The Disreputable Writer

Surface Tension (Chapter 6)

2013-12-24T03:33:46Z

WOW, I'm sorry for the frankly ridiculous update delay. Unfortunately vet school often means coming home and saying to myself, "Well, I have enough time to either write, or make dinner, or take a shower. And I haven't eaten all day and I'm covered in poop." So I can't make promises about an update schedule. The only promise I can make is that I know where this story is going, I know how it ends, and I want to see it finished. Thanks to everyone who asked me about the next chapter and kept me writing.

And a quick disclaimer: while Jean Lafitte was a real pirate, I played a bit fast and loose with his history and timeline in order to make things work the way I wanted them to work. Forgive me my historical inaccuracies.

Previous chapters: : 1|2|3|4|5|

-----

They didn't bother keeping a low profile when they sailed into the port at Havana. It wasn't like at Stanford, where a strange ship stuck out like a broken thumb. Havana was a big enough place that even a distinctive ship like The Impala could edge in mostly unnoticed. And as for those who couldn't help but notice her, well, it wasn't as if Dean's crew were the only pirates in the harbor. The people of Havana understood that, while pirates might carry illegal cargo in and out of the city, they also paid for goods and services while they were there. A little money in the right hands and a low profile would allow them the run of the town, and the locals were happy to look the other way so as long as the crew didn't cause any trouble.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Anna called to Dean from where she was working in the rigging.

Dean supposed it was. The city seethed with humanity, and the ships flowing in and out of the harbor were its lifeblood. West of the harbor, intricate architecture blossomed. Mansions. Theaters. A refined place for refined people. Beautiful. But Dean had never been a part of that world, and he could never cultivate more than a passing interest in it. He had more important things to worry about.

He gathered up his crew once they were safely berthed in the Havana harbor, nestled among a garden of masts. The place swarmed like a hive, as it always did. The better to blend in.

"Take the night off," he told his crew. "Have some fun for a change." After making sure they all knew when to meet back in the morning and assigning shifts for the night watch, he nodded to dismiss them. They didn't go.

"Uh, Captain?" said one sailor, smiling hopefully.

"Yeah, Rosen?"

"Uh... we didn't get paid for the last job," she said, fidgeting. "Not that it was anyone's fault. But we're all a little light on coin and... it's Havana." The other sailors murmured in agreement.

Dean closed his eyes for a split second. Crowley had given him enough money to pay for the goods he was to transport, plus a little extra as an emergency fund for the journey. So far they hadn't needed that money. But, knowing Dean's luck, it might come in very handy on the return trip if the boat sprung a leak or snapped a mast, or if they needed to pay someone off, or if any number of other complications were to arise.

On the other hand, his crew were looking at him like baby birds waiting for him to puke a worm into their mouths. And it was true that they hadn't been paid in a good long while.

"Line up," he said. "You all get an advance on your pay for this trip. Now, who's the best captain?"

"You are!" they chorused as they shuffled into a single file. Even Anna said it, rolling her eyes fondly.

At first it was nice to see his sailors' faces light up as he counted coins into their hands one by one. They quickly scuttled off toward town, their purses full for the first time in months. But Dean's purse steadily shrank, and as it weighed less and less on his hand it began to weigh more and more on his mind. Once again, he was going to find himself walking the knife's edge of destitution. So his smiling, "Okay, don't spend it all on rum," toward the front of the line slowly became a rueful, "Stay out of trouble," as the line dwindled down to the last few people and his purse dwindled down to the last few coins.

Last in line was Creedy, slouching as if he could slip by unnoticed. After a moment of silence, Dean emptied out the rest of his purse and dropped the coins into Creedy's hand. It was much more than he had given anyone else.

"What's this?" said Creedy unsurely.

"Your back pay," said Dean. "Now get the Hell off my ship."

"You were serious about that?"

"Did I look like I was joking?"

Creedy looked like he might have thrown the coins back in Dean's face, but money was money and eventually he put it in his pocket. He slunk off the ship without another word.

Only Dean and Anna were left on the deck. Anna stared Dean down with her arms crossed. "You gave him money," she observed, her voice dripping with judgment.

"What was I supposed to do, leave him broke and stranded?" Dean wadded up his empty purse and put it away.

"No. You should have shot him back when he disobeyed your orders," said Anna without hesitation.

"That's not how I run my ship."

Anna sighed and leaned wearily on the railing. "I know," she said. "Well, how much money do we have left?"

"After we pay for the shipment we're picking up for Crowley?" Dean pretended to count on his fingers. "Uh, zero. Zero money."

Anna placed one hand delicately over her eyes. "Wonderful," she muttered.

Dean clapped a hand on her shoulder and did his best to smile. "Don't worry. We just need to finish the job before expenses start stacking up. I'll go into town tonight and see if I can track down Crowley's contact. With a little work I'll have the transfer set up by tomorrow night."

Anna had the first watch, so she stayed behind. Dean climbed down onto the dock and eased into the flow of sailors making their way to and from their ships on the narrow maze of wooden slats.

He wound his way through a forest of ships as he made for solid ground. Most were bigger and newer than The Impala. Dean recognized merchant vessels, a smattering of Navy ships, and a handful of boats that tried to blend in but couldn't be anything else but fellow pirates.

Then, halfway to shore, he turned a corner and stopped dead in his tracks. Sailors bumped into him and scooted around him like a river flowing around a rock, but he didn't mind and he didn't move. He just stared up at the hull of ship in front of him, where the words "Blood Chalice" were painted in blue and silver.

Benny Lafitte was docked in Havana.

-----

Before the great pirate Jean Lafitte set up the smuggling hub at Barataria Bay and began to cultivate an infamy that would rival that of John Winchester, he was the lowly son of a widow from the French colony of Saint-Domingue. The two of them – mother and son – traveled to New Orleans in the final decades of the eighteenth century. Not much was known about Jean Lafitte's young adulthood there in the bayous, but Dean Winchester knew at least one thing: Jean met and spent several months courting a young woman named Elizabeth Munroe.

The two parted ways, and for a few years after that Jean was kept busy. He sailed the gulf, making a name for himself, and even showed the first inklings of naval and criminal genius when he smuggled his own elder brother, Pierre, out of Saint-Domingue and out from under the noses of the Haitan revolutionaries there. By the time Jean became aware that Elizabeth had quietly borne and raised his son in the meantime, Benjamin Lafitte was nearly ten.

Jean returned to Elizabeth and made her an offer. He couldn't afford to have his own illegitimate offspring running around the Caribbean, possibly to show up at his doorstep one day expecting recognition. And he certainly couldn't have Benny following his footsteps into the life of piracy, showing him up and sapping his reputation. So Jean offered Elizabeth a hefty sum of money if Benjamin Lafitte would henceforth be known only as Benjamin Munroe, and if he would promise to make his living on the land.

Elizabeth, alone and destitute, made the promises and accepted the money.

Ten years later, a young pirate captain was taking ships under the name of Benjamin Lafitte, anyway.

-----

Dean was almost buzzing in his skin as he tore his eyes away from the hull of the ship and flagged down a passing dock worker. The man rolled his eyes at the interruption, but he joined Dean under the prow of the Blood Chalice and listened as Dean asked, "Hey, can you help me out? I'm looking for Captain Lafitte."

The man's eyes widened, his boredom suddenly banished. "I heard he was still up at Barataria..."

"Not that Lafitte," Dean cut him off. "His son. Captain Benjamin Lafitte."

"Oh," said the man, visibly relaxing. "Eh, I wouldn't know him if I saw him."

Dean muttered under his breath, "Figures," as he watched the dock man walk away. He probably hadn't recognized Dean, either, though he certainly would have known the name John Winchester. Sometimes anonymity was an advantage, but it could also be frustrating for Dean as a pirate captain to be less famous than his own last name.

He made his way slowly into town, stopping someone every now and then to ask if they'd seen the Blood Chalice's captain. He chose his marks carefully; he picked the pirates and ruffians out of the crowd and avoided anyone who looked proper enough that they might be alarmed by the name "Lafitte." Most didn't know Benny. Some had seen him, but didn't know where he was. Finally, Dean was lucky enough to catch one of Benny's own crew members on his way into a bar. "The Captain's down the street at the Jubilee," the man said.

The Jubilee Tavern was a smallish, comfortable place mostly frequented by locals. When Dean arrived, he could have easily picked the sole outsider even if he hadn't known him – Benny sat at the corner of the bar with his back to the wall, his thick blue coat stinking of the ocean and his scraggly beard picking up foam off his beer with every sip. His shoulders were like a crossbeam. His deep-set eyes picked up Dean's silhouette before he'd even fully opened the door, and when he recognized him those eyes crinkled at the edges in a way that warmed Dean's face even better than the Caribbean breeze.

Dean sat down beside Benny and, without so much as a greeting, helped himself to a swallow of beer. "Do you have this much trouble finding me when you go into a town asking after Captain Winchester?"

A slow, easy smile spread across Benny's face to match the lines around his eyes. "Not really," he rumbled. "I think it helps that your daddy is dead instead of sitting on his spoils up in Louisiana." When he took his beer back and downed the last of it, he looked at Dean with such fondness that Dean felt something kindle deep in his chest.

Dean couldn't help but match Benny's smile. "It's good to see you, man," he said, his voice dropping lower to keep from being overheard. "What brings you here?"

"Unloading some things," said Benny nonchalantly. "You?"

"Picking some things up."

"From whom?"

Dean breathed a sigh through his nose and said, "What do you say we hold off on talking shop for now? I just got here."

Benny rested a knowing hand on Dean's forearm and nodded. "You drinking?"

"If you're buying," Dean replied sheepishly.

"You broke again?"

"'Again' implies that there was a time in between when I wasn't broke," said Dean.

A scowl passed over Benny's face like a storm cloud. "You're bringing Crowley his dinner again and he's still got you eating table scraps," he growled.

"I said I didn't want to talk about it, okay? Just buy me a drink, big guy."

One more worried glance, and the storm cloud evaporated. Benny was smiling again. "Whatever you want, sugar," he said. "I got you tonight."

"Promise?" slipped out of Dean's mouth, and they both blushed. Then they both cast furtive glances around the bar, making sure no one was taking notice of them. After all, they were both reasonably-well-known pirate captains trying to make a name for themselves. They had to keep up at least a semblance of professionalism instead of making eyes at each other like schoolboys whenever they happened to dock in the same port.

No one was looking at them. Benny chuckled as he stood. "Let's start with that drink. Then we'll just see what I end up promising you," he murmured, leaning over the table to say it directly in Dean's ear. Dean tried to get his legs to stop vibrating as Benny sauntered over to the bar and came back with two pints. "So, what do you want to talk about, if business is off limits?"

There's a merman living in my cabin!

Dean swallowed the words down so hard that he almost squeaked. The urge to tell someone, anyone, was overwhelming, and Benny's open expression invited honesty. But Dean had promised. He wouldn't tell.

But he had to talk about it or he'd burst, and Benny was just far enough removed from Dean's crew that he could do it without giving anything away.

"Met a guy," Dean said.

"Hmm," said Benny through a mouthful of beer. "Pirate? Smuggler? Fence?"

"Nah, he's... I guess he's a civilian." Dean sipped on his beer without really tasting it.

"How'd you manage to meet one of those?"

"He saved my life." When Dean noticed Benny's raised eyebrows, he added, "Don't make a thing out of it. I survived, okay?"

"I reckon I owe the guy one, then," said Benny.

"Nah, I saved his life right back. So I think we're getting close to even."

"Sounds dramatic."

"It was at first," said Dean, staring into his beer. "Now it's just... huh. Benny, I was just so completely, hilariously unprepared for this guy."

Benny looked like he would have liked to say something, but he picked up his beer and drank instead, knitting his eyebrows at Dean from over the top of his glass.

So Dean went on. "He's a huge inconvenience. A huge distraction. He... it's like I've had this one problem for years – Crowley, I mean. And I spend all my time trying to solve this problem. And then Cas comes along and suddenly there's this whole new problem to deal with. And he's the worst kind of problem because he makes me forget about the first problem, the real problem. When I'm with him I don't worry about Crowley or my debt or keeping my ship afloat. I just worry about him. And fuck, sometimes he even manages to make me forget that he's a problem, too. And then I'm not worried at all. I'm goddamn..."

"Happy?" Benny interrupted, looking amused.

"Complacent," said Dean, spitting the word out like a curse.

Benny stared at him with his lips twisted into a resigned smile. "Honey, I know you hate it when people automatically assume you're sleeping with someone, but..."

"Oh my God!" Dean sputtered around the last mouthful of his beer. "I'm not sleeping with him!"

"I wouldn't be jealous if you were."

"I'm absolutely not sleeping with him," said Dean. "There are some, uh, pretty substantial reasons why I'm not sleeping with him. Moral and logistical and... anatomical... reasons..."

Benny did the tiniest of double-takes. "Anatomical?"

"The point is I'm not sleeping with him."

"Okay," said Benny nonchalantly. Then, "So, his name is Cas?"

"I take it back. Let's talk about business," Dean groaned.

Benny finished his beer with a slurp. "I've got a better idea," he said. "Let's talk about you and me heading back to my cabin for the night."

Feeling very glad that Benny hadn't suggested they go back to Dean's cabin instead, Dean replied, "I thought you'd never ask."

-----

They didn't talk much as they left the Jubilee. They communicated in sidelong glances and stolen smiles as they waded against the tide of the evening crowd – everyone else was heading to the bars; Dean and Benny were going back to the docks. Dean didn't speak up again until the crowd had thinned out to a trickle and they could feel like they were somewhat alone.

"What are you dropping off here?"

Benny tilted his head with a grin. "Thought we weren't talking business."

"Come on, Benny, what did you score?"

He shrugged, but Benny's persistent smile belied the fact that he'd had a good week. "Took a merchant ship coming out of the gulf," he said. "No fight in 'em. They surrendered after a couple of warning shots and I took their very reasonable offer of half their cargo."

Dean was always pleased when Benny's stories ended in no one getting killed. But he had to shake his head at the marvel that Benny was so well-off that he could afford to leave behind half the spoils of his conquest. "Time was, you would have taken all their cargo and their ship, too."

Benny just shrugged again. "Sure, but then I would have had to tell you that I'd left their whole crew adrift in lifeboats, and you would have given me those eyes like I'd just stepped on a puppy. Besides, I don't need their ship. I've got a ship. It's a good ship. My father gave it to me."

Dean tripped over a cobblestone and almost fell. "What?" he choked. "Jean Lafitte gave you the Blood Chalice? I thought he hated your guts!"

"I haven't told you about that?" said Benny, taking Dean's elbow and pulling him back upright. "He gave it to me in exchange for me promising not to use his name."

"Nah, he paid your mother for you not to use his name." Dean squinted, trying to remember the story.

"He did that," said Benny. "Then, when I grew up and got a notion to try my hand at pirating, I tracked him down. Told him that he'd made a deal with my mother, not with me, and I'd go sailing if I wanted. He wasn't happy about it, but he understood. He just didn't want me running around claiming I was his blood. He'd just taken the Chalice a prize, and he offered her to me if I'd keep going by Munroe."

"So you took her," said Dean. He placed a hand over his eyes as he realized. "And kept using the name, anyway."

"I meant to keep my word," said Benny sheepishly. "But it didn't take long for people to figure out who I was. A few years in, everyone was calling me Lafitte. Seemed silly to keep introducing myself as anything else."

"Jesus," Dean whispered. "No wonder he put a bounty on you."

Now it was Benny's turn to stumble as they passed from the lane onto the docks. "You know about that?"

"Well, yeah," said Dean, pausing to wait for Benny to regain his footing. "It's not like he broadcasts it, but by now most people know that if they get you up to Barataria then Jean will make it worth their while."

"Worth their while..." Benny chuckled darkly. He hesitated, then added, "You ever think about it?"

They'd just reached the Blood Chalice. Dean stopped and turned so that he was facing Benny, the two of them hidden in the shadow of the ship's hull. "You're worth more to me than anything he can pay."

Benny scoffed. "You know he's rich enough to make your debt with Crowley go away?"

"Like I said."

This time they didn't bother looking around to see if anyone was watching. Benny reached out, maybe just to put his hand on Dean's face, but Dean was already leaning in and soon their hands were all over, pulling their lips closer, crushing their bodies together. Dean could sink into Benny so easily. His coat swallowed him. His hands on the back of his head and between his shoulder blades were so strong and broad that it was like they could hold him up.

The ship was almost deserted when they made their way up on deck. The sailor on the night watch reached for her pistol, then relaxed when she recognized her captain and his guest. Benny tipped his cap to her as he passed by, his arm around Dean's waist.

Benny's cabin was nicer than Dean's. The room was bigger and better lit, as if Benny had actually cared to choose a room befitting his station when he picked out where he would sleep. But it wasn't gaudy or pretentious, like the quarters of some captains. The furniture was plain wood, the bed sheets were plain linen, and the predominant decoration was stacks of books. Much like its inhabitant, it was just on the comfortable side of spartan.

Benny's arm slipped free of Dean's side as he strode into the room purposefully. He shed his clothes as he walked. His coat and shirt he unbuttoned with barely a thought, and shrugged them off with a tiny roll of his shoulders. They fell on the floor in a heap. He unbuckled his belt, and with a dip of his hips his trousers fell off his legs. He stepped out them, kicking his shoes off as he went. In three steps all his clothes had fallen away from him, as quickly as if nakedness were his natural state and he were merely returning to it.

His shoulders, if possible, were even broader without the coat over them. His limbs were thick and his skin bronzed by the Caribbean sun. Once across the room, he pulled the chair out from his desk and spun it around so that it stood in the middle of the floor, facing Dean. Then he sat down, and Dean was reminded that Benny's kindness and warmth and genuineness aside, he also had the biggest cock that Dean had ever had the pleasure of fucking.

Benny leaned back and spread his legs, affording Dean the best possible view from where he was still standing clothed and speechless in the doorway. Benny raised his hands and beckoned. "Come here," he said.

Dean didn't have to be told twice. He kicked the door closed behind him and stripped. He was somewhat less graceful than Benny had been – his shirt got stuck halfway over his head and one trouser leg stubbornly refused to come off his ankle. Benny just watched with an amused smile on his face until Dean managed to get free.

"Shut up," said Dean. He stepped forward until he was standing over Benny, straddling his lap. Even without being touched, his cock was pulsing its way to hardness right in front of Benny's face.

"I didn't say nothing," said Benny, leaning forward. In one smooth movement, he rolled a condom onto Dean's cock and lapped it into his mouth. He closed his lips around him as easily and casually as if he were kissing him.

A jolt went through Dean's legs as he swelled against Benny's tongue, and he had to put his hands on Benny's shoulders to steady himself. Benny's rough hands ran up the backs of his thighs and gripped his buttocks to draw him in closer until Benny's nose was brushing the hairs at Dean's groin. He held him there a moment, deep enough that he couldn't breathe, his eyes closed as he savored the taste and sensation of Dean in his mouth and in his hands.

Benny fucked with such a warm familiarity. Even from the first time, it had always been as if their bodies had known each other, known how to fit together and give each other pleasure. There was no pretention to the man and no hesitation. He sucked Dean's cock like it belonged in his mouth, and he cherished Dean's body like a gift.

At first Benny's eyes kept flicking upwards to watch as Dean's face went slack and dreamy. Only when he was satisfied that Dean was enjoying himself did he close his eyes. Dean's eyes fluttered shut too, his fingers kneading at the thick muscle where Benny's shoulders met his neck and creeping up to toy with the soft hair at his nape. He pressed with two fingers at the base of Benny's skull, softly, just barely asking for more.

Benny answered by letting go of Dean with one hand and reaching behind himself toward the desk. There was a little pot of oil there; Benny flipped the lid off with practiced ease and dipped his fingers into it.

Dean didn't bother holding back a breathy sigh of pleasure as Benny worked his slippery fingers between the cheeks of Dean's ass to rest against his hole. He traced tiny circles there, spreading the oil around and coaxing Dean open. He'd stopped sucking. Dean's cock rested atop his lower lip, twitching each time his fingers probed a little deeper.

Before entering him, Benny lifted his eyes and quirked his eyebrows, asking silent permission. Dean nodded so hard that his dick bobbed up and down against Benny's mouth.

First one finger, then two, as easy as anything. With a wicked, open-mouthed grin, Benny crooked his fingers and pulled Dean toward him, drawing Dean's cock deeper into his mouth by the pressure on Dean's prostate. Dean had to collapse forward, his hands braced against the desk behind the chair, his mouth gaping and gasping. Benny tugged insistently, rhythmically, and soon Dean's hips were working to keep up with him, thrusting in and out of his mouth as Benny's head rested lazily against the chair back.

He pushed and pulled, and sucked, the pressure of it so intense that Dean barely noticed when he slipped a third finger in beside the first two. It was all he could do to follow the motion of Benny's hand, trying to match the pace even as his legs trembled and he clenched around Benny's fingers with the effort and pleasure of it.

When Benny pulled him all the way in, Dean's balls resting against his beard, and kept pulling with his fingers curved wickedly against Dean's prostate, Dean could help but let out a moan that was higher-pitched than he'd meant it to be. And Benny, that bastard – Dean could actually feel him smiling around his mouthful at the noises he was teasing out of Dean.

Dean's hand scrabbled over the surface of the desk, working behind Benny's back to find the little drawer on the far right where he knew the rest of his condoms were hidden. When he finally found what he was looking for, he reluctantly backed off of Benny's fingers, out of his mouth, to kneel between his legs and slide the condom on. And, fuck, it was bigger than he remembered. He could barely get his fingers around it. He ended up having to use both hands to unroll the condom past the bulging mushroom-shaped head and down the thick, veiny shaft that was getting harder with every touch.

"Do you have to jack off with two hands?" said Dean with a smirk as he grabbed the pot of oil and poured some over Benny's cock.

Benny gave a pleased little grunt as Dean smeared the oil around. "Don't need to. I can usually find someone to do that for me." Then, as Dean stood to straddle his lap again, he added, "You good like this? You don't wanna move it to the bed?"

"Nah, this is good." He bent his knees slowly, bracing himself with one hand behind Benny's neck as he lowered himself down. With his other hand he guided the slippery rod between the cheeks of his ass until the tip of it was poking at his opening. He felt so loose, so ready, but he could also feel Benny's girth pressing outward against his cheeks and reminding him of how tight a fit it could be. He mumbled, face flushing, "You remember, right?"

Benny nodded seriously and cupped Dean's face in his hands. "Yeah, I know. I don't thrust up, I don't push you down. I don't move. You go your own pace."

"Thanks."

"You don't need to thank me for not hurting you."

It was going to hurt no matter what. But that was part of it. As Dean bent his legs farther, letting his weight settle, letting Benny's cock prod deeper until the head of it was nosing its way inside and stretching him open as it went, he quickly reached the limits of his comfort and pushed through into a warm, stinging pain. He sobbed out a laugh as the flared head slid past his sphincter. It hurt. But he was riding the edge of his own limits, and he was in control. Benny was all warmth and security, a gentle bear of a man, and Dean ached to be wrapped up in him, to press himself against him and invite him deep inside. And that was worth a little pain. In fact, the pain made it better. So Dean sat down into Benny's lap inch by inch, panting and straining, willing himself open.

Benny's hands came up to rest on Dean's hips, but true to his word he didn't push Dean in any direction. He just rubbed little comforting circles on Dean's flanks with his fingertips. The calmness of his hands was at odds with the tension in his face – he breathed through gritted teeth and stared into Dean's eyes with a wildness brought on by overwhelming pleasure, the muscles of his neck fluttering with the effort to keep his body still. But his hands moved smoothly to stroke up and down Dean's back, loving every inch of his skin that they could reach.

By the time Dean's butt settled flush against Benny's pelvis and thighs, Dean was collapsed against Benny's shoulder, shaking, each breath a reedy little sigh. Benny turned his head and kissed him. Dean did his best to participate, but his mouth couldn't do much more than gape and gasp at the overwhelming sensation of fullness that was gripping his whole body. Benny sucked at his lips and kissed his way across Dean's cheeks anyway. By the time he'd made his way down Dean's neck and was nipping at his collarbones, Dean had planted his feet back on the floor and was slowly rolling his hips up and down, impaling himself on Benny's huge cock again and again.

Soon it was Benny who was coming apart, and Dean who was kissing back savagely. The more the pain ebbed the faster he went. His thighs shook every time he lifted himself up; there was a wet slapping sound as his ass met Benny's groin every time he let himself fall back down.

"Fuck..." Benny groaned, face pressed against Dean's chest and fingers digging into his back. "Dean, baby, I can't hold out."

Dean rode him even faster. "It's okay. It's okay. I want you to."

All he needed was permission. Benny let go with a shout, and Dean kept fucking him right through his orgasm, never slowing until Benny slumped backwards, spent.

Dean could barely feel his legs as he lifted himself off of Benny's lap and stood. He stumbled a few steps, then collapsed backwards onto the bed with a weak, giddy chuckle. His cock flopped limply against his thigh. Benny's girth was so overwhelming that he could never seem to get hard at the same time as getting fucked. But after only a minute or two to recover, a pleasurable little twinge seemed to signal his readiness. He reached down and began to lazily stroke himself.

He responded quickly. But just as he was getting hard, Benny leaped out of his chair and swatted Dean's hand away. "Let me do that," he said. A few more pumps of his hand and Dean was standing at attention. Benny produced another condom and slid it on.

"No arguments here," Dean sighed, leaning back and enjoying the warm, wet, pressure of Benny's mouth through the thin barrier of the condom.

Dean's hands relaxed at his sides. Benny reached up and found them, lacing their fingers together and holding on as if they were the only things keeping each other from falling.

Dean arched and bucked, and finally shuddered and whimpered as he came, too well-fucked to last for more than a minute. His hands clenched on Benny's. Benny matched him for strength as he sucked the last few moans out of Dean.

Both too tired to move, Dean fell asleep on his back in the damp of his own sweat and come. Benny curled up with his head resting on Dean's inner thigh, his face nuzzled up against Dean's balls.

They slept like stones.

-----

The sky outside the porthole had long since gone dark, and Castiel was still swishing impatiently in his basin of lukewarm water, alone. The floor was criss-crossed with shiny, drying trails from where he had dragged himself around the room, inspecting everything that might have been of interest. He'd picked through most of Dean's books. When he ran out of ones with pictures, he resorted to studying the assemblages of printed letters on the pages as if he could draw some meaning from them by the sheer power of his boredom.

Dean hadn't made any particular promises about when he'd be back, but Castiel had become accustomed to seeing him in the evening. Now, as the moon climbed in the sky, Castiel grew more and more nervous. Something could have happened to Dean. The ship could be in danger. The world could be ending for all he knew, confined to this little cabin far from home. As long as he was here, he was more or less helpless.

It was pathetic how quickly he perked up when he heard something jiggling in the lock and the door slowly sliding open. "Dean?" he called out softly.

The figure in the shadow of the doorway flinched at the sound of Castiel's voice. By the time Castiel realized that the man in the doorway was not Dean, he had already entered, closed the door behind him, and removed his pistol from its holster. "My God," he said. "He really was hiding something."

It was the same voice that Castiel had heard argue with Dean outside the cabin door – Creedy.

"Who the hell are you?" Creedy whispered. He held his gun by his side. His wide eyes searched Castiel again and again.

Castiel sat as still as a statue, his elbows propped on the edge of the basin, his lower body hidden beneath the dark, glassy surface of the water. He was silent. There was nothing he could say to make this situation any better.

"What..." Creedy seemed paralyzed by his own confusion. Whatever he'd been expecting to find in here, Castiel wasn't it. "What are you..." He inched closer and closer to the basin, his fingers tight around the grip of the pistol. By watching Creedy's eyes, Castiel saw the exact moment when he drew close enough for the water's surface to change from dark and reflective to moonlit and transparent. He glimpsed the tangle of tentacles in the bottom of the basin. It took another second for him to realize that those tentacles were attached to Castiel.

That's when he finally raised his gun.

He leapt back as he did it, flailing, panicked, trying to put some distance between himself and the monster he had discovered. But the cabin was small, and Castiel's tentacles were long. He snapped the pistol out of Creedy's hand before it could even finish rising to find its target.

"Listen to me, please..." Castiel said, his tentacle holding Creedy's wrist tight, but it was far too late for words. Creedy pulled a dagger out of his belt with his free hand and slashed at Castiel. He swung the blade in every direction, trying to hit something, anything. He was wild. There would be no reasoning with him.

Castiel fought down a twinge of sympathy as he easily dodged the dagger and lashed a tentacle around Creedy's other wrist. The man had no idea how outmatched he was. The gun had been his one advantage, and he'd wasted it by getting too close. Now he was hand-to-hand with Castiel, one-on-one, and near water. And even though the water was nothing more than a wooden basin, it was still Castiel's element.

Creedy, finding his hands bound, tried to kick out as Castiel reeled him in. But he was weak compared to Castiel's vicelike grip, and he had so very few limbs. Soon they were all used up, tangled in Castiel's tentacles, and Castiel still had limbs left over to drag Creedy over the edge of the basin and hold his head under the surface until the thrashing stopped.

There was an awful stillness when it was done. Then practicality took over. When Castiel pulled the body out of the water, it was no longer a person. It was just an object that Castiel needed to remove from the room as quickly as possible. For the first time since leaving Stanford, Castiel pulled himself across the floor and exited the cabin.

The crew member on watch was slumped over against the railing, a lump forming on the back of his head. Castiel only looked close enough to confirm that he was still alive and breathing. Then he returned to the cabin, dragged the body out, and tossed it overboard. It sank readily into the dark water. With any luck, they would be long gone from Havana by the time it started to float.

Castiel returned to the cabin. He was about to climb back into his basin, but stopped just before touching the death-tainted water.

He almost dumped it out. But then he would have had to refill it, and a bucket popping in and out of a porthole in the quiet, still harbor would have been far too conspicuous. In the end he eased himself back into the water and sat there miserably through the night.

He didn't sleep.

Surface Tension (Chapter 5)

2013-10-04T08:07:05Z

New chapter of the pirate!merman!tentacle!porn AU that is ruining my life.

Chapter summary: Sam chats with Bobby, and Dean contemplates telling his crew about Cas.

For Rae.

Previous chapters: 1|2|3|4

-----

Heavy clouds hung suspended above Stanford. The road that led from town out to Singer's salvage yard was awash in gray. When Sam reached Bobby's shack and knocked on the door, the first raindrops were beginning to fall.

Whether because it was still light out, or because he was expecting the visit, Bobby answered the door sans firearm. "What do you want?"

"The other night made me think," said Sam, shuffling his feet. "I don't come to see you often enough."

"You're damn right. But what do you want?"

Sam stared, then thought, then sighed. "I want to talk about Dean," he said.

"That's what I thought," said Bobby, opening the door wide.

Chairs ranging from spindly to overstuffed were nestled between stacks of books and seafaring souvenirs. Sam found a seat that looked comfortable and took it after moving a dirty plate, a book of ancient runes, and three enormous fishhooks off of it.

Bobby joined him with two mugs of a strong-smelling liquid. Sam declined. Bobby downed his in two gulps. "So you want to whine about how your brother didn't stick around to be your best man?" he said with trepidation.

"No," said Sam. "I know he's going to Cuba on Crowley's orders. And I have an idea of the kind of shit he'd be in if he had delayed."

Bobby looked impressed, in spite of himself. "How'd you figure that?"

"I'm not an idiot," said Sam.

Bobby barked a laugh. "I forget that sometimes. Okay, what do you want to me to do about it?"

Sam rested his forehead on his hands. "Nothing. I want to know what I should do about it."

"Meaning?"

"Do you think it'd make a difference if I went back?"

Bobby set his mug down on a side table where it immediately disappeared into a crowd of similar mugs that had never been put away. "What, you mean sling the life you built here by the side of the road like it meant nothing? Leave your girl? Leave your work? Leave Stanford? Go be a crook with your brother, working against a debt you're never gonna pay off if you live a hundred years? Which you won't. You won't live twenty. You won't live ten. I'll be honest, you probably won't even live long enough to see Jess marry someone else."

Sam gulped. "Yeah, that's what I mean," he said.

"Sure, it'd make a difference. It'd make all the difference in the world." Sam almost despaired before Bobby added, "It'd break Dean's damn heart, is the difference it'd make."

"Huh?"

Bobby stood up and loomed over Sam, shaking a finger in his face. "You're out, Sam. And if you love your brother, you'll stay out."

"I can help him," Sam protested.

"Let me explain something to you," said Bobby as he made his way back through the maze of books and chairs to where he had left the rest of his booze. He poured himself another glass and said in between swigs, "This life you have right now, your job, the opportunity to meet someone you want to spend the rest of your life with... Dean bought you that. Dean stayed in so you could get out."

"You think I don't know that?"

"Do you?" Bobby snapped. "Then why the Hell do you think it'd do a lick of good for you to throw away the gift he gave you? Do you think he'd feel better knowing that he'd screwed up bad enough that you had to give up everything to go bail him out? As far as he's concerned, getting you out of the life was the best thing he ever did. Don't you dare take that away from him. And whether you think so or not, you deserve every ounce of happiness that you’ve found here. Don't you dare take this..." And here Bobby gestured with his glass in the general direction of Stanford. "...away from yourself."

The mug of grog that Sam had turned down was still sitting on the armrest of his chair. Reluctantly, he picked it up and took a sip. "So I'm supposed to just leave Dean to face Crowley on his own? What if he's in over his head?"

"Dean lives every day of his life in over his head," said Bobby. "But if it ever looks like he's not gonna come back up again, I'll be the first to dive in after him."

"You'll be the second," Sam corrected him with a faint smile.

"Technically, that fish kid beat us both to it."

Sam's smile slipped into a frustrated grimace, and he took another drink. "I don't know what to think about Castiel."

"I don't trust him," said Bobby quickly.

"You don't trust anybody," Sam laughed. Then he pointed out, "He saved Dean's life."

Bobby noticed that Sam's mug was getting low, so he poured him some more. Sam let him. "Don't get romantic on me, Sam," said Bobby. "No one saves anyone's life who doesn't have a good reason for it."

-----

Dean entered his cabin to find Cas hanging half-out of his basin, his chest against the rim, his elbows propped on Dean's bed. A few of his tentacles were poking above the water and waving absentmindedly, like a foot tapping in the air. He was holding Dean's copy of Frankenstein gingerly between his fingers. Every few seconds, he flipped the page and stared at the words intently.

"Can you even read?" said Dean.

Cas didn't take his eyes off the book. Flipping another page, he said, "It has pictures in it, too."

"You must think it's a really fucked-up story if you're just going by the pictures," Dean laughed. As he shucked his shoes and coat, he almost warned Cas not to get the book wet. Then he looked again at how careful Cas was already being to keep the paper away from the water, and he let it slide.

"I admit that I am perplexed," said Cas, flipping past several pages to get to the next illustration. It was an etching of the monster standing over the limp body of a young boy.

Dean tapped the side of the basin with his foot. "I'll tell you about it later," he said. "Now hop out, I gotta change your water."

Cas pulled from one side, and Dean lifted from the other, and together they slowly poured the stale water out of the basin. Dean had worried that dumping and refilling the thing every day would eventually flood his room, but the water seemed to find its way across the deck and through the wood just as rain and storm water would, eventually trickling uneventfully down to the bilge.

Cas sloshed through the quickly-disappearing water and crawled up on Dean's bed to curl back up with the book. He had taken to perching on Dean's bed in the evening, when his basin was unavailable. Dean found that he couldn't complain, not even when Cas's tentacles left slimy slicks on his sheets. It was worth it to see Cas propped up on one elbow, one hip jutting in the air, looking like a painting. Even his tentacles, which were usually a dark reddish-brown and textured like gravel, smoothed out and took on a bluish hue when he lounged among the blankets.

As Dean drew water up to refill the tub, Cas thumbed through a few more pages. But he soon gave up with a frustrated sigh and put the book aside. He scooted over to the edge of the bed, as close to Dean as he could get. "Does the large human really kill the young human boy?" he asked.

"What?" said Dean. He dumped another bucketful of water into the basin, then, "Oh! You mean the monster? Yeah, he kills the kid."

Cas flipped back through the book until he found the illustration again. He peered at the artist's rendition of a hulking beast, veins popping, limbs disproportionate, face disfigured. "Is it meant to be a monster?"

"That's what they call him in the book," said Dean.

Cas scooted even closer, until he had to wind one of his tentacles around the opposite leg of the bed to anchor himself lest he fall off. "Will you tell me the whole story?"

Dean chuckled as he thought about it. "Aw, Cas," he said. "I don't know if I remember everything that happens in it..."

Cas thrust the book in his face. "Then read it to me."

"I can't read and haul water at the same time."

Before Dean could chuck the bucket out the porthole again, one of Cas's tentacles snapped out to grab it. His skin rippled as dozens of suckers engaged, holding the bucket effortlessly. "I'll draw the water," he said. "You read to me."

Dean let go of the bucket reluctantly. "You sure? You're still hurt, and it's pretty heavy."

The look that Cas gave him could have peeled paint. "I am more than capable of lifting a bucket of water."

