpose?”

“Misha Collins is running,” Raphael responded, his voice deep and firm. “He will run until he can run no farther.”

“Why is he running?” Castiel asked, truly curious. “Where is he going?”

“He is going nowhere,” Joshua said. “But that leads him to everywhere.”

“What the Hell?” Castiel asked, a phrase he’d picked up from the Winchesters.

“He is running as far as his human legs and will will carry him,” Raphael said. “Humans have promised to give him money, which he will use to spread kindness and generosity throughout the land.”

“Why?” Castiel asked, craning his head to see around his brethren. Misha Collins was jogging in place, a row of blackberries between his lips. “Why this man?”

“Why any man?” Joshua asked with a shrug. “Misha Collins’ heart is large and his spirit is infinite. If any man can heal mankind’s collective soul, it is he.”

Castiel watched as a car pulled alongside Misha Collins and offered him a bottle of Advil, which he took with many thanks and wide smiles.

“He is in pain?” Castiel asked. He had taken Advil after he drank that liquor store.

“The human body is not designed to run for so long,” Raphael said. “Misha Collins is in pain, but his will is strong and he will not yet quit. He has thousands of humans watching and cheering him on his way.”

Castiel pulled his focus away from Misha Collins and scanned the Earth, looking for those thoughts focused on the running man. He was stunned to find so many thoughts. Amongst them, there were feelings of triumph, pride, joy, hope… and love. The angel was surprised to find the resolve in most of those thoughts to seek out ways to share their feelings with the world. One woman decided to donate clothes to a homeless shelter. One man gave his neighbor a ride to the grocery store. A child gave half his Twinkie to his dog. And on and on. All of these thoughts and actions, he traced back to Misha Collins.

With a flutter of wings, he returned to Misha Collins where he ran along Frost Road in Washington. Just as Misha Collins’ stride stuttered, Castiel unfurled his grace and wrapped it around the man. Misha Collins inhaled sharply and grinned, feeling a sudden burst of renewed energy. So he ran, this man, this Misha Collins, and ran and ran, with the wings of an angel wrapped around him.

The End

What's Yours Is Mine (Dean/Cas/Sam)

evil_knitter — Thu, 02 Sep 2010 02:23:01 GMT

Title – What’s Yours Is Mine
Rating – NC17
Pairings/ Characters– Dean/Castiel, Dean/Castiel/Sam
Word Count – 2,841
Disclaimer – Nothing is mine.
Spoiler – Up to 4.01
Warnings – Threesome boy sex.
Summary- Sam feels left out, but Cas has an idea to make him feel better.
Note: This started out as custom smut for gwennie3529 and then it demanded a plot. There will be a couple of more chapters to come.

In the beginning, there was Mary and John. They added Dean out of love and then Sam out of accident. The time of Mary and John and Dean and Sam was briefly lived, and then it was John and Dean and Sam. Before too long, it morphed and changed, at times becoming Dean and Sam, then John and Dean, and finally, after John died, there was Dean and Sam for keeps. Except there was the day or so it was just Dean. And the four months it was just Sam.

And then there was the time it was Dean and Sam and Castiel. Those times were tense and sometimes awkward, but Sam could not understand why. Until the day he figured out that it was no longer Dean and Sam and Castiel.

The night Sam knew, was the night he rounded the corner of the seedy motel the Winchesters would call home for the night—on his way to get ice—and found his brother on his knees. Castiel’s eyes had landed on Sam, but instead of pushing his brother away, the angel had thrust his hips forward, forcing Dean to take more. Sam had turned and fled, wanting to forget, but understanding at last that that it was Dean and Castiel.

Sam watched Castiel orbit his brother, no matter if they were in the heat of battle or the heat of morning coffee and donuts. And he watched Dean’s eyes track the angel’s movement and position as if he was a moth and Castiel was a flame. The little, unconscious touches followed soon after that. A hand on a sleeve, a knee against a knee, a finger on a wrist, a forehead against a shoulder. They were fleeting touches, but they carried a world’s worth of import.

Castiel—Cas—integrated into their nomadic life without discussion, just as he’d slipped into Dean’s bed the first time without discussion. The time for Dean and Sam to talk and decide together was gone. Sam didn’t ask and Dean didn’t tell. It was Castiel who got to talk to Dean.

Sam found himself jealous and yearning. But not for Dean. He knew, logically, that Dean was always his. His brother, his protector, his savior.

What Sam yearned for was Cas’ silent adoration. With Dean and Cas’ kisses on display to Sam, he yearned for Cas’ worshipful mouth on his own. He didn’t begrudge his older brother’s happiness; he just wanted to share in it, like they had shared everything their entire lives. They’d shared women in the past, so Cas should be no different.

Except, of course, that Cas was very different.

“Your brother is hurting,” Cas said during a rare break from Sam, who had gone to a bar seeking his own brand of peace.

“I don’t know how to help him,” Dean said, acknowledging that yes, there was something wrong with his brother. “He doesn’t talk to me anymore.”

“He wants a piece of our happiness,” Cas told him, stroking lazy fingers over the exposed skin of Dean’s arm. He enjoyed touching Dean’s skin, which Dean knew and made a point of shedding his layers whenever the moment presented itself. “Sam used to be everything to you. He feels lost now.”

“A piece of our happiness?” Dean furrowed his brow and considered the meaning behind the angel’s riddled words. He was something of an expert when it came to translating Cas. “Do you mean he wants to fuck you?”

“Yes,” Cas nodded.

“No way,” was the immediate response.

“You know I do not love Sam,” Cas said. Dean growled but nodded because he knew that without hesitation. “If he can take comfort in this body, how can we not allow it?”

“Because you are mine,” Dean said, tightening his hold around Cas’ waist.

“Would you feel the same if I was inside a different vessel?” Cas asked, pressing a soft kiss to Dean’s collarbone. “If I was in an old woman’s body? Would I still be yours?”

“That’s not fair, Cas,” Dean huffed. This conversation was too close to discussing their feelings, which they avoided at all costs. They knew what they had, what they were to each other; there was no need for superfluous words. “You know the answer to that.”

“Then you understand that what we share, what I give to you is not this body,” Cas said in a low voice, as if coaxing a kitten from under the couch. “I give you myself, my soul. I will not give that to your brother.”

“I don’t want him to touch you,” Dean said, the most honest explanation he could give. His stomach churned at the thought of seeing his brother’s hands, mouth, dick on Cas. He was an open-minded kind of man, well not really, but he was willing to listen to reason. Cas had always been reason and logic to Dean.

“Dean…” Cas started with a wheedling bend to his voice.

“Cas, don’t ask me to do this.”

“I am asking you to do this,” Cas said firmly. Dean would capitulate because he could deny Cas nothing, but he did not want to allow Sam to trespass on territory Dean had claimed so many times before. Cas lifted his hands to Dean’s face, pulling him down for a tender kiss. “Because you love Sam. You have always taken care of Sam; this time, let me help you.”

In exact karmic timing, the motel door opened and Sam slipped inside, bringing with him the smell of cigarette smoke and loneliness. He paused at the sight of a shirtless Dean and fully clothed Cas in the middle of the room.

“Sam.”

Sam cringed at the roughness of Dean’s voice. He prepared to duck back out of the room, to sleep in the Impala. He knew Dean and Cas often had sex when they presumed him to be asleep, but never when he was so obviously awake and aware.

“Don’t go,” Cas said, breaking away from Dean and slowly approaching his lover’s brother.

“Sam,” Dean said again, not turning around. He didn’t know what he meant to say, but he hoped that his brother would somehow know.

“Dean and I would like you to join us tonight,” Cas said, simplicity in motion.

“Uh, sure,” Sam shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over an empty chair, because an invitation into the inner sanctum of Dean and Cas was a rare and beautiful thing. “What are we doing?”

Cas didn’t respond with words. He worked his arms out of his overshirt, throwing it on top of Sam’s jacket. Keeping his eyes trained on Sam, he reached down and slid his belt out of his pants. Dean kept his back to the two men, but his shoulders tensed at the sound of leather pulling away from Cas’ jeans.

“Cas,” Sam gulped and searched the room for some distraction. “What are you doing? I’ll just go back to the bar—sleep in the Impala—”

“I want you to fuck me,” Cas said clearly, without apology. He pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it to the floor as he toed his shoes off. “I want Dean to show you how he fucks me.”

“Cas,” Dean bit out, clinging to his plea to end this torture.

“No, Cas,” Sam stepped back quickly, but ran into the door at his back. He knew he had to turn the knob and flee, but he was pinned in time and space. “You and Dean.”

“And you, Sam,” Cas said with a smile, but at Dean’s disgruntled sound, quickly amended. “At least for tonight.”

“Dean?” Sam asked, but he wasn’t sure what question he meant to ask.

“Dean,” Cas said, that one word the only bit of speech necessary to fence Dean in and lock him tight.

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean finally turned and with great effort, looked his brother in the eye, answering the question Sam hadn’t asked aloud. “You can.”

Sam stood where he was planted, attempting to process the information being hurled at him. His brother was inviting him back in and despite his reservations, there was no way he would reject it. He relegated the cost of incest to the back of his mind; after all, the Winchester brothers had long since shrugged off the rules and laws of mortal men.

Cas took another measured step toward the younger Winchester, his eyes fixed and determined. His sure hands landed on Sam’s waist and drew him close. Sam swayed forward, captivated, ready to let Cas kiss away his hesitance.

“Cas,” Dean said, suddenly behind his lover, pulling him away from Sam. He couldn’t stand it; he would do anything to keep Sam from profaning Castiel’s lips. “Wait. Let me.”

Sam tensed, watching as the pair before him kissed baldly. His fingers twitched, but he remained frozen, waiting for instruction… for permission.

Dean reached for his brother, never losing contact with Cas’s mouth, and dragged him across the slim space between them. Finally, he turned his head, with Sam pressed indecently against his side, and kissed him hard. He poured his anger and frustration into the kiss, punishing his little brother for robbing him of his angel’s absolute attention.

Cas watched the brothers, and smiled. They were awkward together, not quite fitting as well as he’d imagined. He reached up, fascinated by the joining of two solid and good souls, and smoothed away the angry lines around Dean’s lips. “It’s okay,” he whispered as he slipped his index finger into Dean’s mouth, hooking behind his teeth. He used his middle finger to catch Sam the same way. “We’ll make it okay.”

The brothers moaned together, united at last. Dean pulled away first, stepping away from Sam to pull Castiel between them. He made sure his lover was facing him, but Sam seemed content to suckle and nip at Cas’s bare shoulders and neck.