Dean surrendered with a nod, and took Cas's place on the bed. He picked up Frankenstein and thumbed back through to the title page.

At first, Cas sat on the floor and tried to pull the rope at an angle over the sill of the porthole. But he quickly realized that the extra friction was making his job harder than it needed to be. His tentacles puffed up and darkened with frustration. Dean didn't offer any suggestions. He just watched as Cas silently appraised the situation. Finally, Cas tentatively reached up toward the porthole cover – a circular window of iron and thick glass that stood open, swung inward. Cas attached his suckers to the glass and tested his weight against it. Then, when he was sure it would hold him, he wrapped four tentacles around its circumference and lifted himself off the ground. He wobbled, and Dean almost lurched forward to catch him, but soon he managed to attach all of his tentacles to the glass, the iron, or the wooden wall around. His suckers held tight, and his tentacles became firm with the effort.

From his new, higher angle, Cas pulled up the bucket of water easily. He emptied it into the basin.

Dean was so busy staring at the tentacled body plastered to his wall, lean arms pulling rope hand over hand, that he forgot that he was still holding a book.

When Cas caught Dean staring, his tentacles blushed blue. "Dean?" he said.

"Right," said Dean, clearing his throat as he lowered his eyes to the book and tried to stop wondering what else those tentacles could do if they were strong enough to hold a man in the air. "Uh, I gotta warn you. It's not a nice story."

"Just read it, Dean," said Castiel as he raised and dumped out another bucket.

"Okay. Um, yeah okay. I remember this now. It starts out with this guy Walton writing a letter to his sister. So this is Walton talking now: 'You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings. I arrived here yesterday, and my first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking...'"

Cas kept his eyes on his work, pulling the bucket up again and again until his basin was full. With every twist of the story, with every change of intonation in Dean's voice, colors and textures washed over his skin like waves.

-----

Dean had never been terribly good at keeping secrets. He could smirk and charm his way around them, but eventually he was always found out. Part of it was self-sabotage, he was sure. After all, knowing something that no one else knows is a lonely feeling, and Dean never did well with loneliness.

He tried to tell himself that it would all be over in another week or two. He would drop Cas back off north of Stanford, and he would never have to worry about keeping a secret this big from his crew again. But still, every time someone addressed him or asked him a question, he had to bite his tongue to keep from answering, "There's a merman living in my cabin. He's been there for over a week now. He'd actually be really hot if he had legs instead of tentacles."

"Cas?" said Dean that evening, passing him half of their ration of salt pork.

Cas had finally developed a taste for the stuff. He swished his way across his little basin to take it from Dean's hand. "Yes?" he said.

"What do you figure would happen if my crew found out you were here?"

Cas had just taken a bite, but at Dean's words he stopped chewing abruptly. He squinted at Dean. He swallowed. "Well," he said slowly. "They'd kill me, wouldn't they?"

"Oh," said Dean with a gulp. "Yeah, well. I guess. I mean... would they really?"

"Of course they would," said Cas without hesitation. "If you allow yourself to be seen by humans, they will pursue you until they catch you, and then they will kill you. Every mer-child knows that."

"Funny," said Dean softly as he tried to work through the idea of humans as fabled murder-monsters. "I heard some pretty nasty stories about merfolk when I was a kid, too. About how you sabotage ships so they sink when they reach the open water. They say if you see a mer-person around your boat, you're better off burning it than sailing in it again."

"The difference is," Cas huffed, "our stories are true."

Dean gave a wry little laugh. "You telling me one of your kind never sank a ship?"

Cas pressed his lips together and looked sideways. "I'm sure there have been incidents," he admitted. "But it's not as if we're all on a ship-sinking crusade."

Dean spread his arms wide. "And you've been sharing a room with a human for this long, and you're not dead yet. Maybe the stories we heard were a little overblown."

They ate in uncomfortable silence for a while.

Then Dean ventured, "Why'd you sink our ships, anyway?"

"I didn't sink anyone's ships," Cas snapped. "But I've heard of it being done when your shipping routes interfered with our homes." A pause. Then, "Why do you kill us on sight?"

"I never killed anyone," said Dean. "No merfolk, that is. But I guess people do it... aw, fuck. Cause they're scared? Cause they don't know what they're looking at and they're too stupid to do anything but shoot it?"

"But you hunt us," Cas insisted.

Dean took a big bite to buy himself time to put his words together. "Yeah, well, there are other stories. Some old-timers say that you can earn fair winds for the rest of your life by eating a mermaid's heart."

"Her heart?" said Cas, horrified.

"Hers or his. I don't think gender matters a ton. And it's not the heart in all the stories. Sometimes they say you have to drink the blood. And, like, other organs are supposed to do other things, like give you powers or whatever." Cas's face looked more and more stricken, so Dean added, "It's bullshit. No one really believes it."

"You don't have to believe it to profit from it," Cas pointed out. "If you killed me and cut me into pieces, and one of these old-timers were willing to pay, how much could you sell me for?"

Enough to get out of debt, Dean thought. But what he said was, "I would never do that," and he meant it.

"My deepest gratitude," Cas deadpanned. "And are all your crew as honorable as you are?"

"I wouldn't call them honorable, but they wouldn't kill you just to make a buck," Dean muttered ruefully. Then he brightened, saying, "My first mate, though. She's the honorable one. She'd keep your secret. I mean, if you let me tell her. You can trust her."

"I don't think you understand, Dean," said Cas, munching on his pork, his voice deceptively calm. "I don't trust you."

-----

Dean saw it coming before Anna even opened her mouth. He recognized her smug smile, her graceful way of meandering across the deck towards him. The way she sidled up to him so that he could feel the cushion of her hip against his side.

"I'll meet you in your room tonight," she whispered. "Be ready for me."

Her voice – the tone of it, the words, the promise behind them – it went straight to his crotch, as effectively as if she'd stuck her hand down his trousers and squeezed. What she was offering him was exactly what he had been needing. A release. A surrender. A chance to let go of the anxiety and paranoia that had accompanied him on this trip – not due only to Cas's presence, but also to Crowley's looming influence. He was a bundle of nerves, and Anna knew exactly how to smooth him out.

So it almost physically pained him to have to say, "Sorry, I can't. I mean... some other time, definitely. I'm just not feeling it right now."

"Oh." The assured, commanding tone dropped out of her voice with a thud. She pulled away from him, increasing the distance between them from intimate to social.

"Sorry."

Anna shook her head vehemently. "There's no need to be sorry. It's just... hm. Right when I thought I was getting good at reading you."

As she walked away, for one desperate second Dean contemplated whether she would notice if he were to turn the basin of water over and hide Cas underneath it. For another second he wondered just how mad Cas would be if he were to bring Anna back to the cabin and explain that he'd had to betray Cas's confidence in the interest of kinky sex.

In the next second she was gone, back to her duties as if nothing had happened, and it was too late to change his mind.

He still had fifteen minutes left before his shift ended, but he stomped back to his cabin anyway. Everything was under control on deck. And he wouldn't be much use to anyone in the mood he was in now.

Cas was reclining against the edge of his basin, his tentacles draped over the side. When Dean slammed the door open, he flinched so badly that the skin of his tentacles bunched up into little ruffles and turned blood-red. But they relaxed back into a glossy brown as soon as Cas recognized Dean. "Good evening," he said.

Dean answered with a grunt. He clambered across the room and over the edge of the basin to his bed, unbuttoning his trousers as he went, and flopped onto his mattress. He seethed and grumbled the whole way.

"Are... you well?" Cas asked. He looked concerned. Not least because of Dean's crabby demeanor, but also because Dean was currently rolling onto his back and shuffling his trousers down around his knees to reveal his semi-hard cock. Cas had seen Dean in various states of undress before, of course, but he had never seen Dean take himself in his own hand with a purpose. And he seemed to immediately comprehend the difference.

His hand wrapped around the base of his cock, Dean turned to Cas with a sigh. Somehow, even that piercing stare wasn't doing anything to kill his libido. If anything, he was getting harder. He must have been even hornier than he'd thought. "Look," he said. "I need to blow off some steam. You don't mind, do you?"

"Not at all." Cas looked left, then right, then stared directly and curiously at Dean's cock as it nudged its way out of his foreskin. "Would... would you like me to face the wall? Or something?"

Dean blew out a frustrated burst of air. "Christ, Cas, I don't fucking care," he said as he began to jerk himself off.

At first, when he closed his eyes and began to work his wrist up and down rhythmically, he thought of Anna and all the terrible, wonderful things she might have done to him if he had taken her up on her invitation. Tests of endurance. Loving commands. Sweet rewards. That highly-polished wooden phallus with the flared base that she sometimes strapped to her pelvis with leather bands and paraded in front of him, making him beg before finally fucking him with it.

But as a lightness gripped his chest and a heaviness settled into his pelvis, as his hand jerked more and more frantically, as he began to pant out quiet little breaths to mask the deep moans he wished he could let out... he also found himself thinking of a cold embrace. Of smooth, slick limbs sliding over his skin to bind him as strong as rope and as gentle as holding hands. Of suckers attaching to his chest and thighs and the base of his cock, drawing the orgasm out of him.

Of being filled with strange appendages while kissing a familiar mouth.

When he came, his throat tight and his teeth gritted, he was careful, very careful, not to let his eyes slide over to where Cas was sitting, sloshing quietly in his water. But he had a feeling that Cas was not facing the wall.

-----

The night was dark, and even the chilly breeze off the ocean couldn't mask the faint mugginess in the air. They were nearing the Caribbean. Soon they would be off the safety of their sailing home and back into the thicket of swindlers and thieves that made up their dangerous line of work.

But instead of worrying about what they were going to do once they got to Havana, Anna was busy trying, and failing, to remember the last time Dean Winchester had turned her down for sex. Dean never turned anyone down for sex. Especially not Anna. Especially not at a time like this, with the stress of the job and Crowley's threats hanging over him, when his need for distraction should have been at an all-time high.

The bell for the change of watch broke her out of her reverie. As she handed over the wheel to the next batch of crew, she shook her head and smiled. Maybe her preoccupation with Dean's rebuttal had less to do with her concern with Dean and more to do with her own frustration, her own need for release. She let it go. There were more important things to worry about.

Instead of descending to her barracks, Anna wobbled her way sleepily to Dean's door. Sex wasn't in the cards tonight, but that didn't mean she couldn't snuggle up beside him for a while.

The door handle wouldn't turn. She jiggled it, trying to unstick it, and it took her several seconds to realize that it was locked. She stood back and stared at the door. She tried the handle one more time.

Dean's door was never locked.

As she stood in confused silence, just before she turned and tip-toed back to her own bed, she thought she heard the sound of water sloshing on the other side of the door.

-----

When Dean stepped out of his room the next morning, he was met by a small band of his crewmates. They stood in a semi-circle around his doorframe, staring him down and blocking his path. Dean slid out from behind the door and closed it behind him. He was careful never to open it far enough to expose Cas to the prying, waiting eyes.

"Can I help you with something?" said Dean brightly, though a note of warning growled in the undertones of his voice.

One man stepped forward. He had been on Dean's crew for a couple of months, but he was still new enough that Dean had to pause to remember his name – Creedy. By his swagger, and by the way everyone else in the little circle looked the slightest bit sheepish, Creedy seemed to be the mastermind of this little ambush. "You're keeping your door locked now?" he said.

"You got a problem with that?"

Creedy shook his head. "Your door is always open. You made a point of that when you hired me. Any man, no matter how lowly, can come into the captain's quarters and make himself heard. You going back on that policy?"

"I'll still listen to anything you have to say," said Dean. "But I'm enjoying a little bit of privacy on this trip. It's nothing to worry yourself about."

Creedy stepped forward, invading Dean's space. "Do I look worried to you?"

One of the other crew members piped up, "We're not accusing you of anything, Cap. It's just... why the change? You got something to hide?"

Dean glared them all down. "It sure sounds like you're accusing me of something."

"Exactly what kind of deal did you make with Crowley down there in The Inferno?" Creedy sneered. "Did he give you a nice bonus for you to ferret away for yourself?"

"Crowley didn't give me anything but sass and specs on the next job," said Dean evenly, measured. "You're out of line. You need to stand the fuck down."

But Creedy kept pushing. "Show us inside, if you've got nothing to hide."

And even though Dean did have something to hide, he felt his blood boil with anger rather than fear. "I'm the captain of this goddamn ship," he hissed. "I'm the one who pays you, even when that means going hungry myself or letting my ship fall the fuck apart because she needs repairs that I can't afford. Even when it means getting in deeper with Crowley, I take care of all of you first. There's nothing behind this door that any of you have any claim over. And you'd better believe that, because I'd say you owe me the benefit of the fucking doubt."

That was enough to make almost every crew member present lower their eyes in embarrassment and take a few steps back. There was a path for Dean to escape now, but he stood fast, guarding his door. Creedy hadn't noticed that the support had fallen out from under him. He still stood up to Dean like he had something to prove.

"Just let me take a look..." He reached past Dean and put his hand on the doorknob.

At first Dean thought the metallic click was his door opening. Then he belatedly realized that he had drawn his pistol and was pointing it at Creedy's face.

"I told you to stand down," said Dean in a voice that he didn't recognize.

Creedy took his hand off of Dean's door.

Dean blazed a glare down on Creedy, who would not meet his eyes. Then he turned his gaze on each person still standing in front of him. They all looked away, too. "Get to work," he said softly, and everyone obeyed.

He stopped Creedy with a hand on his shoulder before he could escape. "When we hit Havana," said Dean, "I want you off my ship. And don't come back."

Creedy went a little pale. "How am I supposed to get back to the States?"

"You can swim, for all I care."

Dean waited until Creedy and everyone else was well out of sight before he slipped back into his room, leaned against the door, and gave such a sigh of relief that it shook his body. He had pointed a lot of guns at a lot of people in his life, but he had never drawn on his own crew, and he had hoped never to have to. Now his hands were shaking so badly that it was all he could do to get the pistol back in its holster.

"Dean?" Cas was leaning with the heels of his hands on the edge of his basin, ear cocked to the door and straining to hear what was happening outside.

"It's okay. I got rid of them," said Dean. Then, after a hard swallow and a humorless chuckle, "You were right, weren't you? If Creedy had had his way, they would have killed you."

Cas lifted his right hand and stretched it out to Dean, palm cupped inward. And though Dean couldn't tell it if was an invitation to a hug or a handshake or... whatever... he found himself drawn irresistibly forward. He staggered one step, then two. Cas's hand hovered just in front of him. But he couldn't quite make himself take that last step to turn the motion into an embrace. He stopped just shy, and kneeled.

Because Cas couldn't reach to put his arm around Dean, he settled for gripping his shoulder. Just a single point of contact, but so strong that Dean felt as though Cas's fingers were searing an imprint onto him.

His eyes burned into Dean too, radiant, and beaming with something like gratitude.

Surface Tension (Chapter 4)

2013-09-23T00:21:04Z

Aaaand I'm caught up. More chapters to come as I write them. No promises on the update schedule because vet school is a harsh mistress.

Chapter summary: Castiel wakes up, and he's not happy to find out where he is. Dean realizes that being responsible for Cas is going to be more work than he thought.

For Rae.

Previous chapters: 1|2|3

-----

The open ocean held a strange sense of privacy for Dean.

Not that it was really private. After all, he was packed onto a boat with his crew like peas in a pod, and there was very little they could do to escape each other. It wasn't like the land, where one could wander off and find some space to oneself. Every inch of space on The Impala was spoken for, whether by some person or some purpose. Everyone was accounted for at every moment of the day and night. In many ways it was one of the least private places imaginable.

But then, Dean would turn a slow circle on the deck and see the unbroken waterline forming a horizon in three hundred and sixty degrees, and he would feel so blissfully alone that it ached. There were no societal expectations or obscure rules of conduct out here in the blue. There was only work to be done. As long as each member of the crew did his or her part, the ship ran like an organism in and of itself. And when she sailed, she was free.

Dean fed on that freedom, feeling his ship as an extension of himself, cutting through the water toward the never-ending horizon, tranquil in his solitude.

Castiel ruined all of that.

With Castiel on board, the ship became a trap. Even the horizon seemed to be penning them in. Dean scratched and fidgeted his way through his duties, always with one eye on his cabin door. He couldn’t enjoy the work, couldn’t let himself be one with the flow of action on the deck, couldn't subsume himself into the mechanism of the ship and enjoy her ride. Not when, just yards away, there slept a secret that could tear his crew apart.

He couldn't relax even when he was alone in his cabin. He had always had just as much space as he had needed in there, and no more. Now with a huge basin of water sitting in the middle of it, the cabin was decidedly less comfortable. Every time Dean barked his shins against the edge of it, or had to climb over it to get to his bed, it was one more reminder that the one room on the ship that should have been reserved especially for him was no longer his own.

It wouldn't have been so bad if he could have seen some reward for his trouble, but Castiel stubbornly refused to improve. He just stayed curled motionless under the water, looking unnervingly drowned. Dean carefully lifted him out of the water whenever he got the chance. His wound seemed to be healing well, and his fever began to go down. With some effort, Dean even managed to get Castiel to swallow the medicine Bobby had left with him. But still Castiel didn't wake.

After two awful, sleepless days at sea, the doubt that always lived in Dean began to balloon into something monstrous. Perhaps he shouldn't have dragged Castiel out of that cave. If he was going to die anyway, what was the point of putting him through the pain of closing his wound and confining him in a basin for the last few miserable days of his life? Wouldn't it have been better to let him drift off peacefully and undisturbed in a familiar place?

By the third day, Dean's thoughts turned morbid. He couldn't help but notice that Castiel's body would not fit through the porthole in his cabin. If Castiel died (and in his mind, Dean went back and forth between if and when), Dean would have to take a late-night watch alone in order to have time to drag Castiel out on deck and dump him overboard.

When he returned to his cabin that night, his hope had dwindled so low that he was half prepared to find Castiel lying dead. He certainly wasn't prepared to find the basin empty. He was so unprepared that, when that is exactly what he found, all he could do was stand there and stare at the wooden bottom through the empty water, the cogs of his brain whirring as he tried to figure out what had happened.

It occurred to him too late to turn around and look behind the door.

He felt the door handle slip out of his grasp as something slammed it closed behind him. Then he was on the floor with very little recollection of how he'd gotten there.

The first thing he noticed, besides the hard floor at his back, was the cold. Something cold and wet and incredibly strong was twisting itself around his waist between his shirt and his trousers, around his thighs, and his chest. Then it found its way around his neck and tightened, cutting off his air before he could even think to cry out. He flailed upwards with his fists. Something wrapped around his wrists and pressed his arms back down to the floor, but this time it wasn't cold, this time it was warm skin and thick fingers – human hands attached to human arms and a human face above them.

"Cas..." Dean choked out.

Castiel's face fell from chilly resolve to mortified horror in an instant. "Dean!" he gasped, and the cold grip of his tentacles loosened.

Dean gave him a shove, and Castiel fell off of him in a heap of elbows and tentacles. Coughing, Dean scrambled to his feet. "What the..." He had to pause for one more coughing fit, and then, "What the fuck, man?"

"I didn't know it was you," said Castiel.

"Maybe fucking take a look before you go and strangle a guy?" Dean snapped, rubbing his neck. Luckily, it didn't feel like it was going to bruise. Those would have been difficult marks to explain to his crew.

"Dean." Castiel levered himself off the floor and stood up, balancing on his tentacles. From a squishy pile on the floor, they thickened and straightened until, together, they formed a column. On top of that column, Castiel was almost as tall as Dean. He looked him in the eye. "I apologize. But in my place, would you have stopped to ask questions?"

In Castiel's place? Waking up in a strange room after days of delirium? Out of his element? A stranger walking through the door? Oh. Yeah. Dean wouldn't have strangled anybody; he would have shot them dead. "Okay, fair enough."

Castiel nodded, satisfied. He sank down on his tentacles and began using them to pull his way back to his basin of water. In the water, they had looked silky and graceful. Now they slapped their way across the floor like wet rags. It would have been comical if Dean couldn't still feel the imprint of one of them across his stomach, where it had held him as strong and hard as wood.

Castiel wobbled once. His hand went to his side, where his stitches were straining against his movements. "You need some help?" Dean asked.

Castiel's eyes dared Dean to touch him.

"Geez, fine," said Dean, putting his hands up. "Just offering."

Castiel tipped himself back into the basin with a small splash. After dipping his whole body under the water, he popped back up and set his forearms on the edge, looking at Dean expectantly. "So," he said. "Where am I?"

"Uh," said Dean. He spread his arms. "Welcome to my humble abode."

"Very humble..." said Castiel under his breath as he glanced around the tiny room.

"Better get used to it. It's your abode too, for the next few weeks at least."

Castiel didn't ask what Dean meant by that. He just squinted at him until Dean felt compelled to go on.

"We're, uh..." said Dean. "We're on our way to Havana. It's just a quick run. Just picking up a few things. As soon as we're done down there, I'll bring you back home. I promise, okay? I promise."

But even as Dean layered explanation on explanation, Castiel's eyes grew wider and his mouth tightened. "We're asea?"

Dean pointed at the porthole in the wall by way of proof. Castiel leaned over the side of his basin to poke his head out of the little window. He looked left and right. When he pulled his head back inside, he was a couple of shades paler than before. He drew back from the porthole as if he were afraid that he might be sucked out of it at any moment, and huddled back down in his basin.

"Where's the shore?" he demanded.

"We're too far out to see it," said Dean. "But it's that way." He pointed.

"Take me there. Let me off. I'll get home on my own."

Dean blinked. "Uh, no. No, that sounds like a terrible idea. For one thing, you're hurt. I mean you just almost died. You could barely crawl five feet just now, so there's no way you're making it up two hundred miles of coastline. For another thing, we're coming up on the Georgia coast. There's a Navy warship stationed outside of Savannah. If we come within sight of land, they'll be on us like a hound out of Hell."

Castiel's tentacles curled with anger, the tips poking out of the water and rolling into tight spirals. "You should never have brought me aboard your ship."

"Right, I should have left you to die. I'm so sorry," said Dean.

"You could have returned me to my cave after treating my wound."

"Yeah, and I'm sure you would have woken up before you starved to death or died of blood poisoning," Dean shot back in the most sarcastic tone he could manage. "It's not like I've been playing your nursemaid for the last three days or anything."

"If you had returned me to my people, they would have taken care of me," said Castiel, glowering.

"I don't even know where your people are! No one does! What was I supposed to do, go two days out of my way to dump you overboard somewhere around the place where someone saw a mermaid once ten years ago, and hope one of your kind picked you up before you got eaten by bottom-feeders?"

Castiel tried to lift himself up on his tentacles to match Dean for height again, but he gave up, wincing and holding his side. "So your only option was to make me your captive?" he said ruefully.

"Don't be so dramatic. I said I'd bring you right back."

Castiel just glared.

Dean didn't mean to laugh at Castiel's displeasure, but a chuckle escaped him anyway. "Hey, I know you're pissed," he said, "but I'm still just happy you're not dead."

Castiel's tentacles finally uncurled and dropped back into the water. "I suppose I am, too," he muttered. He turned around and set about trying to make himself comfortable by leaning against the side of the basin.

Dean sat on his bed and tried not to stare at his temporary roommate. It had been one thing when Castiel was asleep. It had been like having an extra piece of furniture. But now that he was awake it was a whole new level of awkward. The way Castiel was sitting, with just his bare chest and shoulders poking above the surface of the water, he could easily have been naked. Then it belatedly occurred to Dean that Castiel was naked, and always had been, of course, and once that thought had entered his mind it stubbornly refused to leave.

"Do you require something?" said Castiel when he noticed Dean blatantly staring.

Dean was about to say something lewd, but instead what came out was, "How did you know my name?"

Castiel's eyes darted away. Almost too quickly, he said, "I overheard your crewmates talking about you just before they stabbed me."

"Oh," Dean said. Then, "What were you doing so close to their boat, anyway?"

This time, Castiel met Dean's eyes and paused before answering, "Looking for you."

A lump of guilt rose up in Dean's throat. He swallowed it down. "Oh," he said.

-----

If Dean had thought that Castiel was an intrusion on his privacy while he was unconscious, that was nothing compared to after he woke up.

His little ambush-attack appeared to have taken it out of him, so he hunkered down in his basin to nurse his wound. But a few hours later, when Dean was just skimming the edge of sleep, a voice said in the darkness, "Dean."

"Mwha?" Dean opened his eyes. The room was dark except for the bluish outline of a face lit by the moonlight through the porthole, and two pinpricks of light glinting off of eyes. The face was less than two feet from his own. His body jerked ungracefully in surprise. "Don't do that!"

"I need to talk to you," said Castiel, not moving away.

"You can talk to me without looking up my nose." When Castiel had obliged by scooting over to the far side of his basin, putting a few more feet between himself and Dean, Dean said, "Okay, what do you want?"

"This water is stale," said Castiel, splashing lightly with a tentacle. "It's warm, and I can't breathe in it anymore."

"What do you want me to do about it?"

"Get me new water."

Dean hesitated. Sleep was a precious commodity aboard a ship. And his bed had just warmed to his temperature, his thin mattress molding to his body as well as it ever would. "In the morning," he said, putting his head back down on his pillow with a yawn.

"If you're going to keep me captive, the least you can do is make my conditions livable."

"You're living just fine," Dean said into his pillow.

"I can't breathe."

"Stick your head out of the water and breathe with your damn lungs like normal people."

"It's uncomfortable."

"Suck it up." Dean threw his head back onto his pillow and shut his eyes.

There came the soft sound of water sloshing. Dean ignored it. Then there came the slap of wet flesh hitting the wooden floor, and Dean cracked one eye open just in time to see Castiel half in his basin, and half out of it. Before Dean could say anything, Castiel attached four legs to the floor and four legs to the edge of the basin, and with a knotting of muscle and a mighty pull he upended the whole thing with a crash of water.

The water spread out to cover every inch of Dean's floor, and then slowly began to seep into the wood and trickle out from under the door. Castiel plonked the basin back down where it had been and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"You stupid fucking..." Dean sputtered. His hands reached out, fingers clawed, half in frustration and half in threat. "You want more water? I'll throw you the fuck overboard, how do you like that?"

Castiel almost snarled, "You can try." He raised two tentacles, each as thick at the base as Dean's calves. And then two things occurred to Dean. One, those tentacles had just turned over a basin of water that Dean couldn't have moved with all his strength. Dean had absolutely no chance of besting Castiel unarmed. Two, even as Castiel poised himself to fight back, his body shrank in on itself and his eyes went wide.

Dean had seen enough people looking for a fight, and enough people scared for their lives, to know the difference. And Castiel wasn't looking for a fight.

With a sigh, Dean sat back down on the edge of his bed. "You scared of me?" he said.

"No." Castiel's voice was so hard and even that Dean found it hard to disbelieve him. And yet.

"Then what's your problem?"

Castiel couldn't keep his eyes from darting to the porthole and the moonlit waves outside. He said, his voice going just a shade softer, "I don't want to die out here."

Dean scoffed. "What, the water? You're scared of the water? You fucking live in the water."

"No," said Castiel. "I live in the rocks. Out here, in the open water, I am as vulnerable as you."

"You can't drown though."

"Yes. And long past the time a human would have mercifully drowned, I'll still be sinking. I'll be conscious and aware when I sink into view of something big enough to kill me. Or when I get deep enough that the weight of the water crushes the life out of me. Or..."

"Geez, okay, I get it." Dean couldn't help but shudder. It had been a long time since he was a child, looking over the railing and wondering how long it would take his body to touch bottom, but that old horrified awe was still there if he looked back for too long. He slid his feet off the bed and onto the solid wood floor. "But you don't have to worry. The Impala is safe."

"Not for me," said Castiel. He spread his arms, inviting Dean to look at him: huddled on the floor, his tentacles spreading out, trying to seep up the last of the standing moisture before it disappeared into the floorboards.

Wordlessly, Dean stood up. Sam had tied a bucket to the end of a rope in order to fill the basin the first time – the bucket and rope were still standing in the corner of the cabin. Dean retrieved them. The bucket barely fit out the porthole, and when it popped through and hit the water below the waves almost tore the rope out of Dean's hands. But he held on, hauled it back up, and emptied it into the basin.

Maybe it was because he had been distracted before, but it seemed that the basin had become full a lot faster when Sam was the one doing the work. Ten bucketsful later, the water in the basin was no more than the depth of a puddle. But Dean offered Castiel his hand and said, "You getting in or what?" and this time, Castiel took it. He pressed on Dean's hand, trusting his weight to him as he climbed back into the life-giving water. There wasn't even enough to cover the tops of his tentacles. He swished the cold, clean water contentedly, anyway.

Dean tossed the bucket out of the porthole again. And again. He didn't bother to track the time, though the height of the moon in the sky told him that he was working his way through his prime sleeping time. He muffled his yawns in his sleeve and kept drawing water until the basin was full and his arms were sore.

"Better?" he said.

Castiel replied, "Yes," and curled up under the water to go to sleep.

Dean fell into bed. He was asleep before he even hit the mattress. Less than an hour later, the bell rang for the watch change. Dean rolled back out of bed, put on his boots and his coat, and went out to take his shift.

From under the water, Castiel silently watched him go.

-----

"What is this?" said Castiel, leaning over the side of the basin to inspect the handkerchief on the floor. Wrapped up in the handkerchief were a hard tack biscuit and a chunk of salt pork.

"It's food," said Dean, gnawing on his own biscuit. "You eat it."

Castiel delicately wrapped the end of a tentacle around the biscuit, picked it up, and sniffed it.

"Come on, man, you haven't eaten in days. Aren't you hungry?" said Dean around a mouthful of biscuit.

"Yes," said Castiel. "But I'm not completely convinced that this is actually edible."

Dean had almost taken an extra ration for Castiel out of storage, but in the end his conscience had gotten the better of him. Who was he to steal from his crew's food stores? So he had wrapped half of his own ration up in a handkerchief and saved it for Castiel. He had even given away his goddamn pork, which was the only thing to eat onboard that had any kind of flavor. Now the pit of his stomach felt hollow, and there was Castiel sniffing his food with a frown as if he thought it might bite back if he tried to eat it.

Dean swallowed the last of his biscuit and stared at the pork by Castiel's basin. "Are you gonna eat it, or what?"

Castiel took a couple of nibbles of the biscuit. His face flattened out as if he'd just swallowed sand. When he took a bite of the salt pork, his eyebrows twitched upwards and he said, "This actually isn't so bad," but he could only get through a quarter of it before the taste overwhelmed him and he had to put it back down. He lifted one tentacle out of the water and used it to push the handkerchief and its remaining contents across the floor towards Dean's feet. "Have it," he said despondently.

As Dean devoured what remained of the food, he said in between bites, "You gotta eat something."

"Don't you have any fresh fish?"

Dean shrugged. "We have dried fish."

"Everything in this place is dry," Castiel pouted.

He had a point. The biscuits were so dry that Dean's mouth felt like cotton after chewing through half of one. He swallowed the last bite whole to avoid having to work up enough saliva to dissolve it. "Yeah. Problem is, the only water we've got around here is the open ocean and the bilge." It took him a few seconds, but then he perked up with a, "Oh! Dude, I've got an idea."

"What is it?" said Castiel, but Dean was already on his way out the door.

Half the crew was below decks, enjoying their dinner. Anna was commanding the other half. The work was as minimal as it possibly could be on a sailing ship – the wind was with them, the sea was calm, the weather was fair, and they all knew the route well. Anna almost looked bored until Dean sidled up to her saying, "Hey, wanna help me do something stupid?"

"Yes," she said without hesitation. Her shoulders drooped under the weight of long-suffering acceptance. "But only because if I say no, you'll just get someone else to help you, and they won't keep as good an eye on you as I will."

"Great," said Dean, ignoring her lack of enthusiasm. "I need you to make me a rope harness."

Now Anna looked interested. "Don't you think we should wait until tonight, when we have some privacy?" she said, the corner of her mouth quirking upwards.

"Nice thought," said Dean with a wink. "But I said we're doing something stupid, not something sexy."

"How stupid?"

Dean told her.

Anna covered her eyes with her hand. "I'll get some rope," she said. She had long since learned that there was no point in arguing with him. She knotted him into a harness – crossing the ropes around his hips, between his legs, under his arms, and over his shoulders – and took hold of the free end of the rope that was attached to the final knot just above his belly button. Dean started climbing over the edge of the railing and rappelling down the side of the ship as Anna muttered, "This really is incredibly stupid."

"Just hold on to the rope, okay?" Dean shouted as he dropped below the level of deck. His feet were planted against the hull of the ship, but his weight was resting on the harness. He shuffled his feet to keep himself steady as he neared the water. There, in the trough of each wave, he could see dark patches on the wood below the water line. Wherever the paint had chipped away or worn through, sea life was clinging to The Impala. Scum and slime, tiny plants, but also, farther down, mussels and barnacles that were just big enough to be worth eating. It was a crying shame that Dean had let his ship get into such poor condition, and he meant to give her a good scrub and a re-paint as soon as he had the time and money. But in the meantime, he had a supply of shellfish readily available. All he had to do to get at them was risk drowning. Again.

Anna played slack out into the rope as Dean walked his way downwards. "I am holding onto the rope," she sighed, and Dean grinned up at her.

Soon the waves were lapping over his shoes. He kept going until he could reach the bigger mussels, until he was hips-deep in water. The sea was calm and the day was warm, but the water was still chilly and choppy enough that he would have trouble keeping his head in the air if he were to fall in completely. He glanced up. The rope that held him disappeared over the railing, the angle of it pulled taut by his weight. He couldn't see Anna anymore, but he knew she wouldn't let him fall.

Prying mussels off of wood was harder than he expected. He cursed every time he sliced his fingers on their edges, and he cursed louder every time they came free with a sliver of his ship still attached to their sticky little feet. Slowly, his pockets filled with them until they were bulging.

"Aren't you done yet?" Anna called down to him.

Dean yanked one more mussel off the hull, stuffed it in his pocket, and began climbing the rope back up to the deck. Anna's arms were beginning to shake, but she didn't loosen her grip until Dean was safely back over the railing.

They had drawn a bit of a crowd while Dean was down there. Every sailor who didn't have anything pressing to do had gathered to watch Dean curiously. Now they huddled around him where he sat on the deck, dripping wet from his armpits down, shellfish spilling out of his pockets.

"What are those for?" someone asked.

Dean shrugged. "Just wanted something to eat that hadn't been sitting in the hold for weeks."

Anna picked up a mussel from the deck by Dean's hip. "I know the feeling," she said as she inserted her thumbnails between the two halves of the shell. As if it were the easiest thing in the world, she pried the thing open and slurped the chewy, juicy organs out like she was slurping soup out of a spoon.

"Oh God," said Dean, barely holding back a gag. "I was gonna cook them first!"

"Why?" said Anna as she picked up three more and walked away, eating them one by one.

Dean replaced the rest of the spilled mussels in his pockets. He milled around the deck until the crew lost interest in his latest escapade and went back to work. Only when he was sure he wasn't being scrutinized did he slink back to his room.

Cas's head was resting on the edge of the basin, watching the door. When Dean came in, he said, alarmed, "Why are you all wet?"

Dean beamed. "Got you something," he said, just before he leaned over the edge of the basin and turned his pockets inside out. Dozens of mussels plopped into the water.

"Where did you get these?" said Castiel, picking one of the bigger ones up and inspecting it.

Dean flopped onto the bed and turned so that he could enjoy the expression on Castiel's face. "Had 'em all along," he said. "I was holding out on you."

"Why do you resort to obvious lies in order to highlight absurdity and avoid answering questions?"

"It's called sarcasm, Cas."

"I know what sarcasm is." Castiel squinted at the mussel, then at Dean. "You didn't put yourself in any danger to acquire these, did you?"

"Eh, not much," said Dean.

Castiel inserted his thumbnails between the two halves of the shell, pried it open, and sucked out the organs hungrily. Dean couldn't keep from pulling a face, but Castiel's contented smile kept him from being too grossed out.

"Thank you," said Castiel.

A prickle of warmth spread from Dean's cheeks down to his chest. "No problem," he replied.

Surface Tension (Chapter 3)

2013-09-22T23:46:45Z

Moooore pirate/merman!AU

Chapter summary: Dean returns to the cave to look for Castiel and brings him to Bobby, who used to be a surgeon on John's pirate crew. But Castiel needs ongoing care, and Dean needs to get to Cuba. And there's only one way to do both.

For Rae.

Previous chapters: 1|2

Castiel barely existed to Dean. He was a handful of surreal moments in an underwater cavern. A quickly-fading, dreamlike impression. An unquantifiable experience.

A burning, gut-tearing gratefulness to be alive.

So Dean went to bed that night only for something deep in his stomach to tug him toward the ocean until he relented and went out to stand on the deck of his ship, looking into the inky water as if it held some kind of answer. There was no movement down there but the gently lapping waves.

If Castiel had survived, he was probably making his way up the coast, back to where Anna had said that more of his kind lived. More likely, he was dead on the ocean floor somewhere and Dean stood no chance of ever finding his body. But there was one more possibility, and that possibility was what finally made Dean tear his gaze away from the water and begin to kick off his shoes and strip out of his coat, vest, and shirt.

He dove in. With a great gulp of air and all the strength he could muster, he began searching for Castiel's cave.

After diving and resurfacing five times, he was beginning to think that it was pointless. He could barely reach the bottom of the cove, and when he did he could see next to nothing by the starlight trickling through the water. All he was doing was wearing himself out and giving himself hypothermia. But just then, the moon came out from behind the clouds. By its light, Dean saw the beach. He was even able to pinpoint the exact spot where Anna had dragged him out of the water.

Comparing his position to that spot, Dean paddled his way over to where he thought he might have come up on his way out of the cave. And he dove one more time.

Even by the light of the moon, the landscape under the water was murky and indistinct. Every shadow looked like the entrance to a cave, and everything was in shadow. Dean felt his way around hopelessly. He was about to give up and kick his way back to the surface when his searching hand slipped off of bare rock and into a dark void. What he had thought was just another shadow was actually an opening in the rock, just big enough to be the tunnel he was looking for.

It might have been nothing but a shallow depression in the rock. It might have been an entrance to the wrong sea cave. It might have been a long tunnel leading to a blind end, with no pocket of air on the other side. But it might have led to Castiel, and if Dean surfaced now he would never find it again.

He kicked his way inside and pulled himself forward by the craggy rocks around him. He was vaguely aware of when he passed the point of no return – the last point at which he could have turned back and still had enough air to reach the surface again – but he shoved past it with barely a thought. He would be dead if not for Castiel. If Castiel was in that tunnel, hurt and dying, then Dean owed it to him to find him. Or drown in there, which was looking ever more likely.

When Dean hit a wall, he thought he was dead, but then it occurred to him to look up. Above him, he could see silvery surface and the soft glow of blue algae. He scrabbled his way up to it and broke through, sputtering and coughing.

It was definitely the same cave. Dean could even see the shelf of rock where he'd woken up days before. But there was no sign of Castiel. Dean allowed himself a few minutes to cling to the rock and catch his breath before scraping a handful of algae off the wall and diving back down.

He lit his way with the algae, casting its light on every crack and crevice in the rock. He saw nothing more interesting than a few crabs and guppies. Then, at the bend where the vertical tunnel became a horizontal one, he shined his light on a nook in the rock just big enough for a human torso to squeeze through. The nook was filled in with a fleshy, ropy mass. As he drew closer, Dean could see a line of suckers.

Dean touched it, and the mass flinched away so violently that a surprised burst of bubbles escaped Dean's lips. He went up for another breath, and then back down again. He shoved his hand into the nook. By the fading light of his algae lantern, he could see the outline of a man pressed against the back wall of the nook, his hands up and ready to fight, his boneless lower half coiled tightly and defensively around the right side of his abdomen, where a trickle of blood was darkening the already-dark water.

Dean dropped the algae and beckoned with his hand. Castiel shook his head and drew back deeper into the rock. There was nothing for Dean to do but swim back up into the blue cave and pull himself out of the water and onto the little ledge.

He knew enough about octopuses to be sure that he wasn't strong enough to pry Castiel off of the rocks if he didn't want to come. But he would be damned if he was going to swim out of there empty-handed after all the effort he'd gone through to find the place. So he sat on the rocks and waited for an idea to come to him. As the minutes dragged, be began absentmindedly drumming his fingers on his perch.

At first he tapped randomly. Then the beats to his favorite songs began flicking out of his fingers. The music, such as it was, calmed him. It helped him forget that he was stuck underwater without so much as a clue, let alone a plan. The melodies began rumbling in his chest. No words, just a deep humming.

It didn't occur to him that Castiel might be listening. Not until he heard the soft splish of broken surface tension. He stopped humming, looked up, and saw Castiel's face poking out of the water right by his feet.

Castiel gasped, and Dean almost reached down to help him keep his head above water before he realized that Castiel was not fighting for air, but panting from pain and exertion. Castiel held onto the rocky ledge, white-knuckled, his legs still coiled around in the wound in his side. He couldn't swim. He had climbed up the rocks hand-over-hand.

He looked like shit. The bleeding aside, his eyes were glassy and his skin was so pale that it had a greenish tint. Even with the water buoying him up, his arms shook with the effort of holding himself above water. Dean offered him a hand again, but Castiel shied away.

"Why are you here?" he rasped. He sounded even worse than he looked, like each word was being torn out of him with great effort.

"Is this a trick question?" Dean scoffed. His hand hovered in front of Castiel's face, though Castiel made no move to take it.

"I don't need your help."

"Bullshit. Would you take my fucking hand before you sink?"

"Do you think you owe me this? Do you think this makes us even?"

Dean hadn't thought about it that way, but he nodded with a sarcastic frown. "Well, I'm saving your life, so yeah, I think this about squares us out."

"I'm not interested in charity offered out of a misplaced sense of obligation." That sentence was enough to wind Castiel, and for a moment Dean really did think he would lose his grip and sink. But he held on.

"You got room to be picky right now?" said Dean. "Look, I'm here. I'm here, okay? What does it matter why? I'm here to help you."

Castiel's fingers began to slide off the rock as his grip weakened. His eyelids drooped, then fluttered, then closed. With the last of his strength, he lifted one hand and placed it in Dean's. "Then help me," he whispered just before he fainted dead away.

Dean hauled his limp body onto the ledge. Even straight out of the chilly water, his skin was warm and feverish to the touch. "Shit..." Dean muttered as he laid him flat. His many legs flopped away to reveal a nasty, oozing wound as long as a hand was wide. The spear had landed right in his gut, on the line where purplish-brown octopus flesh became smooth human skin. In the center of the knot of clotting blood, Dean could see the splintered remains of the shaft of the spear and, a little deeper, the flared back end of the spearhead lodged in the wall of his belly.

He'd been down here like this for nearly two days. It was a wonder that he was still alive.

But by the look of him, he wouldn't be for long. His chest rose and fell, but his breathing was ragged and stuttering. His eyes were rolled back in his head when Dean lifted his eyelids to see, and the whites were bloodshot. Dean inspected Castiel's wound again. He didn't see any pus or blackened skin to suggest blood poisoning, but he wouldn't be at all surprised if something was festering in there. He didn't dare try to pull the spearhead out. He was no doctor.

Who could he go to for help? His crew wouldn't understand. They were loyal, but they were as superstitious as most sailors and Dean didn't think they'd react well to the shock of seeing one of their late-night-watch fairy tales come to life. Besides, they were much more interested in staying in work and in coin than in helping their captain pay off personal debts. They'd see Castiel as an unwanted distraction at best. At worst, a monster.

Anna would sympathize, but she was too fiercely practical for Dean to fully trust her with such an illogical request. She had her own best interests at heart, and Dean's, and the crew's. She wasn't the type to risk everything for a stranger.

So once Dean had made the long, treacherous swim out of the cave, alternating between pushing Castiel's senseless body ahead of him and towing it behind him (and occasionally going up for air), he stashed Castiel safely in some deep tide pools. And then he made his way, faster than he had ever made it before, through the brush and up to the road to Stanford.

He ran the road so quickly that his clothes were still damp when he made it to Sam's door. He rapped on it twice – loud enough to wake Sam, but hopefully not so loud that it would wake Jess and her family upstairs. Then he leaned against the wall and doubled over, huffing and trying to regain enough breath to speak by the time Sam opened the door.

The door cracked open just far enough for Dean to see a lock of tussled hair and one bleary eye. Then Sam recognized his brother. Fully awake in an instant, he closed the door, rustled around inside for several seconds, and then reappeared fully (if messily) dressed. He joined Dean on the street and shut the door behind him, never opening it enough for Dean to be able to see inside. "What happened?"

"Can I come in and sit down?" Dean asked, gesturing to the state of his clothes.

Sam hesitated for so long that it blew right past suspicious and into comical. "... no," he finally said.

When no further answer appeared to be on the way, Dean spread his hands and said, "... why?"

Sam swiped a hand over his face and set about straightening his clothes. "Because Jess is inside, and if you went in now you'd see more of her than I think she wants you to see."

Even with the night he had been having, Dean's mind ground to a halt. "You..." he sputtered. "You're getting action?"

"Would you shut up and tell me why you're here?" Sam snapped, reddening.

"You are!" said Dean, louder than was wise. "You sneaky bastard! You're not even married yet!"

Sam's blush faded as righteous indignation took over. "Oh, is a marriage license required to share a bed now? Because wow, congratulations, I must have missed it when you got married to Anna. And, oh, half the population of the southern coastline."

"It's okay when I do it," Dean insisted. "But you... you were always so proper about it. I didn't figure..."

"Please tell me you're not going to try and scold me."

"Scold you? I could kiss you! I'm definitely buying you about fifty beers later. Ah... that is, after you help me with a little situation I have at the moment."

He filled Sam in as best he could, leaving out as much about his deal with Crowley as he could manage. The holes in his story weren't exactly well-patched, and at first Sam looked like he would have liked to stop Dean and ask some probing questions. But once Dean got to the part about Castiel and the events of the last couple of hours, Sam seemed to forget his suspicions. Instead, he sat down against the wall of his house and rested his head in his hands. "You are fucking with me," he said.

"'Fraid not, Sammy."

It would be a hard story to swallow for anyone. Dean resolved to give Sam five minutes, give or take, to process it. Sam was back on his feet in less than two. There was a low fire of resolve in his eyes, the kind Dean hadn't seen since Sam left The Impala. "This merman. He saved your life?" was all he asked.

"I'd be at the bottom of the cove right now if it weren't for him, and you'd never have found out what happened to me."

Sam nodded. "Then you know who we need."

"I can't take him to any doctor, Sammy. I need someone I can trust."

"Exactly."

"Wait... no. You don't mean..."

Sam shrugged. "He was a surgeon."

"Decades ago, Sam," said Dean. "Decades."

"Do you have anyone else in mind?"

Dean did not. "Fine," he said. "Let's go."

-----

Robert Singer had already accumulated a long and colorful history as a pirate even before he became the ship's surgeon on The Impala under John Winchester. John had been new to pirating and, though he was the captain by virtue of owning the boat they sailed on, he owed every bit of his knowledge to Bobby. Bobby had run things behind the scenes for those first few crucial years. Then he'd retired, but by then John was in the perfect position to become the most feared pirate in the Caribbean.

As for Bobby Singer, he did what most pirates never get the chance to do: settle down and live off his spoils. He was still a great forger, and his old friends still came to him for false documents and real advice. He could even be persuaded to go along on a quick job every now and then, if the money was good and the risk was low. But mostly he kept to himself in the abandoned salvage lot just outside of Stanford and drank a lot.

To Dean, Bobby was like family. Dean had even encouraged Sam to settle down in Stanford specifically because he wanted Bobby around if Sam ever got in trouble. But that didn't mean he was exactly eager to go crawling to the old man for help.

The door of Bobby's shack bowed inward when Dean knocked on it. Seconds later it opened, and the barrel of a rifle appeared. The rifle barrel swung from Dean's chest up to Sam behind him, and then a voice at the other end of the gun said, "Oh. It's you," and the rifle was lowered. Bobby's familiar craggy, bearded face poked out of the darkness and into the moonlight. "Well, come on in and tell me what the emergency is."

"I didn't say anything about an emergency," said Dean as he stepped over the threshold.

"Of course there's an emergency," Bobby growled. "Not like you idjits ever drop by just to say 'hello.'"

For being a shack in the middle of a salvage yard, Bobby's home was surprisingly welcoming on the inside. It had all the necessities, plus a few creature comforts, and a small fortune in books that Bobby had collected over his years of piracy. It was comfortable. But none of the men bothered to make themselves comfortable now – they all knew that they wouldn't be staying long.

Dean had given Sam the shortened version of the story, and now Sam gave Bobby the shortened version of that story. "I know it's a lot to take in all at once," said Sam, "but..."

Bobby smacked Dean upside the head with a dish towel.

"Ow!"

"You were here less than a week ago and you didn't come and see me?" Bobby scolded, brandishing the towel.

Dean frowned. "Did you hear a word he said?"

"Of course I did," Bobby sighed. "He said that you want me to go out to your stupid cove in the middle of the night and patch up some poor half-fish kid who was too stupid not to get himself speared through the gut, all because you were too stupid not to get yourself conked on the head and drowned."

Bobby could complain like a mule, but in the end he always came through. Sam and Dean looked at him expectantly until he rolled his eyes and said, "I'll get my coat."

Dean couldn't convince them to run as fast as he had, but they made good time back to the ship anyway. Castiel was where Dean had left him. Dean was half hoping that he'd have regained consciousness, but if anything he looked even worse. For a moment he looked dead, but then his legs twitched and his lower half ballooned out as he drew water up and through his gills. The underwater version of breathing.

Together, the three of them managed to haul Castiel aboard The Impala and sneak him into Dean's little cabin. Dean laid Castiel on his bed. He couldn't even make himself care that blood from Castiel's wounds and a slimy sheen from his tentacles were staining his sheets.

"Balls..." Bobby muttered as he inspected Castiel's wound. Sam stood behind him, holding up a lamp. "This wasn't pretty even before it sat untreated for two days."

The jostling around, and now Bobby's prodding, was beginning to wake Castiel up. His head flopped to the side and his lips parted, though no sound came out. Dean rested a hand on his head, willing him back to sleep. "You can fix him up, right?"

"Hold your horses. I won't know how bad it is until I get this thing out." He poked gingerly at the end of the broken spear, testing to see how firmly it was lodged. Castiel's eyebrows moved closer together, and a soft sighing sound came from the back of his throat.

"Make it quick, okay?"

"You gonna tell me how to do my job?" Bobby snapped. "It'll take as long as it takes to do it right. You just make sure he stays quiet, or you'll have some explaining to do when your crew comes running."

"How am I supposed to do that?"

"I don't care. Gag him, if you have to." He opened his medical bag, pulled out something gleaming and metallic, and bent over to begin working.

Dean didn't watch. It wasn’t that he didn't have the stomach for such things; a childhood peppered with stab wounds and gunshots had erased whatever squeamishness he may have started with. He didn't watch because he didn't need to watch. He knew how these things went. Instead, he kept his eyes on Castiel's face and braced himself for the screaming that he knew would come.

Castiel's eyes flew open, unfocused and sightless. His lips curled back against clenched teeth. He gripped weakly at Dean's arms, his hands shaking with the effort. But he didn't scream. The only sound he made was a quiet, choked moan. Dean frowned. Either Castiel was one tough bastard, or he was farther gone than Dean had realized.

"Dean?" said Bobby's bemused voice. Dean glanced up to see two of Castiel's tentacles winding their ways around Bobby's wrists, pushing his hands away. Three more tentacles curled up to cover the wound that was now bleeding fresh and fast. When Sam tried to pry the tentacles off of Bobby, more rose up to fight him off, too.

Dean bent back over Castiel's face, tapping his cheeks lightly and calling his name. "Cas?" he said. The nickname came to him as naturally as 'Sammy' had decades ago. "Cas, look at me." For a second it looked like Castiel's eyes were trying to focus, but then they glazed back over – half-awake and confused and hurting.

"C'mon, Cas, it's not that..." Then Dean swallowed hard as he recognized his father's words coming out of his mouth. He'd heard them when he was eight (getting a broken arm set) and when he was fourteen (having shrapnel dug out of his back) and countless times before, after, and in between. It's not that bad. Man up. Get yourself through it.

It had worked. Dean had manned up and gotten himself through it. But John's presence had always been a challenge, and never a comfort.

So instead, Dean leaned in closer to whisper in Castiel's ear, "Cas, listen to me. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere, okay? Hang on to me. I'm gonna get you through this. But you gotta let Bobby do his thing, you hear me? He's gonna fix you. I promise." At first Castiel's fingers dug harder into Dean's shoulders, his pained breath hissing in Dean's ear. But then his grip loosened by a fraction. Dean peeked over his shoulder just in time to see Castiel's tentacles slide away from Bobby's hands and coil themselves at the foot of the bed, out of the way.

Bobby wore the serene expression of a man who cannot be surprised anymore.

Dean pleaded, "Get it done."

Castiel didn't wake up through the whole thing. Not really. His eyes stayed open, locked on nothing. Eventually his teeth unclenched and his jaw cranked open, every sinew of his face so tight with pain that it hurt Dean just to look at him. But even then, nothing came out of his mouth but weak groans and gagging coughs. His fingers clamped down on Dean's arms so hard that they felt like they would pop through the skin. Every time his grip tightened, Dean would whisper in his ear, "Almost there. Almost done. I got you. It's okay, I got you..." Soothing, intimate things that he wouldn't have dared to say if Castiel had been conscious. But it didn't matter that they were effectively strangers. Whatever Castiel needed to hear at that moment, Dean was willing to say it.

When it was over, Dean's sheets were a bloody mosaic. But the spear head was on the floor, and the nasty, oozing gash was nothing more than a line of stitches.

"Wow," said Dean. "That looks better. That looks good. It's good, right?"

Bobby rinsed his hands off in a bowl of water. The water turned the color of rust. "It's better than it was. But it ain't good. Pretty damn far from." He squinted down at Castiel's waist and ran a finger over the base of one of his tentacles. "He seem dry to you?"

"Huh?"

"How long can he be out of the water without shriveling up?"

Dean mimicked Bobby, testing Castiel's skin with two fingers. It felt fragile and sticky, like when you wake up after sleeping with your mouth open and your tongue cleaves to the roof of your mouth. "I don't know," he said. "But let's not find out."

Dean rolled an enormous basin out of a storage compartment, and with a bucket on the end of a rope Sam quickly hauled up enough water to fill it. Dean winced at the prospect of salt water on a fresh wound, but when he laid Castiel down in it he actually gave a relieved little sigh. His tentacles plumped up with moisture and became slick again. Somehow, though the basin didn't seem big enough to allow it, Castiel managed to curl up so that he was completely under the water.

Bobby, Sam, and Dean watched him for several seconds. When he didn't move, Bobby sighed and said, "Okay, now what?"

"How long will it be until he wakes up?" Sam wondered.

Bobby gave him a look. "Do you think I'm psychic?"

"In your professional opinion?" said Dean.

"In my professional opinion..." Bobby sighed. "In my professional opinion, he's probably not gonna wake up. That wound is festering down deep. He needs time to fight off that infection. And the ocean just isn't a friendly enough place to give him that time."

"Then we'll buy him time," said Dean. "Bobby. If we rig up a stretcher, could we get him back to your place before he dries out again?"

"If you think you're leaving him with me, you've got another think coming. I've got old friends who I can't keep from dropping in on me. And most of them are the type that, well, if they saw a living merman then by God they'd find a way to make a buck off him. I hear there's a market for their organs up in New England."

Dean shuddered, then looked at Sam.

Sam winced apologetically. "I'd do it," he said. "You know I'd do it for you, but... how the Hell would I explain him to Jess?"

They stood in silence. Finally, Dean nodded and said, "Okay. Okay. I'll take him. It's the only way. I gotta take him to Cuba with me."

Sam blinked. "Cuba?"

"I've got a job."

"What about the wedding?"

"When I get back, Sammy."

"You said that last time. Just stay for a few days, it won't take..."

"This can't wait. I'm sorry."

Sam stared, but Dean refused to meet his eyes. "Fine," said Sam as he stormed out of the cabin and back toward the dinghy.

When he was gone, Bobby tilted his head toward Dean and asked, "This about Crowley?"

"No," said Dean.

"Don't lie to me, boy. You in trouble?"

"I can handle it."

Bobby caught Dean's jaw in his hand and brushed his thumb against Dean's temple and the corner of his eye where the edges of his black bruises were beginning to heal into yellows and greens. Dean jerked his head away. "You sure you can afford this extra risk?" said Bobby, gesturing at the basin where Castiel was sleeping.

"I don't have a choice," said Dean. "I owe him."

"You owe too many people."

Dean grinned wryly. "Tell me about it."

-----

When Dean woke up the next morning before dawn, having caught less than four hours of sleep after seeing Bobby and his brother back to Stanford, he lit his lamp and held it over the basin of water that took up a good chunk of his cabin's floor space. Castiel didn't seem to have moved since the last time Dean had checked on him. He was still folded up under the water, his thick tentacles coiled around the bottom and his human upper half resting on top of them. The water had evaporated off a little, and Castiel's bare back was almost grazing the surface.

Dean placed the palm of his hand against one bony shoulder blade, just to make sure the skin beneath the water was still warm and alive. Castiel stirred at his touch, but didn't wake.

Dean hauled one more bucket of water up through the porthole in his cabin wall and dumped it into Castiel's basin, just to make sure he had enough. Then he rooted through his possessions until he found the key to his cabin door hiding in a box with a few other odds and ends that he seldom used. He went out onto the deck, locking the door behind him.

His crew was just coming up from below decks. They saluted him as they passed.

"Let's get to work," said Dean.

They edged their way out of the cove by the light of the sunrise, turned southward, and sailed.

(Next chapter)

Surface Tension (Chapter 2) NSFW

2013-09-22T22:00:34Z

More of the pirate!Dean/merman!Cas tentacle porn AU (that doesn't actually have any tentacle porn in it yet, shh, I'll get to it). Instead of tentacle porn in this chapter you get sub!Dean/dom!Anna fucking. Enjoy.

Chapter Summary: Dean and Anna track Crowley down and negotiate for The Impala. When they get back, Dean gets some startling news.

For Rae. Chapter 1 is over here.

-----

Anna was dabbing at the crusted blood on Dean's face when the first batch of his crew reappeared. There were three of them, and they came through the woods from the direction of the city. They were laughing and talking quietly amongst themselves until they saw Dean and Anna sitting on the sand, the empty cove behind them.

"Where's the ship?" one of them asked.

"I'm fine, thanks," Dean snapped. Then, to Anna, "OW!"

Anna said, "You've got a nice black eye and a goose egg. And you almost certainly have a concussion. Okay, I've got most of the blood off. Do you want me to finish, or do you need a break?"

"I don't need a break!" Dean grumped, and then immediately regretted it when Anna began scrubbing over his bruises again.

Another crew member pushed through the trees and onto the beach. She blinked twice and immediately asked, "Where's the ship?"

"Long story!"

The crew stood together in a nervous huddle until the rest of them arrived. "Where's the ship?" the newcomers asked.

"Would everyone stop asking me that?" Dean shouted.

"Dean..." said Anna in a warning tone.

Dean took a deep breath, turned, and explained what happened from when he returned to the ship to when he hit the water. He ended, "Crowley's probably got her halfway back to the Inferno by now." The Inferno was Crowley's base of operations – a sea port and smuggling center hidden in the inlets just a day's journey down the coast.

While the crew rumbled discontentedly amongst themselves, Anna narrowed her eyes at Dean. "Where were you from when Crowley knocked you overboard to when I pulled you out?"

"You'll never believe this, but..." He stopped mid-sentence, swallowed, and found that he didn't feel like sharing the memory of blue light reflecting off of rippling water reflecting off of wet, black hair. It belonged to him. Besides, it had been so surreal that he wasn't even sure if he could properly explain it to Anna. It would be like trying to tell someone about a dream. "But I swam into a sea cave and hid out until Crowley was gone."

Anna's eyebrows shot up. "Concussed, bleeding, and semi-conscious," she said slowly, "you found a sea cave and swam into it?"

Dean shrugged. "Amazing the things you can do when you think you're gonna die."

"Mm-hm," said Anna, shaking her head just a little. Then she stood and addressed the crew. "Listen up! The Captain's hurt. He needs to stay put for at least a week. When he's fit, we'll all find passage down to the Inferno on a ship out of Stanford and negotiate for The Impala."

"Yeah," said Dean. "Except what we're really gonna do is borrow some horses and ride down to the Inferno today. Crowley said he planned to sell Baby within a week. We don't have time to sit around or wait for another ship that's willing to take us."

Anna turned around so the crew couldn't see her lips move as she muttered, "You're in no condition to ride."

"Good thing you'll be with me to keep me from falling out of my saddle," said Dean out of the corner of his mouth.

Out loud, one of the crew members wondered, "Where are we gonna get that many horses?"

"We'll get as many as we can, and that's how many of us will make the ride," said Dean. "As long as we get three or four people down to the Inferno, that'll be enough to limp The Impala back here to pick up the rest of you."

A murmur began that sounded suspiciously like dissent. Dean spoke up over it, "The Impala has been my home since before I can remember. I'll be damned if I let Crowley have her. Now, I'll ride into the Inferno and sail her out by myself if I need to, but I sure could use a hand and I have a feeling most of you would like to keep your jobs, so who's with me?"

"I think it's an idiotic plan, but I'm with you," said Anna, stepping up beside Dean with a reluctant smile perched on her lips.

The crew took their cue from Dean's enthusiasm and Anna's support. One by one, their hands went up until the whole small crowd was in agreement.

"Great," said Dean. "Now we just have to steal some horses."

While the crew worked out who would stay and who would go with Dean, Anna pulled Dean aside. "Steal?" she said with a wince.

"Yeah, what did you think I meant by 'borrow?'" Dean scoffed.

"So, you're looking to add horse thievery to the long list of crimes you're wanted for."

"Well, I'd buy them with sexual favors, but I don't think even my ass is worth that much," Dean laughed. He sighed and wiped the joking smile off his face when he saw how serious Anna looked. "It's not like I have a choice, Anna. You know I've got nothing but the shirt on my back and The Impala, and now I don't even have her. Every penny I ever made either went towards paying off my debts with Crowley, or it went back into the crew and the ship. I'm broke."

Anna cocked her head with a sigh. "I've got a little saved up."

"Enough for four horses?"

As it turned out, Anna had enough for three horses. Dean tried to argue that they could sail The Impala with three, but in the end two crew members came along with them and Dean and Anna shared a horse. Anna sat in front, citing the fact that she didn't want Dean steering while concussed, and Dean was forced to sit on the bobbing rump of the horse with his arms clamped around Anna's waist.

Instead of swaying and dancing like the deck of a ship, the horse thudded along. And stank. And sweated until the moisture seeped into Dean's trousers. "I hate horses," he said into the back of Anna's shoulder.

"They were your bright idea," she reminded him.

"It was a stupid idea."

"I tried to tell you."

Their horse, with the extra weight, lagged behind. Dean waited until they were just out of earshot of the others before he asked Anna, "What do you know about the mer-folk?"

Anna had just been drinking from her canteen. At Dean's question, she made a tiny choking noise and coughed most of her water onto the back of her horse's head. But she recovered and tried to sound nonchalant when she said, "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious."

Anna twisted around in the saddle until she was looking Dean in the eye. She wore a wide-eyed, half-smiling, tight-jawed expression. Dean could never tell whether that expression meant that Anna was afraid or if it meant she was about to rip his head off.

"What's your problem? I just want to know if there are any around Stanford."

"Not Stanford," said Anna, turning back around to face the road. "Not usually. There's a school of them up the coast, but that's miles away, and they don't travel far. Not into Stanford. Nowhere near any of the shipping lanes."

"They don't like people?"

"They prefer to go unseen by humans."

Dean rested his chin on Anna's shoulder. "What do you think it would take for one of them to come down to that cove where we made anchor?"

Anna shook Dean off her shoulder with a shrug. When she finally answered, her voice was soft. "I suppose they'd either have to be very lost, or very scared," she said. "Or there would have to be something very interesting in that cove."

-----

If you didn't know what it was, the Inferno would have looked like an abandoned shipping dock in the middle of nowhere. Its piers were suspiciously well-maintained, but the sprawling warehouses on the shore were dilapidated enough that no one who happened to come across it would think that they were in use. Dean and his crew tied their horses just behind the tree line and approached the largest structure – an enormous rectangle of a building that straddled the water line, half on land and half supported by stilts out over the bay.

The door was unlocked. Once inside, it was clear that the building's outward appearance was a ruse. On the inside, it was sturdy and polished. The wooden floor extended out over the water, and there were docks and moorings built into the edge. The ceiling was high. The back wall was nonexistent. This left a hole large enough for most ships to pass through. Dean had used this hidden dock on more than one occasion. It was a perfect place to load and unload conspicuous cargo away from prying eyes.

And it was also a good place to store conspicuous ships. Docked snugly side by side were the Crossroad Deal and The Impala.

"We could just take her," said Dean, his voice echoing in the cavernous building.

Anna shook her head. "If you don't make nice with Crowley, we'll be running for the rest of our lives. Which won't be long."

"You should listen to her more often," said a familiar voice from behind them. They spun around just in time to see Crowley entering through the door they'd left standing open. He slammed it behind him. "She always was smarter than you."

Dean's two crew members reached for the weapons at their hips, but they stopped at a shake of Dean's head. "We're just here to talk," he said, spreading his hands expansively.

"Back from the dead, I see."

"It's a talent."

When a few seconds passed, the lapping of waves at the sterns of the two ships as the only sound, Crowley held his hands out expectantly. "So? Make nice with me."

"Uh," said Dean. He glanced at Anna. She gave him that wide-eyed look again, and this time he was pretty sure it was the rip-your-head-off variety. How had he managed to ride all the way here without giving any serious thought to what he would say to Crowley when he finally got an audience with him? "I'm sorry for dumping your cargo."

"And?" Crowley raised his eyebrows.

"And for going to Stanford before checking in with you."

"And?" Crowley's voice took on a dangerous edge. "Apologies are cheap. I have The Impala. I can make a good, guaranteed, instant profit from selling her. If you want her back, you'd better convince me that you're worth my while."

Dean's jaw tightened until it ached. "You don't like me that much," he said.

"God knows that's the truth."

"No," said Dean. "What God knows is that out of everyone in your little underworld, I take the most jobs and I take the most dangerous jobs. I do shit for you that no one in their right mind would agree to, because I'm desperate, and you know that, and you use it. So even if I have to dump a shipment to keep from getting pinched by the Navy, and even if I take a few days to go see my family, I still turn a better profit for you than half of the smugglers who you don't bash in the head and whose ships you don't steal. You're not selling Baby because it makes financial sense. You're doing it out of spite."

It only lasted a second, but it was the only time Dean had ever seen Crowley speechless. "I won't deny that spite is a powerful motivating factor," he said when he'd regained his voice.

"Get over yourself. The Impala is worth more to you in my hands than in anyone else's. Hell, I'll bet you've got a job lined up right now that you wish you could shove off on me. Something no one else will touch. Come on. I'll take it, whatever it is. All I need is my ship."

Anna stepped up to let her hand brush Dean's as they waited to see if the murderous rage on Crowley's face would resolve into understanding, or if he would have them all shot. Finally, the murderousness was replaced by mere petty disappointment as he said, "By sheer, idiotic, dumb luck on your part, I happen to be lining up just the sort of job you've described. It's high-risk, high-reward. The high reward means I don't trust you with it. The high risk means no one but you will take it."

"What is it?"

Crowley held up a finger. "Not so fast. You aren't even close to my good graces right now. I'm sending you on a nice, easy pick-up in Cuba first. That'll give me time to iron out the wrinkles in this big job, and it'll give you a chance to prove to me that you're not a complete waste of my time."

"Fine," said Dean. He kept his face controlled. He didn't want to let on what a boon this job in Cuba would be. He was used to running around the Caribbean, and he had plenty of contacts there if things got hairy. A simple job with a good payoff would give him time and money to get back on his feet. But it was better if he let Crowley think he was punishing him, so he tried his best to look chastened.

"Fine," said Crowley. "I'll have the specs and your papers for you in the morning."

Dean and his company almost let themselves breathe a sigh of relief as Crowley sauntered toward the door. But just before passing through it, he turned back and said with a grin, "Oh, and I'll be taking those horses you came in on as payment for the hash you made of that last job."

Dean bristled. "You didn't pay me for that job. We're even. You don't get to take more out of me because you feel like it."

"I do and I will, or The Impala stays where she is," said Crowley, clearly enjoying himself. "Don't worry. I'll be sure to think of your adorable, pouting face when I'm eating steak tomorrow."

Anna spoke up for the first time since Crowley arrived. "They're worth more sold than eaten."

"True, but I know you people are always strapped for cash, and I like the idea of taking whatever money you paid for those beasts, chewing it up, and shitting it out. Figuratively, at least. Ta-ta!" And he left, closing the door behind him.

One of the crewmen spat on the deck. "Rat bastard," he muttered.

"You can say that again," said Dean, running a hand over his face. "But he didn't shoot us. That's something."

"And we got The Impala back," Anna added. She was trying to sound optimistic, but Dean could hear a note of bitterness in her voice.

"I owe you for those horses," he said. "I'm not just saying that. I'll pay you back."

"Forget it," said Anna. "It was Crowley who took them, not you."

"But you didn't have to..."

"I said forget it."

They gratefully climbed aboard The Impala where she was moored, but the mood was bleak. They had won no victory but the right to keep sailing. That was victory enough, most of the time, but every once in a while it would have been nice not to come out two steps behind. There would be no celebration.

When the other two crew members had gone to find their bunks, Anna stopped Dean with a hand on his chest. "I'm going to make sure Crowley's thugs didn't mess with any of my things. I'll be in your cabin in ten minutes. Be ready."

Oh. So there would be a celebration after all.

Dean scuttled back to his cabin. It was small for a captain's quarters, but it was private, which was a luxury that only he and Anna enjoyed out of all the sailors on the ship. Luckily, it wasn't too badly ransacked considering how long Crowley had been in possession of the ship. Some drawers were emptied onto the floor and a foot locker was turned over, but nothing seemed to be missing. Dean would clean up later. For now all he needed was the bed.

He stripped down and assumed the position: feet flat on the floor, legs straight, elbows on the mattress, ass in the air and pointed toward the door. And there he waited, the anticipation building with each passing minute. He rested his forehead between his hands, and he had a nice view of his cock steadily hardening as he waited to find out what Anna had in store for him.

Neither of them spoke when she entered. They had done this enough times that there was no need for words, at least not yet. Dean could hear the sound of Anna kicking her shoes off, and the padding of her bare feet as she approached the bed. She placed a hand gently on his tailbone and ran it the length of his spine, down the curve of his back to his neck. She pressed down, forcing his face into the mattress. His back curved even more dramatically as he fought to keep his legs straight and his rear up, the way she liked.

He heard the crack before he felt the sting. Anna may have had a slight frame and skinny arms, but she had the technique to make a spanking feel like a lashing. His right butt cheek tingled where she'd hit him. He imagined that he could feel the handprint there, down to each finger.

He wiggled his hips with a smile. "That all you got?"

Two more slaps, one right on top of the other, tore a low moan out of Dean's throat. He flinched right when he expected the next strike to fall, his knees buckling as his body tried to retreat from the pain. But the pain didn't come. Anna rested her hand lightly on Dean's stinging ass and said, "Relax into it. Take it. Don't be afraid."

Dean straightened his knees. This time, when Anna hit him, he didn't move expect to curl his fingers into his sheets and hold on.

She was relentless, and she never missed. She didn't let herself fall into a rhythm; instead, she kept Dean guessing when the next strike would come, so that he was always quivering with the uncertainty of it. Soon, he couldn't hold back soft grunts with each slap. Then one of his grunts broke into a half-sob, and all he could do was whimper as he settled into that delicious tension: his animal brain screaming that he wanted her to stop, and his rational brain hanging on, knowing that he needed her to keep going.

What he needed was to put his body in Anna's hands and give in to her, let her decide whether to stop, or whether to keep hurting him. Whether to give him pleasure or pain. Whether to let him come, or leave him shaking with desire all night. Every day he made decisions that could get himself and his whole crew killed, his ship wrecked, his livelihood ruined. Those terrible decisions were his. He was happy to hand over to Anna decisions like how many spankings he was going to get tonight.

He liked her in control. Anna in control meant that Dean didn't have to be in control. And that was better, really. Authority suited her. Not like Dean. Authority had fallen into Dean's lap, and all these years later he still couldn't seem to figure out what to do with it.

He was a terrible captain.

"I'm sorry!" he gasped.

Anna stopped. "What did you say?"

"I'm sorry..." He was panting, gulping air, just this side of sobbing. "I... I fucked up the job. And I didn't face up to it, I... I ran back to Sam. I let Crowley get the drop on me. I lost all your savings. And I got us caught up in something... we don't even know if it's... I just fuck everything up."

With one hand on his hip and the other on his shoulder, Anna rolled Dean the rest of the way onto the bed so he was lying on his back. She hovered above him. He swallowed down tears. She watched until she was sure that none were going to spill – that he was hurt, but not broken.

Dean didn't move – he hadn't been given permission to move – while Anna pulled her clothes off layer by layer, untying every drawstring and undoing every buckle and clasp. When she was naked, she folded her clothes and put them on a chair. Only then did she crawl into bed with Dean. She crawled on top of him, climbing his body until she was kneeling above him. Her shins pinned his wrists to the mattress. Her vulva, pink and glistening like an anemone, hovered just inches from his face.

"So, make it up to me," she said.

He opened his mouth like a dying man gasping for air and kissed her. At first desperately, and then slowly, like waves lapping, the way she liked. When he pulled her clit between his lips and sucked, rolling the hood back with his tongue and licking softly, she reached down and put a hand on the back of his head to hold him close. That simple touch pulled him out of despair and into rapture. It meant his shortcomings were forgiven, and it was all the sweeter because she had made him earn it. Anyone could offer him reassurance. Only Anna could give him absolution.