Cas found Sam’s mouth and hands pleasing, but not in the same way as Dean’s. He did not doubt, not once, that he would ever confuse the touches or feelings of either brother. He let his head fall forward onto Dean’s shoulder as the trio shuffled as one to the nearest too-small bed.

In less time than rational, Cas was on his back between the two Winchesters, ready and eager to close the gap between the once symbiotic brothers. Sam had his hand wrapped firmly around Cas’s dick, pumping in a steady rhythm that had caught Dean’s intense stare.

“Dean,” Cas sighed, wanting those familiar hands on his body. He reached out and grazed the bottom of the handprint scar on Dean’s arm, making him jerk and groan. “Show him… Touch me.”

Without hesitation, Dean took Sam’s hand from Cas’ cock and sucked two of his brother’s fingers into his mouth, coating them with spit. Sam’s head dropped back as he moaned at the sensation. It was wrong, he knew it, but damn, it felt amazing.

“Don’t check out on me, Sammy,” Dean commanded as he pulled Sam’s fingers out of his mouth. His voice was low as if telling a secret, which he was, if teaching his little brother how to debauch an angel counted. “Pay attention.”

Sam would pay a million fucking dollars worth of attention when Dean sounded like that. He focused his eyes on his damp fingers; watching as Dean guided him down, between Cas’ spread legs. Each time Dean’s skin brushed over Cas, the angel made a delicious sound deep in his throat.

“Start with one,” Dean said, and helped Sam make a sweep over Cas’ puckered hole. “Slowly. He likes it when you go in with a wiggle.”

Sam drew in a shaky breath and cast a brief look up at Cas, whose head was thrown back against the pillows and whose hands were holding onto the headboard as if he was dangling twenty floors from the ground.

With Dean’s help, he pushed into Cas, wiggling his fingertip from side to side as he advanced. “Good, Sammy, that’s good,” Dean said, pushing his lover’s knee wider on the bed and crawling in the extra space. Sam watched as Dean dove down, and without warning, pressed the flat of his tongue to Cas’ hole, and by extension, Sam’s finger.

Cas cried out and bucked off the bed, pushing Sam’s finger up to his third knuckle. Dean seemed ready for the reaction, moving back carefully, but maintaining the intimate contact. Sam reached out blindly and grabbed his brother’s shoulder to steady himself. His eyes were glued to the sinful lapping of Dean’s tongue.

Gently, Dean wrapped his hand around Sam’s wrist and silently encouraged him to move the finger embedded in the writhing angel. Sam was quick to follow the recommendation, carefully pulling his finger back and then meticulously thrusting forward again. Cas’ hands flew up and landed unerringly on the heads of the Winchester boys, his fingers curling around Sam’s long hair and cupping the back of Dean’s.

Sam rocked forward to kiss Cas’ open mouth, but in a heartbeat, Dean’s hand grabbed him by the upper arm and dragged him away from the temptation. Cas whined in frustration, but Dean shook his head, still between his—his—boyfriend’s legs. Sam caught the movement and understood. While he had been invited to play, there were limits, and kissing Cas was clearly beyond those limits.

Dean pulled his mouth away and smirked up at his baby brother. “I think he can take more now,” he said, shifting up to his knees. Sam moved to add a second finger, but Dean stopped him yet again. Before Sam could bitch about the ridiculous constraints, Dean slid his own index finger into Cas, right along Sam’s own. “How’s that, Cas?”

“Fuck,” Cas moaned. His arms flopped wide and open on the mattress.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, pumping his finger with the same rhythm as his brother. Sam turned his head to Dean, his eyes glazed over with something akin to awe. Together. They were finger fucking Cas together, and it was awesome. “Come on, Sam, another.”

It was too soon, perhaps, but Cas didn’t object when Sam worked his middle finger in. Dean’s finger slid between Sam’s two, creating a wonderful combination of thin and stocky. Cas rocked down, fucking himself onto the amazing sensation.

“Dean,” Sam breathed, although he wasn’t sure why. But his brother was gone, bent forward to kiss Cas in a way that was forbidden to him. He kept the rhythm of his fingers as he enjoyed the pornographic exchange of tongues and breaths. He waited for Dean to give him permission to do more. There was no doubt that Dean was the ringmaster.

“Come here,” Dean ordered, bringing Sam lurching forward, leaning heavily on Cas’ chest, ready to be directed. Without preamble, Dean turned his mouth to Sam’s, pushing his tongue in and showing Sam what it meant to be thoroughly kissed.

Sam kissed back and strained to keep his fingers moving steadily. Their faces brushed against Cas’ mouth, and suddenly, Cas’ tongue was there, licking at the sides of their mouths, searching for entry. Dean moved off Sam’s mouth enough to give Cas the space he needed to push his tongue against Dean’s. Sam shuddered and before he could stop it, came with his dick still tucked in his boxer shorts. He jerked away from the crowded kiss and fell on his back beside Cas, his fingers leaving Cas, panting hard and praying his eyesight returned soon.

Dean shifted again, shoving his own boxers down his thighs, and swiftly replacing the finger inside Cas with his leaking cock. Cas grabbed the headboard again and cried out as Dean thrust into him at a bruising pace. Sam rolled his head to watch. Dean let his lover beg and beg, until he took pity and wrapped a sure hand around Cas’ swollen and bouncing dick. Before the tenth rotation of his wrist, Cas shouted in Enochian and shot streams of come over his chest and stomach. Sam made a choked sound and reached his hand out to catch some of the whiteness.

With a possessive growl, Dean snatched Sam’s wrist and roughly pulled his brother’s come-covered hand to his mouth. He licked and slurped, reclaiming every drop of Cas from his greedy little brother. The taste, the smell, the feel of Cas… he came with a force that surprised them all, and with a hard bite of warning to the side of Sam’s hand.

Dean fell forward and rolled, pulling his boyfriend with him, maintaining the connection of their bodies. Cas belonged to him and now that it was done, he did not want Sam to touch what was his. Sam seemed to understand and without a word, slipped from the bed and headed to the bathroom, where he shut the door with a muted click.

“Thank you,” Cas whispered, tucking his head in the familiar dip between Dean’s shoulder and neck. “You would do anything for me.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a fact.

~TBC~

20/20 Vision

evil_knitter — Sun, 29 Aug 2010 14:22:12 GMT

Title – 20/20 Vision
Rating – NC17
Pairing/ Characters – Sam/Castiel, Dean
Word Count – 3,100
Disclaimer – I am trespassing in Kripke’s world.
Spoiler – None… as long as you know about angels
Warning—Sassy.
Summary- Sam spends time watching Cas, but it takes time before he truly sees the angel. Cas helps him clear his vision.
A/N – Written for gwennie3579 based on a text request for some rough first time Sassy action. Also, the moon was awesome the other night. Didja see it?

Sam held his phone to his ear and sighed. It rang once, twice, three times before—

“Hello? Sam?”

“Hey Cas,” Sam said and cleared his throat. “What’s up?”

“Heavenly politics,” Cas said with a touch of disdain.

“Oh,” Sam paused to look up at the night sky. “So you’re in Heaven now? You get reception up there?”

“I came to earth to answer my phone,” Cas explained. There was a beat of silence and then: “Is there something wrong?”

“Have you seen the moon tonight?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well, you should look,” Sam slapped his palm to his forehead, cursing himself for being so damn lame. “It’s orange.”

“Where are you?” Cas asked.

“Sleep and Stay Motel, Burnside, Vermont,” Sam said and then clicked his phone off. He waited until he heard the tell-tale flapping of wings. “Hey Cas.”

“Hello, Sam,” Cas said from Sam’s right side, his head tilted back and his gaze fixated on the sky. “I came to see the moon.”

“There it is,” Sam said, tucking his hands in the back pocket of his jeans.

They stood together, admiring the Harvest Moon and enjoying the symphony of chirping filling the air. Sam’s eyes slid to Cas’s profile. The angel’s lips were softly curved in a smile.

“Thank you,” Cas said, keeping his eyes on the moon.

“For what?”

“For this,” the angel flicked his gaze to Sam’s face. “It is nice to be reminded of the beauties of earth.”

Sam licked his lips and nodded. He’d tried so hard to play it cool with his brother’s best friend, but every time the angel appeared, he lost it. He made stupid suggestions, his voice broke, his hands shook. He was a thirteen year old girl meeting the freakin’ Jonas Brothers.

“Cas…” Sam’s mouth said without permission from his brain.

“You don’t think I see you,” Cas said, turning to face Sam directly. His blue eyes were wide and filled with curiosity.

“…What?”

“I do see you, Sam,” Cas insisted, stepping closer to the younger Winchester. “I see your hands shake. I see how you shift when I come close. I see you watch me.”

“I…” But there was nothing Sam could say. He was found out and struck dumb by it.

“What do you see?” Cas asked, taking yet another step. The tips of their shoes kissed across the gravel underfoot. “What do you see when you look at me?”

Sam shook his head, unable to answer. How could he explain the quickening of his heart and the sweating of his palms? He was a hunter and as such, he could stare danger in the face and openly mock it. But staring in the face of the angel he was full-out crushing on? He couldn’t hack it.

“Do you see me watching you?” Cas cast his voice lower than humanly possible, making Sam’s spine tingle. “Do you feel me touch you whenever feasible? Do you see me, Sam?”

He shook his head again. He hadn’t noticed those things. He’d been too far obsessed with not being caught in his own stalking. Cas leaned up, pressing their chests together and putting his face close to Sam’s ear. Sam let his eyes shut and crooked his head down to force skin-on-skin contact.

“You should pay more attention,” Cas breathed.

A whoosh of air ruffled Sam’s hair, and he knew, without opening his eyes, that Cas had gone.

Cas came back the next day. And the next ten after that.

“Not for nothing, Cas,” Dean said over beers on the tenth day. “But stalking is illegal in all fifty states.”

“Do you want me to leave?” Cas asked with a blink. When his eyes opened, they were firmly on Sam.

Sam shifted on his barstool, moving infinitesimally closer to the angel. He’d spent the past two weeks cataloging the ways Cas found to interact directly with him. There was the press of thigh in the diner. And the weight of his eyes on Sam’s neck as they drove to the hunt/ bar/ motel. The bristle of air when Cas walked by him.

“Nah,” Dean clapped his friend on the shoulder and shoved a tankard of beer into his hand. “But if you’re staying, you’d better be drinking. Dart board’s open; come on, Sam.”

Sam slid from his stool, ducking his head but looking up through his lashes at Cas. As he turned to walk away, Cas stopped him with one cool finger on his wrist. Sam froze, but kept his face averted.