She let him lick and suck at her until she was dripping wet, slick smeared on Dean's face from nose to chin. Then she carefully flipped herself around so she was on all fours, her vulva still pressed up against his mouth and his throbbing cock level with her face. While he pushed his tongue as deep inside her as he could manage, she licked his cock with the very tip of her tongue, only touching him for a second at a time.

"Please..." he groaned in a muffled voice. He had been erect since before she'd entered the room. Now he was so hard that it ached. It radiated into his abs and his thighs – an unbearable tightness begging for release. Each touch of her tongue felt like it would be the one to send him over the brink. Each time she pulled away, he jerked and rutted against the air, trying to come from sheer force of will.

But she waited until she had come first, her vagina tightening around his tongue and her clit pressed hard against his chin. Only then, after her hips had stopped bucking with the sensation of it, did she swallow him down until her lips were buried in the tangle of his hair and let him come hard and hot down her throat. She hadn't given him permission to touch her with his hands, so he grabbed the headboard and squeezed while his body shook and spasmed.

When he lay still, Anna sat up, licked her lips like a cat, and curled up at his side. He put his arms around her. Cuddling was allowed now that the game was over.

"Good boy," she whispered, tilting her head up to kiss some of her own tangy come from off his lips. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just gimme a minute," he rasped, and held her tighter.

As he focused on breathing slowly and evenly, he gradually extracted his sense of self from Anna's unbending will. Eventually he felt like a real, separate person again, but the weight of responsibility had yet to fall back onto his shoulders. For a while, he could lie there with his body buzzing, his mind free, and his ears ringing with Good boy.

"I needed that," he said.

Anna snuggled closer. "I could tell. Want me to spend the night here?"

"If you don't mind."

"I never do."

She got up to put out the light, and then rejoined Dean in bed. She was almost asleep – Dean could tell by the cadence of her breathing – when something occurred to Dean that he couldn't keep from speaking aloud.

"What were you gonna do with that money you had saved?"

Dean felt Anna blink herself awake as a flutter of eyelashes against his chest. She answered, "Doesn't really matter now, does it?"

"Yeah, but what would you have done?"

She paused. Then she huffed a rueful laugh. "Bailed your ass out the next time you got into trouble."

They were silent for several minutes, but neither one fell asleep. Finally Dean asked, quieter this time, "This job Crowley has lined up for us. Not the one in Cuba, the other one, the one he won't tell us about yet. What kind of job do you think it'll be?"

"Do you want me to be honest?" said Anna.

"Probably not, but do it anyway."

Anna took a deep breath and blew it out slowly so that the air brushed Dean's throat and made him shiver. "Whatever it is," she said, "I'm pretty sure by the end of it we'll be wishing we had just let Crowley keep our ship."

-----

True to his word, Crowley returned the next morning with a sheaf of papers: instructions, contacts, and false identification for the job in Cuba. Dean and his tiny crew towed The Impala out of the covered dock and steered her back to sea. Dean waited until the Inferno was out of sight before he truly let himself believe that Crowley had let them go. He was back in command of his ship. At least for now.

The sailing was smooth back up past Stanford and into the cove where the rest of the crew was camped out and waiting for them. Their arrival set off a chain reaction of cheering as the people on the shore looked up and saw their lost home and livelihood sailing in their direction.

"Good to see you back in one piece, Captain," seemed to be the popular sentiment.

"Hey!" Dean kept replying. "I can hold my own against Crowley." And for once, he had proof. He had brought the Impala back.

While Dean was helping his crew back onto the ship, he noticed fishing line and tackle in the bottom of one of the dinghies.

"Catch anything?" he asked.

Two of the men immediately began arguing.

"I would have speared us a hulking great octopus for dinner yesterday if this one-" and here he jerked a thumb at his companion, "hadn't pushed me and made me lose my grip."

The other sailor defended himself, "I'm telling you, I didn't see any octopus. There was a man in the water."

"We dove in that area for ages. If it was a man, I suppose he swam off with my new spear?"

Dean interrupted their squabbling, his gut twisting and his ears ringing. "Maybe you're both right. He could have been a merman."

Both men gave Dean a look. "All my years at sea, and I've never seen one. Besides, everyone knows they don't hang about where people are."

"Right," said Dean. "So, you missed?"

"Not at all. It was a fine stab," said the first man. "Whatever the thing was, it's surely dead by now."

(Next chapter)

Surface Tension (Chapter 1)

2013-09-22T07:13:09Z

In the continuing adventures of "Christina is too lazy to cross-post to Livejournal," here's the first chapter of the longfic I've been working on. I'm up to chapter 4 on AO3, but I'll space them out here over a day or two so I don't clog your flists. There's no other way to say this... I'm writing pirate!AU. And Castiel is a merman with the lower body of an octopus. There is rampant multishipping. Later, there will be tentacle porn. I apologize for nothing.

Summary: As the son of the (late) famous pirate John Winchester, Dean has inherited a dangerous reputation, insurmountable debts, and a sailing ship called The Impala. Desperate to keep his ship, and to keep his brother out of the family business, Dean has been smuggling for John's old contacts for most of his adult life. He has struck a delicate balance between duty and debauchery, running jobs with the fate of his crew on his shoulders while simultaneously maintaining lovers in every port from the Carolinas to South America. But just when his balancing act begins to crash down around him, he meets one of the elusive creatures living in the water off the Atlantic Coast. Half human, half sea creature, these beings don't enjoy human attention. It's only through a series of happenstances that Dean finds himself inextricably bound to the young merman named Castiel at a time when both their lives are poised to change forever.

Mostly Dean/Castiel. Also Dean/Anna. More ships involving Dean to come, because I enjoy it when people love Dean and have sex with him. Sam/Jess because fuck canon. Crowley's here too. It's a party.

Dedicated to Rae. Because it's all her fault.

-----

They sailed up the North Carolina coast under cover of darkness. There wasn't much risk of being recognized here, off these sleepy little coastal towns, but The Impala's lean design and dark coloring were distinctive enough that they didn't dare take the risk of making berth in daylight.

Dean Winchester stood at the wheel, steering with one hand. His relaxed, unconcerned posture was a practiced lie – his eyes constantly darted between the shore and the sea and across the deck of his ship. As they slid past the dim lights on the shore of the little town of Stanford, Dean's nervousness broke through and he began drumming his fingers on the spokes.

"Almost there." The voice behind him was reassuring, as if talking to a child.

Dean turned in time to see the figure of his first mate step out of the shadows. Even in the dark, her hair was scorchingly red. "I know, Anna."

"Calm down."

"I am calm."

Anna stepped up to the wheel and closed her hand around Dean's fingers, stilling them. "There's nothing you can do about it now. Try to enjoy being home."

"Stanford isn't home," Dean was quick to say.

"Close enough." When Dean resumed drumming on the wheel, she added, "You think you're hiding your feelings, but you're not. Even if the crew doesn't notice, they feel it. Your fear affects them. It makes us all weak."

Dean stopped drumming and gripped the wheel. "This could be it for us, Anna."

"I know."

"We were always hanging by a thread, and now that we fucked up this job..."

She laid her hand on his shoulder. "Dean, I know."

She squeezed his shoulder rhythmically, calmingly, as he steered the Impala past Stanford, up the shoreline a few more miles, and into a little cove. After the splash of the anchor and the rattle of the chain playing out, the creaking of the rigging was the only sound to be heard. No lights on the shore. No movement from the horizon, which was just beginning to glow pink. They'd made it. Dean allowed himself a deep breath.

Once on shore, they went their separate ways. Even though they were a small crew, it would have been suspicious for them all to turn up in town at once. Some, like Dean, were heading for Stanford. Some planned to make the somewhat longer journey to the bigger town – almost a city – up the coast where there was more to do and see. They knew to return to the ship when it was time to cast off again.

Anna lingered as Dean prepared to leave. She never went to Stanford, but the rest of the crew reported that she was never seen in the city either. Dean wasn't sure where she went, and he didn't ask. "Talk to Sam," she advised.

"Why do you think I'm here?"

"No," she said, staring him down until he dropped his eyes. "Really talk to him."

"Fine," he said, not sure yet whether or not he was lying.

It wasn't a long walk to Stanford from the hidden cove, but for much of the journey there were no roads. Dean eventually found a trail, which turned into a path, which turned into the dirt road that led into Stanford. By the time he passed the first buildings on his way into town, the sun was above the horizon.

No one recognized him there. Or if they did, they recognized him as Sam Campbell's vagabond brother, who breezed into town a handful of times per year and then breezed back out again. They nodded at him as he passed. He nodded back, resisting the urge to pull his hat low to hide his face.

He spotted Sam before Sam spotted him. Sam was just stepping out of what passed for a house – a small single room attached to the back of a shop – and into the orangey light of the sunrise. No matter how many years passed, he still looked like the serious-faced kid who once sat on the deck of The Impala with sailors flowing around him, like a rock in a river, determinedly jamming his toy soldiers into the gaps in the planks. Except taller. And with longer hair. And with an air of belonging to a place that Dean never saw in him as a kid, and that he had long since given up on for himself.

Sam fit so seamlessly into that quiet, small-town morning that Dean almost hesitated to call out to him, to walk back into his life like the dark reminder that he knew he was. As long as Dean wasn't around, Sam could be the happy man that Dean saw standing there in the sun. The moment Dean made himself known, Sam would once again become the son of John Winchester, the notorious pirate.

While he was still standing there with his mouth hanging open, mustering up the nerve to speak, Sam noticed him. "Dean!" he called out, his face splitting into a smile. He walked toward his brother, his hands rising ahead of him, and Dean stepped forward into his arms.

"Been a while," Dean choked out, his voice going low and gruff to hide the emotion being squeezed out of him.

"I wasn't worried. You always come back."

Dean pulled away and studied Sam's face. "You were worried," he said with a smug grin.

"I was so fucking worried," Sam admitted. "You usually at least send letters."

"Yeah, sorry. I had a bit of trouble."

"What kind?"

Dean opened and closed his mouth like a fish as Anna's words flashed into his mind, but he finally shrugged and said, "Nothing I couldn't handle."

"Right." Sam narrowed his eyes suspiciously for a second, but only for a second before he let the subject drop. "Come on in and say hi to Jess."

As they passed through Sam's little one-room annex and in through the back door of the shop, Dean chuckled, "She hasn't dumped your ass yet? When are you gonna grow a pair and propose to her?"

"Well, um..."

As soon as they crossed the storeroom and came out behind the sales counter, the round-faced blonde beauty at the cash drawer turned, saw them, and let out a triumphant shout. "Dean!" Jess launched herself at him, latched her tiny, strong hands onto his arm, and dragged him the rest of the way into the shop. "You're back! How long are you staying?"

"Not very..." Then he took another look at her beaming, wild-eyed face and amended himself to, "I think I might be staying however long you say I'm staying."

"Good answer," said Jess. "Because your brother has refused to marry me unless you're there to give him away."

Dean turned very slowly back to where Sam was standing in the doorway and looking sheepish. "You want me to give you away?"

"I just want you to be there, okay?" Sam sighed. "I proposed right after the last time you left. I didn't think you'd be gone so long." He turned to Jess with a baffled grin. "Or that you'd be so impatient."

"Well, what do you expect?" said Jess. "I want a piece of that ass!"

"Atta girl!" Dean cackled as Sam turned a unique shade of red.

Then Jess took a closer look at Dean and sighed, her shoulders slumping and her smile drooping. "You're not staying, are you?"

"Sorry, kids," said Dean. "I've got a few loose ends to tie up. Shouldn't take long. A week, maybe."

"And then you'll come to our wedding?" said Jess.

"Wouldn't miss it." This time Dean truly didn't intend to make a liar of himself. He just hoped circumstance wouldn't do the job for him.

"At least stay for the day. You can have dinner with me and Jess's family," said Sam.

"Wouldn't miss that either."

Dean was expecting to get a day of rest, but as soon as the store started getting customers Jess put him right to work fetching things from the storeroom for her. He put up some token grumbling, but he had to smile whenever she thanked him in that bubbly voice of hers. And spending time in the storefront meant he had a good view of Sam as he worked.

Sam had left The Impala when he was sixteen – far too old to begin an apprenticeship. But he hadn't let that consign him to a life of menial labor or military service. Instead, he'd taken what he'd learned from growing up on a pirate ship and turned it into a marketable skill. From his table at the rear of the shop, he took damaged pistols, rifles, and nautical equipment to be repaired.

"You always hated fixing our gear for us," Dean remarked quietly.

"Yeah, but I'm good at it," said Sam with a shrug and a smile.

Jess leaned over the counter and called over to Dean, "Sam does more than patch up firearms and compasses. He's been helping the townsfolk draw up legal documents."

"That right?" said Dean, swelling with pride. Back when they were children, Sam and Dean had scurried about underfoot, snatching loot of their own from each of the ships John had conquered. For Dean, that had been sweets and adventure novels. For Sam, it had been a stack of volumes on British and colonial law. While Dean had learned to read from Don Quixote while sharing his dried fruit and molasses candy with Sam, Sam had devoured the textbooks that took up most of the space in his tiny corner of the barracks.

"Nothing fancy," Sam mumbled. But he smiled anyway when Dean thumped him on the back and told him that he was proud of him.

Dinner that evening was the usual awkward affair, with Jess's parents asking ever-more-pointed questions about what Dean did during all those months he spent at sea and Dean becoming more and more belligerent each time he had to dodge them. Finally he crammed the rest of his food into his mouth and excused himself. As he slipped out the door, he could barely hear Jess's father saying to her, "Sam is such a smart, well-mannered young man. It's hard to believe the two of them are related."

Sam followed Dean out and spun him around by his shoulder before he could find an alley to disappear into. "Don't leave like this," he begged. "Let me talk to them."

"No use, Sammy," Dean sighed. "I just don't fit in here."

"You could. Come on, Dean, you can't live like this forever. You could do like I did – give up the sailing, settle down. Meet someone."

But Dean was already shaking his head. "I was twelve the first time I saw a poster with my name and a price on it," he said. "This kind of life – your kind of life – it was never in the cards for me. And if I stay, I'll just mess it up for you too."

"No one knows who we are here."

"No one knows who you are here. It wouldn't take long for people to start getting suspicious about me, especially if they caught a glimpse of Baby."

Sam gave a frustrated grunt and ran his fingers through his hair. "You could sell The Impala," he tossed out as a last-ditch, hopeless effort.

"I am never going to sell The Impala," said Dean, his eyes flashing murderously.

A long pause, and then they both looked at the ground. Even though he had technically won the argument, as he always did, Dean felt as defeated as Sam looked.

"You leaving then?" said Sam.

"I'll be back soon."

Sam's lips twitched into a halfhearted smile. "You'd better be, or Jess will kill you for delaying her wedding again." Then, "Hey, Dean. Those loose ends you're tying up wouldn't have anything to do with the bit of trouble you ran into, would it?"

Damn. And Dean thought he had been so smooth. "I..." he croaked before trailing off into nervous laughter. And for a second, he contemplated telling Sam everything. To share that burden. With Sam. Sam, who was happy. Who was safe. Who was getting married.

"I've got it under control." He said it so confidently that he almost convinced himself.

Sam pressed his lips together, but he nodded and said, "Okay. Come here." He grabbed Dean by the shoulder and pulled him into an embrace. "Be safe."

"I'm the safest person you know," said Dean. He pounded Sam on the back a couple of times before letting go.

It was a long walk back to the ship. He arrived just as the sun was sagging against the horizon. He was the first of his crew to return to the little cove.

But he was not alone.

When he went to climb onto the deck of the ship from the dinghy, a hand appeared in front of his face, its fingers crooked invitingly. Dean's eyes followed the slope of the arm up to the face looming over him. "Hello, my boy."

Dean's heart dropped into his stomach, but he took the hand anyway. "Hey, Crowley," he said as he was pulled up onto the deck. He glanced around the perimeter of the cove. There, hidden in the shadow of the shoreline, was the familiar outline of the Crossroad Deal – Crowley's ship. Dean could have punched himself in the face for missing it.

Crowley stood in the middle of the deck, his arms crossed and his feet planted wide as if he owned the place, his suit somehow still impeccable after a sea journey. Three of his men stood behind him, and crashing sounds from below decks suggested that there were more just out of sight. Dean felt the railing at his back. It was already far too late to run.

A trapdoor slammed open, and a woman crawled out. She went straight to Crowley and whispered something in his ear. At a nod from him, she stepped behind him to join his crowd of backup. As if Dean weren't already outnumbered.

"How much money do you owe me, Dean?" said Crowley as he began to pace slowly back and forth. "No, don’t answer that. I know you have trouble with big numbers. What I can't understand is how, after all the chances I've given you to get out of the truly tragic money-hole your father dug you into before he died, you still manage to cock up even the simplest milk runs I send you on."

"I can explain..."

"I'M NOT FINISHED SPEAKING."

Dean managed not to flinch, but every muscle in his body was coiled as tightly as a spring. Slowly, his hands swung back until they found the edge of the railing, and he squeezed so hard that he felt his fingernails leave tiny indentations in the wood. He shut his mouth.

"That's better," said Crowley, as if he had never raised his voice. "Now, not only does my assistant here tell me that you don't even have half of the cargo I sent you to retrieve, but I had to follow you all the way to Stanford to discover this fact. I can deal with incompetence. In fact, I have to as long as you work for me. But one thing I will not tolerate is a jumped-up captain who scrapes by on his daddy's reputation STEALING MY CARGO AND FUCKING OFF UP THE COAST WITH IT."

There was a long, terrible pause, but Dean didn't dare speak until Crowley spread his arms and raised his eyebrows, making it clear that he was waiting for an answer. "There was a Navy ship waiting for us when we left the drop point," Dean said. "We couldn't have outrun them if we hadn't dumped some of the cargo."

"So the merchandise I bought and paid for is lying at the bottom of the Caribbean somewhere." Crowley rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "Excellent. Now do you care to explain why I had to chase you down and corner you in order to learn this very basic information?"

"I was on my way to you."

"You sailed right past me."

"I haven't seen my brother in months, okay? I came here first. So shoot me."

Dean didn't even have time to regret his poor choice of words before Crowley drew a flintlock pistol from his belt and pointed it at Dean's head. "That can be arranged."

And oddly enough, Dean's hands unclenched and his limbs relaxed. Somehow, the open threat of violence was easier for him than the tense, interminable standoff. He had had pistols pointed at him loads of times. At least with a pistol pointed at him, he knew where he stood. He even managed a cocky smile as he replied, "Come on, Crowley. How are you gonna recoup your losses if you shoot me, huh?"

Crowley laughed as he sauntered up close to wave the pistol in Dean's face. "Oh this? I'm not going to shoot you. The sound might attract all kinds of unwanted attention. And as for my losses, well, I figure your ship will about cover that when I sell her at auction next week."

Dean's throat closed up. Suddenly getting shot didn't seem like such a bad prospect, comparatively.

"She's too recognizable for anyone to want to sail her as-is," Crowley went on, his smug grin growing as he watched Dean's face sink. "But a nice paint job might give her a new lease on life. Some retrofitting, maybe. Or the buyer might just want to break her down for parts. It doesn't matter much to me."

In retrospect, taking a swing at Crowley was a poor decision. But Dean's fist was already flying, and there was nothing he could do to call it back. It might have almost been worth it if he had connected, but Crowley ducked it easily and came back up with an expression so tranquil that Dean knew immediately that he was in the worst kind of trouble.

He didn't see the butt of the pistol before it thudded into his temple. All he saw was how the world seemed to shimmer and pitch as an overwhelming pain blossomed in his head. He didn't feel himself staggering backwards, but he felt the railing as he tumbled over it backwards. He saw the sky, the sunset turned upside-down and mottled as darkness crept into his vision like spider webs. Then he saw the water.

Then he saw nothing, and all he felt was the cold.

-----

Dean opened his eyes, and immediately regretted it. His skull seemed determined to redefine pain for him. He screwed his eyes back shut and tried to return to the dream he'd been having – about being cradled in a chilly, many-armed embrace and flying over sand and rock through air as thick as water while still acutely aware of the fact that he was a terrible brother who had gone and ruined Sam's wedding forever by getting himself killed.

When the pain refused to go away, he gave up and opened his eyes again. The ceiling above him was low, uneven, and dimly lit in mottled blue. At first he thought his vision was still swimming from the concussion, because the light was dancing in flecks and waves. But then he heard the sound of gently-lapping water and realized that the light was reflecting off of the ripples.

He tried to sit up, but stopped with a whimper. The slightest movement made his vision strobe and his head throb. So he felt around with his hands and moved his eyes without moving his head, trying to get his bearings. He could feel wet rock underneath him, and if he reached far enough to his right he could feel where the rock ended. He reached over the edge and dipped his fingers into cold water. The blue glow on the ceiling continued down the walls. It appeared to be some sort of moss or algae. The room was small, no wider than fifteen feet, and with no visible exit.

A sea cave. It finally clicked. He was in a sea cave. A little pocket of breathable air trapped in a rocky cavern. Which meant he probably wasn't dead. Yay. Unless Hell was a sea cave, in which case: huh?

Eventually the chill of his wet clothes set him shivering, and he realized that he had better get moving if he didn't want to either freeze to death or suffocate in there – whichever happened to come first. Or maybe his head was already literally killing him. It sure felt like it, especially when he levered himself up into a sitting position with a groan.

And then, as if this weren't surreal enough already, Dean glanced around and saw the naked body of a man lying on the rocks beside him. It took Dean several seconds to even process the fact that he was not alone in the cave. It took him several more seconds to confirm that he did not know this man – the lean, muscular body and messy black hair were unfamiliar to him. Several more seconds, and he managed to convince himself that the man was not knocked unconscious as Dean had been, but merely sleeping, his head resting on his folded arms and his back rising and falling rhythmically.

So he had been staring for a good long while before he realized that only the man's upper body was safely on the rocks, and that the rest of him was hanging over the ledge into the water. The slightest movement could send him toppling in.

Dean reached out and closed his hand around the man's wrist, trying to keep him from falling. At just that slight contact, the man's eyes fluttered open and he twisted and stretched himself awake. And as his limbs flexed, Dean was finally able to make out the outline of his body beneath the shining surface of the water. Not legs, but a twisting mass of ropy tendrils that fanned out behind him, pulsing gently.

"Gshk!" Dean half-gasped, half-coughed, and let go of the man so suddenly that they both flinched, and the man slid backwards into the water with a splash. His head soon popped back above the surface. His lower body flapped like a jellyfish, keeping him afloat. Dean tried to focus on his face, but his eyes kept sliding back down to where his pelvis should have been, where his body split into many slender, tapering legs. An octopus. His dazed brain finally came up with the word. Octopus.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," the man said in a voice much deeper and much, much more human than Dean had been expecting.

"Where am I?" Dean demanded, his speech only slightly slurred.

"In a sea cave."

Dean stared at the wall and took a deep breath. "Thanks a bunch," he said through gritted teeth. "Yeah, I figured that out. Why am I in a sea cave?"

"I didn't think you wanted to re-surface right away, with the person who harmed you still in the cove. But I deduced that you might want to breathe some time before he left, so I brought you here." This was all said so matter-of-factly that Dean honestly couldn't tell if it was meant to be sarcastic.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Castiel."

"No, I mean..." Dean tried to gesture discreetly to the man's lower half where his legs still waved just under the water, but he ended up making a sort of frustrated flailing motion. "Who are you?"

Castiel squinted his eyes at Dean, regarding him very seriously. His shoulders shrunk down into the water, receding, almost as if he were embarrassed. "I should go," he muttered. In an instant he disappeared completely beneath the surface with a soft splash.

"Wait, wait!" Dean called after him, leaning over the rocky ledge to peer into the water. "How am I supposed to get out of here?" But he saw nothing but rocks and shadow and the reflection of the ceiling's blue light.

He waited. He couldn't be sure of how long, because time seemed suspended in that weirdly-lit underwater bubble, but he waited until the shock of meeting Castiel wore off and he started shivering again.

He found a loose rock on his perch and dropped it into the water, but he soon lost sight of it as it fell, and it made no sound when it landed (if it landed). Besides, even if he knew how deep the cave was, there was no telling how long or treacherous the tunnel leading to the surface would be. Could he even make it alone?

But the alternative was sitting in that cave, twiddling his thumbs and banking on the slim chance that Castiel would come back for him. So he eased himself into the water, took a deep breath, and let his head slip below the surface.

The pressure on his head was excruciating, but he continued to drop down until he felt his feet hit rock. Then, by the remnants of the light from above, he found a narrow tunnel. Though his lungs were already burning, he kicked and clawed his way through. His head ached so badly that he wasn't sure if he would be able to make another attempt if he were to give up now.

The tunnel was pitch-black for a few terrible yards. Then a light appeared up ahead. It was blue – not the cold blue of the cave, but the welcoming blue of morning sunlight filtered through shallow water. He burst out of the end of the tunnel and into the bright waters of the cove. Above him, he could see the sun through the glittering surface.

But it was too far. Though he kicked and swam, he simply did not have the strength or the air to climb those last few yards to the sunlight above. The paddling of his arms slowed before his eyes as he weakened. Instead of getting closer, the surface began to slip away. He was sinking.

There was a great crash as the glassy surface shattered, and the yellow light of the sun was replaced by a billowing flash of red. Strong, narrow fingers closed around his wrist and bit into his shoulder, and then he was being borne up, up, and finally breaking through into the air. He choked and gasped, barely aware that Anna was doggedly towing him toward shore.

Once he was safe on the sand, Anna pounded him on his back until he spit up the last of the sea water he had been on the verge of inhaling. "That's it, Dean," she said. "You're okay. Just breathe. Deep breaths. Come on, you can do it."

She waited for him to catch his breath before asking, "What the hell happened to you?"

Dean's mouth tasted of salt. He worked up a gob of saliva and spat it out, but the taste remained. "Long story," he said hoarsely.

"Where's the ship?"

And then, for the first time since he fell from the deck, Dean looked out over the cove. No Impala. No Crossroad Deal. There was not a ship to be seen. Crowley had made good on his word, and taken The Impala a prize.

"Son of a bitch."

(Chapter 2)

Five Times Castiel Went Down on a Woman and One Time He Didn’t (NC-17)

2013-09-11T04:48:06Z

Oops, I've been forgetting to update LJ with my new fics for a while! I'm writing less these days (school is intense right now) but I'm still writing. I'm more active on Tumblr and AO3, but I'll still try to crosspost here.

Summary: When Castiel told Dean that he was a virgin, that wasn't strictly true. (Cas/Anna, Cas/Pam, Cas/Jo, Cas/Daphne, Cas/Meg, Cas/Dean) WC~2000

Anna

Their bodies are made of light, and star-metal, and intent. Their intimacy is intensely cerebral, but somehow Anna manages to make it sexual, too. “Imagine that we’re humans,” she tells him.

“Why?”

“What must it feel like for them, with their bodies made of dirt? Everything is so immediate for them, so grounded in corporeal form. They are embedded in these shapes, these objects, and everything is filtered through them. They touch each other with their bodies because they can’t touch each other with their souls.”

Castiel feels her fascination pulse through him where their graces are connected. “That sounds sad,” he says.

“I don’t think so.” She plunges her grace into him, reading him from the inside out, the ecstasy of their closeness burning them both. “I know you, now. Every inch of you.” She pulls back and they become two separate beings again. “Humans can never get that close. Imagine that you wanted to touch my grace, but the closest you could get was fucking me with your tongue.”

“I don’t have a tongue.” But he tries to imagine. Instead of entwining their graces in effortless communion, he holds back, barely brushing her grace at the edges. He imagines being held back not by his own restraint, but by human physiology - wanting to know her more deeply and having no comprehension of how to do so, no way to even put it into words. And the yearning is so heart-wrenchingly poignant that for a moment he can understand how being separated by human bodies might be more meaningful than being able to know a person effortlessly, with a touch.

“That’s it,” Anna breathes, her grace crackling with sensation where Castiel touches her, and nowhere else. “That’s it.”

Pamela

He goes to the psychic, Pamela Barnes, to apologize for what he did to her. When she realizes who he is, her face contorts in fury, her glass eyes flashing in the light of her digital alarm clock. But then her expression relaxes into a sleepy calm, and she falls back onto her pillows with a sigh. “Well, I can’t say you didn’t warn me.” She reaches under her bed, pulls out a six-pack of beer, and offers Castiel a bottle.

A drink or two later, she’s laughing, and Castiel is marveling at humans’ immense capacity for forgiveness. He burned her eyes out of her head, and she’s waving her beer in his face and telling him jokes. When she kicks the covers off herself and opens her legs, revealing her naked body as casually as if she had done nothing more than cross her arms, Castiel can’t help but stare. Her labia are long and dark, her clitoris prominent where it pokes out from beneath its hood. “Never been with an angel before,” she says.

Castiel can’t think of anything to say except, “I’ve never been with a human before.”

“Hey, first times all around. Wanna?”

He does. But he hesitates, faced with Pamela’s unashamed certainty, her legs spread and inviting, propped up on her elbows to keep her face pointed toward him as if she can still see the confusion in his eyes. “Don’t be scared, kid, it’s not rocket science,” she says as she gently pulls his face down between her legs.

He doesn’t have time to wonder what to do, because she’s directing him constantly and clearly. “Harder. Harder - don’t be shy about it. Yeah, that’s good. Okay, don’t just stay in one place. Move around, use your tongue. Oh, hey, that’s nice! Keep doing that. Now suck on my clit. Gentle, gentle… yeah, just like that. Don’t stop.”

He satisfies her lust as she satisfies his curiosity. Humans are so new to him, and her guileless invitation into this most private aspect of humanity is a sweet gift. The object she inhabits is beautiful, every inch of it, and he worships the inches of it that she offers to him.

After she comes, she drags him up by his hair to suck her own wetness off of his lower lip. “I’d say you’ve got a natural talent,” she says as she flops backwards and falls asleep.

Jo

Jo invites Castiel into her bed on the night that will eventually prove to be her last night on Earth. “I can’t sleep,” she says.

“I can help you with that,” he says, reaching two fingers out to her head.

She slaps his hand away. “That’s not what I want.” Her gaze is so pointed and her voice so sure that not even Castiel can mistake her meaning.

“I heard you speaking to Dean,” he says. “Won’t this compromise your self-respect?”

She snorts softly - almost a laugh. “I’ve got plenty of self-respect. Enough that I can choose who I want to be with.”

“You want to be with Dean.”

“Well, yeah. Kinda.” Then, with a grimace, “But don’t tell him that.”

“Then why me?”

She sighs and looks away. Her eyes narrow. Then she turns back toward Castiel and holds his gaze as she explains, “This is an itch I need to scratch, not a promise I plan on making to anyone. You won’t expect anything of me. Dean would.”

Castiel can’t say that he fully understands, but he lets her roll him onto his back and straddle his face, grinding down against his mouth. He tries to participate, to kiss her flesh, to bring her hands up to touch her rolling hips, but she crushes his lips against his teeth and overwhelms him with her frantic, hungry movements.

She will die tomorrow. She doesn’t know it yet, but already she feels the press of danger on her skin, seeping in through the cracks. She fucks Castiel’s mouth, rocking her way toward orgasm, and soaks up how alive she feels in this moment.

Castiel has been drifting away from being an angel. The longer he spends in his vessel, the more trapped he feels inside this fleshy object. But looking up at Jo, her body twisting in pleasure, her hair flashing, her eyes desperate and brave, he finally sees that humans can also be made of light.

Daphne

Daphne loves him. He’s not sure what to do with that.

It would be easier if she didn’t love so hard, looking at him with stars in her eyes as if he were her own personal savior. It’s impossible to know if he truly loves her in return, or if his love is just a reflection of her devotion. He thinks it would be easier to tease out his feelings from hers if she would just love him in the normal way, but then he supposes that there is no normal way to be in love with someone.

She lies back and lets him take control. At first he doesn’t know what to do with the authority she grants him, but eventually he becomes accustomed to her trust. He’s gentle with her, so gentle. He takes his time tracing every line and fold of her with his tongue, tugging her slick labia between his lips, breathing into the fluff of her hair. She’s silent, but the shiver of her thighs against his cheeks tells him that he should keep going.

When he turns his head sideways, opens his mouth wide, and kisses her hard, she raises one hand and rests it lightly on his head, a breathy whimper escaping her mouth. He keeps kissing and sucking and dipping his tongue out to taste the tangy sweetness that’s pouring out of her, until she arches and cries out as she comes.

And when they’re lying together after, dozing off in each other’s arms, it occurs to Emmanuel that maybe Daphne wasn’t put on this Earth for the sole purpose of finding him on that lake shore, as she seems to believe. Maybe he was put on this Earth for the sole purpose of being found by Daphne.

He loves her, whatever that means. And he decides that, whatever happened in his past to get him to her, he’s with her now, and he’s never going to leave.

Meg

They move some furniture around.

Fucking Meg is an exercise in self-hatred. They are two broken things cutting each other on their jagged edges. But the pain is worth it to be that close to someone who understands how easy it is to fall through the cracks, and won’t judge him for it.

She sits on the couch, legs spread unconcernedly, and beckons to him. He falls to his knees in front of her. He almost approaches her slowly, but she grabs his head with both hands and presses his mouth against her vulva hard enough to hurt them both.

But it doesn’t matter that it’s too much, too fast, because nothing could ever be enough now that they’ve gotten a taste. Meg digs her fingers into Castiel’s scalp and twists at his hair. Castiel sets his knees against the floor for leverage as he rocks harder against her. Meg hooks her legs around his shoulders and drags him forward with her heels against his shoulder blades, and he answers by taking two handfuls of her ass. They tangle all their limbs together, pushing into each other as if each of their sins could cancel out the other’s, and they could find absolution that way.

After, Meg lies back and smiles at the ceiling as she mutters, “Fuck. I feel like I should be smoking a cigarette, just on principle.”

“Why?” Castiel asks, hugging her bent knee to his body.

“Never mind.” Then, “Do you think we saved each other?”

Castiel furrows his brow as he tries to understand. “From what?”

Meg closes her eyes. “Never mind.”

Dean

Even now, with all their secrets laid bare and Castiel kneeling at his feet, fumbling with the zipper on the front of his pants, Dean doesn’t look happy. “How many?” he asks.

“Five.”

“I thought you said you were a virgin!”

“Based on your adherence to archaic notions about sexuality, I deduced that you wouldn’t consider my past experiences to qualify as a loss of virginity. Besides, it was only two back then.” Castiel finally manages to open the zipper, but he hesitates before pulling down Dean’s pants. He looks up and says, “Do you want me less, knowing that I’ve been with others?”

“No,” says Dean quickly. Then his eyebrows twitch as he thinks about it some more, and he goes on, “Fuck, no! What? No!” He shimmies out of his pants and kicks them aside, just in case Castiel has any lingering doubts.

“Good.” Dean’s cock is inches from Castiel’s face, hanging half-hard. Castiel does nothing more than stare at it for a few seconds, breathing softly, and he watches it nudge upwards and grow. The head pokes out from beneath its foreskin, and Castiel leans forward to give its glistening surface an experimental lick.

Dean’s hand jerks as if it wants to grab the back of Castiel’s head and force it forward, but instead the hand closes in a fist and slams frustratedly against the wall. “Fuck…” Dean whispers, his eyes half-lidded as he looks down at Castiel laying little kitten-licks on the tip of his cock. When Castiel starts nuzzling the soft skin at the hollow of his hip, working his way across to mouth softly at the base of his cock, Dean raises his voice just a little, “Fuck, Cas, please…”

Castiel closes his lips around the head of Dean’s cock and slides slowly down its length, taking it into his mouth and then back into his throat, as Dean groans loudly and leans against the wall to keep his knees from buckling. Castiel presses forward until the short hairs over Dean’s pubis are tickling his nose, and then he draws back and sinks forward again.

It’s a different sensation, and a different taste, and different set of emotions compared to any kind of sexual intimacy he’s ever experienced before. They’re not exploring each other’s bodies, or offering themselves up to each other, or drowning in each other, or scratching an itch. Neither of them was made for the other. But somehow they found each other, and kept finding each other, and this - this sex that they’re finally fucking having - simply feels right. As preposterous as it seems, kneeling on the floor here with Dean’s cock slamming in and out of his mouth, Castiel feels as though he is exactly where he belongs.

Dean comes hot and bitter onto Castiel’s tongue. Castiel gives his cock two more long, slow sucks, making Dean whine in protest, before he slips his lips free and swallows.

“Fuck,” Dean groans, his limbs still shaking.

“I believe we just did,” says Castiel.

Dean stares at him incredulously for a moment before saying with a smirk, “Smartass.” He regains his footing remarkably fast, and tackles Castiel backwards onto the bed. When Castiel props himself up on his elbows, he finds Dean kneeling on the floor between his legs.

Dean yanks down the zipper on Castiel’s pants. “Your turn.”

Setting expectations at "diaper"

2013-03-17T06:27:36Z

A girl on one of the GISHWHES 2012 runner-up teams participated in GISHWHES 2011. She bought a "mystery item" from the shop for a not-insignificant sum of money. She received an adult diaper.

Now that we are beginning to receive our runner-up prizes and clues, I hold her story in my mind. I am not getting my hopes up.

Not that I need to. Just playing with the puzzle they've designed for us and hanging out with the other runners-up is massive fun. If all we get out of all this work is a little message from Misha, I'll be happy. If we get so much as a diaper, I'll be thrilled.

To the members of Team Widdermacker, QuicklyHuge, Robothead, BabySharks, fandom-orgy, and SuperWhoLockers: you are beautiful people and I love you all.

To the members of Teams (Sc)Avengers and 270Winchesterloveswishbone: where are you guys?

To the members of Team VaticanCameos: I KNOW AT LEAST A COUPLE OF YOU GUYS FOLLOW ME. JOIN US. YOU ARE MISSING ALL THE FUN.

Love,
Team Subtext

With Me (Dean/Cas NC-17)

2013-03-16T19:48:30Z

Dean shows off his new home to Cas, including a sexy tour of his bed. But the incident with Samandriel followed by Cas's disappearance is still weighing on them, as is Naomi's influence (though Dean is unaware of it). So when Dean tries to dominate Cas, some of that uncertainty creeps in and Cas has to step up until Dean regains control. (3K words)

Contains: d/s switching, forced orgasm

-----

The first time Dean leads Cas into the Men of Letters’ bunker, Cas stumbles. It’s nothing obvious – he doesn’t trip over the threshold or anything – there’s just a stutter of his feet as he takes his first steps inside. But to Dean, who’s been hyper-aware of Cas ever since he popped back up out of nowhere after being gone for months, he might as well have fallen on his face.

“What’s wrong?” Dean demands.

Cas doesn’t answer right away. He stares at his hands as if he’s only just noticed them, flexing his fingers experimentally. Then he takes a few quick steps backwards until he’s standing outside again. He steps back in, then out, then in again. Finally he looks up at Dean with wide eyes. “The protective wards on this place are impressively thorough.”

“Why, are they messing with your mojo?” Dean closes the door behind Cas, taking the opportunity to look at him from all angles. He can see it in the way Cas stands – slightly off-balance, like he’s not quite sure where his limbs are – the same way he used to hold himself during the short time that he was human. So Dean knows the answer even before Cas gives it.

“It seems that, within this bunker, I have no mojo to speak of,” he says.

“Huh,” says Dean. “How could the Men of Letters have warded against angels? They were long gone by the time you guys showed up for the apocalypse.”

“They were aware of our existence,” says Cas, not sounding too bothered by his temporary de-powering. “They used our feathers and our blood in their spells. It’s possible that they protected their strongholds against us purposefully. But it’s more likely that my grace falls within the scope of a more general ward against unrecognized magic.”

Cas begins to step forward, peering deeper into the bunker, but Dean holds him back. “You okay, then?”

He thinks about it for a second, and then Cas gives him a small but genuine smile. “Yes,” he says. “It’s a relief, actually.”

“A relief? From what?”

Cas blinks rapidly and stares at the floor. “I…” he stammers, “I’m not sure why I phrased it that way. I just mean that… I suppose I feel safe here.”

Dean’s mouth twists in frustration. Cas has been like this ever since he reappeared: cryptic, oblique, and completely unwilling to explain where he’s been and why he hasn’t been answering prayers. What answers he has given have been vague and contradictory. There’s clearly something going on, but damned if Dean can figure out what it is. “I guess that’s good,” he mutters. Then he perks up as he adds, “Let me give you the tour, okay?”

Cas follows him throughout the bunker, nodding and smiling as Dean describes the water pressure in the showers, the vast storerooms, and how excited Sam has been about the library. “Careful with that; it’s sharp,” Dean says when he notices Cas inspecting the scimitar in its holder.

“You cut yourself on it, didn’t you?”

Dean pouts a little. “No.”

“Liar.”

They hold each other’s gaze there for a moment, Cas with one hand still resting on the scimitar’s hilt, Dean bent over with his palms pressed flat against the table that stands between them. The corners of their lips twitch with irrepressible happiness. It’s such a simple thing, to be together, but it’s a luxury they haven’t enjoyed for a long time.

But after a moment, Dean’s smile sags with worry and he asks one more time, “Where’ve you been, man?”

Cas breaks eye contact to peer intently at some bookshelves instead. “I told you,” he mutters.

“You haven’t told me squat,” Dean barks, more harshly than he’d meant to. When Cas flinches, he softens his voice. “Are you in trouble? Is someone keeping you from talking? Come on, give me something. We can help.”

Cas fiddles with the tassel on the end of a bookmark. He ignores the offer for as long as he can, scanning the book titles, pretending that they interest him. Finally he looks over his shoulder to find Dean still staring at him and waiting for an answer. “There is nothing to help with,” he says.

Dean’s shoulders slump as he sighs. But he accepts the answer, if only because he knows he won’t get a straighter one. “Okay,” he says, pushing himself upright and crossing to the other side of the table, where Cas is still standing against the bookshelf. “Okay.”

He’s better at talking without words, anyway.

He grabs Cas’s head between his hands, thumbs digging in under his jawbones to angle his face up for a crushing kiss. They stagger with the impact of it, Cas’s back slamming against the shelf so hard that a couple of books fall out and flap their way to the ground.

Dean’s hands slide down the sides of Cas’s face and trace their way down his neck, rough and claiming. He pushes the coat off of Cas’s shoulders and unbuttons his shirt, shoving his hands through to the hot skin underneath. Grabbing and pressing, he tells with his hands and the press of his body how unbearable the last months have been. His fingers digging into shoulders and between ribs bely the quiet desperation and sleepless nights.

Cas accepts Dean’s smothering kisses and responds with gentle touches, his hands twisting into Dean’s shirt and stroking down his chest, each touch a silent apology. He doesn’t protest when Dean manhandles him away from the bookcase and steers him toward the table, nor when Dean bends him over it so his face is pressed against the polished wood.

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean mumbles to the back of Cas’s neck, nuzzling the furrow of his spine where it dips beneath his shirt. “You’re here now. You’re still mine.”

“Yours,” Cas breathes. He presses back to rub his rear against Dean’s crotch as Dean tears his suit jacket off and reaches around his to undo the buttons of his shirt. It’s hard to see with his face up against the table, but he turns his neck as far as he can until he manages to catch Dean’s eye. “You still haven’t showed me your bedroom.”

They don’t even bother picking up their clothes. Castiel’s coats, Dean’s shirt, and a total of three shoes are left in the library as Dean and Cas tumble into the hallway, still clinging to each other, stumbling, crashing into walls, nipping and kissing at every patch of exposed skin that they can reach. Castiel’s shirt falls away as they go, and Dean manages to kick off that last pesky shoe before they fall through the door to Dean’s room and slam it shut behind them.

Dean doesn’t give Cas time to comment on the room. On how he’s only bothered to decorate half of the walls. On how many chairs there are – more than Dean could ever need, even factoring in Sam. On how this is clearly the room of a person who has been waiting for someone to share it with him. Instead, Dean pulls Cas down into bed with him and crushes another kiss out of his lips.

Cas lies back, smiling and compliant, and lifts his hips so Dean can slide his pants and boxers out from under him. As Dean stands and takes off his own pants he keeps one knee pressed against Cas’s shin where it hangs over the bed, and when he reaches for the bottle of lube in his nightstand he has to stretch to keep one hand clenched over Cas’s thigh. Maybe it’s silly, but he can’t shake the feeling that Cas might fade and disappear if he takes his hands off of him even for a second.

Cas nods at the lube in Dean’s hand. “You were ready for me.”

“You don’t know that,” says Dean, unable to keep a tiny note of bitterness out of his voice. “You’ve been gone. For all you know I’ve been bringing dudes back here all the time.” He nudges Cas’s legs apart with his knees as he scoots onto the bed.

Cas opens his legs easily, making a space for Dean to kneel. He says softly, “Oh? And all these other men, were they in your bed with you when you were praying to me every night?” Then he gasps and arches as Dean presses two fingers, cold and slick with lube, between the cheeks of his ass.

“Shut up,” Dean mutters, leaning forward to kiss him as he slides his fingers inside one by one. “You know there isn’t anybody else.”

“Dean…” Cas groans. He tries to twist away. Dean holds him still with one hand held lightly around his neck. But when his gaping mouth tightens into a pained grimace and he says, “Dean, slow down!” Dean stops, two fingers buried in him almost to the second knuckle.

“Fuck,” Dean says. “Sorry. Forgot you’re not an angel in here.” He draws his fingers slowly back, then eases them forward. Tiny, gentle strokes opening Cas up bit by bit. “That better?”

Cas nods, his eyes fluttering closed, his cock twitching upwards and hardening. He reaches to stroke himself, but Dean grabs him by the wrist and slams his hand back onto the mattress.

“Let me,” he says, and he shifts both of their bodies so that he can crouch down lower between Cas’s legs and suck his cock. And Cas falls apart, panting, legs shaking, so much more responsive without the white noise of his grace drowning out physical sensation. He twists his fingers into Dean’s hair, and Dean allows it because he loves to feel the desperation in Cas’s grip. Cas whimpers, but doesn’t protest, as Dean pushes his two fingers in as far as they will go, pulls them almost all the way back out, and slides a third in beside them.

By the time Dean pulls away, letting Cas’s cock fall out of his mouth and sliding his fingers out of his ass, Cas is lost to the world. His hand slips free of Dean’s hair and falls to his side, where it clenches around a handful of sheets. His eyes are glazed and his jaw slack. His hips buck involuntarily against the air, and his legs are trembling where they rest over Dean’s hips. And it still blows Dean’s mind that he can do this. That he can reduce an angel to this.

When Dean brings his hips forward to touch the tip of his cock to Cas’s opening – just a touch – Cas moans so loudly that Dean would have been worried about a neighbor slamming on the ceiling if they weren’t in an underground bunker. “It’s okay, babe, look at me,” Dean murmurs, cupping Cas’s face in his hand and tilting it up. As Cas’s eyes clear and meet Dean’s, Dean presses gently but insistently forward. “Look at me. Look at me. Stay with me.”

Dean feels it as Cas gives way, and he slips an inch or two inside. Cas doesn’t so much as blink. He just stares up at Dean with that terrifying intensity, so vulnerable and yet so overwhelming, his eyes devouring Dean whole. It hits him that Cas is with him then, not just in the same room, not just in the same bed, not just because Dean is inside him, but at moments like these it’s like they are the same person, each filling in the gaps where the other isn’t quite complete.

As soon as the thought comes to him, he becomes aware that it won’t last. They can’t hold this balance forever. They will become two separate people, soon. Cas will leave his bed, and his room, and his life. And like always, there will be no guarantee that he will return.

Dean leans forward, slowly, and rests his forehead against Cas’s. Now it is Cas who is still, and it’s Dean who’s trembling. “Stay with me,” he repeats in a whisper.

“Dean…” Cas’s hands rise to grip Dean’s shoulders, his voice already soothing and apologetic. Dean’s hands grip back, tighter, hard enough to bruise, hard enough that his fingernails bite. There’s an explanation on Cas’s voice, another string of excuses that he can’t quite bring himself to put into words. “Dean, I…”

“No!” Dean barks. With one hand on Cas’s jaw he holds him, keeping their faces angled together. But he’s not claiming and commanding anymore. He’s holding on for dear life. “Don’t! Please, just…”

Cas catches him before he even knows he’s falling. With his arms wrapped around Dean’s body and his legs hooking around to press on the backs of Dean’s thighs, he pulls him the rest of the way in. Dean collapses against him with a moan, and it doesn’t matter that they’ve broken eye contact because Cas is still with him, all around him, limbs and breath and warmth.

Cas’s heels dig into Dean’s thighs like spurs, pushing him in and out, setting the pace. His hands are on Dean’s back and every grind of his fingertips and scrape of his nails writes into Dean’s skin the promises that he wish he could make. Dean’s face is buried in the crook of Cas’s neck. He has no will left, and no strength. It’s all he can do to cling to Cas as he’s pulled irresistibly toward orgasm and choke out, “Please, Cas. Please. This time… please, stay…”

When Dean comes he sinks his teeth into the muscle where Cas’s neck meets his shoulder, and doesn’t make a sound. His body tenses against Cas’s. His fingers dig in even harder, hard enough to very nearly draw blood at the points of his nails, hard enough to make Cas cry out as he comes right after, his legs still wrapped around the backs of Dean’s thighs and forcing him deeper inside.

As soon as it’s over, Cas lets go and falls back. His hands flop above his head, his wrists almost touching as though they were tied. He adopts this pose like a submissive puppy and looks up at Dean as if he hasn’t done anything at all.

Dean has to catch his breath as he pulls out and leans back onto his hands and knees. He’s still reeling with the suddenness of it, but the sorrow and desperation are gone. When he reaches down to run his hand up Cas’s chest, up his arm and around his wrists, he’s rough but he’s back in control.

“Stay with me,” he repeats once more, an order this time instead of begging.

And because Cas knows that now Dean can bear to hear it without breaking, he answers, “You know I can’t.”

“Yeah. I know.” But he doesn’t loosen his grip on Cas’s wrists.

Cas cocks his head, questioning. “Dean?” Then he arches up and sucks a pained breath through his teeth as Dean uses his free hand to give his softening cock a long, rough pull. His hands tug against Dean’s grip, but more as token resistance than an earnest effort to break free. Dean strokes him again, base to tip, squeezing him where he’s already raw and far too sensitive. This time, Cas writhes and shakes as the overstimulation makes his body convulse.

Dean loosens his grip and settles into a gentler rhythm. He can see it in Cas’s face when he realizes that Dean isn’t just teasing – he’s trying to get him to come a second time.

“I don’t think I can,” Cas pants weakly.

Dean doesn’t stop. He just leans down to nuzzle behind Cas’s ear. “Sure you can. Gotta make up for lost time, right? And I can keep this up all night, so sooner or later…”

Cas lies back and surrenders to it, but he can’t stop his body from bucking up off the mattress, fighting against Dean’s grip on his wrists, and letting his breaths grow so ragged that he’s moaning with each movement of Dean’s hand on his cock.

“Hurts…” he hisses.

Dean freezes. “Bad hurt?”

Cas blinks, startled. He looks down as he thinks about it, then he looks back up at Dean with a smile. “Good hurt,” he sighs. Then he whimpers and shivers as Dean begins jacking him off again.

It doesn’t take all night, but it takes a good long time. Cas is near to sobbing by the time the soft flesh in Dean’s hand begins to respond and harden. Then it’s just a matter of time before the pleasure overwhelms the pain and Cas’s strangled cries deepen into lustful moans. It’s a battle to reach climax again, and Cas’s body is rigid with the effort of it. His hands are clenched into fists, and his toes curl into the blanket. When Dean leans down to kiss his chest and belly, his skin is taught over rock-hard muscle and beaded with sweat.

But Cas fights his way toward it, and Dean pulls him along, until a single splash of white joins the cum already streaking Cas’s abdomen. That’s all, and then Cas’s cock spasms around nothing as he screams in frantic, overwhelming release.

Dean finally lets go. Cas immediately rolls over and clings to him, arms around his shoulders and legs locked around his waist. Dean returns the embrace and holds him while the aftershocks continue to make him jerk and whine.

“You good?” says Dean when Cas finally falls still.

“Can I stay here tonight?” Cas mumbles, his face still pressed against Dean’s chest.

Dean holds him tighter and scoots them both up so that they’re lying comfortably, pillows under their heads. “Psh,” he says. “Like you really think I’m gonna tell you no?”

Cas sighs contentedly as Dean finds the covers where they’ve been kicked toward the foot of the bed and pulls them up over Cas’s body.

Then, quietly, Dean asks, “You gonna be here when I wake up?”

Cas manages to banish his exhaustion for long enough to open his eyes and brush his fingers down Dean’s face. “Maybe,” he says.

“Okay,” says Dean. He slides into bed beside Cas and holds him close. They never get much time together. Dean is used to making the most of it. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here now. You’re still mine.”

“Yours,” Cas whispers as he falls asleep.

Comic Con Open Registration

2013-02-16T22:04:28Z

Whether you got a badge or not, you have to admit that that was a clusterfuck. I was not prepared. I thought with our seven people on at least fifteen devices, we would stand a good chance of getting two people in line in good enough positions to get four-days. We managed to get exactly one person in line, and by the time she reached the checkout there were only single-day badges left. I didn't get one.

I understand that the demand for Comic Con badges is much higher than the supply, and judging by the comments on the official Facebook page I'm far from the only person who struck out this morning. But it seems really unfair that I could be there at 9AM sharp, clicking away at six computers while everyone else in the library stared at me, and come away with nothing. I never even saw the inside of the waiting room.

Oh, well. We'll see what happens in May during badge resale.

wallmakerrelict @ 2013-02-02T22:31:00

2013-02-03T06:31:26Z

My friend Emily has fabulous dogs (these would be the same dogs who "walked" me on camera for GISHWHES). The floor of her house is always littered with dog toys. Today there was a new one and it looked unfortunately, inescapably like a 2-foot-long double-ended dildo. So much so that, try as I might, I could not resist sharing my observation.

Emily's response: "Yeah, I thought of you when I bought it."

This is who I have become to my friends. I am the kinky sex fiend. Not that I mind, but...

Of course one of the dogs saw me holding the thing and thought it was play time. This led to Emily uttering the words, "She's not going to throw it for you; she just picked it up because she thought it was a dildo."

Gishtrinkets? :D

2013-02-02T18:04:35Z

Seriously, though. It's been months since GISHWHES. It's been over a month since they announced the winners. I was beginning to think they'd forgotten about us. But apparently the delay was because, instead of tossing us some merch and having done with us, they've been cooking up a new puzzle for us to solve! I feel so loved!

There's been some debate about whether that "ALL" applies to all of our team, or all the runners-up. Being as it's Misha, I would not put it past him to make it the latter. So if you were also a runner-up last year: Hi! I represent Team Subtext. Would you be interested in forming an alliance?

Oh yeah, and:

wallmakerrelict @ 2013-02-01T11:20:00

2013-02-01T19:20:46Z

I have a confession to make. I fucking love Project Runway.

On the surface it's the exact opposite of what you'd expect me to watch. I hate reality TV, I aggressively don't care about fashion. But I don't know, it's just a huge guilty pleasure. It's the only reality TV show that I'll watch besides RuPaul's Drag Race (because come on, it's RuPaul's Drag Race) and The Bachelor (because my roommates watch it and I like to sit off to the side and keep up a stream of snarky commentary until I get too disgusted and walk out).

But Project Runway is just so much fucking fun. Part of it is Heidi and Tim, who actually know their shit and don't fuck around. Part of it is watching people with skills I can't comprehend do amazing things with small amounts of time. Part of it is schadenfreude when some of the contestants crash and burn. Part of it is the pretty pretty runway shows.

And this season is awesome because they're making every challenge a team challenge. It's seriously funny to watch all these people come in saying, "I'm a lone wolf, I work best on my own, I'm looking out for number one," only to be thrust into a group and graded on how well they work within it. My only problem with this format is that, if the worst designers are in the winning team or if the best designers are in the losing team, they don't get reviewed by the judges. But that will be less of a problem as the field gets thinned out.

And then there's Michelle - this awesome, butch, smoking-hot, Portlandian who describes her style as "geek chic." I squeed. I just hope she doesn't turn out to be an asshole because I want to root for her SO BAD!

Why did no one tell me about Portal 2?

2013-01-21T18:36:42Z

I'll admit it. I'm a snotty elitist who thought that a sequel couldn't possibly live up to the genius of the original. That's why I refused to play Portal 2 for so long, even when I started hearing that it was actually really pretty good. And then even after I'd decided that I probably couldn't avoid it forever, I put it off because I was busy with school and video games are the death of productivity.

But my boyfriend let me play the first few levels on his computer to cheer me up when I was having a bad day, and before I even hit the first real level I was inextricably hooked.

The Portal series are, hands down, the most immersive games I have ever played. Open-world games like Elder Scrolls and Fable (which I love) claim to be trying to immerse you, but the character-building and leveling and planning and glitching and finagling eventually take all the life out of it. It's not immersive to sit at a level-up screen trying to decide into what skill to put my next batch of points. It's not immersive to fiddle with a metric fuckton of little slidey bars, each of which modulate your facial structure by a fraction of a centimeter, trying to perfect a face that you will rarely if ever see in gameplay.

Portal slaps the character creation screen out of your hand with a, "No. Fuck you. Fuck your slidey bars. You're Chell, and Chell is awesome. You don't need to be anyone else. You don't get an open world either. What do you want that for? So you can wander around the countryside forever, bouncing along so you can level up your jump skill as you go? No, here's a progression of test chambers. Solve them. Now go here. Now go here. Oh you don't know how to go there? You've got a ASHPD; figure it out."

There's nothing wrong with a linear game if the plot is good. There's nothing wrong with constraining you to a preset character if that character is flawless.

Now, I didn't much like puzzle games before I played the first Portal, because I always found them either easy enough to be boring or hard enough that I needed to go to the Wiki for the answer. And nothing kills immersion faster than reading a tutorial and shouting at your computer, "WHAT? I would never have figured that out in a million years." But somehow Portal always strikes the perfect balance. The tests are sometimes frustrating, but they are never unfair. While I don't have the fastest play time by a long shot (my brother makes fun of how often I get stuck), in two games I've never had to go online for help.

And then there's the characters.

It's been said before, but I can't get over how awesome Chell's design is. Usually, when a game's protagonist is voiceless and rarely-seen due to first-person mechanics (eg. Gordon Freeman, Master Chief), they are implicitly or explicitly a white dude. That's the default; that's the "everyman." That's who your character is if you want their identity to be unobtrusive.

Chell is a woman of color. There's no official word about her race, but she's quite clearly female and quite clearly not white. I can't tell you how important it is to me to have a game where the player surrogate looks like me.

And fuck everyone who says that boys won't play games about female characters unless they're Lara Croft and they can back her into a wall to see her tits. Portal is a fucking awesome game and boys play the shit out it. The only difference is, so do girls because we finally feel like we've been invited to the party (or at least that no one will leer at our cleavage if we decide to show up).

I read an interview with one of the creators saying that they accentuated Chell's feminine proportions in the second game along with turning the top of her jumpsuit down and putting her in a tank top. Okay, fine. I saw her in Portal 2 and she wasn't at all sexualized. But if (WHEN) Portal 3 comes out, I'd better not find out that you put her in spandex and turned the slidey bars on her boobs and ass up to eleven.

I'd also better not find out that she's not in Portal 3, because as far as I'm concerned there is no Portal without Chell.

Wheatley was great. I was a little apprehensive about a new character, but he turned out to be delightfully dorky and, later, terrifyingly stupid.

But GLaDOS is where it's at.

If I'd known beforehand how much Portal 2 would go on to humanize GLaDOS, I would have thrown the game across the room. But somehow they pulled it off, and it didn't feel at all forced or like a Flanderization of her character. She remained delightfully evil, but the addition of Caroline's backstory provided some beautiful depth. The sections of the game where I was running around the old Aperture labs with GLaDOS impaled on my ASHPD were some of my favorites.

The gameplay remained ridiculously, pants-wettingly, endorphin-explodingly fun. I loved the fact that Wheatley got the equivalent of a drug high every time I solved a chamber, because it was clearly a nod to the same rush the player feels (complete with acknowledgment that replay value is not very high for these games). I was worried about new gimmicks detracting from the elegance of the ASHPD, but the gels were loads of fun and only added to the experience. There were some moments during the later parts of the climb where I got a little peeved at the game - it seemed like it was less about strategy and more about finding the one speck of portal-able wall in a giant chamber - but all in all the gameplay was masterfully balanced.

Now for a short list of MY FAVORITE PARTS in no particular order:

1. "How are you holding up? Because I'm a potato."

2. The bit right after you first escape the test chambers, when GLaDOS lures you into familiar-looking room and then gasses you to death. I'm not too proud to admit that I totally fell for it. It was completely in-character, and it played on the fact that the first part of the game had trained you to look for that kind of room and that kind of door. Great way to snap you out of that mindset.

3. The opening. Flying around with Wheatley, catching glimpses of the ruins of Aperture through the holes in your crumbling pod, getting an idea of not only how long you'd been asleep but also the incredible scale of the facility and the loss of human life associated with it. And then you get dropped into the same room in which you started the first game, and shit gets real.

4. GLaDOS: "This is the part where he kills you."
Wheatley: "This is the part where I kill you!"
Chapter Title: "The Part Where He Kills You"

5. The motherfucking boss fight. Especially the moment where you, "I can see the moon! Wait. Moon. Moon rocks. Portal... Oh, fuck me sideways this is gonna be good."

6. SPAAAAAAAAAAACE! SPAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACE!

7. All of Cave Johnson's recordings. Flawless writing, flawless voice acting.

8. The ending. My boyfriend insisted on being in the room so he could see my face when the turrets started singing.

9. Wheatley's improvised test chambers. That entire sequence was delightfully character-driven.

10. The way GLaDOS fixed up the rooms as you arrived. I know it was a small thing, but I never stopped being creeped out by the way the walls kept rebuilding themselves and the broken pieces of the floor kept flipping back into place. All the better when a piece got stuck and couldn't quite get back into perfect alignment.

11. "Goodbye, Caroline."

Okay, now when does the next game come out?

wallmakerrelict @ 2013-01-20T17:46:00

2013-01-21T01:46:30Z

Okay, guilty as charged. I've been off playing on Tumblr and neglecting LJ. I still post my fics here, obviously, but LJ should be more than that (besides, that's what AO3 is for).

I'll try to be a little more active here. But even if I'm not posting entries, I still check my flist, so I am here and I love everyone in this bar.

LJ Is Alive!
A Multifandom LiveJournal Friending Meme
Tumblr is great, but my fandom heart is in LJ.

It's About Time to Fly Away (Dean/Cas PG)

2013-01-08T01:41:07Z

Summary: Dean grooms Cas's wings after reuniting with him in Purgatory.

Written for deancas_xmas, for Zutara Believer, who said, "Anything goes!"

Title from the song It's About Time by Barcelona.

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Dean had spent so long looking for Cas that having the real thing in front of him was kind of freaking him out. For months, every flash of movement in the trees that even began to look like a tan trench coat had set Dean's heart racing. His eyes, no matter what else they were doing at the time, had always been searching for Cas's face. Now his heart refused to slow down, and his eyes didn't know where to go except to Cas.

Benny led the way as they hiked out of the riverbed. Dean dropped to the back of the group so he could keep Cas in sight at all times. He couldn't shake the feeling that Cas might fade and disappear if he so much as blinked.

But Cas apparently wanted to keep an eye on Dean, too. He walked slower and slower until Dean caught up with him. Soon they were walking side by side, each comfortably in the other's peripheral vision.

Benny glanced back at them, only to roll his eyes. "Don't mind me," he said, "If you want to hold hands, go right ahead."

Dean resisted the urge to take Benny up on that.

Just as the sun started to dip below the tree line, rain clouds rolled over the opposite horizon. "Looks like we'd best be getting under cover," said Benny, nodding toward the sound of thunder.

With a sudden purpose to his strides, Cas took the lead. He cut a path through the underbrush slightly left of where Benny had been leading them. "I know this area," he said, "There's shelter in this direction."

Large, fat raindrops were beginning to fall when Cas finally reached his destination: a rocky cave in the side of a hill whose mouth was mostly hidden under a spray of ferns. They all ducked inside, and a few minutes later they heard the steady splash of raindrops turn to pounding sheets of water. "Good call, Cas," said Dean, tapping the back of his hand affectionately against Cas's arm.

Benny quickly added, "Yeah, I'll hand it to you – I'm glad we're not sleeping in that mess." Then he clapped a hand on Dean's shoulder. "I'll take first watch. Give you two some time to catch up."

"Thanks, man," said Dean as Benny installed himself at the mouth of the cave, just out of the rain.

When Dean turned back around, Cas was nowhere to be seen. Just mossy rocks and the inky blackness where the cave cut deeper into the hillside.

"Cas?" Dean called out, inching into the darkness.

When Cas answered, "Here," Dean's relief was so profound that he thought he felt his heart stutter. He reached out, scooting his feet one in front of the other until his fingertips touched the fabric of Cas's coat. He took a handful of it. A second later, Cas's hand closed around his wrist. "Follow me," said Cas, pulling.

Dean staggered forward. "How deep does this thing go?" As they went around a bend, the darkness became complete. Dean couldn't see the light of the cave entrance or Benny's silhouette behind him. As far as he knew, the only real things left in the world were the stone beneath his feet and Cas's hand on his arm.

"We've reached the end," said Cas. He sank downwards. Dean grabbed at him, trying to keep him from falling, until he realized that Cas was just sitting down.

Dean sat beside him. "What are we doing all the way back here?" he asked. "I can't see a thing."

He heard Cas shift from side to side. "While I understand that you trust Benny," Cas said, "I hope you appreciate that his presence makes me uncomfortable."

"Oh," said Dean. "Right." Here in the dark with Cas, he'd almost forgotten all about Benny. As close as they had become, to Dean Benny would always be war and danger and fighting back to back against an enemy that never stopped coming. Benny was a foxhole on some distant battlefield. But now Cas was here, and to Dean Cas was home. His year in Purgatory already felt like a fading nightmare.

"About Benny," said Dean. "I don't want you to think…"

Cas interrupted, "I left you alone. I am in no position to judge you for the choices you made in order to stay alive."

It would have been easy to leave it at that, but Dean knew better than to keep secrets from Cas. Secrets had only ever caused them pain. "See, thing is… It was more than just staying alive. Benny's had my back this whole time. He's my friend."

There was a rustle of fabric, and then Cas's hand rested on Dean's thigh just above his knee. "Dean," he said. "I know."

"How…" And then he figured it out. "My prayers."

"Yes."

They sat quietly for a while. The only sound that reached Dean's ears was the soft whisper of their breathing and the distant pounding of the rain outside. He was nodding, about to doze off, when he felt Cas shift next to him and heard the rhythmic scratching of fingernails on fabric. The steady cadence of Cas's breathing broke into uncomfortable sighs.

"What's the matter?" said Dean.

"Nothing."

"Cas…"

Cas cleared his throat before answering, "My wings are… bothering me."

Dean remembered Cas's wings, what little he'd seen of them. A shadow of raven's plumage on a barn wall, a condor's wingspan when he'd faced down Raphael. Dean had even seen them fully formed and in the flesh that night before the final attack on the Leviathan, when they'd spread to fill the Impala from windshield to backseat, as soft and white as a snowy owl's. But they were just a piece of Cas's grace. Dean never thought of them as actual limbs that could get cramped or itchy or wounded.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

"No," said Cas, still scratching miserably, "They just haven't gotten the proper attention lately and…"

Dean groped in the darkness until he found Cas's arm. He followed it around to where the hand was scratching at a shoulder blade, and stilled it with a touch. "Let me see."

Dean felt, rather than saw, as Cas shrugged his way out of his overcoat. He could hear it as Cas pulled the scrub top over his head. And maybe it was just a distant memory, but he could have sworn that he could see the outline of Cas's bare chest and back against the rocky cave wall.

And then, all at once, he really could see it. The perfect darkness suddenly faded into a soft blue glow, casting shadows on the rocks and illuminating the curve of Cas's spine where he sat hunched on the ground. The light was so subtle that it took Dean a moment to figure out where it was coming from. Dean had been looking for the great, sweeping lines of the wings he remembered. He didn't expect the pair of fragile-looking things that now clung to Cas's back, lit from within by his grace. They were all sharp points and delicate bones, so small that the tips of the longest feathers didn't even touch the ground. They looked like they belonged to a swallow, not an angel.

And they were filthy. Feathers jutted out, and some were bent at right angles. Some of the grime was recognizable as dried blood. Dean couldn't tell whether it belonged to Cas or someone else.

"Jesus, these are a mess," said Dean. He crawled around to sit behind Cas, inspecting his wings without touching. "I don't even know anything about wings and I can tell these are a mess. Why didn't you do something about this?"

Cas reached around to scratch at the topmost joint of a wing. Dust plumed from under his fingers, and a few loose feathers fell away. "Angels groom each other's wings. I haven't had anyone to do it for me in a long time."

"You can reach. You could have done it yourself."

Cas shrugged. "There didn't seem to be much of a point."

Dean could understand that. How many times had he looked down at his hands, blood ground so deep in the creases of his palms that he couldn't tell if it was from today or yesterday or a week ago, and decided that it wasn't worth the time it would take to wash them. Not when tomorrow's blood might be his own. "Okay," he said. "Okay. Can I?"

Cas's wings folded outwards ever so slightly. Dean could have sworn that they even got a little bigger. Their color changed too, becoming darker and glossy, like a starling. "Yes," he said.

The front of Dean's shirt was still damp from the rain where he coat hadn't quite covered it. He peeled it off of himself and began to use it to scrub the dirt off of Cas's longest feathers. The progress wasn't encouraging. Even when the dirt and grime fell away, the feathers underneath were ragged. "I don't think I'm doing this right," Dean mumbled.

"You're doing it perfectly," said Cas. His voice was soft and dreamy. His wings, in Dean's hands, melted into a downier texture and took on a creamy color. A dove.

Dean kept chipping away at the caked grime as Cas's wings relaxed into his touch. Soon they were completely slack, draped over his arms. He pushed his fingers through the smaller feathers at the top of Cas's wing, freeing the loose and broken ones clinging to the skin. He threw the little cloud of feathers away and repeated the motion twice more in the same spot until his hand came away clean.

As Dean worked, Cas's neck bent slowly to one side, going as limp as his wings. His shoulders vibrated with sensation. Dean honestly couldn't tell if this was a sexual thing or if it was the angel equivalent of a really good foot rub, but he didn't care. It was enough that Cas was here, and that Dean was allowed to put his hands on him, and that Cas was enjoying it.

His shirt went dry before he was even half done with the first wing. Soon he was just spreading dirt around instead of removing it. "Just a sec," he said, standing. Cas made a small noise in the back of his throat, but he didn't open his eyes even when Dean shuffled back out toward the mouth of the cave and left him alone.

Benny was sitting right where Dean had left him, just inside of where the rain was spattering through the ferns that covered the cave opening. "You'd best get some sleep," he remarked. "You'll be standing watch soon. Don't want you dozing off on the job." Benny didn't need sleep in the strictest sense, but he stayed more alert if he got to take breaks. Early on, they'd figured out a system that allowed them both to get the rest they needed, and they'd stuck to it. They only made exceptions if one of them was seriously injured or sick.

"Maybe we'll stay here an extra day – let us all get rested up before we head out," said Dean, holding his shirt out in the driving rain. He waited until it was soaked through before wringing it out and wetting it again, getting the worst of the dirt off of it.

"Maybe," said Benny dubiously. "But you're still on guard duty for the last half of the night."

Dean wrung his shirt out one more time, and this time the water flowed more or less clear. "Fine," he said as he moved back toward the dull glow of Cas's grace at the back of the cave.

This time, when he took his place behind Cas and resumed wiping the dirt off of his feathers (now a dull jaybird blue), Dean couldn't quiet his mind and enjoy the gentle intimacy. He mentally backtracked over every time he'd mentioned Benny in his prayers, trying to figure out how much Cas knew and how much Dean still had to tell him.

One by one they came back to him: all the prayers that he had whispered into the night. Not just the ones about Benny, and not just the ones he was proud of.

He remembered the times he'd despaired, crying and begging for Cas to come back to him.

The times he'd said goodbye, assuming Cas to be dead, only to pray again the next night: I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it. I know you're out there. I'll find you.

The times he'd been wounded and delirious, and when he woke up Benny had told him that he'd spent the night talking nonsense and calling out for Cas.

And the times he'd lashed out, shouting terrible, cruel accusations into the sky.

You abandoned me.

You don't even care if I die out here, do you?

If you can hear me, you bastard, don't ever bother coming back!

"You really heard them all?" said Dean, surprising himself with the sound of his own voice.

As if Cas had been reading his mind, he answered, "Every one."

Dean's hands, which had been combing loose feathers out of the base of Cas's wing, slowed and stopped. "I'm sorry, Cas. If I'd known why you left, why you were staying away… I'd have kept my mouth shut."

Cas, who had been sitting slouched over blissfully, his eyes closed and his mouth open, suddenly straightened and turned to look Dean in the eye. One of his wings was more or less clean; the other was still matted and filthy. Both puffed up and spread out, turning as white as a swan, and his voice became as deep and sure as Dean had ever heard it. "No. The only thing that would have been more unbearable than hearing you asking for me every night when I couldn't go to you, is if you'd stopped."

Dean picked with his fingernail at the crust of dirt where Cas's feathers became skin. "Some of the things I said…"

Cas reached behind himself to grab Dean's hand. He pulled it forward, and Dean with it, until Dean's chin was resting on his shoulder. "Your anger was justified," he said, "But what I remember most is your faith."

"Cas…" Their lips were so close. If Cas would just turn his head a little more. If Dean would just lean forward a bit farther.

Dean almost didn't hear the echo of footfalls on bare rock approaching them. It didn't occur to him who it was until he recognized the first few whistled notes of "In the Hall of the Mountain King."