“Do you see me, Sam?” Cas whispered.

Sam twisted his hand up and caught Cas’s fingers with his own. They stayed there together, Sam standing and Cas sitting, linked in the most innocent of ways. The sound in the room narrowed until Sam could only hear the thick pumping of his heart. The people crammed into the smoky bar moved as if in a water ballet, slow and with great precision.

“Sam?” Dean glanced over his shoulder. “You coming?”

The connection broke, jostling the pair into action. Sam surged forward to meet his brother at the dart board. Cas trailed behind him, keeping himself in Sam’s orbit.

“You going to play, Cas?” Dean asked with great amusement. He started to hand a set of darts to his friend, but paused. “Take off the coat, dude. It’ll get in the way of your throws.”

Sam watched in absolute fascination as Cas rolled his shoulders to shrug out of this tan trench coat armor. Cas, in turn, watched Sam watching him. His eyes were hooded and promised sins Sam couldn’t even imagine.

“Are you okay, Sam?” Dean elbowed his brother in the side. “You haven’t said one word all night. Cat got your tongue?”

Sam huffed a laugh for his brother’s benefit, but couldn’t look away from Cas, who was rolling the sleeves of his white dress shirt up his forearms.

“Cas got your tongue?” Cas murmured as he brushed past Sam, darts in hand.

Sam flushed and took a large swallow of beer. He kept a safe distance as Cas threw his darts, but he was not so far away that he did not catch a glimpse of the angel’s arm muscles tense as he took aim.

“You’re up, Sammy,” Dean said.

He lurched to the line and threw his first dart. It hit the wall to the left of the board.

“Dude…” Dean said, because Sam never missed his mark.

Sam swore under his breath and tried again. The second dart landed two inches farther off the board than the first.

“Dude…” Dean said again.

“Perhaps,” Cas said as he slid in close to Sam’s back. “I can be of assistance?”

“No,” Sam choked out. The last thing he needed was Cas pressed against him as he tried to throw a pointy object in a room full of people.

Cas lined his arm up with Sam’s, his bare skin right there. He curled his fingers around Sam’s hand that held the last dart, his last chance at redemption.

“Cas,” Dean called, his voice strained. “Personal space.”

“If you make this shot,” Cas said to the back of Sam’s neck. “I’ll reward you with all the… gifts… Heaven has to offer.”

Sam stifled a full body shudder and nodded. Cas stepped away, joining Dean in a muted conversation about inappropriate touching in public. Sam widened his stance and squared his shoulders. His eyes focused on the red center of the board with the same intensity he used to kill demons with his mind. Only this time? Yeah, more intense.

Bull’s eye!

He twirled around, a triumphant expression lighting his features.

“You want a gold star, sweetheart?” Dean asked with a wink. “’Bout time you pulled your head out of your ass.”

But Sam didn’t waste time looking at his brother. His eyes had unerringly found Cas, who smirked at him from behind Dean, and jerked his head. Sam followed the direction of the movement, straight to the bathroom at the back of the bar.

“I must depart,” Cas said loudly, picking up his coat and pulling a disappointed face.

“Sucks you still have to come when they ring the dinner bell,” Dean commiserated, but turned back to the dart board. “See ya, Cas.”

No more than thirty seconds after Cas disappeared—out the front door, of course—Sam excused himself to hit the head. Dean didn’t notice because two girls straight out of Busty Asian Beauties strutted into the bar and directly toward him. As if by divine intervention. Sam shook his head at Cas’s twisted, yet ingenious, distraction technique.

Cas was waiting when Sam tentatively opened the door to the one stall bathroom. He took two steps forward and grabbed Sam’s shoulder. Less than a second later, Sam staggered on his feet, in the middle of his motel room. God bless the Angel Express.

They came together in the middle of the room, chests colliding, hands searching for purchase in clothes. Sam closed the last remaining distance between them, bending down to meet Cas’ mouth for the first time; he found it open and ready. It was dirty, the slide of tongues and the biting of teeth. Two groans—one tenor, one bass—rang out in perfect harmony, ending with two discordant grunts.

“You made the shot,” Cas said when he pulled away. “Are you ready for your gifts?”

“Yes,” Sam said. He would answer as many questions, say anything, as long as Cas kept touching him.

“Did you know angels are highly tactile beings?” Cas asked, pushing his hands under Sam’s shirt, forcing it up and over his head. “When angels meet, our graces embrace.”

Under normal circumstances, Sam would have been fascinated by the insight into celestial behavior, but the fact that he was in possession of a half-naked angel in the flesh made the whole subject rather tedious.

“In this vessel,” Cas continued, turning his attention to divesting Sam of his jeans, crouching down to help Sam step out. “The sense of touch is not as strong. I have to press hard,” Cas gripped the back of Sam’s thighs and dragged him close, “to feel anything.”

Sam gasped, patiently waiting for the next engrossing sensation.

“There are some areas of the human body,” Cas said, letting his hands move up Sam’s thighs and over his rounded backside as he steadily rose to his full height. “That are more sensitive than others. Did you know that?”

Cas curled his fingers in, sinking his fingernails into Sam’s lower back, earning him a surprised stutter of breath. He raised his chin and waited for Sam to meet him halfway for a kiss. Their tongues touched the moment Cas raked his nails up Sam’s spine.

Pinpricks of pain shot over Sam’s skin and straight to his groin. He stumbled forward, eager to both escape the pain, and invite more.

“Tell me,” Cas said, his voice little more than a growl. “Where do you feel the most?”

Sam could not force words to come. He lifted one of the angel’s hands and pressed his lips to the tips of each finger in turn. With Cas’s head tilted at a familiar angle, Sam guided Cas’s hand down his chest, over the rippled planes of his stomach, and around his hard cock.

Cas gave the cock in his hand a languid stroke from base to tip. “You have lost your words, Sam,” he said with a smile. “What do you want?”

The only sound to answer the question was a pant.

“Do you need something to do with that pretty mouth?”

Sam swallowed and nodded his head, grateful to be absolved of speaking.

“Well then,” Cas put his hands on the taller man’s shoulders and pushed him to his knees. “Show me what you want.”

With no hesitation, Sam unzipped Cas’s dark suit pants and let them fall around his ankles. He was momentarily shocked to find the angel bare underneath, but somehow, it seemed perfect. He would always know that Cas was one artful zip away from being naked and ready. He groaned at that and lurched forward to nuzzle in the dark hair above the angel’s dick. Rough hands threaded through his hair and guided his head down. He opened his mouth, ready for what he knew was coming, what he wanted.

Cas pushed his cock into Sam’s mouth without mercy. The unfamiliar weight made Sam gag and try to pull away, but those firm hands held him in place. His eyes watered and he worked to relax his tongue, to give Cas’s cock more room to slide in and out. A tear leaked from the corner of his eye, but damn, he found he didn’t care. The taste of the angel—summer rain and spice—made him moan. He closed his lips around the shaft in his mouth and gave a tentative suck. Cas whispered something Sam didn’t understand, and thrust harder, hitting the back of Sam’s throat. Sam gagged again, but Cas was relentless. His hands came up to steady himself against the other man’s hips.

“I knew it would be like this,” Cas said as he set a bruising rhythm. His voice was soft, in perfect discordance to the roughness of his movements. “Your mouth is best like this, useful and full of me.”

Sam’s fingers dug into the skin he held tight, silently begging for Cas to take what he would of him.

It could have been forever later, when Sam’s jaw started to ache, when his throat spasmodically rebelled at the brutal pokes and prods, that Cas jerked his hips one final time and came. He held Sam firmly in place, his hands twisting painfully in his hair, as his dick shot stream after stream of thick come down Sam’s throat.

When Cas finally released him, allowed him to pull away, Sam coughed and reached for his shirt to wipe away the dribbled come and spit from his face. He looked up at Cas, a new Cas who stared down at him with a look of absolute power. Sam swore he could make out the outline of his dark wings, beautiful and intimidating.

“More, Sam?” Cas asked, running his fingers along his sore jaw.

“Yes,” Sam said at once, his voice strained and hurting his throat. “God, yes.”

The familiar and at once hated sound of the Impala rumbled just outside the door. Sam swore viciously and tried to get to his feet. His knees ached and the muscles of his thighs protested.

“Don’t,” Cas stilled his frantic movements with a hand to the shoulder. “I will always take care of you, Sam.”

When Dean stumbled into the room, he found Sam tucked into his bed, sleeping soundly. He swung his head and found Cas sitting serenely at the table, staring at the muted television. There was a heavy smell in the room—something that smelled like sex, but was a little off. He put it down to the stale air in the seedy motel and wrinkled his nose.

“Thanks for taking care of Sam,” Dean said as he shucked his jacket and shoes. “You know, if you’d stuck around, I could’ve gotten both of you laid for sure.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Cas smiled indulgently.

“Hey, you stickin’ around all night?” Dean asked, stepping into a pair of faded flannel sleep pants.

“Yes.”

“Good night, then,” Dean fell into his bed and rolled onto his side. “You’re on coffee detail in the morning.”

Cas waited for Dean’s breathing to even out before approaching the bed and lightly touching his best friend with the tips of two fingers, sending him into a deep sleep that would hold him tight for hours to come.

He turned and pressed those same fingers against Sam’s cheek, bringing him back into consciousness and simultaneously stripping him of his clothes.

“Cas?” He started to sit up, but the angel shook his head and crawled into the bed. He shot a look at his sleeping brother and pushed Cas away. “Dean is here.”

“He won’t wake,” Cas assured him with a chuckle. “I’ve made sure of it.”

Because Sam was never one to question Cas, he wrapped his arms around the smaller man’s waist and pulled him close. He noticed, of course he did, that Cas was as bare as he was and moaned his delight loudly.

“Lie back,” Cas directed, not bothering to quiet his voice.

And Sam did, because he wanted whatever came next. He was as hard as he’d been when the sneaky angel knocked him out and sent him to bed. He watched as Cas straddled his thighs.

“Will you fuck me, Sam?”

“Christ,” Sam breathed, his hips bucking instinctually.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

Cas wrapped his fingers around Sam’s length, stroking as he positioned himself. There were benefits, Sam decided as Cas lowered himself onto Sam’s cock, to fucking an angel. The instant prep and lubrication were chief among them.

There was no hesitation. Cas seated himself fully on Sam with one sure downward thrust. Sam’s back arched away from the mattress at the intense pleasure that shot through his body. Cas was tight and warm in a way he’d not expected, very unlike the women he’d been with before. His fingers twisted in the sheets and his neck arched off the pillow.

Never again, Sam thought as he lifted his hips to meet Cas’s movement. He would never fuck another woman, another person, ever again. It would always be Cas. He wanted to die inside of Cas. The angel was perfection in action. The slow in and out drag of clenching muscles started a tinny ringing sound in Sam’s head. It was too much, but not enough. He grabbed Cas by the ass, pulling him apart, and pushed up and up, harder and harder.

“Sam,” Cas whispered, leaning back to brace himself against Sam’s raised knees. The new angle had Sam brushing against his prostate with every in and every out. “Sammy.”

The sound of his nickname falling so carelessly from the angel’s lips caused an explosion of stars, confetti and fireworks in Sam’s body. His mind blanked out and his muscles stiffened as he came in blissfully painful spurts. Cas ground down hard, moaning at the pulsing heat inside him.

As Sam floated through the detritus of his shattered self, blown wide and far by the intensity of his orgasm, Cas dropped down to kiss Sam softly.

“Do you see me, Sammy?” Cas asked for the third time.

“Yeah, Cas,” Sam managed to say, opening his eyes to look directly at the angel. “I see you.”

~END~

Investigating Dean (crack)

evil_knitter — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 01:20:19 GMT

Title – Investigating Dean (crack)
Verse – The –ING Dean ‘Verse
Rating – NC17
Pairing – Dean/Castiel
Word Count – 2,300
Disclaimer – I own nothing but a dance studio… and a dream!
Spoiler – See, there’s this angel called Cas.
Warnings – Crack. And a blowjob.
Summary- Dean and Cas head out to question the local 5.0 about a possible vampire nest in Winchester, VA. They get stuck in a storm… Cas is impatient.

A/N—While it is not necessary to read the others in the –Ing Dean ‘Verse, you’d probably enjoy it a bit more. Last week, I begged for a nice visual to get me through my workday. gwennie3579 took the task to hand, so blame her for this. Also, for those of you not in the know, Special Agent Oso is a Playhouse Disney character. You can see him (and his startling resemblance to Cas) here.

Master Post for the -ING Dean 'Verse

“I’m Agent Plant,” Dean flipped his ID case open to show his perfectly forged FBI badge. He jerked his head toward his partner. “This is my partner, Special Agent Oso.”

Castiel mimicked Dean’s cool flick of the wrist and yes the badge was right side up. After dozens of masquerades like this one, Cas’ success rate at badge flipping still hovered around fifty percent. His eyes slid to Dean’s face, but his boyfriend kept his expression neutral… save one twitch of his right eyebrow. Cas used his angelic self-control to contain his satisfied grin.

They were there, in Winchester, Virginia, population 2,300, to investigate a possible vampire nest. It amused Dean to no end that they landed in a place where every restaurant and store was named after him. Their duffels were currently parked in Room 6 at The Winchester Family Inn. Sam was ensconced in the Winchester City Library doing research on the founding Winchester fathers. Yep, Dean hadn’t stopped grinning since they crossed the city limits sign.

Except for now, when he had his Super Serious FBI Face on.

“We need to see the body of Rupert Jorgensen,” Dean said in his most authoritative voice. He tucked his badge back into his suit jacket and took a step forward, never doubting for a moment that the officer in front of him would fail to lead the way. “And the autopsy report.”

“Sure thing,” Officer Whatever His Name Was said and waved Agents Plant and Oso down a dimly lit hall. Three out of eight fluorescent bulbs had gone black, casting an uglier tint to the sea foam green walls. “I’ll hook you up with the body and then fetch the report, that all right?”

“Peachy,” Cas said. He didn’t need any help in making his voice sound official. It just always did, what with him being the official felon of the Lord. Dean cast him a quick glare because FBI agents didn’t say things like peachy.

“The body was dry when we found it,” the officer remarked, pulling the slab with the very dead, very dehydrated Rupert Jorgensen on it. “Looked like a piece of homemade beef jerky, just like momma used to make.”

Dean made a face and figured he’d never again choose a Slim Jim as his cross-country road trip snack. Thanks for that. Cas leaned down close to the body and inhaled deeply. God, Dean hated when he did that; it was creepy.

“The blood is gone,” Cas said.

“Did you just sniff the body?” Officer Too Damn Observant asked.

“Special technique,” Dean said and tucked his hands in his pockets. “Now, about that report?”

When they were alone, Dean slugged Cas in shoulder. “Dude,” Dean sighed. “You have to wait until the humans are gone before you start bloodhounding a corpse. I’ve told you that.”

“We need to finish this quickly,” Cas said instead of apologizing. He pulled the sheet back over Rupert Jorgensen’s face and tucked him cozily back in the body fridge. “I want to go back to the motel. Very soon.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean grinned and shagged his eyebrows. “Any particular reason?”

“I need to check in on the Big Brother live feed,” Cas said with the sarcastic deadpanned serious that Dean would never admit he found adorable as all fuck.

“Here’s that report,” Officer Cockblock said as he came through the swinging doors to the morgue. He handed it to Dean and stood back to watch the agents survey the dry medical lingo. The blond one made grunting sounds as he flipped through the pages while the clueless one leaned in close for a look. “The bridge is out, by the way. Just got word from the scanner. The gully’s flooded from the storm.”

Dean groaned and dropped his head back to shoot Heaven a scowl. Cas pressed his index fingers into his temples and rubbed angry circles, as if a perdition-sized headache had suddenly attacked him. So much for their quick getaway.

“You can use our interrogation room,” Officer Sympathetic said by way of apology. “We have a couple of cots in the back you can use. It’ll take a while for the water to recede.”

“Great,” Dean said with the enthusiasm of bag of kittens thrown in a lake. “Did you say a gully? You know what, whatever. Of course there’s a gully.”

The interrogation room was little more than a storage closet with a desk straight from the set of Mad Men. It was too large for the room, and paneled with wood on three sides. There were two chairs, one pushed under the desk and the other off to the side. Both were creaky and suspect. Dean took the sturdier of the two, the one on casters behind the desk.

“Well, sit tight,” the officer said. “I’ll send the detective in to talk to you soon as he gets back from lunch.”

“Man,” Dean laced his hands behind his head and stretched his legs. “This sucks.”

“I agree,” Cas sighed and dropped forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I wanted nothing more than to whammy you naked and enumerate sins in your flesh.”

Dean choked on a laugh, his scalp bristling with a blush he fought hard to control. “Angel Express?”

“No,” Cas shook his head. “That would take most of my strength. If I couldn’t enumerate the si—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean scowled. “They ever going to give you back your full mojo?”

“Only if I leave this earth forever,” the angel said, leaving the and you implied and silent.

“Don’t even think about it,” Dean growled.

“As if I would,” was the prompt reply, with an equally as prompt roll of the eyes.

They sat in silence for few minutes. Wind beat against exterior walls of the station and the reason for the flooded gully became apparent. A virtual monsoon was wailing around them. The wood panel of the interior walls shuddered and resettled. Dean looked over his shoulder to inspect the wavering—son of a bitch! He startled at the proximity of Cas who appeared a fingers width away.

“I think I know a good hold-you-over technique,” Cas said, pulling the chair and Dean out from under the desk. Without no nevermind a’tall, he sank to his knees and spread his palms across the stunned blond’s thighs.

“Whoa, there, cowboy,” Dean scooted the wheely chair back, away from his damned tempting boyfriend. “Do you get that we’re in a police station in a one horse town?”

“I do,” Cas shimmied between the legs he loved. “The door is shut.”

“And there’s a two way mirror,” Dean pointed out with a jerk of his head toward the offending piece of glass. “They’re probably watching us right now, wondering if you lost your damn contact or something.”

Cas sucked his lower lip into his mouth to ponder that bit of information. His wide blue eyes flickered back and forth between the mirror and Dean’s tented pants. Then, with a grin that had been outlawed in thirty-two states, he shuffled backward, pulling Dean and his chair with him. He maneuvered until his body and the chair fit snugly under the Don Draper desk.

“Christ on toast,” Dean chuckled as Cas’ hands busied themselves with his fly. “You are a determined little angel, aren’t you?”

“Mm-hmm,” came the reply, along with the sharp tick-tick-tick of a zipper breaking open. It was the work of ten seconds to free Dean from the cheap suit pants and soft cotton boxers. It only took point-three seconds after that for Cas to wrap his lips firmly around Dean’s cock.

“Ahhh!” Dean said with as much eloquence as he could muster.

Cas swiped his tongue under the ridge of the head, his signature move, a sure sign that he was preparing to swallow Dean down completely. Dean grabbed the arms of his chair and gritted his teeth to keep a loud, very un-FBI-like groan from escaping. He breathed through his nose and—

“Agent Plant,” Officer Why The Fuck Was He There opened the door and ushered in Detective Worst Timing Ever. “This is Detective Dayes. He’s blah blah blah blah.”

Cas sucked hard and laughed silently, the vibrations hitting Dean in all the wrong places—given the situation he was in. He snuck his hand under the desk and tried to dislodge Cas.

“Where’s your partner?”

“Uh…” Dean’s eyes fluttered momentarily. His dick of a boyfriend was scraping his teeth gently along his length, setting his arm hairs on end. “Bathroom?”

“Well,” Detective No He Was Not About To Sit In Cas’ Chair said as he sat in Cas’ chair. “We can get started without him. Here’s the case file.”

Dean retained enough presence of mind to take the manila folder and open it, even as his hands shook. He made a mental note, in mental Sharpie, to kick Cas’ ass later.

“So does the FBI have a theory?”

“Christ,” Dean said vehemently, slapping his palm on top of the file. Cas held Dean’s hips steady and lowered himself until Dean’s cock hit the back of his throat, and then swallowed him down.

“Christ?” Detective Startled jumped and gave him a strange look.

“Christ-i-ans,” Dean clarified, drawing the word out, sounding like Christ-eee-ans. His vision blurred and the file crumpled in his fist. “We think the perp—Jesus Cas—perpetrator is a Christ-i-an.”

“The perp is a Christian… a Christ-i-an named Jesus Cass?”

“That’s the theory,” Dean gasped. Stupid Cas and his stupid Hooveresque suction.

“And a Christ-i-an is…?” Officer Unhelpful asked from across the room.

Dean threaded his fingers through Cas’ thick hair and tugged. Cas growled, making Dean’s eyes roll out of focus.

“Get this man a sandwich,” the detective snapped his fingers at the lowly uniformed officer. “His stomach is growling to beat the band.”

Cas worked his nimble fingers up and wrapped around the base of Dean’s cock, adding a new stimulant to Dean’s already spinning head.

“Cas, Jesus,” Dean said.