He didn't move or change his expression, but Cas's wings flashed out to either side, suddenly so huge that they filled the little chamber. Their color was a fierce tawny, like an eagle. "Easy," said Dean, carding his fingers through the feathers soothingly. "It's just Benny."

Embarrassedly, Cas's wings shrank down to hummingbird size and became a pale green color. They were so small that his wingtips just barely reached his elbows.

"Stay," said Dean, pulling his hand free of Cas's grip and patting him between the shoulder blades. He scrambled upright and went to intercept Benny just before he rounded the corner. It wasn't like he felt that he had to protect Cas from Benny – that wasn't it at all. But it felt wrong to let Benny walk in on Cas with his wings out. That was a sight that only Dean had earned the right to see.

Dean planted himself in the middle of the passage, crossing his arms and blocking Benny's way. Benny tried to peek over his shoulder, looking for where the soft blue light was coming from, but he soon gave up. "It's your turn to keep watch," he said.

"C'mon Benny," said Dean. "Give us some more time."

"We've got rules," Benny reminded him.

"Well, I'm breaking them. Just this once." Benny didn't look impressed. Dean added with a sigh, "Don't worry; I'll take a double shift tomorrow to make up for it."

Benny took a step forward. Dean held his ground. They ended up standing so close that Dean was tempted to make a comment about personal space. "I know you're happy to have your friend back," said Benny, almost whispering, "But we're not out of the woods yet. Don't let your guard down."

"It's one night," said Dean.

"No, it's not. I'm not stupid, Dean. I've seen the way you look at him. He's your weak spot." Then he dropped his voice even lower, so that Dean had to strain to hear him. "You're stronger without him."

It took Dean a moment to put it together. After all this time, after all their searching had finally paid off, Benny was actually suggesting that they should leave Cas behind. The idea was so alien to Dean that he felt his arms and chest tighten, instantly on the defensive. "What's the point of all this, Benny?" he said, his voice more hostile than he meant it to be. "What're you fighting for?"

Benny didn't hesitate. "To get home."

"Yeah, that's what I thought," said Dean. "Now listen up: for me, Cas is the point. The whole point. If I can't keep him with me, then it was all for nothing."

"What about getting back to your brother?"

"That, too."

Benny gave Dean a condescending smirk. "What if you can only have one or the other?"

Dean set his jaw. "I'm having both."

"But what if…"

"No," Dean interrupted, poking a finger at Benny's chest. "I'm done making the hard choices. I'm done sacrificing my family for the cause. I'm gonna get out, and I'm gonna bring Cas with me. I'm not looking at any other options. Got it?"

Benny held up his hands and pivoted away with a little bow, the picture of gentlemanly defeat. "I'll be standing watch."

"Thanks," Dean sighed, the fight gone out of him.

Benny paced back toward his sentinel spot, whistling again, while Dean made his way back to Cas. He immediately plopped back down and went to work on the opposite wing. The hummingbird green was gone, replaced by feathers the color of coal. Dean thought they looked like a crow until he thumbed his way through to the flash of crimson underneath and recognized a red-winged blackbird.

"You shouldn't antagonize your vampire friend," said Cas. "He's your only way out of this place."

Dean shrugged. "He's not going anywhere. He's just being a bitch because… heh. You were listening?"

"He's right. You're weaker with me than without."

A speech composed itself in Dean's head, about how Cas had done nothing but make him stronger from the day they met. About how Benny's idea of weakness was inextricably linked to what Dean considered to be happiness. About how, even if Cas did make him weak, Dean would embrace that weakness because he'd rather have Cas than be strong.

He didn't say a word of it out loud. Instead, he muttered gruffly, "How about you shut the fuck up?"

Cas laughed and leaned back, pressing his wings against Dean's hands. "I've missed you," he said.

"Just don't leave again, okay?" said Dean, lacing his fingers gently into Cas's feathers in a way that had nothing to do with getting them clean.

Cas turned his head until Dean couldn’t see his face. "I’ll do my best."

Brave Boy (Dean/Cas NC-17)

2013-01-06T09:37:06Z

Summary: Castiel uses ropes, a belt, and a game of trials and rewards to show Dean that he's stronger than he thinks.

Contains: explicit sex, fairly intense pain play, bondage, trust!kink, praise!kink

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There was a little hook in the ceiling above the bed in the hotel room. It was stainless steel, screwed through the plaster and into the beam. It looked like it might have once held a light fixture, but now it was bare.

Castiel stared at it while Dean unpacked.

"You getting ideas?" Dean asked, following Castiel's gaze.

"Are you going back to the car before bedtime?" said Castiel. He was still looking at the hook.

"Yeah. There's one more bag in the back seat."

Castiel's eyes dropped from the ceiling to where Dean was kneeling and fishing through his duffel. "Get the rope while you're there."

Dean tried to hide his excitement, but his face lit up anyway. "You got it," he said. He disappeared back out into the chilly darkness for several minutes, and when he returned he was carrying a backpack slung over one shoulder and several loops of rope over the other. His cheeks were flushed from the cold. "Sam saw me," he admitted with a sheepish smile.

"Did he say anything?" said Castiel, putting the backpack aside and taking the rope from Dean. He ran the rope through his hands, separating out the different lengths and making sure he wasn't missing any, before laying them out on the bed. Only then did he begin removing Dean's jacket.

Dean held his arms out to make Castiel's job easier. "He definitely noticed the rope," he laughed, but his voice was throaty and quiet. His mind was clearly no longer on Sam. "I think he's down at the front desk asking them to move his room farther away from ours."

Castiel couldn't help but chuckle. "Arms up," he said. Dean complied. Castiel pulled his shirts over his head one by one until Dean was standing bare-chested in front of him. Then he fixed him with the sort of stare that made Dean flinch and look at the ground. "Take off the rest of your clothes," he said, his voice going deeper. "Hang your belt over the headboard. Kneel on the bed, under the hook."

Dean immediately began following Castiel's orders, stripping out of his pants and boxers, but he couldn't help but ask apprehensively, "You gonna string me up?"

"No. It won't hold your entire weight." Castiel didn't elaborate further. He shrugged off his coats and hung them over a chair before loosening his tie and undoing the first few buttons on his shirt. Then he looked up to find Dean still standing next to him and staring. "What did I say?" Castiel growled.

Dean scampered to the bed, taking his place beneath the hook and placing his belt where Castiel had told him, muttering, "Sorry."

"I won't forbid you from speaking," said Castiel as he slowly made his way to the bed. He stepped up onto it, walking across the duvet to tower over Dean's kneeling form. "But if it will distract you from following my orders, I may have to gag you."

His head bowed, Dean repeated even more softly, "Sorry."

Castiel relented. He couldn't bear to scold Dean for long. With one finger under Dean's chin, he gently raised his face. When Dean met his eyes, Castiel said, "Now be good and hold still for me."

Dean didn't move a muscle – he barely breathed – as Castiel crouched behind him and bound his legs together at the ankles and knees.

"Raise your arms above your head," said Castiel. When Dean did so, he bound his wrists with the bight of a fifty-foot length of rope. There were two long tails hanging from the knot when he was done. Those he looped over the hook in the ceiling, and pulled the free ends to take up the slack. Every pull brought Dean's arms higher until he was fully stretched out, a bowed line from knees to fingertips. When the rope was just taught enough to be uncomfortable, Castiel tied the ends to the knot at Dean's wrists and leaned back to admire his work.

Dean struggled to keep his knees under himself, wobbling on his tiny point of balance. Castiel steadied him with a hand on each hip. He slowly let go as Dean straightened. Dean had to grab the rope running from his wrists to the ceiling and pull in order to keep himself upright, and the muscles of his torso and legs twitched as he made tiny adjustments to maintain his balance.

"Good," said Castiel as Dean grunted with the effort of it. Then he took the belt off the headboard, and Dean abruptly fell silent.

"Cas…" he breathed. His shoulders clenched, anticipating the sting of the belt. Cringing. Afraid.

Castiel folded the belt in half and snapped it on itself. The sound made Dean's whole body shake, and he almost lost his balance again. Castiel knelt behind him and kissed the back of his neck until he quieted, then he whispered in his ear, "I'm going to hurt you. I want you to trust me."

The words forced a whimper from Dean's throat. But Castiel was looking down over his shoulder and he could see that he was already half-hard.

"Do you trust me?"

"Yes."

"Do you want me to hurt you?"

Dean hesitated this time, but then he said resolutely, "Yes."

"And to stop me?" Castiel reminded him.

"Safeword."

Castiel nipped Dean's earlobe affectionately. Then he stood up, gripped the end of the folded belt, and swung it across Dean's shoulders with a sharp crack. Dean's eyes fluttered closed and he swallowed hard, but he didn't make a sound. Castiel gave him one more, swinging the belt backhanded this time, and the impact forced the air from Dean’s lungs in a stunned sigh.

As he swung again and again, the belt flying in a figure of eight, Castiel paid close attention to every breath, every twitch, every whimper. Dean may have had incredible reserves of personal strength, but that didn’t mean he was unbreakable. Far from it. Castiel had seen for himself the way that Dean could fall back into Hell, back onto Alistair’s rack, if the pain ever became too cruel or arbitrary.

Pain was a powerful tool in this game of trust. But it was important that it remain a game, a give and take, a conversation, and that it never dip into what Dean could possibly perceive as mindless torture. Castiel could wield pain to both of their advantage, but he had to be careful. So, so careful.

So he started slow. Little cracks of the belt over and over, little stings that grew into a crescendo of pain. Then, just before that low whine in the back of Dean’s throat cracked and became a sob, he backed off. He let the belt fall noiselessly and painlessly against Dean’s back once, twice, letting the rub of cool leather soothe the reddened skin. Then he started again.

“Cas…” Dean whimpered. The puffs of breath that he let out with each impact soon turned into grunts. Those soon turned into groans. With each cycle of pain – slackening, intensifying – his skin became more and more tender. It took a while, but eventually he was twisting in his bonds, yelping and screaming and trying to get away from the lash of the belt.

Just before panic truly began to set in, Castiel turned the final swing of the belt into a gentle arc that wrapped it around Dean’s chest. He grabbed both ends, using it to pull Dean back against him. Dean’s hot, inflamed shoulders pressed against the front of Castiel’s pants while his head fell back to rest against Castiel’s belly.

Dean’s eyes were screwed closed. His chest heaved with every breath, fighting the pressure of the belt. “Are you with me?” said Castiel gently.

“Cas, please…” Dean turned as best he could to look Castiel in the face. His eyes were wet – not crying, but close.

Castiel put the belt aside and knelt in front of Dean. With one hand on each side of his face, he wiped Dean’s eyes dry with the pads of his thumbs. He knew better than to take the tears as a sign of weakness. This had very little to do with pain tolerance. Castiel had seen Dean drag himself back to the Impala under his own power with multiple broken bones; the pain of this flogging was nothing compared to what he’d endured in his life. But the act of making himself completely vulnerable was enough to drag up all manner of unexpected emotions.

“You’re doing so well,” said Castiel, and Dean immediately brightened. “So well. I’m going to give you twenty more. You can make all the noise you like, but I want you to try to keep still. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Dean, eager to earn more praise.

The skin of Dean’s back was raw and beginning to become uneven as welts rose. When Castiel took the belt back up, he kept his swings light and rhythmic – enough to sting, but not enough to overwhelm. Enough to be a challenge, but not enough to make his orders impossible to follow.

Dean swore sharply at the first few blows, then he lapsed into loud groans. His entire body tensed, trembling. But he didn’t try to dodge or twist away. He took each swing of the belt beautifully until Castiel said aloud, “Twenty,” and let the last one fall.

This time when Castiel knelt to check on him, Dean’s eyes were dry. But his face was flushed with exertion and he was breathing through clenched teeth.

All Castiel gave him for his trouble was a brief kiss on his forehead and a terse, “Good.”

Dean managed a weak laugh. “That’s all I get?”

“Did you want a spanking too?” said Castiel, unable to suppress a grin.

Dean leaned forward, trying for a kiss. The ropes stopped him before he could reach, and he had to shimmy back into position to keep from falling over. “Please?” he said with a winning smile.

Castiel held up the belt. “One more for a kiss,” he said, and Dean nodded eagerly.

But what Dean didn’t know as Castiel stood and positioned himself was that the game was only now truly beginning. All the little stinging blows he had taken so far had worn him down, warmed him up. Made him ready for the true challenge.

This time, Castiel swung so hard that the belt made a quiet whooshing sound as it flew through the air. It landed with a crack, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to make Dean arch and bend, screaming in surprise as this one lash hit him with more pain than the last twenty. He overbalanced and fell forward, the ropes around his wrists taking his weight.

Castiel bent down and gave Dean the kiss he’d promised. At first Dean didn’t respond. He just gasped for air, choking back tears, and whispering between kisses, “Not fair… you… fucking… bastard…” But as the pain faded he managed to get upright again, and kissed Castiel back as forcefully as he could manage while still bound hand and foot.

“You’re right,” said Castiel, stroking Dean’s cheek gently, “That was duplicitous.”

Dean’s shoulders were still tight and his voice strained as he became accustomed to the ache setting in. “If by that you mean it was a fucking dick move,” he muttered. He stuck his chin out, lips pursed, silently asking for one more kiss. Castiel gave it to him. He’d earned it.

“Let me suck your cock,” said Dean as soon as Castiel pulled away.

Castiel tried to sound threatening when he said, “Do you think you’re in a position to be making demands?” but Dean just flashed his eyebrows cheekily. He’d figured out Castiel’s game.

“I’ll do anything you want,” he said. His smile wavered in anticipation.

“Good,” said Castiel. “I want you to count to three.”

Before Dean could ask what he meant by that, Castiel was on his feet with the belt in his hand again. Dean braced himself for it this time, his hands gripping the ropes white-knuckled, his toes curling, his head ducking below his trembling shoulders. Castiel swung another deep, bruising blow. Dean howled in pain when it landed, but he managed to stay upright.

Castiel waited a few seconds for Dean to catch his breath before prompting him, “Well?”

“One!” Dean barked out between gasps. Another blow came down right on top of the first. “Two!” Dean pitched forward, trying to soften the final blow, but it still cracked across his shoulders hard enough to make his voice shake as he said, “Three…” and panted with relief.

This time Castiel took a few minutes to cuddle up to Dean, pulling him back from the edge with little nuzzles at his neck and fingers massaging into his hair. “Well done,” he whispered, his lips brushing Dean’s collarbone.

Castiel could tell that Dean had recovered somewhat when he said slyly, “So where’s my reward?”

“Coming right up,” said Castiel. He rolled off the bed, kicked off his shoes, and began unbuttoning his fly. He hadn’t stopped to notice until now how uncomfortably hard he was. The inside of his boxers was sticky with pre-cum.

“Looks like it’s already up,” said Dean with a smirk.

Castiel pulled his tie and his shirt over his head, leaving himself completely naked, and stepped back up onto the bed. “I’d tell you to be quiet,” he said, “But I don’t think that will be a problem for much longer.” He teased the head of his cock against Dean’s lips and Dean opened wide, inviting.

The pain of the whipping had made Dean’s cock limp, but now it twitched back upwards as Castiel fucked his face. Castiel pressed in deep and hard, making Dean’s eyes water with the effort not to gag. But then he eased back and gave Dean room to breathe. Dean’s eyes flicked up to watch Castiel’s face as he rolled his tongue against the head of his cock. Moaning, Castiel pressed forward again even more forcefully. Dean answered with a moan of his own, the vibrations making Castiel’s cock throb so hard that he had to grab Dean’s arms to steady himself.

And then Dean was bobbing his head forward and back, rubbing his tongue against the underside of Castiel’s cock as he swallowed him back as far as he could manage. Castiel’s knees nearly buckled. He dug his fingertips into Dean’s arms, his shoulders, and then even his back where painful welts were rising up and deep bruises were blooming. That only seemed to encourage Dean, who didn’t stop even though his cheeks were turning red from lack of air, even though he was drooling out the side of his mouth.

Castiel was on the verge of coming when he reluctantly grabbed Dean’s head and stilled him. He pulled back so that the head of his cock was just inside Dean’s lips – enough to let Dean breathe, but not enough to let him rest his jaw or stop the drool from dripping down his chin.

“Are you trying to flip me?” Castiel demanded breathlessly. It wouldn’t be the first time Dean had taken the dom role from Castiel in the middle of a scene. It wouldn’t even be the first time he’d done so while still tied up.

Dean mumbled something unintelligible around his mouthful of cock. Castiel pulled the rest of the way out with a fond smile. Dean was finally able to close his mouth, work his jaw back and forth, swallow, and clear his throat. Finally he repeated, “You wish.”

“Hardly,” Castiel replied. “I’m not finished with you yet.” He jumped off the bed and went to retrieve one of the duffels on the other side of the room. Dean twisted and turned, trying to see what he was doing. Castiel took a little longer than he needed, just to give Dean time to squirm.

When he returned to the bed, he was holding a large, tapered, silicone butt plug and a bottle of lube. Dean’s eyes lit up when he saw it.

“Do you want it?” Castiel asked.

Dean nodded, practically licking his lips.

Castiel held up one hand, fingers splayed out. He watched as Dean figured out what it meant, his face going from hopeful to resigned.

“Five,” he groaned. “Okay, give it to me.”

When Castiel took up his place behind Dean, belt in hand, he hesitated. Dean’s back was flaming red and striped with welts and bruises. Castiel couldn’t help but swing a little gentler than before, and wince in sympathy as the belt cracked against Dean’s flesh.

Dean screamed, but it was due more to anticipation than actual pain. He froze as it registered how soft that blow had been compared to the last set. Slowly, he turned to look at Castiel, and there was something dangerous in his eyes.

“Don’t fucking go easy on me,” he growled.

Castiel instantly understood. This game hinged on Dean enduring something unpleasant for the sake of earning a reward. If Castiel went easy on him, the game was over. The challenge was meaningless. The reward was gratuitous. He had earned nothing.

An apology would have only made it worse, so Castiel answered with another lash of the belt. The hardest one yet. This time Dean’s screams were from pain, but even so they sounded strangely satisfied.

“Thank you,” he said through gritted teeth. “One.”

By the time Dean croaked out a weak, “Five,” he was rocking back and forth and his fingers were scrabbling at the rope as if his body were trying to run away from the pain. He started laughing. Then he started sobbing, but he managed to turn it back into a laugh before he could break down completely.

“That’s my boy,” said Castiel. “That’s my good boy.” He gave Dean a kiss for free and held him as his body trembled, waiting for the terrible sting to fade to a manageable ache. With Dean still shaking in his arms, Castiel dabbed some lube onto his fingers and reached down to nudge them between the cheeks of Dean’s ass.

Dean made a strained sound as Castiel worked his fingers in slow circles, pleasure warring with pain. Pleasure finally won out when Castiel added more lube and pressed one finger inside. Dean practically purred.

Castiel smeared the plug with lube and used it to replace his finger. He fucked Dean with it, in and out by inches, pushing just a little deeper with each thrust. Dean melted. Soon he was hanging slack by his wrists. His only movement was to twitch his hips back to meet each thrust of the plug, rough little mewling sounds spilling from his open lips.

When Castiel reached the widest part of the plug, he pushed it slowly past the ring of Dean’s ass. Dean’s mouth fell noiselessly open, his eyes half-lidded, until the plug was inside him up to its flared base. Only then did he let out the breath he’d been holding as a long, satisfied sigh.

“Good?” said Castiel. He pulsed his fingers against the base of the plug, making it vibrate against Dean’s prostate.

“G- Ah! Fuck!” Dean let out a cascade of the neediest moans Castiel had ever heard him make, followed by, “Yes, good, good!”

Pre-cum was beading at the tip of Dean’s cock. He was close. Castiel took his hand off the plug and let it rest still, not wanting Dean to come too early. Dean flexed and clenched, trying to get the plug moving again, but the ropes didn’t allow him enough range of motion to get himself off.

“Please, Cas,” Dean groaned, “C’mon. Please?”

Castiel rested his hand against the base of the plug, but didn’t move it. “Do you want to come?”

“God, yes!” Dean whimpered, “Fuck, fuck yes, please!”

“I can fuck you with this plug until you come,” said Castiel, making Dean shudder with want, “And it won’t cost you a thing.”

Dean fell silent. He knew Castiel well enough to realize that there was a second option coming.

Castiel leaned in close to whisper in Dean’s ear. “Or you could have me instead.” He pressed his erection up against Dean’s hip to make his meaning clear. Dean groaned aloud. “But you have to do something for me first.”

“What do I have to do?” said Dean, but Castiel could tell that he’d already made up his mind.

“Give me ten more.”

There was a “yes” on the tip of Dean’s tongue, but he swallowed it and turned pale. “Ten?” he asked.

Castiel nodded once. When Dean hesitated again, he said, “I wouldn’t ask this of you if I weren’t sure you were capable of it.”

Dean swallowed twice more. He flexed his back, testing out how sore it was. Then he gave a resolute sigh and said, “Okay. Yes. Okay, I’ll do it. I can do it.”

Castiel buried his face in Dean’s hair and kissed his temple. “I know you can,” he said.

The belt fell hard, leaving bruises on top of bruises. The first few blows were made all the worse by the knowledge that there were so many yet to come. After only three, Dean had come unbalanced and was leaning on the ropes. They cut into his wrists, but he made no movement to right himself.

“Four.” There were tears on his cheeks. “Five.” He was gasping for air. “Six.” He could barely get the word out.

“Seven.” The belt cracked against Dean’s back for the eighth time, its sound nearly drowned out by Dean’s screams. He sagged in his bonds, sobbing helplessly. Castiel waited. Dean could take all the time he needed. That was the point of the counting – to let Dean choose when the next blow would fall.

But instead of giving the next number in the sequence, when Dean next spoke it was to say, “Cas. Cas. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

For a moment neither moved. Dean knelt, bound, trembling. Castiel stood over him, the belt dangling from his hand. Then Castiel slowly walked around in front of Dean, got down on his knees, and took Dean’s face in his hands. Though his eyes were pointed down in defeat, Castiel could see untapped reserves of strength left in them.

“Dean, listen to me,” he said. Dean tried to turn away, but Castiel held him still. “Two more. You can give me two more.”

“No, I can’t,” said Dean. “Please, Cas. It hurts. Please don’t make me.”

The words were like knives in Castiel’s chest, but this was too important to just let slide. “You think you’re weak,” he said, and finally Dean’s eyes rose to meet his. “But you’re wrong. Do you trust me?”

Dean nodded, his eyes bright and scared and confused.

“Then trust me when I say that you are strong enough to bear this. I know it’s hard. But I want you to do this for me. Be brave for me.”

Dean’s brow knitted and his teeth clenched, and for a second Castiel couldn’t tell whether it was pain or anger showing on his face. Then his eyes closed. He fell still. He forced himself to take a long, deep breath.

He opened his eyes and said as clear as a bell, “Eight.”

Castiel made himself stand and take up the belt one more time. The urge was so strong to reward Dean’s courage by sparing him more pain, but it was more important now than ever not to go easy on him. It wasn’t enough to tell Dean how strong he was. Castiel had to show him that it was true.

The belt snapped against Dean’s back, and for a moment it looked like he was finished. He collapsed, letting the ropes take his weight once more. His mouth opened in a silent scream. His face turned pale, then flushed as his breath caught in his throat. Castiel was about to comfort him when Dean suddenly gasped and coughed out, “Nine!”

Castiel swung the belt for the last time.

Before Dean was even finished shouting, "Ten!" Castiel was dropping to his knees, yanking the quick-release on the ropes around Dean's wrists. Dean began to slump forward, but Castiel caught him and held him upright in a strong embrace.

Dean trembled and jerked in Castiel's arms. Castiel nuzzled the back of his head, his neck, and whispered in his ear, "Good boy. Good boy. I knew you could do it, my brave boy." Dean’s face was transcendent with anguish and triumph mixing in equal parts.

With no warning, Castiel drew the plug out of Dean and replaced it with his cock. Dean threw his head back against Castiel’s shoulder, and this time his groaning was happy instead of pained. He rutted backwards against Castiel as best he could with his legs still bound.

“My brave boy,” Castiel said again. He wrapped his arms around Dean from behind and fucked into him, picking up the pace little by little and replacing Dean’s pain with ecstasy. “My darling. My love. My everything.”

They toppled over so that Dean’s face was pressed into the mattress, muffling his groans. Castiel was on top of him, his chest pressed against the heat of Dean’s back. He kept thrusting into Dean, bringing them both closer and closer to the edge, and never stopped speaking into his ear, “I knew it from the moment I first laid hands on your soul. There was no one better than you, no one more beautiful. No human, no angel. No one else for me but you.”

Dean was far beyond words. Castiel could feel his own powers of speech deserting him as his orgasm crept up on him, muddying his mind and making him stammer as he said, “Can’t believe… you’re mine. My beautiful… perfect… Dean, I love you…”

He reached around to grip Dean’s cock, and with the barest touch Dean was coming, pouring out over Castiel’s hand and onto the mattress. That was enough to send Castiel over the edge, and with one more thrust he came inside Dean, the words, “I love you,” still rolling off his tongue.

They laid together, sticky with cum and sweat, until Castiel finally managed to push himself upright. He untied Dean’s legs first. Dean’s body was limp and pliable, so Castiel spent some time arranging him in what looked like a more comfortable position. Then, while he waited for Dean to rejoin the world, he sat cross-legged beside him and began massaging his wrists where the ropes had left shallow imprints.

“Love you,” he said, kissing each of Dean’s fingertips before setting his hands back down.

“Love you, too,” Dean muttered in return. His voice was still groggy with bliss, but his eyes were focused again.

Castiel ran his fingers gently down Dean’s back, feeling the unevenness of the welts there. Dean closed his eyes and grunted softly in protest.

"I can heal you now, if you want,” said Castiel.

"No!” Dean said, his eyes flying open. “No. It… it's good. I'm good."

Castiel cocked his head. "You're not in pain?"

Dean shrugged, then immediately winced. "It hurts, yeah,” he said, “But… Aw, you know how it is, right? I want to feel it. It reminds me. I earned it."

Castiel understood perfectly. He beamed down at Dean proudly. “Does that mean you enjoyed it?”

“Heh,” said Dean, closing his eyes and smiling. “I don’t know if ‘enjoyed’ is the right word. But I’m glad I did it, you know?”

Castiel watched Dean rest for several minutes. He wasn’t even sure if Dean was still awake when he finally asked, "Did you really want me to stop?"

Dean’s eyes opened, and he began to laugh. "Yeah,” he admitted, “Yeah. Man, I thought I was done for."

"I wasn’t sure…” said Castiel, troubled. “You didn’t use your safeword. I would have stopped, you know.”

Dean levered himself up as best he could and put a reassuring hand on Castiel’s leg. “I know, babe. It’s okay. I’m glad you kept going. Like you said, you knew I had it in me.”

“Yes,” said Castiel. “But just because you’re capable of something doesn’t mean you’re bound to do it. You could have stopped me. If you really wanted me to stop, you should have.”

But Dean shook his head. "But that's the point. That's the fun of it. You take me to where I want to stop, and then you show me that I've got just a little more left in me. I can go a little further, a little longer. Wanting you to stop is good. I'll safeword if I need you to stop."

Castiel stared at Dean for one stunned moment. Then he smiled. “Agreed.”

Dean returned the smile sleepily. He raised his arm, inviting Castiel to lie with him. “C’mere,” he said, yawning, “Tell me more good things about me.”

Castiel curled up against him, arranging the arm over himself like a blanket, and whispered a constant stream of praise into Dean’s ear until he fell asleep.

He meant every word.

A Love Full of Landmines (Dean/Cas NC17)

2012-12-19T10:14:49Z

Summary: Castiel invents a spell that will lock his powers away temporarily so that he can experience sex as a human. But once it's activated, he finds himself feeling more vulnerable than he'd anticipated. There are terrible memories waiting to ambush him, and he needs to rely on Dean to pull him through. (WC~5000)

Warning: explicit sex, blood and needles (as kink), PTSD, references to past torture

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"You sure about this, Cas?"

He asked it once more, even though Castiel had lost count of how many times he'd reassured him, even though the tourniquet was already on his arm and Dean was kneeling over him with a hypodermic needle in his hand. Even then, Dean stopped and asked.

"I'm sure," said Castiel.

Dean opened his mouth to say something else, but then he closed it again. Castiel clenched his hand once, pumping more blood into the vein that swelled at the crook of his elbow. Dean scrunched his nose.

"Are you sure?" Castiel had to ask.

Dean turned the needle over in his hand and sighed. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah. As long as you're positive it'll work."

"It will work," said Castiel. He fell silent for a moment to watch as Dean rested the point of the needle against the vein and nosed it gently but firmly under the skin. Blood welled at the hub. Dean pulled the tourniquet off and held up a silver bowl to catch the first few drops. A slight adjustment of the needle, and the drops became a weak stream. At first the contents of the bowl looked watery as blood mixed with the heparin Dean had added, but then the blood overwhelmed the anticoagulant and became thick and crimson.

"How do you know?" said Dean. It took Castiel a moment to remember what they had been talking about.

He tore his attention away from the blood spilling out of his vessel and replied, "Well, obviously it's never been tested. I had to write it myself. There were no existing sigils for taking an angel's powers away."

Dean glanced at the cheat-sheet Castiel had provided him. It was covered in Enochian scribbling. "Does it have to be this long?"

"There are some redundancies, but I thought it best to leave them intact for now," said Castiel. "I may be able to pare it down eventually, if it works."

"I thought you said you were sure it would work," said Dean with a cheeky grin. The bowl was almost half-full. He pulled the needle out of Cas's arm and pressed a piece of gauze over the puncture. "Put your arm above your head."

"It will work," Castiel repeated. He pulled the gauze off. The wound was already healed.

"Right," said Dean, shaking his head with a smile. "And you're sure you can turn it off after?"

"Blood will complete the spell, and blood will break it," Castiel explained. He motioned to the knife he'd set on the bedside table. "When we're finished, just erase my blood with your own."

Dean retrieved a paintbrush from the nightstand. He swirled the blood in the bowl and blew out a long, slow breath. "Okay," he finally said. "Shirt off. Lie on the bed."

Castiel unrolled his left sleeve from where it had been bunched up around his shoulder to make room for the tourniquet, then unbuttoned the shirt and discarded it. He reclined on the bed. Dean followed after, kneeling over his supine form.

Dean spread the sheet with the Enochian sigils next to Castiel's head where he could easily see it. He dipped the paintbrush in the blood and dabbed it against the edge of the bowl so it wouldn't drip. Then he hesitated and asked one more time, "You really sure about this?"

Castiel resisted the urge to strangle him. "I have answered that question multiple times, Dean," he said. "Please get on with it."

"Being human isn't all it's cracked up to be, you know."

Dean's rueful tone made Castiel pause. He reached up and cupped Dean's face in his hand. "I want this," he said. "It's not about becoming human. I want to be with you without my powers. To be closer to you."

"I like you with your powers," said Dean, leaning his head against Castiel's hand. "They keep you safe."

"I don't need to be kept safe from you."

Dean gave a dark, nervous little laugh, as if he weren't quite sure that was true. But he freshened his brush with more blood and bent down to draw the first line on Castiel's chest.

The touch of the brush tickled a bit, and the blood was cool where it began to dry against Castiel's skin. Dean was quick and precise. He wrote the first line of Enochian from one shoulder to the other, just under Castiel's collarbones.

"Am I doing it right?" he asked.

"I can't see," said Castiel. "But I didn't feel you make any mistakes."

"Let me get a mirror so you can make sure." Dean almost got up, but Castiel grabbed his wrist and pulled him back down. Dean sighed, "I just don't want to screw up and make the spell do something it's not supposed to."

Castiel squeezed Dean's hand before letting go. "You're doing fine." Dean wrote the next line, and this time Castiel paid attention to the order and direction of the brushstrokes on his skin so that when it was done he could say, "Perfect."

Dean nodded and kept going. Soon he had moved far enough down Castiel's chest that Castiel could watch. The symbols made lovely rows and columns in deep rust-red, each exactly as Castiel had written them on the paper. Dean licked his lips in concentration as he mimicked Castiel's pen-strokes with his brush. Castiel considered complimenting him again, but instead he closed his mouth and watched Dean's face as he worked.

The light touch of the brush was so at odds with their usual rough grabbing and holding, pressing and biting, that the anticipation made Castiel swell within his pants. He couldn't help but roll his hips up rhythmically against where Dean was sitting on him. If Dean noticed, he didn't say anything.

Dean had just reached the bottom of Castiel's sternum when he paused and said, "Last one."

"Do it," said Castiel.

With a few more flicks of his brush, Dean completed the final symbol. As soon as the brush left skin after the last stroke, every line on Castiel's chest flared to life, burning itself onto his grace. He gasped. His hands clenched at the sheets below him. Dean immediately placed his own hands over Castiel's, steadying him through those few seconds of pain before the light dimmed. When it was over, the symbols had turned the dull brown of dried blood. Dean swiped a finger over one of them, to no effect. He licked his finger and tried again. The mark refused to be removed.

Dean frowned. "You're sure you can reverse this, ri… Are you okay?"

It took Castiel several seconds to answer. The spell had worked; his powers were locked away. He could feel his grace pulsing against the cage of the sigils, intact but unable to exert its force. Without it, he was reduced down to his vessel, unable to filter out the sensations that bombarded him. Even the swell of air in his lungs as he panted, the expansion and contraction of his ribs, and the pressure of Dean's weight seated against his groin were overwhelming.

He managed to focus his eyes on Dean's worried face. "I'm fine. I'm… good," he said, feeling an intoxicated smile creep over his face. "Kiss me."

Dean pulled Castiel upright, scooting back so he was sitting in his lap, and if Castiel had thought the rush of air filling his chest had been amazing it was nothing compared to the touch of Dean's lips on his own. He threw his arms around Dean's neck, pulling him close and crushing their mouths together again and again.

"So I guess it worked," Dean mumbled out between Castiel's kisses. "Does it feel better this way?"

Castiel held Dean's face in his hands, keeping their mouths close enough that his lips brushed Dean's as he spoke. "Not… better. Different. More connected."

"Really? Could have fooled me." Dean walked his hands up Castiel's sides, pressing his fingers into the spaces between ribs. He flicked at Castiel's nipples with his thumbs until Castiel was quivering, then squeezed them until Castiel let his head fall against Dean's shoulder with a groan.

When Dean dropped one hand down to palm the bulge between Castiel's legs, tugging with his other hand at a nipple and latching his mouth onto Castiel's neck, Castiel was forced to stammer out, "It's better, it's better!"

And it made sense, even to Castiel's lust-addled mind. Angels weren't built for sex, not the way humans were. No matter how much pleasure he'd taken in his times with Dean, the sensation was always filtered through his vessel and drowned in the white noise of his grace. But not now. Now he felt everything, in that all-consuming way that he'd watched Dean enjoy time and again. This was what he'd wanted. To feel what Dean felt. To give himself to Dean as completely as Dean gave himself to Castiel.

"More!" he growled into Dean's ear. "Take me!"

Dean shoved Castiel onto his back, unhooked his belt and his fly, and yanked his pants off so roughly that his hips were pulled up off the bed. The slide of fabric on skin was delicious, especially when the loose end of his belt snapped against the inside of his thigh. Then Dean was lowering himself down onto him, his jeans rough against Castiel's bare legs, trapping Castiel's cock between his belly and the front of Dean's pants. Dean hooked his arms under Castiel's shoulders and kissed him. This time he didn't let Castiel control the pace. He kissed him long and slow and deliberate, laying claim to his mouth.

Castiel shook under Dean and offered up his lips eagerly, invitingly. But he also reached down the back of Dean's shirt and scraped his nails up Dean's back, making him arch and moan even as he kept planting deep kisses on Castiel.

When Castiel's nails bit a little too hard into the skin between Dean's shoulder blades, Dean pulled his hand out of his shirt with a growl. Castiel managed a cheeky head-tilt before Dean grabbed both his wrists and pinned them above his head.

A groan rose up unbidden from Castiel's throat as Dean bent down and went to work sucking a chain of bruises into his neck. He made a short, token show of struggling against Dean's grip, then relaxed and bent his neck to give Dean better access.

As Dean moved up to nibble his ear, Cas flexed his arms again, trying without really trying to escape. He could barely budge Dean's hands at all.

And that's when it began to occur to him, as he strained harder and harder only for Dean to hold him tighter and tighter. Every other time they'd played this game, Castiel's struggling was purely for show. He'd always had more than enough strength to break free if he'd really wanted to. But now, as he pulled in earnest and still couldn't manage to work his hands loose, he realized.

Dean was stronger than him. Castiel was completely at his mercy.

And that thought, which had been so erotic when it was just a possibility, somehow became terrifying now that it was a reality. Dean could refuse to let him go. He could hurt him. He could violate him. He could even kill him, and Castiel would be powerless to stop him.

Of course, Castiel trusted Dean not to do any of those things. But then, he had also trusted his siblings, and that hadn't stopped them from holding Castiel in Heaven and punishing him for his disobedience. Torturing him. Invading him in every way, until he'd submitted. And now that old repressed fear bubbled to the surface. Sweat broke out over his entire body. His stomach turned over and over in knots. His chest constricted at the memory of fighting with everything he had and still not being able to free himself from the horrible cruelties of people who claimed to love him.