“Got it,” Detective Oh Who Cares said, scribbling the name into his notepad. “Cass comma Jesus. Let me go run this, see if we get any hits. Sit tight.”

“Oh yes,” Dean moaned and bucked his hips up as far as Cas’ firm grip allowed. “Soon… coming.”

“Yeah,” the detective said, scratching at his neck with a confused look at the twitchy FBI agent. “I’ll come back soon.”

“You little bitch,” Dean said as soon as the door clicked shut, but it lost something in translation when followed by a breathy sigh. He pushed with his feet, rolling the chair and his dick attachment from under the desk. “Hurry up.”

“Mm-hmm,” Cas nodded his head and added a twist to his pumping hand. His tongue made lazy circles around the head of Dean’s cock, alternating between feather light and firm strokes. Dean let his head fall back and his hands twist in Cas’ hair, keeping him firmly in place. Just a few more… he could feel it building… pooling…

Cas inched back under the desk, pulling Dean and the chair along by the back of Dean’s calves.

“We got a hit,” Detective You’ve Got To Be Fucking Kidding Me said as the door opened.

It was too late. Dean couldn’t stop it.

“Jesus Fucking… Cas!” Dean yelled, trying to keep his face from screwing up as he came down Cas’ throat.

“Um,” the detective cleared his throat and tapped a finger against the papers in his hand. “Right. There’s a Jesus F. Cass—Frederick, not Fucking, by the way—that has a rap sheet a mile long. Lives about an hour outside of town. Soon as the flood passes, we’ll head out to pick him up.”

“Mm-hmm,” Dean agreed dumbly. His eyes blinked with post-orgasmic lethargy. Cas licked him lazily, cleaning away any traces of dribbled come. “Sounds great. Can I get a coffee?”

“Sure,” Detective… was it Dayes?... backed out of the room.

Cas crawled from under the desk, a satisfied smirk splashed across his face. He plopped into the chair next to the desk and brushed at the dirt on his knees.

“Here you go,” Detective Coffee Mate said, coming back into the room with two cups of coffee. He pushed one toward Dean, the other he turned to hand to Cas. His eyes took in the smaller man’s swollen lips and gestured at his own lips. “You, uh, have something… there.”

Dean’s eyes darted to Cas’ face. Oh. My. God. Cas had a small bead of come—obvious as a monkey in a tutu playing the freakin’ accordion in Church—on his chin. He pressed the pad of his thumb in between his eyes, just over his nose, hoping against hope that he would not blush.

“Thanks,” Cas said without missing a beat. He wiped the back of his hand over his chin and grinned at the detective, surprisingly unrepentant considering he was an angel that’d just delivered one hell of a blow job in a god damn police station.

The detective looked from Dean’s pink cheeks to Cas’ lips to Cas’ smudged knees. His eyes rounded, pulling his heavy eyebrows to his receding hairline.

“You know,” Detective Suddenly Clued In stammered and backed out of the room. “Let me check on those sandwiches.”

As the door shut, Cas got to his feet and tugged Dean out of the wheely chair. “That was fun,” he said. “My turn.”

“Hell no,” Dean protested. It wasn’t his strongest argument, because he said it as he climbed under the desk.

From behind the two-way mirror, there was a sharp knock, then a heated whispered exchange. Cas glanced down at Dean, but he seemed too focused on Cas’ belt to hear anything beyond the slip-swish of leather.

Cas grinned and winked at his reflection.

~~End~~

-ING Dean 'Verse Master Post

evil_knitter — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 01:17:10 GMT

The -ING Dean 'Verse is a running series of quality cracktastic adventures of Dean, Cas and Sam. This 'verse is ruled by prompts. Want to see your favorite hunters and/or angel get up to something crizazy? Shoot me a line and I'll see what I can do. Enjoy!

Title – Laughing Dean
Rating – G
Characters – Dean, Castiel, Sam, Bobby, Chuck, Gabriel
Word Count – 1,356
Disclaimer - Nothing is mine, which is sad.
Spoiler – None, so long as you’re down with the angels
Warnings - Straight up CRACK
Summary- Dean laughs. His friends enjoy it.
A/N: This crazy ass fic was thrown together for my favorite SPN author gwennie3579 . Have you read her "Apocalypse Redux"? It's beyond awesome. Anyway, she sent me the.best.Jensen.picture.ever today. See it here.

**

Title – Dancing Dean
Rating – R for language
Pairings, Characters – Dean/Castiel, Sam, implied Bobby/Crowley
Word Count – 2,109
Disclaimer – Nothing is mine.
Spoiler – There are angels… Also, my story “Laughing Dean”
Warnings – Unabashed CRACK. Also…Is a dance kink a warning?
Note: This is for gwennie3579 who asked for custom smut, but got this instead. Whoopsy.
Summary- There are new demons that need vanquishing in a very special way. It’s Winchesters (and Cas!) to the rescue in this full-on cracktastic one-shot. Sequel to Laughing Dean.

**

Title – Crossing Dean
Rating – R
Pairings/ Characters– Dean/Castiel, Sam
Word Count – 2,970
Disclaimer – Nothing is mine.
Spoiler – Um. The other -ING stories?
Warnings – Hm. Cross dressing for money?
Summary- Dean finds a new way to score some money while on the road. The Plan, as usual, doesn’t go exactly has planned.
Note: So the nefarious prompt monster gwennie3579 is responsible for this one. She liked Glitter!Cas in “Dancing Dean” and said…. “babydragqueen!Cas... O.M.F.G. Write it. Now. (please)”. So I did. Third part in the -ING 'Verse.

**

Title – Investigating Dean
Rating – NC17
Pairing – Dean/Castiel
Word Count – 2,300
Disclaimer – I own nothing but a dance studio… and a dream!
Spoiler – See, there’s this angel called Cas.
Warnings – Crack. And a blowjob.
Summary- Dean and Cas head out to question the local 5.0 about a possible vampire nest in Winchester, VA. They get stuck in a storm… Cas is impatient.
Note—While it is not necessary to read the others in the –Ing Dean ‘Verse, you’d probably enjoy it a bit more. Last week, I begged for a nice visual to get me through my workday. gwennie3579 took the task to hand, so blame her for this. Also, for those of you not in the know, Special Agent Oso is a Playhouse Disney character. You can see him (and his startling resemblance to Cas) here.

Title – Trick or Treating Dean
Rating – PGish
Pairings/Characters – Dean/Cas, Sam, OFC
Word Count – 2,191
Disclaimer - All characters and original plots belong to Eric Kripke, The CW, Wonderland, etc. No disrespect or copyright infringement is intended.
Spoilers – This is part of the –ING Dean ‘Verse. You don’t need to read the others to read this one, but hey, why not check them out?
Summary- Set several years in the future in the –ING Dean ‘Verse. It’s Dean’s first time ever trick or treating… sorta. Sam likes to ruffle Cas’s feathers, and so does someone else.

Scapbooking (PWP)

evil_knitter — Tue, 17 Aug 2010 14:51:13 GMT

Title – Scrapbooking (PWP)
Rating – NC17
Pairings – Dean/Castiel/Sam
Word Count – ~500
Disclaimer – Nothing is mine, except a really old 35mm.
Spoiler – None.
Warnings – Threesome, wincest
Note: So, when a friend says they need smut to get their fanfiction wheels a-turnin’, I’m there to serve. The gauntlet is down, dear gwennie3579 . Bring on the OT3!

Summary- Dean likes to scrapbook. He needs pictures, so he takes them.

Sam lifted Cas from behind, his forearms tucked beneath the smaller man’s thighs, and spread his legs wide. Cas let his head fall back, his arm coming up to curl around the back of Sam’s neck for support as his dick was put on display. They were both naked and ready to fuck. But Dean… dammit, Dean wanted to play.

Click. Click.

“Cas, look at me,” Dean ordered, his voice just above a whisper. Cas was powerless to resist, and turned his head so he could peer into Dean’s camera.

Click. Click.

Dean pushed a chair under Cas’ left foot, giving him leverage and Sam a slight respite from the burden he held so surely.

“Do it, Sam,” Dean said, positioning himself on his knees a few feet away, his camera at the ready.

“Help me,” Sam asked, on the heels of a pant. He wanted to push into Cas and lose himself, but he’d promised Dean he’d go slow and give him plenty to document with the old family 35mm.

Dean scooted forward, took his brother’s cock in hand, where it rested between Cas’ wide spread legs. He nudged it up and circled Cas’ hole, wringing a shudder and a moan out of the captured angel. As if an afterthought, Dean leaned in and ran his tongue up the underside of Sam’s cock and swirled around the head. Sam jerked and lifted Cas higher in his arms, giving Dean room to work.

A dozen bobs of the head later, Dean pulled away and used his nimble fingers to line Sam with Cas’ entrance. He ran his fingers up the inside of Cas’ thigh and briefly considered abandoning his photography project. Cas whimpered out a please Dean.

“Dammit, Dean,” Sam grunted and pushed ever so slightly into Cas.

“Wait, wait,” Dean scurried back to his camera, lifted it to his eye and smirked. “Go ahead.”

Sam lowered Cas and lifted his hips at the same time. Click. Click. Click. Cas’ free hand pulled Sam’s head around for a filthy kiss. Click. Click. Click. Dean crawled forward and rolled onto his back, giving himself an all-access view of his brother’s dick sliding in and out of Cas, balls swinging heavy with the movement. Click. Click. Click.

“Sam,” Cas cried, wrenching his mouth away and thrashing his head. “Dean.”

Click. Click.

“Cas,” both of the Winchesters sighed.

Click.

Cas yelled as his dick jerked and shot a thick line of come, arcing high and falling fast, hitting Dean in the chest.

Click. Click.

Sam was right behind him, cursing like demon.

Click. Click.

Sam filled Cas completely. One drip escaped Cas’ spasmodically moving muscles and fell onto the lens of the camera.

Click.

~~END~~

Crossing Dean (crack)

evil_knitter — Mon, 16 Aug 2010 00:52:32 GMT

Title – Crossing Dean
Rating – R
Pairings/ Characters– Dean/Castiel, Sam
Word Count – 2,970
Disclaimer – Nothing is mine.
Spoiler – I… I think this is a ‘verse now. This is the third in the “-ing Dean” stories. The first was “Laughing Dean”, then came “Dancing Dean”. But you should be good to go reading them all as stand alones.
Warnings – Hm. Cross dressing for money?
Summary- Dean finds a new way to score some money while on the road. The Plan, as usual, doesn’t go exactly has planned.

Note: So the nefarious prompt monster gwennie3579 is responsible for this one. She liked Glitter!Cas in “Dancing Dean” and said…. “babydragqueen!Cas... O.M.F.G. Write it. Now. (please)”. So I did.

Laughing Dean: evil-knitter.livejournal.com/29923.html
Dancing Dean: evil-knitter.livejournal.com/30520.html

There is a little joint at the corner of Church and Granby in Norfolk, Virginia called Nutty Buddies. The third Thursday of every month is amateur night, with a five hundred dollar prize to the winner. It was the easiest cash in town, as far as Dean was concerned. Norfolk, it was proving, was not a town big on pool or darts. What it was big on… was drag queens, which made sense because of the military base.

“I’m pretty as hell,” Dean hollered at his laughing brother. “Are you saying I’m not hot enough to win?”

“Dude,” Sam wiped his eyes and made a placating gesture. “I’m not qualified to judge your relative hotness. I’m just saying that the thought of you as a drag queen is hilarious.”

“I think you’re hot enough to win,” Cas remarked from the bed he shared with Dean. He idly flipped through the latest issue of Angel News Weekly.

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean raised his fist in victory and smirked at Sam.

“Okay,” Sam said with a sigh. No way was he getting into a debate over his brother’s looks. “Even if I concede the point of your hotness—which I’m not—how do you plan to do it? I mean, it’s not like you have, um, spare panty hose and hooker shoes in your duffel. I mean… do you?”

Cas looked up from an article on the renovations on St. Peter’s Gate, extremely interested in Dean’s reply.

“Of course not,” Dean said. “But a quick stop at Nancy’s Nook and I should be good to go.”

Sam bit his lower lip and tried to find an argument he could use to talk Dean out of his cockamamie plan. He could point to the gayness of the venture, but that was a given, and honestly, Dean had been embracing more and more of his inner gay since he first slipped the pickle to Cas. Which, you know, made sense.

“Dude,” Sam’s eyes lit up as he hit upon a key point that just might do the trick. “You know you’ll have to tuck your junk, right?”

Dean stared at his brother, confused. Cas closed his magazine and sat up, completely invested in the conversation now. He knew Dean inside and out; he could anticipate nearly every move before the man had ever settled on a course of action. But this one—talk of tucking his junk—he couldn’t even guess at the coming response.

“Um…” Dean said and shifted his stance. Okay, so that was close to what Cas would’ve guessed.

“Yeah,” Sam said, already planning his triumph. “You have to push your testicles back into your abdomen. And tape. There’s tape.”

“Dude…” Cas said from the bed, which was weird for him. He typically refrained from using the catchall word because he was typically armed with appropriate words to express himself. This time, not so much.

“How do you know how to tuck?” Dean asked when it became apparent Cas could not get the question out. “I mean, dude.”

“Shut up,” Sam grumbled, his cheeks exploding with the color of summer strawberries. “The point is, you can’t just throw on a muu-muu and hope your pretty face gets you by. Being a drag queen is about attitude and showmanship.”

“Again, I ask: how do you know this stuff?”

“Again, I say: shut up.”

“What song will you perform?” Cas asked suddenly, bringing two sets of Winchester eyes to him in a hurry.

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam grinned, and suddenly, he was very much on board with the plan to get Dean tarted up and on stage at Nutty Buddies. “A little Whitney? Maybe Mariah? You should break out that drag spin you wanted to do in the Dance Off.”

“Diana Ross!” Cas suggested.

“Ooooh,” Sam snapped is fingers in grand revelation. “Diana Ross, FTW!”

“We better get to Nancy’s,” Dean said with a roll of the eyes. He didn’t know why Sam liked to pretend he was straight when he was clearly the biggest fairy in gay creation. Diana Ross… really? “Do we have any of that cloth tape in the first aid kit? I don’t want to lose any skin.”

**oo**

“I vote for the blue one,” Sam said, picking a bejeweled and bebeaded barely-there dress out of the pile of discards. “You look good in blue.”

Dean shot his brother a disturbed look.

“I would normally agree,” Cas said because Dean did look smokin’ hot in blue. He held up a soft pink dress with marabou feathers along the hem. “But I think pink is the way to go. Your skin tone just begs for pink. Plus, the cap sleeves will make your shoulders look smaller.”

“I don’t do pink,” Dean said with a scowl.

“Yeah, well, you don’t do sequins and jewels either,” Cas pointed out with a patient blink. Or it could’ve been a blink of Well Duh. “Man up and wear the pink.”

The things Dean did for his boyfriend was beyond reason. He took the pink frock, holding it out at arm’s length and crossed to the register, where a pile of supplies were stocked on the eye level counter. Why did adult novelty stores always have a high and mighty counter? Al the cashier sat high above it all, lording over the puny peasants in search of earthly desires. Hmph.

“Good choice,” Al commented, taking the pink dress and folding it carefully. “You heading out to Nutty Buddies tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“You tell that bitch Amanda Peon that she better come see me soon,” Al said as he scanned a pair of lace up boots.

“We will relay the message,” Cas said with a serious nod. “To that bitch Amanda Peon.”

Al peered down at Cas, cataloging his blue eyes, full lips and lithe form. “Huh,” he said at last and shrugged. “Why aren’t you the one doing this?”

Sam made a strangled sound that could have been a laugh.

“Dean is prettier than I am,” Cas said, smiling over at his boyfriend. “Everyone knows that.”

“Says who?” Al asked with an appraising look at Dean.

Dean blew his lips out, offended. Not like he didn’t think Cas was the hottest thing on two legs, because he totally did. Cas naked and sweaty was The Most Awesome Sight Ever, but it was publically accepted that Dean was hotter. He looked to Sam for validation and sympathy. He found neither.

“You know,” Sam said instead, starting in on one of his Crazy Ideas. “He has a point. Cas has no inhibitions.”

“I do so!” Cas objected.

“Dude,” Sam rolled his eyes and really wished he didn’t have to pull out an example to prove his point. “Just last week you dropped trough in a Denny’s to show the waitress Jimmy’s unicorn-shaped birthmark. The week before that, you sang “Walk the Dinosaur” in the middle of Wal-Mart. The week before that—”

“Touché,” Cas admitted with a chuckle. Maybe his human impulse to rational thought process wasn’t yet fully developed.

“Cas…” Dean groaned. “No French.”

“Are you up for it?” Sam asked Cas. As much as he wanted to see Dean in drag—gagging to see it actually—they needed the cash and the silly little angel was a better bet. “You could rock that pink dress way better than Mr. Shoulders over there.”

“I do look good in pink,” Cas said with a sigh. “Sure, sign me up.”

Dean guppied at the scene before him. He had been exacto’d out of The Plan with the precision of a kidnapper cutting out letters from a newspaper. Cas, Sam and Al—how the fuck did Al get a front row seat to The Plan?—discussed glitter, eye liner and proper tucking techniques. Dean crossed his arms over his chest and pouted, not that anyone gave a damn to notice.

**oo**

“How do I look?” Cas asked the assembled cast back at the motel. He spun slowly in a circle, showing off legs that went up to There and a generous C cup. The marabou danced gently around his thighs, tickling against his tight fishnets.

Dean grunted and licked his lips because, really, his boyfriend was pretty damn hot as a tranny. But there are some things that he won’t say out loud.

Sam cleared his throat and scratched at neck because, really, his brother’s boyfriend was pretty damn hot as a tranny. But there are some things that he won’t say out loud.

Al whistled like Cas was a chick strutting past a construction site because, really, dude looked like a hot lady.

“I need a name,” Cas declared as he checked his lipstick in his hand mirror. Sam had drawn a beauty mark beside his mouth and slathered his eyelids in Tramp Stamp Silver glitter. “Did you narrow down the list of possibilities while I was tarting up?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dean reached out and took the list from Al who, seriously, was still there. “We like Chi Chi La Roue, Ivanna Jackacockoff, and Zsa Zsa LaHore.”

“Two of those are French,” Cas pointed out, making Dean cringe and crumple the list. “What about Mama Cas?”

“Oh,” Sam said with a blink and then a laugh. “That’s pretty funny. I mean, to us.”

**oo**

“Welcome to Nutty Buddies’ infamous Amateur Night,” a huge queen with huger hair said into her bedazzled microphone. “I’m your hostess snack cake with cream filling, Hope Heelcum!”

Dean snorted into his beer at the name. He hated to admit he was relieved to be sitting in the audience rather than standing on stage under the glare of the glitter ball. Cas had four competitors, but Dean was certain they had the cash in the bag.

The first three queens took their turns, sashaying, spinning and neck-sliding as they lipped along to such classics as “I Am Woman”, “Vogue” and “R-E-S-P-E-C-T”. They were good, Sam and Dean… and freakin’ Al had to admit. In fact, Holly Mackeral’s turn as Madonna in a full pointy bra and swinging pony tail had their palms sweating. If Cas didn’t nail it, they’d be SOL.

The first strains of Jennifer Hudson’s “And I’m Telling You I’m Not Going” fired up and garnered a few whoops of approval from the Broadway gays in the club. Dean had been nervous about the selection. There were no opportunities to execute a flawless drag queen spin; no chances to bend at the waist and shake his pert little ass.

Cas’ slender wrists floated through the air as he reached out to his pretend, abandoning lover. His face contorted into the prettiest vision of heartbreak known to man. His lips—pinched to their fullest and glossed by Dean himself—quivered as they wrapped around the lyrics of the song.

“This is going to be great,” Al scooted forward in his chair, his eyes as glossy as Cas’ lips. “She’s going to nail it.”

Sam grabbed Dean’s arm and stilled it where it was, raised in the air and ready to smash into Al’s stupid head. “Come on, man,” Sam said as he forced his brother’s arm down to his side. “Check the jealousy bullshit or you’re going to miss seeing this. Look.”

Dean flicked his gaze to the stage, but stayed tense and ready to beat the attraction straight out of Al’s entirely too intent eyeballs. The dick. Cas had crouched down, trailing his fingertips across the lip of the stage, tears balancing precariously on his lower eyelids. Those closest to Cas drew in surprised breaths and leaned forward, matching Al’s position almost exactly.

Cas drew himself upright as the song took a turn to the faster side. He staggered upstage, looking away from the audience, but grabbing at the air in desperation. Dean joined the rest of the crowd in leaning forward, spellbound as Cas rolled his head back and clawed at his ample bosom. He jumped in surprise when Cas stomped his high heeled feet with the beat and slashed his arms out wide, head tilted back as if praying to his Father.

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean whispered.

“Dude,” Sam elbowed his brother. He gestured to the people standing up and drifting toward the stage, dollar bills extended in their hands. “Cas is a diva.”

Dean’s mouth twisted around to show his pride. Damn straight his angel was a diva.