Castiel didn't realize how hard he was struggling, yanking with all his might, thrashing, screaming, sobbing, until Dean leaped off him with his hands in the air. "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Dean shouted. He scooted toward the foot of the bed, giving Castiel space. "I'm sorry, Cas, I'm sorry!"

Castiel scrambled away from Dean, pressing himself against the headboard as he tried to catch his breath. He wanted to reassure Dean, but it was all he could do to keep himself upright and hold down the bile that was rising in his throat. He looked at Dean, pleading him to understand, making little choked noises as he tried to speak.

Dean held up one hand and reached out with a soothing motion. "Take your time," he said. "Here…" He crawled over to the bedside table, making sure to keep his distance from Castiel, and retrieved the knife that was lying there.

He was pressing the knife to his inner arm, getting ready to make the cut, when Castiel recovered enough to say, "No, wait. It's fine. I'm fine."

Dean paused with the blade just shy of cutting his skin. "You are not fine," he said. "You are the opposite of fine. I'm breaking the spell."

"No," Castiel coughed. He laid a hand on Dean's arm, pulling it away from the blade. Dean let himself be moved even though he didn't look convinced. "Please, Dean, put the knife away. Will you just hold me?"

Dean set the knife back on the nightstand. Tentatively, he reached out for Castiel. First he laid a hand on his cheek, then on his shoulder. When Castiel showed no sign of fear, he pulled him slowly to his chest. Castiel curled up there, crumpled in Dean's lap with his head resting against Dean's shoulder. Dean draped his arms around Castiel gently enough that he could easily move away if he felt like it. There they stayed until the cold sweat on Castiel's skin went away and his breathing evened out to a calmer rhythm.

Only then did Dean say, "Can you tell me what that was?" When Castiel hesitated, he quickly added, "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. I just need to understand so I don't make it happen again."

"I should have anticipated it," said Castiel, his voice more composed now. He felt safe there in the box created by Dean's limbs and chest. He absentmindedly began tracing lines between the freckles on Dean's neck with his finger. "I'm sorry."

"Don't fucking…" Dean almost snapped. Then he began again, calmer. "Don't apologize for something I did to you."

"It wasn't your fault." Castiel drew his finger down Dean's neck to his shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "It was… that feeling of powerlessness. For a second, it… reminded me of when… my time in Heaven."

Dean sounded confused when he answered, "Your time in Heaven? Before you met me?"

"No." Castiel didn't want to say it. Dean felt guilty enough already without knowing exactly which memories he had accidentally dragged up. But he deserved to know. "The other time. You know the one."

Castiel felt the exact moment that Dean figured it out. Dean froze, then shuddered, then took one hand from where it was resting on Castiel's back and brought it to his own face. When Castiel looked up, Dean had clapped his hand to his mouth and was staring at nothing, his eyes wide and his brow furrowed. From behind his hand came a mumbled, "Son of a bitch!"

Castiel twisted himself around to look at Dean directly. "It wasn't your fault," he repeated, pressing his forehead to Dean's. "You didn't know."

Dean's gaze kept sliding away from Castiel's, their eyes never quite meeting. "Why didn't you use your safeword?" he asked.

Castiel didn't want to admit that, in his panic, he had completely forgotten about it. "I was going to. I would have. Eventually."

Finally, Dean's eyes rose to meet Castiel's gaze. "No, not eventually," he said. "Something even starts to feel wrong, you stop me. Got it?"

"I've got it," said Castiel.

Dean kept looking into Castiel's eyes and playing absently with a lock of hair at his temple. Finally, he spoke again. "And I'll stop myself, okay? It's not all on you. Maybe you're right – maybe neither of us could have seen this coming. But I… I'll be careful. I'll pay attention. This happens again, I'll stop."

"I know you will," said Castiel as he leaned in for a kiss. They knelt there, unmoving, their lips pressed together, just enjoying the closeness. Dean's hands rested lightly on Castiel's back; Castiel's were on Dean's hips. Their bodies leaned together, Dean's clothes a strange contrast to Castiel's naked skin.

Seeking out the warmth beneath the fabric, Castiel let one hand wander up the back of Dean's shirt while the other dipped into the front of his pants. Dean answered by trailing his fingers up and down Castiel's spine.

But when Castiel started to unbutton Dean's pants, Dean stilled his hands and said, "Cas, babe. You really up for this?"

"I need it," Castiel replied. He finished with the button, pulled down Dean's zipper, and worked his fingers under the elastic of Dean's boxers. "Please, Dean. I need this."

Somehow Castiel knew that if he ended the scene here, letting Dean break the spell, running back into the safety of his angelic powers, that he would end up regretting it. He needed to prove to himself here and now that he was not afraid of Dean, and that Dean didn't need to be afraid on his behalf.

Careful, maybe. But not afraid.

And despite the terrible shock he'd suffered, Castiel still craved that touch, that fullness, that release.

"Please," he said again.

Dean relented, taking his shirt off and leaning back so Castiel could pull off his pants. "Okay," he said. "But no rough stuff. We take it slow."

Castiel nodded as he sank down onto the bed to entwine himself with Dean. After the extended anticipation, the warmth of skin on skin was electrifying. One brief kiss on the mouth, and then Castiel tilted his chin up to let Dean trail kisses down his neck. Castiel slid his hands up into Dean's hair while Dean's hands wandered down Castiel's back to his rear and squeezed.

Little, pleased whimpers rose up from Castiel's throat as his body slowly warmed to Dean's touches, his cock becoming hard again. He tensed for a moment when Dean started to roll over, but Dean stopped before his weight came down on Castiel, and they ended up lying side by side.

Dean waited for Castiel to relax again, stroking his hair. "It's okay, Cas, babe, I know. I got you." One more kiss, and with a little shove at Castiel's shoulder he encouraged him to roll over.

Castiel obliged, and scooted backwards until his back was pressed up against Dean's chest. Dean shifted away for a second, and when he returned Castiel could hear the pop of the top coming off a bottle of lube.

"Tell me if you need me to slow down, okay?" One of Dean's arms hooked under Castiel's armpit and around his chest while the other nudged between the cheeks of his ass, slick and cold with lube.

Castiel flinched, then shivered a little as he moaned his approval. With the sigils in blood still burned into his chest, every sensation was raw and overwhelming as if every inch of his skin were brand new. The lube quickly warmed. Dean began massaging slow circles around Castiel's anus, stroking over the opening and pressing lightly to gauge its tightness. After less than a minute Castiel was pushing back, trying to get Dean's fingers deeper.

"That's good," he murmured. He turned his face upwards and Dean was there, propped up on one elbow and staring down at Castiel. Their lips met, and at that moment Dean slid a finger inside. Immediately, involuntarily, Castiel tightened around it with a groan.

As an angel, it had been easy to open up and let Dean inside. In fact, he was so voracious that they had toys on standby for the nights when Dean's cock alone wasn't enough. But now, his nerves crackling with responsiveness, just one finger made him feel comfortably full.

"Too fast?" said Dean.

Castiel shook his head. "Feels good. It's so intense. Is this what it's like all the time, when you're human?"

Dean laughed, his breath warm against the back of Castiel's neck. "I dunno. Maybe? Don't worry about it, okay? Just enjoy it."

"Mmm," said Castiel in agreement. As Dean fucked him slowly with one finger, Castiel closed his eyes and savored the jolts of pleasure running through his body. His cock throbbed, half-hard. Dean shifted his arm down to grip it, and added some lube so that his hand could slide easily up and down the shaft. Castiel could feel himself swelling in Dean's hand. His hips took on a mind of their own, jerking back and forth, trying to force Dean's finger deeper inside even as he fucked into Dean's fist.

Dean kept Castiel there, riding the edge of pleasure, for several minutes. He took his time. But even so, when he worked a second finger in beside the first, there was a flash of pain. Castiel groaned. Dean stopped jerking Castiel off to embrace him around his shoulders, pulling him flush against Dean's chest. "Easy, easy," he murmured.

When Castiel fell silent, Dean pressed forward again with both fingers. Castiel jerked an arm back to grab at Dean's hip, digging his fingernails in.

Dean hissed through his teeth, then said, "Okay, I hear you. I hear you. I'll slow down." He eased the second finger out and went back to fucking Castiel with just one. The pain faded and the pleasure slowly returned.

"I'm sorry," Castiel whispered.

"Would you stop fucking saying that?" Dean sighed, kissing Castiel behind his ear. "You're doing fine. Just, uh, I don't think we'll be going all the way tonight."

"I agree," said Castiel with a sigh of relief.

Dean squeezed more lube onto both his hands and resumed stroking Castiel's cock. He kept working his finger gently back and forth, whispering encouragement in Castiel's ear. A few minutes later, when he tried again to add a second finger, Castiel felt no pain. He whimpered, throwing his head back and panting as he was stretched wider, but the noises he made were of ecstasy rather than discomfort. Dean pushed slowly in until he reached his last knuckle and Castiel was shaking and moaning in his arms.

"Good boy," said Dean. His possessive tone sent a jolt from Castiel's throat to his cock. Dean took Castiel's hand and placed it back on his hip, where there were still fingernail-welts. "Good boy. Squeeze if you need me to stop, okay?"

As soon as Castiel had nodded his understanding, Dean began fucking him hard and fast. He set his elbow against his hip and thrust with his body to drive his fingers into Castiel again and again. Castiel couldn't help but cry out. It would have been loud enough to wake the occupants of the adjacent rooms, but he managed to turn his head and muffle his groans in the mattress. His whole body vibrated, his muscles seizing, and it was all he could do to keep his hand relaxed on Dean's hip, never tightening, because he never wanted it to stop.

Dean adjusted his angle and curled his fingers to hit the spot that sent every movement straight through to Castiel's cock. He grazed over it twice, feeling for it. Cas choked out, "There! There!" When Dean found it, he stopped thrusting and flexed his fingers against the gland over and over, massaging it in a way that his cock could never have managed.

And Cas screamed and thrashed in Dean's arms. It felt like coming, only it didn't stop. The sensation built in him until he was beyond words, until he didn't even recognize the sounds coming out of his mouth, and the only thing keeping him still was Dean's arm around his chest. He took his hand off Dean's hip to grab and pull at the bed sheets. Dean quickly took him by the wrist and replaced the hand on his hip.

It was just this side of claustrophobic, with Dean's hands all over him and inside him, losing control of his body as he was wracked with pleasure, his hole tight around Dean's fingers and quickly becoming sore. That same fear that had gripped him earlier simmered beneath the surface. Dean didn't have to stop. Even if Castiel were to close his fingers around Dean's hip, Dean didn't have to honor his promise. Even if Castiel were to try to get away, Dean had enough strength to hold him there.

But even in his haze of overwhelming sensation, Castiel managed to keep those fears at bay this time. Before, he had always had his powers as backup – a failsafe that he knew he would never use but which gave him comfort nonetheless. Now, his protection began and ended with his trust in Dean.

But that was enough.

When it had gone on so long that he was having trouble catching his breath, Castiel finally gave in. He squeezed Dean's hip. He had no doubt whatsoever that Dean would stop.

Sure enough, Dean immediately froze. "You okay?" he said as he eased his fingers slowly out of Castiel's ass.

"Yes," Castiel half-gasped, half-sobbed out. He was still panting, still quivering with the aftershocks of Dean's attentions. "I just… I can't… take any more."

Dean let Castiel roll onto his back and relax. He knelt over him, watching him carefully as he recovered. As soon as Castiel's limbs stopped jerking and his vision stopped swimming, he grinned and pulled Dean down for a clumsy, sloppy kiss.

"That was good," said Dean, shifting up to kiss Castiel's forehead. "You did good."

"I didn't do anything." Castiel couldn't help but notice that he was slurring his words a bit, and he couldn't find it in him to care.

"You let me know when you needed me to stop," said Dean. "That was good. And you trusted me to keep going after I hurt you the first time, which is fucking amazing. You're amazing." They kissed for a while more before Dean nudged between Castiel's legs with his thigh and said, "You wanna finish?"

Castiel had completely forgotten about that. His body was so completely fucked-out and satisfied that an orgasm almost seemed like too much work at this point. Besides, his dick was barely hard anymore. "I don't need it," he said. "What about you?"

"Don't worry about it," said Dean. "I'm taking care of you tonight. What do you need?"

Castiel's first thought was that he needed sleep, but then he looked down at himself and noticed that on top of the blood all over his chest, he was drenched in sweat and streaked with lube from Dean's hands. "I think I need a shower," he said.

"I can make that happen," Dean laughed. "We have the technology. Can you get to the bathroom, or do I need to carry you?"

Castiel probably could have if he'd tried. But his legs still felt sort of numb and boneless, and he didn't feel at all like walking. And since Dean was offering… He raised his arms with a smile, inviting Dean to pick him up.

Dean leaned down so Castiel could place his arms around his neck. Then he maneuvered Castiel's legs around his waist and lifted him under his rear. He waddled to the bathroom with Castiel hanging off him like a koala wrapped around a tree. "Jesus, you're heavier than you look," he grunted. Castiel just nuzzled Dean's neck in response.

Dean plopped Castiel into the shower and ran the water until it was hot. Then he disappeared for a few seconds, during which Castiel was content to sit under the stream of water and breathe in steam.

Dean returned with the knife. He smiled when he saw the blissful expression on Castiel's face, but that didn't stop him from insisting, "Okay, you've gotta stand up now or there won't be room in there for both of us."

Castiel stood, his legs only a little wobbly now. Dean joined him in the shower and positioned Castiel directly under the water. He sliced the palm of his hand with the knife. Then, putting the knife aside, he pressed his bloodied palm to Castiel's chest. Where he touched, the sigils turned back to fresh blood and quickly washed away. Line by line, Dean used his own blood to cleanse Castiel of his binding marks, both of their blood running down Castiel's body and swirling in the drain.

Twice, Dean had to clench his hand over the cut to coax more blood to the surface, but finally he erased the last mark. There was no flash of light this time. Just a strange shift in the air, like a pressure change, that made Dean shake his head like a dog. And then Castiel's grace was freed. His powers were back.

Somehow, it was no great relief. Of course it was a comfort to be back in his more-or-less natural state, with all of his abilities at his disposal. But on the other hand, the intensely satisfied feeling left him as his body healed itself. His head cleared as the flood of endorphins was stabilized. He was connected with time and space and all of creation again, but as a result he felt just a little less connected to Dean.

Dean picked up a bar of soap and began lathering Castiel's torso as if nothing had happened.

"My powers have returned," said Castiel. "I can clean myself now."

"Do you want to?" said Dean. He'd somehow managed to get soap absolutely everywhere, and his hands were moving slickly over Castiel's chest to remove the last traces of blood. "Because you can leave if you want. Or you can stay and let me shampoo your hair."

Powers or not, that sounded nice. Castiel felt a very human-like warmth spread in his chest.

"I'll stay," he said.

In Another Place (SuperWhoLock Big Bang) Fic Masterpost

2012-11-06T00:19:43Z

Title: In Another Place
Author: wallmakerrelict
Artist: ammo
Beta: mixeduppainter
Rating: R
Word Count: 33,000
Genre: drama, romance, Pete's World alternate reality (Doctor Who), alt-canon from season 5 of Supernatural, alt-canon from mid-season 2 of Sherlock
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Castiel (established), Sam, Rose/metacrisis!Ten (established), Jack Harkness, Sherlock/John (eventual), Meg, Moriarty
Warnings: violence, language, torture, non-explicit sex scenes

Summary: Sherlock and John are looking for a case to occupy Sherlock's mind. Rose and the Doctor are working at Torchwood, and finding that navigating a romantic relationship is more complicated than they imagined. Sam and Dean Winchester are saving people and hunting things along with a newly-fallen Castiel. They all happen to come together when Captain Jack Harkness crash-lands on Earth (accidentally kidnapping Sam shortly thereafter) and Torchwood is sent to investigate. But it's not all fun and games. Someone or something is after Jack, and everyone is about to get pulled into the chase.

Note: This was written for the swl_bang, a challenge that unfortunately died in the middle of claiming. But I was lucky. My fic did get claimed, and my wonderful artist ammo agreed to finish her pieces for me. I am in awe of her talent. Special thanks also to my beta mixeduppainter, whose red pen of doom is turning me into a better writer.

Fic: Part 1|Part 2|Part 3|Part 4|AO3
Art Masterpost

In Another Place (SuperWhoLock Big Bang) Part 4

2012-11-05T20:50:21Z

Fic Masterpost
Part 3

As soon as Dean pushed through the doors to the warehouse, everything that might or might not have been happening outside was forgotten. He followed Sherlock's directions, sprinting through the store. When he saw the trapdoor, he stopped so suddenly that even his heavy boots slid a little on the tile floor.

Just before Dean moved to throw the trapdoor open, it occurred to him that he hadn't bothered to ask either Moriarty or Sherlock whether or not Cas was even still alive. After all, why was he still in the cellar when Sherlock had easily walked out?

The air went out of Dean's lungs. The trapdoor weighed heavy on his arms, and he almost dropped it.

But then Sam was beside him, lifting in unison. A glance and a nod from Sam, and Dean's strength returned to him. Together, they lifted the door open.

A short staircase led down into the dark. And at the bottom lay a huddled figure in a trench coat.

"Cas!" Dean called out as he half-ran-half-leaped down the stairs. "Cas!"

And then, to Dean's infinite and overwhelming relief, the form in the trench coat stirred, looked up at him, squinted, and said, "Dean?"

Dean dropped to his knees. He tried to pull Cas into an embrace, but Cas warded him off with one hand and a fearful cringe. "No!" he gasped. "My arm…"

Sam's voice echoed a little as he called from up above. "Hurry up, Dean. I think something's happening out there."

"Lemme take a look," said Dean. He waited for Cas to nod before pulling out his knife. He slit the sleeve of Cas's coat from wrist to shoulder, and it fell open to reveal a sight that made Dean look away with a soft groan. The arm was mottled red and black, and so swollen that Dean wasn't sure how it had even fit in that coat sleeve. A long splinter of bone protruded from the skin where an elbow should have been.

This wasn't the kind of broken arm that got better with a few weeks in a cast. This wasn't the kind of broken arm that got better, period.

Cas looked down at his own arm, but he didn't start to look scared until he saw Dean's stricken face.

"You're gonna be okay," said Dean automatically. "Come on."

"Careful..." Cas protested as Dean hooked one arm under Cas's legs and another behind his back. He whimpered a little as Dean lifted him, shifting his arm slightly, but then he managed to relax.

Dean carried Cas up into the light, where Sam was standing by the exterior door and peeking out.

"We gotta get out of here," Dean said. "Are we still pinned down by that sniper?"

Sam turned, his face drawn tight. "I think we've got some other problems right now, Dean."

"What…" Dean started to ask, but then he took a look outside and sized up the situation. He quickly pivoted back behind the door and out of sight. "Fuck. Meg?"

"Looks like," said Sam.

"Let me see," said Cas. Dean rotated awkwardly so that Cas could see out of the gap in the door. Even with all the adrenaline of the day, Cas was heavier than Dean had bargained for. So when Cas suddenly said, "Put me down," Dean thought Cas had read his mind.

"It's okay, Cas, I've got you," Dean said.

"Dean," said Cas, looking into Dean's eyes with an intensity that reminded Dean of when Cas had been an angel, "Put me down."

-----

It had once been such a simple thing for Castiel to push aside the pain of physical injuries and fight even when he was broken and bleeding. Back then, after all, he had just been wearing a vessel. Something to be used up, put back together, and ultimately cast aside.

But now he was more or less human. He lived in his body. It dictated what he was and was not able to do. And as he had soon learned, being in pain seriously interfered with even the most basic functions. Like standing.

So Castiel was very glad when Dean put him down on his feet, and he managed to stay on them.

"What's the plan?" said Sam, eyeing him uncertainly. Both Sam and Dean had their hands out, ready to catch Castiel if he were to fall. Castiel wondered how bad he looked, that they were so worried.

"Whatever happens," Castiel said, "I need you both to stay here, out of sight."

"Like hell that's gonna happen," Dean scoffed. "We can help. We've got salt rounds, and there's gotta be some iron around here…"

But Sam pointed out, "We can't risk killing anybody. Besides, if we run out of here shooting, the sniper will take us out."

"I can handle this by myself," Castiel insisted.

Dean's face reddened in anger, but his eyes were wide with fear. "You can't even walk!" he snapped.

To prove him wrong, Castiel took a step and closed the gap between them, looking straight into his eyes. "You're going to have to trust me," he said.

"Cas, wait!" said Dean, but Castiel was already edging out the door and back onto the crowded street, leaving Dean and Sam hidden in the shadows of the warehouse entryway.

Dean had been right. Cas couldn't walk. Every tiny movement of his body seemed to shift the pieces of the bones of his arm against each other, making him want to retch from pain. His head felt heavy, as did his legs, and the ground seemed to tilt under him.

But he had a job to do, so he found a way to shuffle slowly forward, keeping his arm as still as possible by his side. Meg's back was to him, and Castiel could tell that she was speaking though her voice sounded very far away.

What did not sound far away was the gunshot. It happened too quickly for Castiel to hope to have stopped it, and suddenly Sherlock was on the ground.

No, not Sherlock. The other one, John, with Sherlock kneeling beside him. Castiel's vision was closing in around him as he slid his feet, following Meg as she approached the fallen pair. She pointed her gun. And though Castiel was closing the distance as fast as he could, he could tell that he would not reach her in time.

To his right, there was a blur of color and motion. Rose launched herself toward Meg, a ribbon of blood flowing from her temple. She threw herself on Meg's gun-arm. She managed to wrench it up into the air just as the shot was fired. The bullet went spinning away harmlessly. Meg almost seemed amused by the useless display of bravery as Rose hooked her arms under the Doctor's skinny shoulders and held on with all her might.

Rose looked at Castiel as she held Meg pinned. And with just a glance, Castiel understood that Rose was not throwing herself into danger pointlessly. Though she could not possibly know what Castiel had planned or whether it had a prayer of working, she trusted him enough to try and buy him some time.

"Hurry!" Rose shouted as Meg finally realized that Castiel was sneaking up behind her.

Castiel closed the last several feet at a sprint. Meg was livid, and he knew that they had less than a second before she broke free of Rose's grip and killed them all. He reached out with his only working arm and pressed his hand to Meg's forehead.

Castiel was, for all intents and purposes, human. He had been so for over a year. He lived as a human, fought as a human, got sick and healed and loved and did laundry as a human. But every once in a while he managed to draw on the last of his grace and call up a minor miracle. So far he had only managed it a handful of times. It had been difficult, but when it came down to life or death he always came through.

Of course, he had never managed anything as taxing as smiting a demon. And he had never tried it while he was in such bad shape that he could barely stand. But that couldn't really be helped.

He reached deep within himself, drawing on all the reserves he had left, and poured them out into his arm, his hand, into the Doctor's body, trying to burn Meg out. The effort of it made his head swim. His vision blurred. But it was working. Light stabbed its way out of Meg's eyes and mouth as her vessel was flooded with angelic power, paralyzing her. But Castiel could feel the reservoir of his grace dwindling. It would not be enough. Not enough to kill her.

So he changed his tactic, even as his knees buckled underneath him and his vision narrowed down to a pinpoint. Instead of killing her or sending her back to Hell, he cast her out.

The Doctor's mouth snapped open, and Meg gushed out of his mouth and up into the sky. The black wisp mingled with the low clouds. She was gone in seconds. She would find a new vessel sooner or later, but for the moment she was banished.

Castiel did not see Meg's escape. His hand was already falling to his side, his eyes already closing. He was senseless before he even hit the ground.

-----

Sherlock noticed the fact that Castiel was using some sort of supernatural means to force the demon from the Doctor's body. He noticed the Doctor slumping into Rose's arms, and Rose quickly turning her armlock into a warm embrace. He noticed Castiel hitting the dirt, and Dean and Sam racing from their hiding place to his side. But all of that information simply filed itself in his brain under, "I am no longer about to be shot in the face," because it was very difficult to muster up real concern for anything besides the fact that John's blood was still pulsing out from under his hands at an alarming rate.

"John," he said, his voice surprisingly calm. For once, he could not seem to put two thoughts together into a coherent conclusion. The cogs of his mind spun uselessly, their teeth never meshing, but at least it didn't show in his voice. "Don't move. We have to try to minimize the blood loss until we can get help…"

John placed his hands over Sherlock's, but his grip was weak and his skin was pale. "Sherlock," was all he said, but the gentleness and regret in his voice was enough. There was no minimizing the arterial hemorrhage that was clearly underway. And there was no help to be had.

Sherlock looked up. There was a dazed quality to his vision, as if he had just taken a good hit upside the head. Rose and Jack were keeping the Doctor on his feet, and Dean and Sam were propping Castiel up as he came to. They looked on in horror as the red pool around Sherlock's knees continued to grow.

"Do something," Sherlock ordered, his voice still unsettlingly calm. Then, when no one answered him, all the calm left him at once. His face grew hot and he bellowed, "Do something! Any of you! What good are your powers and your magic and your technology if you can't save him?"

The Winchesters looked on with something like pity. They'd dealt with enough gunshot wounds to know which ones you don't get up from. The Doctor kept shaking his head, tears pooling in his eyes as he said over and over, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"With the vortex manipulator, I could get him to a hospital," Jack offered, but even the suggestion sounded futile. A wound like this would have been fatal even if it had occurred in an actual emergency room. Here, now, it was already too late.

When Sherlock looked down again he found John's head fallen back, his eyes closed, his face ashen. Sherlock moved one hand, dripping with blood, to John's throat, and though there was a pulse there it was thready and weak. To his horror, Sherlock understood that the only option left open to him was to kneel here in the dust, his fingers pressed to John's neck, waiting for that pulse to slow and finally stop.

But then a voice spoke, shrill with panic and emotion and the thrill of sudden realization, "NANOGENES!" All eyes went to its source: Rose, who was standing with her arms spread and her eyes wide, waiting for someone to acknowledge her idea. Everyone stared blankly.

Except for the Doctor, who regained some of the brightness in his eyes as he realized. "Jack's ship!" he said. "It's the same one he had when we met him in 1941!"

"Nanogenes and all!" Rose finished the thought for him. She turned to Jack for confirmation.

"It'd work," said Jack, nodding. "But my ship is back where I crashed it, two states away."

Then, all at once, Jack, Rose, and the Doctor turned around to look at Moriarty where he stood, still grinning as he watched the drama unfold, still quietly holding the vortex manipulator, still confidently protected by his hidden sniper.

"What are all of you even talking about?" Sam demanded.

But Sherlock had no need to ask for explanations. Even if he had no way of knowing what nanogenes were, his companions seemed confident that they could save John. And that was enough. Any ray of hope, no matter how incomprehensible or remote, was better than sitting here and waiting for the end. And if they needed the vortex manipulator to make this plan work, then Sherlock would get it for them.

John's handgun lay on the street where he'd dropped it, just outside the spreading puddle of blood. Sherlock snatched it up and snapped the safety off.

Moriarty spoke for the first time since before Meg had fired her gun. "Really?" he said, sounding torn. "I'd rather not have my man shoot you, but if you start threatening me then I won't have a choice."

"I'm not threatening you," said Sherlock as he tilted the gun upright and placed the barrel beneath his own chin, "And I don't think you'd have me shot. Not for any reason. In fact, I think you'll do whatever it takes to keep me alive."

Moriarty rolled his eyes, but Sherlock could detect a hint of real fear in his expression. "Don't you think that's a little melodramatic?" he said.

"Not if it works," Sherlock snapped. "Now, give us the vortex manipulator, and I'll let myself live."

"You think you can hold yourself hostage?" chuckled Moriarty, panic creeping into his laugh. "Do it! Pull the trigger! It'll save me the trouble of killing you later on!"

Sherlock moved his pointer finger, letting it rest lightly on the trigger. The twitch of Moriarty's eye was enough to tell him that he had already won. "No, I don't think so," he said. "I think Meg had it right. Whatever you're planning to do with that device, you want me around to appreciate it. Enough so that, if I weren't around, there would be no point. To any of it."

"You're bluffing," said Moriarty.

John's heartbeat was slowing. He was running out of time. Perhaps he already had. That blind desperation was evident in Sherlock's voice as he rasped, "You know I'm not."

And perhaps it was trite and overdramatic – suicide in the face of bereavement was more characteristic of the heroine of a romance novel than of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, self-proclaimed sociopath (even though anyone with a passing knowledge of sociopathy knew that it was a lie.) But in that moment, with John's heart stuttering out its last beats, all Sherlock could think about was how very much his life had changed since John had come into it. How very lonely he had been before, without even realizing it. And how unbearable it would be to return to London alone and live in his flat alone and eat meals alone and solve crimes alone and go to sleep alone and wake up alone while John's blood fertilized the weeds in the cracks of the sidewalk at this abandoned corner of the United States.

In that one desperate, frantic moment, if John could not be saved, then pulling the trigger did seem like the simpler and less-painful of Sherlock's options.

And later, much later, when asked, Sherlock would insist that it had all been a bluff. But Moriarty must have seen that spark of truth in Sherlock's face as he said the words. He must have sensed that then, at that one moment in time, Sherlock Holmes would have thrown aside all logic and detachment to die beside his companion. He must have, because with a distasteful grimace and a deep, disappointed sigh, he pulled the vortex manipulator out of his pocket and lobbed it to Jack.

"If you get it to work," Moriarty called to Sherlock, "And you don't try to use it against me, I'll be very disappointed." With that, he finally turned and walked toward his car.

For the barest fraction of a second, Sherlock wondered how many people he was condemning to death by allowing Moriarty to escape. How many schemes did Moriarty still have up his sleeve? How much trouble would he make for Sherlock in the future? But there was nothing to be done as long as the sniper was still in place, and besides, none of it meant anything if John didn't survive.

Sherlock removed the gun from its location under his chin and barked at Jack, "Back to the ship. Now!"

-----

The Doctor was dubious about the vortex manipulator's ability to transport eight people at once, even over a distance as relatively short as the thousand-or-so miles between the abandoned store and the field where Jack's ship still lay in its crater. But they made it. Castiel was semi-conscious, on his feet only with the help of Dean and Sam. Jack was already diving into the wreckage of his ship, trying to activate the nanogenes. Sherlock didn't appear to have moved from where he knelt on the ground, still clutching tightly at John as though he could hold him on this side of death with nothing more than the strength of his hands.

John. The Doctor had been watching when it happened. He had felt his finger squeeze the trigger, even as he resisted with all his might. He had seen what was about to happen – that John would throw himself in the path of the bullet – before Sherlock or even Meg had noticed the determination on John's face. Perhaps the Doctor was simply over-familiar with the look of someone who is about to sacrifice their life for someone they love. After all, he had seen it so many times on so many faces. He'd worn it a few times himself.

The Doctor felt pressure on his hand and looked down to find Rose holding it. Blood streaked her face and dripped off her chin onto her shirt. He had been watching for that, too, and his stomach did a fresh twist of remorse at the memory of the shock that had run up his arm as the butt of the gun had hit her face. "Doctor," Rose said, squeezing his hand again. "It wasn't you. It wasn't your fault."

He cast his eyes down, unable to look at her. Rose had grown. She had grown from a shop girl into the savior of humankind twice over. And meanwhile, the Doctor had only gone backwards from the kindness and contentment he had once enjoyed back to the pride and ruthlessness he had learned in wartime. He had diminished, in Rose's eyes and in his own. Where once he had been a protector of humans, now he needed protection, and people needed protection from him.

Rose was right. None of this was the Doctor's fault, because there was no Doctor in this world. Only a cheap copy that could not hope to live up to the original.

"People?" said Jack, poking his head out of the ship. "We have a problem."

All traces of Sherlock's former poise and detachment were gone as he shouted in reply, "Fix it!"

"Hey, I'm a rogue Time Agent, not a mechanic!" Jack said helplessly. "The nanogenes aren't deploying. They must have been damaged in the crash!"

Jack looked at the Doctor. Then, one by one, so did everyone else.

The Doctor let go of Rose's hand and took two halting steps backward.

"Come on, Doc," said Dean. "You fixed the vortex motivator in about two seconds. This should be a snap."

The Doctor took another step backwards, retreating from the eyes boring holes in him with their expectation. "I can't," he whispered, softly enough that he didn't think anyone would hear.

But Rose heard, or she guessed what he had said, because she matched him step for step and caught him by the collar of his jacket. "You can," she insisted. "You're the only one who can."

The Doctor was finding it very difficult to breathe. He said, "If the nanogenes were destroyed, then there's nothing I can do. They all expect something of me, and I'll just let them down."

"You've never let me down," said Rose without hesitation. "So many times it's all come down to you and, if there was ever a way to win, you found it. You always did."

"He did," he corrected. "The Doctor. The proper Doctor. But I'm not him. I'm just something that was accidentally left over, and I can't. I can't do what he did. I'm not the Doctor."

In the silence that followed, Sherlock's voice spoke very quietly and evenly. Even the anger had gone out of it now, leaving nothing but emptiness. "His heart has stopped," he said.

Before the Doctor could react, Rose put her hands on either side of his head and kissed him. It was the sort of kiss that obliterated everything, the sort that flipped the reset switch in his head. The sort she hadn't given him since that day at Bad Wolf Bay.

"You're my Doctor," she said, and though her voice shook from the tears that were threatening to spill out of her eyes, it rang with truth. "I wouldn't have any Doctor but you. And if you can't give me one more day where everybody lives, then please, please at least try!"

And then the Doctor felt something spark within him. Because even knowing the odds, even knowing all of the Doctor's weaknesses, Rose still had faith in him.

He was not the Doctor. But for Rose, he would try to be.

He fairly dove into the ship beside Jack. "Show me," he demanded.

Jack pointed at the opening that should have been releasing the nanogenes by now. "They come out of there," he said, "But it's not working."

The Doctor sprang onto the mechanism, peering and poking at it like a monkey. "If only I had my sonic screwdriver!" he lamented. "Oh, never mind. This piece here is supposed to be over here… and this piece is completely broken… and something is missing from here…"

"So it's shot all to hell?" Jack tried to interpret.

"HAHA!" the Doctor suddenly shouted, "No, it's only the delivery mechanism that's broken. The reservoir with the nanogenes in it is quite safe behind the bulkhead!"

Rose hovered just outside the ship. "Can you get to them without your sonic screwdriver?" she asked anxiously.

But the Doctor was already reaching for Jack's belt. "While a sonic screwdriver is superior in every way," he said, "Sometimes the situation calls for something a little more… blast-y." With that, he pointed the sonic blaster that he had stolen from Jack's holster at the broken and blocked portal, and fired.

Sparks and bits of metal rained down on Jack and the Doctor. A moment later, a flood of golden points of light cascaded out of the hole the Doctor had opened in the ship's interior wall. Out they flowed, more and more of them, the entire ship's supply escaping all at once. And in the midst of them was the Doctor, running along their stream. He whooped and shouted in triumph as he chased them out of the confines of the ship and toward the people that needed them.

First they found Rose, who was nearest. They buzzed around her head like a halo, and the oozing gash at her temple closed and disappeared.

A larger portion flowed out to where Sam was helping Dean to hold up Castiel. When Dean saw the cloud of nanogenes approaching him, he started to flinch out of their path, but with one look at Cas he changed his mind and stood fast. The nanogenes concentrated themselves around Castiel's arm. In seconds, the horrific swelling deflated until the arm was its normal size. The bruising faded. When Castiel's elbow twisted its way back into its normal position, the protruding splinter of bone sliding back beneath the skin with a wet sucking sound, Dean looked like he was going to be sick.

But Castiel's face showed nothing but relief as he blinked his way back to full consciousness. "It's okay, Dean," he said as soon as he noticed Dean's uncomfortable expression. "It doesn't hurt."

"Good," Dean answered, his grimace fading into a smile as Castiel's shattered arm realigned itself and became whole again. "Good. Can you stand on your own?"

Castiel nodded and took a step, unsupported.

As soon as Dean was sure that Castiel was steady on his feet, he began swatting at his own shoulder, chasing the congregating nanogenes away from the handprint-shaped scar there. "Get out, you little bastards!" he muttered. "I don't need you to heal that!"

Meanwhile, the largest portion of the nanogenes were swirling around John's lifeless form. They circled around him like a vortex, working furiously against the pull of death. There was movement beneath the bloodstain on John's shirt and, slowly, the bullet nosed its way through the wound and fell into the dirt. In its wake, the flesh knit together and the hole closed. But John did not move, and the color did not return to his face.

Sherlock stared into that pale, motionless face, heedless of the fact that he was kneeling in the eye of a hurricane of nanogenes. He watched with a patient sort of intensity. But John's eyes did not open.

"Come on!" the Doctor groaned quietly from where he watched at the entrance to the ship. Jack stood beside him, and Rose just past them. Dean, Sam, and Castiel had fallen quiet as they turned to see the fate of their group's final casualty.

Every one of them held their breath, and wondered if perhaps they were too late.

Please, God, let me live.