On the stage, the song was amping up, giving over to the histrionic wails of Jennifer Hudson begging and pleading. Cas ran from one side of the stage to the other, bending deep to reach the dollars being offered to him in worship. His hands were stuffed with money, but for emphasis to a strong lyric, he threw it all to the ground at his feet.

He tore at the marabou on the hem of his dress and let it dangle as he camped out.

And then, on a particularly long note of warbling, he stumbled back again and in a stroke of effin’ genius, reached up and snatched the long black wig off his head.

The crowd exploded, cheering, stomping, woo-ing and you-go-girl-ing. Cas held the wig aloft and spun it wide. Dean found himself on his feet, tense and ready to defend Mama Cas should the crowd decide to lay hands on her—him—whatever.

When Cas hit his knees, arms—and wig—up high, the cheering gave way to chants of “Mama, Mama, Mama!”

The music died away, but the applause was long in its death. Finally, Cas got to his feet, executed the dantiest little curtsy any of them had ever seen in their damn lives, and skipped off the stage.

“Damn,” Al said, falling back into his seat. “That was hot.”

“Shut your cakehole,” Dean snapped.

“You better go collect the money from the stage,” Sam suggested. “That looks like a cool two hundred up there.”

“I’m on it,” Dean bolted to the stage and bent over and over to scoop the money his man—his man—had earned honestly. He tried to ignore the catcalls and whistles, but found it impossible. His face flushed and he was sure it was from more than just hanging upside down for a few seconds at a time.

“Well,” Hope Heelcum took to the stage as soon as Dean had collected the last of the cash. She fanned herself pointedly. “I don’t know what was hotter, Mama Cas, or her ass-ilicious little drag puppy. Woo!”

Dean melted down into his seat, willing the audience to die the death of the damned as they whirled to drag their hungry eyes over him one last time.

“I think it is safe to say Mama Cas is our winner,” Hope declared. Dean gave one very uncharacteristic woo, yeah, Cas before blushing and clamping his mouth shut. Hope waved Cas forward from the eaves of the stage. The audience whooped again as Mama Cas made her way back to the stage, a bemused and shy smile playing on her lips. She waved to her admirers, wig still in hand. “Mama, I hope we see you back in here next month! Wouldn’t we like that, chickens?”

Another loud cheer.

Oh, Dean so didn’t think so. He didn’t want those vultures to sink their teeth into his carrion, dammit.

It took Cas nearly half an hour to make his way through the congratulatory crowd. Sam kept Dean firmly against his side with an iron arm. Together, they watched Cas accept shot after shot—and number after number—from his fans. When Al draped an overly familiar arm over Cas’ shoulders, Dean snapped.

“That’s it,” Dean slammed his beer onto the sticky bar, yanked free of Sam’s grip and stalked across the room to his boyfriend. “Cas,” he growled. “We’re leaving.”

“I won, Dean,” Cas grinned down at him. He was a cool two inches taller than Dean in his heels. That was pretty awesome—to Cas anyway. “They love me!”

“Damn straight I do,” Al said with a sigh. He gazed at Cas with sickening adoration. “I’ll steal her away from you, dude, watch out.”

“That’s seriously it,” Dean yelled and pounced on Al like howler monkey on a tree. Al gave a satisfyingly girly scream and hit the floor. “Cas is a man! Cas is my man!”

Cas and Sam shared the burden of stripping Dean away from their drag queen advisor. They pulled him from smoky bar, ignoring his outraged bellows and threats to rip various organs directly out of Al’s body.

It was a tense drive back to the Shadow Shack Motor Court. Cas sat in the backseat next to his still seething boyfriend. He leaned his head against Dean’s shoulder, glitter snowing down from his face. Sam kept his peace, and wisely cranked up the soothing sounds of Metallica.

“They wanted to eat you alive,” Dean said for the eighth time, squeezing Cas’ hand for emphasis. “What a stupid idea, Sam.”

Sam opened his mouth to remind his jerkass brother that the drag queen thing had, indeed, been Dean’s idea, but the green fire trying to burn through the rearview mirror convinced him that sometimes blame was a tastier dish than a knuckle sandwich.

“Not even worth the five hundred,” Cas agreed, shooting Sam an apologetic glance.

“Actually, it’s seven hundred,” Sam said, figuring that was safe enough.

“Hm,” Cas’ brow scrunched up, dropping more glitter on Dean’s shoulder.

“Don’t even think about it,” Dean said tersely. “As soon as we get back to the motel, we’re throwing all this crap away.”

Cas acquiesced easily. He wanted Dean happy, more so than he needed seven hundred dollars and an adoring flock of fans.

“Well,” Dean amended, tilting his head to whisper into Cas’ ear. “We’ll keep the glitter. And the shoes.”

Sam kept his eyes straight ahead and pretended he hadn’t heard that.

Cas grinned.

~End~

Custom Smut (PWP)

evil_knitter — Sun, 15 Aug 2010 04:31:37 GMT

Title – Custom Smut
Rating – NC17, PWP
Pairings– Dean/Castiel
Word Count – 742
Disclaimer – Nothing is mine.
Spoiler – None. This is totally PWP.
Warnings – PWP, sexin’, naked man in a tie
Summary- Dean asks Cas for directions.

Note: I wrote this to cheer up gwennie3579 a week or so ago. To prove to her that I cannot write smut to save my life. Do you want a custom story? I’m finding I like to write upon demand.

***

Cas’d never be able to wear that tie again, Dean decided. It would distract him too much, make him think about this moment. He couldn’t say what had possessed him to insist that Cas keep the tie on, not that anyone would ever ask. He snatched his attention back to the naked angel sprawled before him. Well, naked except for the dark blue tie still loosely knotted at his pale neck. It was vulgar in an International Male catalog sort of way.

Dean liked it.

“Dean,” Cas lifted his hips off the bed, using them to plead his case. The tie slid off his chest and tucked into his armpit. Dean repositioned the tie, smoothing it against Cas with a light touch. “Come on.”

“What do you want?” Dean bent low and snaked up Cas’ body, his skin hovering a hairsbreadth away from touching. “Tell me.”

“Touch me,” Cas whispered, but kept his own hands clenched in the sheets beneath him.

Dean obediently placed his hand on Cas’ narrow hips. He blinked up at his lover and grinned. “Now what?”

“Dean.”

“I said tell me,” Dean said, reaching up to tug on the tie gently. “So, tell me.”

“God dammit,” Cas growled and Dean knew he had him then. His own personal angel of the Lord never took his Father’s name in vain. Except when he was naked and groveling. “I want your fingers around my cock.”

Dean obliged instantly.

“Up and down…” Cas suggested on the coattails of a moan. “Twist.”

Dean took the note and applied it earnestly. He delighted in the half-formed curses that tripped from Cas’ lips when he twisted his hand and slid his thumb across the slit just starting to glisten with moisture.

“Faster,” Cas directed, and Dean went faster.

“Kiss me.”

Dean leaned forward, keeping his hand steadily pumping, and gently kissed his lover’s full lips. It was chaste and, to both of them, unsatisfactory. But Dean waited.

“Kiss me like you mean it,” Cas begged. “Kiss me like you love me.”

Dean broke. Hell, he always broke when it came to Cas. He dropped Cas’ dick and used both hands to cradle the angel’s face, to position him just so in order to grant the one request he could never deny.

Cas’ lips melted open at the first press, a hot pant of victory dancing into Dean’s mouth. Unbidden, Cas’ hands rose to Dean’s back, his nails finding purchase and gripping tight. Two tongues chased along the shores of their joined mouths, groans ebbing and flowing like the tide.

Dean tilted Cas’ head and swept his tongue along the roof of the angel’s mouth, causing Cas’ toes to curl and his hips to jerk. Not breaking the kiss, not stopping the gentle lapping at Cas’ most secretive and most sensitive spot, Dean curled his hand around Cas’ fully charged cock once more. With a pitchy cry, Cas’ mouth fell open, his lips losing contact with Dean’s.

“Like this,” Dean used the tip of his tongue to draw obscene circles around the sensitive line running along the middle of the roof of Cas’ mouth. Dean grunted in pain as Cas cried out and dug his nails further into his human’s back.

Dean’s fingers slid easily over Cas’ heated skin, using the angel’s suggested up-and-down-twist method. He could feel his lover’s orgasm hurtling to the surface. One last lap of his tongue and Dean pulled away, shoving down with a quickness that belied his touch of grace. Before Cas had finished loudly mourning the loss of Dean’s tongue, he felt the mouth he loved wrap around his cock and greedily swallow. His lamentation turned abruptly into a yell of exultation as he came hard enough to arch his back away from the bed.

“You’re amazing,” Dean murmured as he laid tracks over Cas’ skin with his mouth. Cas made a sleepy whimpering sound in response, but even that was enough to satisfy Dean. He slid up and wrapped himself around his lover’s limp body, ready and willing to wait for his turn. Cas always gave as good as he got, even if he needed a nap in between

~End?.

Dancing Dean

evil_knitter — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 02:19:14 GMT

Title – Dancing Dean
Rating – R for language
Pairings, Characters – Dean/Castiel, Sam, implied Bobby/Crowley
Word Count – 2,109
Disclaimer – Nothing is mine.
Spoiler – There are angels… Also, my story “Laughing Dean”
Warnings – Unabashed CRACK. Also…Is a dance kink a warning?
Note: This is for gwennie3579 who asked for custom smut, but got this instead. Whoopsy.
Summary- There are new demons that need vanquishing in a very special way. It’s Winchesters (and Cas!) to the rescue in this full-on cracktastic one-shot. Sequel to “Laughing Dean” which is here: http://evil-knitter.livejournal.com/29923.html

“Okay, look,” Sam hunched across the table, his hazel eyes lit with an Idea Just Crazy Enough to Work. Dean couldn’t help it—he leaned forward, waiting. “These demons are not like anything else we’ve encountered before.”

“Well, duh,” Cas interjected from across the room, sounding way too human for anyone’s liking. Both Winchesters shot him A Look. “Demons are like snowflakes.”

“Dude,” Dean said aloud and let the you-just-compared-demons-to-snowflakes-for-Christ-sake hang silently in the air.

“Just saying,” Cas sighed and swiped a finger through the frost on the motel window.

“Anyway,” Sam cleared his throat and turned back to his brother, trying vigilantly to not think of Lillith as a precious and unique snowflake. “These demons aren’t responding in the usual way. They are refusing to engage.”

“Which means what?”

“I think they are looking for a different kind of, uh, battle.”

“Which means what?”

Sam huffed a laugh and scratched at his chin. “Well,” he said. “You aren’t going to like it.”

“Suspense,” Cas intoned absently. “Is a bitch.”

“I think they are Corphyee demons,” Sam ignored Cas with practiced ease.

Corphyee meant nothing to Dean, but Cas laughed. Dean looked back at the former angel and took a second to enjoy the sound of it. Damn but it was hard to make Cas laugh like that. And no, it didn’t bother him that Sam had the honors that day. Hell, normally he was the only one who could accomplish that.

“Corphyee,” Sam launched into an explanation as if Dean had asked for one—which he totally would have if Cas’ rumbly laugh hadn’t distracted him. “Are dance demons.”

“…What?”

“They are nefarious little bastards,” Sam expanded with a grimace that threatened to dislodge the beauty mark—Dean called it like he saw it, the damn thing was a Marilyn Monroe style beauty mark—by his nose. “They are responsible for dances that make humans go crazy. They make people lose themselves, along with all sense of decorum.”

“So people dance themselves to death?” Dean was already pushing to his feet to check their weapon stock and holy water stash. He glanced at Cas who was struggling to reign his laughter in. “Demon of the Dance?”

“No, no,” Sam raised his voice to be heard over Cas’ wheezing. “The Corphyee aren’t deadly… just mischievous. And evil. They have been the cause of hundreds of, um, dance crazes throughout history.”

“Dance crazes?” Dean quirked an incredulous brow at his little brother. This had the stink of a prank on it. “Come on, Sammy, get serious.”

“He’s serious,” Cas managed to get out. He wiped the tears of hilarity—really? Tears from laughing? Humans are nuts—from his eyes and made his way to Research Central. “I believe clogging was one of theirs, right Sam?”

“Yeah,” Sam turned the laptop so Dean could read the lore—and see the awesome drawings of demons doing the Achy Breaky Heart. “They are credited with the Quadrille, the Waltz, the Hustle, the Chicken Dance… the list goes on and on.”

“The Electric Slide?” Dean asked skeptically. Man, he loved a good Electric Slide.

“Yep.”

“Cha-Cha Slide?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Cupid Shuffle?”

“Definitely.”

Dean groaned and fell back onto one of the rumpled beds.

“The Macarena, too,” Cas said with a snort. “And the damn Stanky Legg.”

Sam barked out a surprised and highly amused: “Ha!”

“You know, Bobby still owes me five hundred for that,” Cas said, pulling out his cell phone and dialing the older hunter’s number. It’d been a year since that stupid football game—and a year since his Father had punished his poor dance execution by grounding him on Earth without his grace. He’d earned that money and it was damn time for the persnickety old man to pay the effing quasi-angelic piper.

“Bad dancing aside,” Dean tucked his arm behind his head. “These demons are not a problem, right?”

“I guess not,” Sam closed the laptop and tried to ignore the colorful cursing from Cas’ corner of the room. For some reason, Bobby and Cas liked to employ a form of communication—a derivative of English, he thought—that was not safe for public airplay. “But we have to end this.”

“End what?” Dean wiggled deeper into the mattress, thinking a nap would be close to divine. He shot a look at the heavily cussing Cas and wondered if the angel would help him get to sleep.

“The dance crazes,” Sam said seriously. Dean knew that if he bothered to check, his brother’s face would be painted the color of earnestness and determination. “We have a chance to reclaim the dance floor!”

Dean replayed that last sentence and decided, yep, that was the craziest thing he’d ever heard.

“May a flock of ostriches swarm up your ass and pluck the cilia from your lower intestines, you pussing bucket of buttfunnels,” Cas said conversationally. “Give my best to Crowley. See you next week.”

Dean blinked and made an impressed face. He stood corrected.

“Bobby thinks you are on the right track,” Cas reported to Sam. “He also agrees that we only have one shot at this. CMT is already reporting a resurgence of the Boot Scootin’ Boogie.”

“Good God, no,” Sam pounded his fist on the table, making his laptop jump. “We have to stop this.”

“Cool your jets,” Dean said and reluctantly sat up. His brother and his boyfriend—a dangerous combination at the best of times—looked at him expectantly. Of course they were going to get their way. “What do we do to stop them?”

Sam grinned because he knew, the cocky dick (heh), that Dean was a Gold Star Codependent when it came to the two of them.

From the corner of his eye, Dean saw Cas starting to twist at the waist and roll his neck from side to side. It was his Pre-Sexin’ Warm Up Ritual. “Cas,” he bit out, not because the sight of the punished angel revving up for a spin on the Wincockster 3000 didn’t do it for him, but because Sam was still in the M.F.-ing room. Dean had limits. No, seriously, he did. “Now’s not the time.”

“It’s a Dance Off,” Sam blurted before he could be further traumatized by the passing of Significant Looks between his brother and the limber tax accountant of the Lord (currently in a Time Out). Hell, he’d seen Cas’ Pre- and Post-Coital stretches enough to last him a life time, god dammit.

“A what?”

“A Dance Off,” Cas said, bending at the waist to touch his toes. “If we win, the Corphyee are returned to Hell’s petite discotheque.”

“Dude,” Dean cringed and slashed the air at his side. “What have I told you about speaking French?”

“That it makes me sound like a hoity-toity bisexual,” Cas immediately responded. He stood upright and caught his foot in a quad stretch. “And a little douchey.”

“He’s right, but can we focus on our strategy?” Dean sighed and shook his head. It was tough to be the only straight in a gay chicken coop. “The Corphyee have at least five on their dance team. We are at a disadvantage.”

“Not necessarily,” Cas switched legs and held an arm out to balance himself, like a man-size Flamingo. “It’s harder to work formations with five dancers. We, however, as a trio, have many options. A triangle, a diagonal, an inverted triangle…”

“Wait,” Dean closed his eyes and stole a page out of his brother’s book. He pinched the bridge of his nose until his freckles started to seep through his skin. “You are serious about the Dance Off?”

“I wouldn’t joke about a Dance Off, Dean,” Sam said, but he was grinning. The littlest Winchester got up and went to his duffel. “I wish I had some jazz shoes.”

For a full minute and a half, Dean thought he was high.

**oo**

“Okay,” Sam crouched low against the wall leading into the ominous looking alley. He gingerly placed a batter operated boom box (yes, a boom box—you got a problem with that?) beside him and slid a cassette tape in. The label peaked out: SaDestiel Dance Mix, Dance Off 2010. “Cas, keep your thumbs tucked on your floreos. Dean, remember it’s one- two-three- attitude then jeté en tournant.”

“I got it, Twyla,” Dean grumbled and glared down at his stretchy jeans and sleeveless—and way too fucking glittery—shirt. “And while we’re handing out notes, you better mind your fucking Jazz Box. That last run was a mess.”

Sam had the grace to look abashed. His Jazz Boxes had been sloppy.

“Guys,” Cas gestured down the alley where five Corphyees stood, arms crossed and toes tapping. The angel-cum-choreographer smeared two thick crescents under his eyes and set his jaw. “Let’s do this.”

Sam jammed the play button and the opening strains of “When You’re a Jet” filled the alley. The Corphyee jerked toward them, their arms tensed and pulled back in perfect port de bras. Sam took his place at the tip of their first formation—a triangle. Classic, strong. You can’t go wrong with a triangle.

A hop step with seriously menacing snaps and they were off. Hell yeah.

The Corphyee fell into a staggered line and jazz walked their way down the darkened alley. Effective; it made a statement and had a certain je ne sais quoi to it.

The two groups walked a wide circle around each other, snarling and gesturing grandly.

Cas struck first: Ronde de jambe, bitches!

The Corphyee retaliated with a blinding Cincinnati that sparked the taps on the soles of their shiny shoes.

Sam pushed through and let the Hell spawn have it: Jazz Box, Jazz Box—surprise Slip Jig attack! Ha! Nailed it!

Dean came next, laying down a murderous Suzy Q with improvised arm and hand Tutting. Behind him, Cas pirouetted like a fiend, his head whipping around quickly with each rotation to spot. Sam leapt from side to side, clapping in time to the music.

Three Corphyee demons advanced, their knees flying up to chest level in a classic clog step. Damn them.

Sam raised the stakes by Beyonce-walking through their demonic inverted triangle, pointer fingers jabbing rhythmically at the pavement. He ended with a deep knee bend, one leg extended to the side in a deadly crouch. Take that.

After that, it was on like Donkey Kong.

Shim Sham Shimmy. Quick-quick-slow-slide. Front flip. Rockette kick.

Cas threw himself into a tour en l’air that reminded him of flying. He touched down gracefully—which he refused to think of as ironic—just as Sam windmilled his long legs, slicing the air as he rotated wildly on his back.

And then it was time for Dean. Pulling his chest high to lengthen his spine, he went for it—balls to the wall. Attitude- pause- jeté en tournant- chassé- chassé- Turkish fucking Drop! With one fist held aloft in triumph and his back flat on the dirty pavement, the music ended. Above him, he spied Sam holding a truly awesome Vogue pose and Cas pointing to the sky like a Jesus Praisin’ John Travolta. Booyah.

“Curse you!” The leader of the Corphyee troupe screeched as a ring of fire opened around them. “The Turkish Drop is an illegal move!”

Cas scoffed, but before he could debate the legality issues involved in a Demonic Dance Off, the Corphyees disappeared, leaving a hint of glitter in the air.

“Victory is ours,” Sam noted drily. He pulled Dean to his feet. “Dude, a Turkish Drop? We didn’t rehearse that. Ingenious.”

“Yes,” Cas sighed and slung his arm around Dean’s waist proudly. “But I am disappointed it ended with just one dance.”

Dean couldn’t take his eyes off the thick line of glitter on Cas’ face. He absolutely did not think it was adorable in a baby drag queen way. He so would make Cas wash it off before there was any celebratory sex.

“I really wanted to do our pas de deux,” Cas lamented.

“We can still do the pas de deux tonight,” Dean grinned and waggled his eyebrows.

“Don’t say it. Don’t say it,” Sam chanted although he knew it was a long shot. “Do.Not.Say.It.”

“The naked pas de deux,” Dean said, blowing Sam’s hopes to Hell.

“Ugh,” Sam groaned. “You said it.”

“Okay,” Cas bounced on his heels and smiled happily. “But I need to stretch first.”

~Fin~

A/N: Okay, so for those of you not familiar with belly dance terminology (really?), here’s a link to a Turkish Drop. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2sA1ujjtOv4 I’ll let you imagine or look up the rest of the terminology. :)

I blame West Side Story for this.

Next in the series: Crossing Dean: evil-knitter.livejournal.com/31197.html