That was the thought that had run through John's head in Afghanistan when he'd felt the bullet slam into his shoulder, sending him reeling into the dust. It was an understandable sentiment. After all, one is allowed to think of one's own wellbeing when one has just been shot.

But this time, when he felt the dull impact in his gut, he found himself thinking, Please, God, let him live, and if I have to die then I suppose I can't ask for a fairer trade.

He'd closed his eyes with finality and a clarity of purpose that he hadn't felt since before he'd gone to war.

So he was somewhat surprised to find himself opening them again.

There was no pain. However, the sensation of his insides knitting themselves back together and his capillaries re-filling with blood all at once was not exactly a pleasant one. The sky above him was too bright – brighter than the one he'd closed his eyes to. It took him a few moments to adjust to the light, but then he recognized the face hovering over him.

It wasn't the first time John had seen Sherlock show concern. It had been a long time since he had stopped thinking of Sherlock as an unfeeling machine, since he had realized just how affected Sherlock could be when John was in danger. But still, John never thought he would see an expression on Sherlock's face like the one he was seeing now.

For just a moment after John opened his eyes, Sherlock looked weak. Not angry, not desperate, and not disappointed – John was used to seeing Sherlock in any one of those moods. But weakness was not something that Sherlock had ever shown lightly, or, indeed, at all. It transformed his entire face, making him look more like a frightened child than the jaded detective that he often tried to portray. He looked like a man who had hit what he thought was rock bottom so many times that he was blindsided when he finally, truly stood to lose everything.

And in the next moment, it was gone, buried beneath Sherlock's usual cool superiority. But John had seen it, and that was enough.

"What happened?" John coughed out, finding his throat dry and his lungs sore.

Sherlock was as matter-of-fact as ever as he replied, "You died."

Only then did John look past Sherlock's face to see the tornado of lights twisting around both their bodies, filling the sky and illuminating everything in gold. As John watched, the vortex slowed and dissolved as the lights rose higher and higher into the air, dispersing into the clouds above. So even though there were more pressing questions he could have asked, John couldn't help but point after them and shout, "What on God's Earth are those?"

In the next moment he was stunned into silence as Sherlock, Sherlock who avoided physical shows of affection as if everyone but him were a leper, pulled John upright and into a bone-crushing embrace. His skinny arms were stronger than they looked, and they didn't loosen their hold until John brought his own arms up to return the gesture.

Sherlock's voice shook slightly with helpless, relieved laughter as he answered, "They're clearly some sort of biologically engineered DNA-specific healing device, John, do try to keep up."

-----

Once everyone had caught their breath, they agreed that they all ought to get moving immediately. Rose and the Doctor had a monster of a report to write up for Torchwood, and John vehemently wanted to go home. Sherlock muttered out his disappointment that he'd let Moriarty escape. Dean and Sam mentioned that they needed to check in with Bobby about the fact that Meg was at large and pissed off. Castiel reminded them that she was also probably wearing a new face by now. Jack explained that, while he would like nothing better than to stick around for an orgy (everyone was invited), now that he had his vortex manipulator back he really needed to get moving on finding a replacement for his crashed ship.

But in the end, they wandered back to the farmhouse across the road instead of dispersing. They were too tired to do more.

"But I can transport us anywhere in the world!" Jack protested, pointing at his now-functional vortex manipulator. "Five-star hotels! Palaces! At the very least I can find us a nicer derelict house to squat in!"

But Dean and Castiel were on their way upstairs in search of a bedroom, John was making himself comfortable on the couch, and Rose was rummaging in the dusty cupboards and closets in search of blankets. No one looked like they were terribly interested in moving.

Sam put his hand on Jack's arm, well above the wriststrap of the vortex manipulator. "Leave 'em be," he suggested.

Jack shrugged and obeyed.

-----

While everyone bustled around him, Sherlock stood against the jamb of the front door of the house, uncharacteristically still. Eventually the room quieted as Rose went into the basement in search of more supplies and Sam led Jack around the corner and into the kitchen. The sound of doors opening and closing came from upstairs, and finally even that noise ceased as Dean and Castiel apparently found a suitable room. The Doctor was nowhere to be found.

Besides Sherlock, the only one left in the main room of the house was John, who had managed to make himself more or less comfortable on the awful, rotting couch and looked like he was about to fall asleep.

And perhaps it was some residual weakness from his earlier scare, or maybe he simply did not wish to see John's eyes close again, even in sleep. Or maybe, for once, Sherlock Holmes actually desired some human contact. In any case, Sherlock found himself crossing the room and worming his way onto the couch.

John lifted his head when he felt hands on his ankles. Sherlock slid onto the end of the couch, draping John’s legs over his lap. John lifted an eyebrow. The couch was too small to be comfortable for two grown men, and it was clearly infested with all manner of creatures that only Sherlock knew the names of. "There are other places to sleep, you know," he said.

"None better than here," Sherlock replied, resting his hands on John's knees.

A slight, befuddled smile, and after a moment it looked like John was beginning to drift off to sleep again. It was only then that Sherlock noticed that John was still wearing his same jumper and coat, each with a bullet hole at the level of his stomach, both soaked to varying degrees with sticky, drying blood. Even knowing that the wound beneath was gone, the sight made Sherlock feel as though his skin were crawling, especially since John's eyes were fluttering closed in an eerie reverse of his earlier revival.

"Take your clothes off," Sherlock blurted out.

John's eyes snapped back open. "Excuse me?" he said weakly.

Sherlock shrugged out of his long, black coat, leaving himself in only the purple collared shirt beneath. He offered his coat to John. "Your clothing will become more uncomfortable as the blood dries," he said. "Wear this instead."

John stared for a few seconds, but then he shifted side to side and seemed to finally notice the unpleasant sensation of his bloody clothes sticking to his skin. He sat up with a grateful nod and took the coat from Sherlock's hand. "Thanks," he said as he stood and began to strip out of his ruined coat.

It wasn't strange that Sherlock watched as John peeled off his wet, stained layers one by one. After all, they shared a flat. It was hardly the first time he had seen John bare-chested. But this time, he found himself unable to stop gauging his own reaction. This time, he was acutely aware of the sudden realization to which he had come while bent over John's dying form, feeling as though he were also dying in his soul. What he felt for John was not friendship, or camaraderie, or even brotherhood as he had tried to convince himself for so long. It was love.

But love as Sherlock understood it was supposed to come hand in hand with certain urges. Like Dean and Castiel as they had raced upstairs, their eyes dilated and their blood racing, shouldn't Sherlock have experienced some uncontrollable physical longing? Even with John mere feet in front of him, using the remains of his jumper to wipe blood off of his flanks, his skin moving beautifully over his musculature, Sherlock felt no desire to reach out and touch. No desire to hold and claim. Only an overwhelming need to keep that body safe and whole, a worthy vessel for the perfect soul within.

John pulled Sherlock's coat on. It was too long on his torso and too tight around his shoulders, but John happily reclined back on his place on the couch, draped his legs back over Sherlock's lap, and wrapped the coat tighter around himself.

Only then did John happen to look up and notice the unusual, vulnerable intensity with which Sherlock was staring at him. "Sherlock?" he said, alarmed.

Sherlock rarely found himself at a loss for words. Usually he was able to formulate entire essays and diatribes of publishable quality in his head, only to smugly discard them without giving them voice, content in his own intellectual superiority and feeling no obligation to let anyone else in on his thought process. So it was somewhat disconcerting to have something in his head that he desperately wanted to explain, but that he could not seem to organize into coherent sentences.

"I'm very glad that you're not dead," he finally said, disappointed at the utter inadequacy of it.

John's look of consternation slowly morphed into a bemused smile. Then, in a way that made Sherlock wonder if perhaps John had understood him perfectly, he reached up and put his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck. He pulled Sherlock down beside him. "Me, too," was all John said.

And there, with his legs dangling uncomfortably over the edge of the dilapidated couch and the reassuring rhythm of John's heart audible beneath his coat, Sherlock was finally able to slow his mind enough to fall asleep.

-----

Dean and Castiel had discovered long ago that sex of the "I-can't-believe-we're-not-dead" variety was the best sex, and they had been taking advantage of it ever since. As soon as they'd found a room containing a bed that looked like it might not collapse under their weight, they tumbled inside without even bothering to close the door properly.

Cas's bloodstained coat fell to the floor. His t-shirt went next, and then Dean's. Their fingers dug into shoulders and backs as they staggered toward the bed locked in an embrace, desperately trying to pull their bodies into one another as if the warmth of skin on skin was the only thing convincing each of them that the other was real.

Their mouths were locked together, but Cas pulled away to latch onto Dean's neck, sucking bruises into his skin. While Dean grabbed at Cas's hair in a silent plea for more, Cas's hands fumbled with the zipper of Dean's pants. He wasn't fast enough, and Dean's hands dropped to cover Cas's, eager to help.

But instead of undoing the button and yanking his zipper down, Dean froze. It took Cas several seconds to realize that Dean's lustful panting had slowed. "What's wrong?" Cas asked, his lips still pressed to Dean's neck.

One by one, Dean's fingers laced themselves onto Cas's. Dean stretched their arms out – his own right and Cas's left – like mirror images. When Cas pulled back, he found Dean staring down at Cas's arm almost as if he were surprised to see it there with its unmarked skin, every bone and muscle and sinew in its place. Dean's fingers tightened as he raised Cas's arm, watching as each joint bent smoothly and effortlessly.

Cas was silent as Dean shifted his grip, turning Cas's hand over to kiss each fingertip in turn. He pressed a kiss to the center of Cas's palm, to his wrist, to the inside of his elbow. He worked his way up to Cas's shoulder, his lips gentle as if he were trying to pull out the pain that was no longer there.

"I'm sorry," Dean whispered, the depth of his self-loathing resonating in his voice.

And, because it wouldn't have done any good to explain that it hadn't been Dean's fault, Cas replied, "I should hope so. You completely ruined my overcoat."

The answer was so unexpected that Dean blinked rapidly, his head jerking up. When he saw the glint in Cas's eye, he wondered when the hell Cas had learned how to make a decent joke. Dean laughed as he used his grip on Cas's arm to twirl him once and toss him onto the bed.

As Dean kicked off his pants and crawled on top of Cas, he promised, "I'll get you a new one."

-----

As Sam slumped wearily into one of the rickety chairs in the dusty kitchen, he said, "What a day. I could really use a drink." He glanced at the cupboards around him. They didn't look promising.

"Got you covered," said Jack cheerily, sitting beside Sam and pulling a strange-shaped flask out of the pocket of his coat.

Sam took it gratefully. "You know, you're not so bad." He took a sip, coughed, gave the flask a suspicious glare, and pushed it back across the table toward Jack.

"Admit it. I'm growing on you," said Jack before chugging three large gulps from the flask with a satisfied sigh.

"Like a tumor," Sam agreed.

Jack pushed the flask back toward Sam who, after a moment's hesitation, visibly screwed up his courage and took another drink. "Today wasn't so bad," said Jack.

Sam coughed on his drink again. "We all almost got killed. Multiple times."

"I mean before that," said Jack. "Bouncing around the globe. I know you weren't exactly happy about it, but you handled it a lot better than some people would have. You'd make a good traveling companion."

"I can't tell if you're hitting on me or not," Sam admitted, shoving the flask back away from himself.

"Always, as a rule," said Jack. "But more to the point, I'm inviting you to come with me when I go."

Sam was somewhat taken aback. Then he laughed. "You're joking."

Jack looked offended. "Why would you think that?" he said. "It's lonely out there by myself, and for once I'm not just talking about sex. I could show you the stars." He almost managed to not make it sound cheesy.

So even though Sam was ready to dismiss him out of hand, he hesitated and asked, "What's it like?"

"It's like everything," Jack replied. "Every place; every time. It's anything you want it to be."

Sam thought about it. For about two seconds, he thought about it. "Nah," said Sam. He took another drink from Jack's flask, and this time he kept a straight face. "I've got enough weirdness going on right here. Besides, Dean wouldn't want to leave his car behind."

"Fair enough," said Jack, taking back his flask. "Looks like I'm on my own again, and this time without so much as a ship to my name."

A voice replied from the doorway, making both Sam and Jack jump, "At least you don't have to worry about that." The voice belonged to the Doctor. He was leaning against the doorframe, rubbing his arms to warm himself up.

"Where've you been?" Sam asked.

The Doctor pointed at Jack. "Fixing your ship," he said. "It really didn't take much work. The Chula really knew how to make ships last. Most of the damage was superficial, and there was no outer hull breach. It's not pretty, but it'll still get you from place to place."

Jack immediately jumped up, grabbed the Doctor's head in both his hands, and planted a kiss on his forehead. "Thanks, Doctor! I'll bet you're a handy guy to have around," he said, almost sounding sincere for a moment before he offered the Doctor his flask with a wink. Doctor opened the flask, sniffed it, and quickly closed it again. "I don't suppose you have a clone you could lend me?" Jack added.

The Doctor laughed. "That's a long story. A very long story. The short answer being: wouldn't you prefer the real thing?"

-----

Rose staggered back up the basement steps, carrying an armful of moth-eaten blankets.

The first thing she saw when she reached the top of the stairs was John and Sherlock curled up on the couch together. Both of them were snoring softly.

With a little smile on her face, she gently draped one of the blankets over both of them and tucked it into the couch cushions so it wouldn't fall off.

Next she rolled up some bed sheets and a heavy blanket and brought them upstairs for Dean and Castiel. It was quiet there at the top of the stairs. When she looked down the hallway, every door was closed except for the last one on the right, which was standing open by a couple of inches.

Rose crept up to the door and was about to knock on it when, through the crack, she caught a flash of something in the darkness. An impression of rhythmic movement, of hands twisted into sheets, of lips whispering low and fast against glistening skin.

She left the blankets in a neat pile just outside the door and tiptoed away.

Back downstairs, the only signs of life were coming from the kitchen, where a hushed conversation was punctuated by occasional laughter. Rose went to investigate. At the table sat Sam, Jack, and the Doctor. They were passing around a flask.

"Then it's decided," Jack was saying. His cheeks were pink, and he was swaying slightly.

"Not quite," said the Doctor. "I still have to talk to… Rose!" Mid-sentence, he looked up and noticed Rose in the doorway. His beaming smile was infectious, and Rose felt the corners of her own lips curl upwards involuntarily.

"Am I interrupting something?" she asked.

"Not at all!" said Jack expansively, offering her the flask. "Join us!"

The Doctor quickly jumped up and intercepted Rose before she could take the flask from Jack. "Well, looks like it's time to call it a night! See you boys in the morning! Don't have too much fun without me!"

They left Sam and Jack to their miniature party and found a ground-level bedroom. As soon as they were inside with the door closed tightly behind them, Rose spun the Doctor around and silenced his, "Rose, I need to ask you someth…" with a kiss. He didn't seem to mind the interruption. Her hands ran up his chest and grabbed him by the collar. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer. They both lost their balance at the same time, and they stumbled until the backs of the Doctor's legs hit the edge of the bed and they fell onto the mattress in a heap.

Rose propped herself up on her elbows and looked down at the Doctor's face. "Wait," she said. "Me first."

The Doctor nodded, waiting.

But instead of speaking again right away, she stared down at him, contemplating. He stared up, patient. Finally she shifted so that she could brush the back of her fingers along his jaw. "We're not perfect, are we?" she said quietly.

He seemed to sense that she didn't want him to answer, so he stayed quiet.

"It used to be so easy, being with you," Rose went on. "And now it's not. I was confused for a while, because I kept expecting it to go back to the way it was, but it's not supposed to, is it? It's supposed to be difficult. It's supposed to be work."

Slowly, Rose leaned down until her forehead rested against the Doctor's. "You're worth it," she said resolutely.

"Does that mean you haven't given up on me yet?" said the Doctor softly.

A smile filled her face. "Never."

They stayed like that a moment, still and quiet, until the Doctor stammered, "I'll be better. I mean, I'll try. I'll try and be more like him. The proper Doctor."

"Try and be better," Rose replied. "Always. But you are the proper Doctor, and you don't need to be anyone but yourself."

He kissed her then, pulling her that last few inches down until their lips touched and sealed together, arms weaving around each other, clumsy and desperate. When they finally broke apart the Doctor, caught up in the moment with his hands tangled in Rose's hair, begged once more, "Marry me."

And this time, Rose replied without hesitation, "Yes."

She kind of expected him to pull her down for another kiss, but instead the Doctor looked dazed and gave a little, undignified giggle of delight. And only then did he kiss her. This time he didn't stop until they were both nearly falling off the bed and short several articles of clothing.

Wait, wait!” the Doctor gasped, breaking away to catch his breath. “My turn. I have something to say.”

Rose was more than ready to stop talking and start having make-up sex, but she sat up and nodded. "Go on, then."

With a very cheeky and very familiar smile, the Doctor asked, "How would you like to get married on Barcelona?"

It took Rose a few seconds. On Barcelona. Not in. On.

Then all at once she figured out what the Doctor and Jack had been talking about when she'd walked in. "Barcelona?" she said with a grin to match the Doctor's. "You mean the planet, not the city?"

"That's the one!"

Rose grappled with the strange sensation of a fire igniting deep within her – a familiar burn that she'd thought she would never feel again. "Is there even a Barcelona-the-planet in this universe?" she wondered, her smile broadening until she was sure she must be glowing.

The Doctor spread his arms, his devil-may-care charm banishing any remaining misgivings Rose might have had, and said, "Let's find out!"

This time, when they kissed, neither one interrupted.

-----

John had always been a light sleeper, and even more so after the war. So he was the first to wake in the early morning when the ground started shaking and a high-pitched mechanical whine rose in the air.

"What in the…" he muttered, trying to roll off the couch. He didn't get very far, though, on account of the man lying on top of him and clutching him like a security blanket. "Get up!" said John, wriggling out of Sherlock's grasp. "Something's happening!"

By the time he had gotten himself upright and Sherlock more or less awake, Dean was thundering his way down the stairs. He finished doing up his fly right as he hit the last step. Castiel followed closely behind.

"What the Hell?" Dean demanded of no one in particular.

"I don't know!" John shouted back.

"Perhaps we should investigate outside,” said Castiel and Sherlock at exactly the same time.

They all tumbled out the front door into the cool morning mist just in time to see Jack's ship – looking only somewhat worse for wear after its rough landing – finish wobbling its way into the air. As they watched, the high whine of the engines reached a crescendo and the whole ship blasted up and out of the atmosphere with an ear-shaking boom and a flash of light.

"I guess Jack didn't feel like waiting around to say goodbye," said John with a shrug, feeling proud of how much he was now able to take in stride.

"What's going on?" said Sam as he stumbled, bleary-eyed, out onto the porch with the others.

Dean grinned. "Looking good, Aurora," he told Sam sarcastically.

"Bite me," said Sam.

"How late did Jack keep you up last night?" Dean prodded.

"We had drinks," said Sam in the voice of a man who knows that he has already lost the argument. "That was it."

Dean relented. "Well, he's gone anyway," he said. "That was his ship blasting off."

Castiel peeked behind Sam, back through the doorway. "Where are Rose and The Doctor?" he asked. "They can't have slept through that."

Then Sam smacked his forehead, remembering. "Oh!" he laughed. "They must have gone with Jack! They were talking about it last night. Well, good for them!" He beamed at the hole Jack's ship had left in the cloud cover.

John boggled. "They've gone?" he said, trying to wrap his head around the idea of leaving the planet with no more than a night to think it over.

"Yeah," said Sam. "The Doctor seemed pretty happy about it, honestly. I guess Rose felt the same way."

"Wow," said Dean, wearing the same bemused expression that was on John's face. "Okay. Well, yeah. Good for them."

"Yeah," said John uncertainly, staring up at the sky where the ship had disappeared.

They stood there for a few seconds more before Dean clapped his hands together, dusting them against each other a few times. "That's that, then. I guess the rest of us had better get going."

Sherlock finally spoke up, not bothering to look away from the sky. "How do you propose we do that?" he said.

The rest of them looked to the empty street, and then at each other.

"Dean," said Castiel, leaning in and speaking quietly, "I believe our respective modes of transportation are still two states away."

Dean looked up at the sky once more, squinting against the slowly-rising sun.

"Son of a bitch."

In Another Place (SuperWhoLock Big Bang) Part 2

2012-11-05T20:45:02Z

Fic Masterpost
Part 1

Rose and John had wandered around to the back of the farmhouse, leaving Sherlock and the Doctor in the shabby living room to pass the time together. The Doctor sank deeper into the filthy couch with each passing second. For a man who once controlled the very fabric of time, waiting was something of an unwelcome nuisance.

"Bored," the Doctor announced.

"I truly sympathize," Sherlock muttered as he fiddled with a cell phone, flipping it into the air and tossing it between his hands.

The Doctor squinted at it as it flew. "That's not the same phone you had before," he said.

"It's Winchester's," Sherlock explained. "It fell out of his pocket as he left."

"No, it didn't," said the Doctor. "I would have noticed."

Sherlock grinned. "Very well. If you want me to be precise, I nicked it."

"Well done, then," said the Doctor. "Trying to deduce more about him?"

"Oh, I already deduced most of what I needed to know about him from his car and his clothing," said Sherlock, giving the phone a final flip before setting it on a three-legged table. "I stole the phone mostly just to annoy him."

They sat in silence a while longer before the Doctor huffed a sigh and said, "I should go after Rose."

"Why?" Sherlock asked. "She seemed perfectly happy to go off and gossip with John."

"Because she's cross with me," said the Doctor. "I should go… I dunno. Make it right."

"How do you propose to do that?"

"Good point," said the Doctor, flopping over on the couch and hanging his feet over the back so that his head was pointed down. "I suppose I should start with figuring out why she's angry."

Sherlock pulled out his own phone and fiddled with it while he spoke. "I thought that much was obvious. She's figured out that you don't quite measure up to the original version, and she's becoming disillusioned."

Anyone else might have socked Sherlock in the nose. The Doctor just sighed. "But then, how do I win her back over?"

Sherlock's head flinched backwards so violently that several extra chins formed beneath the first. "You're asking me for relationship advice?" he said dubiously. "I would tell you that you're asking the wrong person, but that's something of an understatement."

The Doctor chose to ignore Sherlock in favor of rambling. "Well, I suppose I know the problem. We thought it would work because, well, we're perfect for each other. She's Rose. And I'm part me, part my ninth incarnation, and part Donna. We ought to get along splendidly. But I'm also something else, something neither of us really thought about, and that's stuck."

"On Earth, you mean," said Sherlock, the squint of his eyes belying the fact that he was actually having trouble keeping up with the Doctor's train of thought.

"Yes, on Earth," the Doctor went on. "It ruins everything. It makes me angry, and that's not who Rose fell in love with." He sighed despondently. "I honestly thought I'd be happy here, but when I remember what I used be able to do, what I used to be! To go from dancing through space-time and being practically immortal to… this…" He gestured at his body, still draped upside down on the couch. "How can I make a human understand? It's as if you were living your life quite happily, and suddenly you find out that you've only got a month to live. And you're going to be stuck in a breadbox the whole time."

Sherlock clearly would have preferred to have been having any other conversation than this one, but he gamely said, "Perhaps Rose feels the same way."

"Oh, I know how Rose feels," said the Doctor, who had managed to work himself into a fierce sulk. "She feels like someone who thought she was going to spend the rest of her life with a man who could take her anywhere in time and space, only to find out that he has one month to live and is stuck in a breadbox."

Sherlock stared until the Doctor rolled his eyes and added, "Figuratively."

"Once again," said Sherlock, "I'm a detective, not a relationship counselor. If you want romantic advice then you should ask John."

"Oh, so he's the romantic one in the relationship, is he?" said the Doctor.

"What relationship is that?" asked Sherlock, genuinely curious.

"I thought…" said the Doctor. "You two are kind of… you know."

Sherlock apparently knew well enough, because instead of continuing in confusion he requested, "Cite your evidence."

The Doctor smirked, his mood somewhat repaired. "Oh, I don't need to be a genius detective to figure that out."

"Your skills of deduction need work," said Sherlock. "I have no interest in carrying on a sexual relationship with anyone. Not even John."

The Doctor shrugged. "What does sex have to do with anything?"

Sherlock steepled his fingers and was silent as he digested that observation.

-----

John was glad to get a moment alone with Rose. He would have preferred to get Sherlock alone, if only to demand a few dozen explanations for the things that had happened since they had faced down Mycroft back in London, but as fond as he was of Sherlock the man was his own brand of exhausting. With Rose, he could take a deep breath and try to sort things out on his own.

"How are you holding up, John?" said Rose, looking at him with a sympathetic-but-amused smile. She was sitting on the steps up to the back porch.

John was pacing back and forth in front of her, passing in and out of the light of the rising sun. Unlike Sherlock's manic strides, John's pacing was slow and deliberate, each step measured. Rose's question made him lose his rhythm, but he didn't care. It was nice to have someone normal enough to notice that he felt like he was losing his mind.

"It's…" he said. "Well, it's a lot to take in all at once."

"You're not wrong," she replied. "Aliens. Other dimensions. Time travel. And now even angels."

John laughed helplessly. "It sounds ridiculous when you say it all at once. I didn't know about any of it before yesterday."

"You're taking it quite well."

"I am, aren't I?" John had been comparing his reaction to the rest of the group, but now that he took into account the fact that everyone else had started with at least some basic knowledge about the supernatural elements at play, he decided to give himself credit for holding together as well as he had. He found that his urge to pace had waned. He sat next to Rose on the steps. "I suppose that's down to Sherlock," he said. "Following him around, I see the strangest things every day. I've almost gotten used to taking it all in stride. Because he always knows what he's doing – or, God help me, at least he acts like it. I don't know. It's just something about him that makes the extraordinary seem possible, or even like it's to be expected. If anyone else had told me that aliens exist, I'd have said they were daft. He tells me, and I'm following him to Torchwood within the hour. And then to America. And then to… oh, who the hell knows? Probably the ends of the Earth."

John caught Rose staring at him with a giant, beaming smile on her face. He rested his head on one hand with a self-deprecating chuckle. "I'm not making any sense, am I?"

"You're making perfect sense," said Rose, her fond smile only growing. "Believe me when I tell you I know exactly what you mean."

John twitched an eye at her as he caught her meaning. "He's not my boyfriend," he repeated himself.

"Why the hell not?" Rose replied.

Just then, the door behind them slammed open. Sherlock stood in the doorframe, waving a cell phone. John would have liked to answer Rose, but he couldn't stop himself from noticing, "That's not your phone."

"What?" Sherlock chirped. "Oh. No, it's not. Sam Winchester called back. Let's go!"

"Is he still with Jack?" Rose asked, leaping to her feet. "Are they back in the States?"

Sherlock turned and swept back into the house without a backwards glance, expecting John and Rose to follow him. They did. As he walked, Sherlock said, "Yes and yes. They're three hours away. Two and a half, if you let the Doctor drive again. We should leave immediately. The race is on!"

"Why are we racing?" John asked, jumping forward to walk beside Sherlock. As they passed through the main room, the Doctor joined them.

"Not each other," said Sherlock. "Our shadowy enemy. Whatever it was that caused our dear Captain Jack to crash, it isn't likely to be sitting around twiddling its thumbs now that its prey is stationary, is it?"

When they first burst through the front door, John saw Castiel across the road. His back was to them, and he was half-hidden behind the Impala. Only his head and shoulders were visible where they leaned back against the roof of the car, his face pointed skyward with an expression of bliss. John supposed that he was enjoying the sun.

"We have a location!" Rose shouted.

Castiel jumped, straightening up and turning around with a faint blush on his cheeks. Then Dean appeared from where he had been kneeling behind the car. He turned and spat something into the bushes before answering, "Finally! But how…" He performed a quick pat-down of his pockets, and, not finding his phone, whirled on Sherlock. "You stole my phone, Cheekbones?" he growled.

"It's a good thing I did," Sherlock said, tossing Dean his phone back. "If you had had it, you might have been too distracted to answer it when it rang." When Dean immediately opened the phone and began dialing a number, Sherlock added, "There's no need to call him back. I know the way. Just follow our van."

Dean lifted his lip at Sherlock – almost a snarl. "I'm not following you anywhere," he said, putting the phone to his ear as he slid into the car. "You can follow me."

Castiel joined Dean in the Impala. While Dean talked on the phone instead of revving the engine and speeding away, the Doctor, Rose, and John exchanged nervous glances.

"Do you think…?" said John.

"Just in case…" said the Doctor.

Rose sighed. "I'll go with them, make sure they don't ditch us." And she dove into the back seat just as Dean put the phone down and turned the key in the ignition.

-----

"Okay. Okay, Dean," said Sam into his phone. "See you in a couple of hours." He hung up. He had already given all the relevant information to Sherlock, but he had to admit that it was a relief to talk to Dean too. Despite Sherlock saying that they would be there as soon as possible, Sam was much more reassured by Dean's curt, "Stay put. We're hitting the road right now."

The hotel lobby that Jack had dragged Sam into was nicer than the places that he and Dean usually stayed at. Sam had tried to explain that the others would be there in a matter of hours, not days, but Jack insisted that they needed a hotel room. "If we have to kill time," Jack had explained, "Then we're going to a bar. If we go to a bar, I'll pick someone up. I'm sorry; it's inevitable. And when the inevitable inevitably comes to pass, I'm going to need a room to bring them back to."

It wasn't as if Sam could complain. Jack was "paying" for everything with a sheet of psychic paper. Although now that Sam looked again, it seemed that Jack wasn't so much paying for a room as he was flirting with the receptionist.

"Is it a nice room?" he was asking her. "I mean, if someone brought you back there, would you be impressed?"

The receptionist, for her part, was shyly flirting back. She lowered her eyes and giggled as she said, "I don't know. Probably not."

"Then give me a better room!" Jack said, "Jacuzzi in the bathroom! Mirrors on the ceiling!"

The receptionist laughed. "It's not that kind of hotel."

Sam stepped forward and dragged Jack away from the desk. "He'll take the room you gave him, thanks!" he told the receptionist, who seemed a little disappointed to see Jack go. Then, to Jack, "You're supposed to be laying low! Didn't you say something was after you?"

"If you'd let me talk to her for five more minutes, I would have been laying very low," he said. "Why do you have to ruin my fun?"

Sam tried to steer him upstairs to the room, but Jack pulled toward the bar. They ended up in a stalemate, standing at the fork in the hallway between the elevators and the restaurant, staring each other down. "Do you understand how insanely lucky we got, landing so close to Dean?" Sam said, "We should just sit tight and not go looking for trouble."

"I'm not looking for trouble," said Jack. "I'm looking for some action. You can go sit tight somewhere else."

"Fine," said Sam, tight-lipped. "I'll wait in the room."

Jack replied with a grin. "Good! When I bring someone up, you can join in!"

Sam, who had been heading toward the elevators, turned on his heel and marched toward the front door instead. "On second thought," he said, "I'm going for a walk."

Jack watched him go, shaking his head. "That poor kid really needs to lighten up," he said as he made for the bar.

He ordered a drink, giving the cute, tattooed bartender a blatant wink along with his order. She was clearly uninterested, but that was no problem. Jack scanned the bar for other options. There weren't many people drinking in the middle of the day – a couple of young women giggling with their heads together by the window and drinking lemonades, a harried-looking woman nursing a double of whiskey, three young men watching a video on their phones and sharing a pitcher of beer, and a man in a sharp suit who wasn't drinking anything at all.

Options.

But Jack didn't even get the chance to butterfly his way around the room and attract a (temporary) mate. When he went to order a second drink, the man in the suit joined him at the bar and smoothly paid for it.

"That's very kind of you," said Jack, sticking his hand out. "Captain Jack Harkness."

The man took Jack's hand with a strangely reptilian smile. "Nice to meet you," he said. "I'm Jim."

-----

The van pulled out after the Impala, dutifully following. But soon it jumped forward into the passing lane, zooming by the Impala while the Doctor waved cheerfully at Dean. Dean gripped the steering wheel tighter and took the next opportunity to duck around the van and back into the lead. The Doctor passed him again at the next straightaway, grinning like a loon. Dean had passed the van once more, and the Doctor was looking like he was about to attempt another switch, when Rose said from the back seat, "He doesn't realize that he's making you angry, you know. He's just having fun."

"I'm glad one of us is," Dean muttered. But he took a deep breath and even managed a minimally-sarcastic wave when the Doctor passed him by. This time he stayed behind the van, giving up the game of back-and-forth. "I have to hand it to him," Dean said, calmer this time. "At least he's keeping up."

"Torchwood vehicles are faster than they look," said Rose, "And the Doctor still hasn't figured out that speed limits are usually well below his car's top speed."

The fondness in her voice made Dean ask, "So are you and him…?"

"Yes," Rose answered quickly. "Well… yes."

Castiel turned around in the passenger seat. "Back in the farmhouse, the two of you seemed to be having some sort of disagreement."

"We…" Rose looked about ready to launch into an extended rant, but then she stopped, sighed, and said instead, "It's complicated."

"Sister, I have been there," said Dean with genuine sympathy. Cas looked like he didn't know whether to be hurt or not, only relaxing again when Dean reached across and squeezed his shoulder.

They drove in silence until Dean got bored and passed the van again. The van almost immediately passed them back, the Doctor beeping the horn happily as he sped ahead of them. This time, Dean smiled.

"Sorry about before," Dean said, glancing at Rose in the rearview mirror. "It's been a weird day. A really weird day. But I'm not after your pal's vortex-whatever. I just want my brother back, okay?"

Cas beamed at Dean. Rose was momentarily stunned, but then she caught Dean's eye in the mirror and smiled. "So," she said, "You've decided to trust us after all?"

"You're not so bad," said Dean, shrugging. "John, too. Even your boyfriend – he drives like a maniac; I can respect that." Then he frowned and added, "I still don't like that asshole in the scarf, though."

Rose laughed. "I don't think many people do." She paused, and then leaned forward over the front bench seat to look Dean and Cas in their faces. "You really don't want the vortex manipulator?"

"We really don't," Cas assured her.

She turned to Dean. "Really?" she repeated. "You seem like the kind of man who has things in his past he'd like to change."

Dean took his eyes off the road for a few seconds to give Rose a good, hard look. Then he looked back at the road, taking a few seconds to compose his thoughts before saying, "Don't get me wrong. If I had a time machine, I'd be really, really tempted. I could save me a lot of trouble by talking to my past self for a few hours, if my past self would listen. And, yeah, there are some things I'd like to try to stop from happening. Some people I'd warn to stay away from me, for their own good. But it never seems to go as simple as you'd think. The more you try to change things, the more they stay the same." His voice, which had been dark and far away, suddenly brightened as he continued, "Besides, here and now, I've got Sam and I've got Cas. That's pretty damn good. I'm positive that there are lots of realities where I wasn't this lucky. So, no. I don't want the vortex manipulator. And if I had it, I wouldn't change a damn thing."

Rose settled back into her seat, saying, "I believe you."

A second later, Dean hit the gas and passed the van again, blasting the horn the whole way.

-----

True to Sherlock's prediction, it took them almost exactly two and a half hours to get to the town Sam had called from. They only needed to stop once for gas. Castiel and Rose went into the attached shop to get snacks; Sherlock and the Doctor stayed perched in their seats, conversing animatedly on the topic of Betelgeuse.

From where he was pumping gas into the van, John called through the window, "I thought you didn't care about astronomy."

"I do when it concerns a sentient species that may have been involved in a string of unsolved murders in the 1980s," Sherlock replied. "Do go on, Doctor."

John looked put-out enough that Dean noticed from where he was feeding a fake credit card into the next pump over. "You two are kind of co-dependent, aren't you?" he asked. John looked about ready to launch into a vehement denial, but Dean stopped him with a raised hand and, "No, no. I'm not judging. I kind of have experience in that area."

Dean called Sam again as they rolled into the little town. "Thank God you're here!" Sam said in a hushed voice. "Head to the Riverside Hotel. I'll meet you there."

"There's a river in this town?" Dean replied.

"No, that's just what they call it," whispered Sam. "Jack is in room 211. Bring a bucket of ice water to throw on him."

"Dude, why are you whispering?" Dean said, his voice involuntarily dropping to match Sam's volume.

"Because I'm at the library," said Sam. "I've been hiding out here for over two hours, and I can't go back to the hotel or Jack will try to get me to join an orgy or something."

Dean rolled his eyes. "You are literally the only person in history who would rather hang out at the library than have an orgy."

Cas, who could only hear Dean's side of the conversation, raised his eyebrows in alarm. Rose didn't look at all surprised that the conversation was taking a turn toward group sex, considering that Jack was involved.

The van followed the Impala through the twisty streets. Even though they got turned around a few times and took almost fifteen minutes to find the place, Sam was nowhere to be seen when they pulled up to the hotel.

"He's not picking up his phone," said Dean after trying Sam for the third time.

"I saw the library when we were driving the wrong way down Front street," said Cas, narrowing his eyes. "It's only three blocks away from here. Sam should be here by now."

The Doctor and John were edging toward the hotel door, eager to find Jack. Rose followed them. "Are you coming?" she called back to Dean. "We could use an extra hand, in case we run into trouble."

Dean hesitated until Cas put a hand on his shoulder. "I'll find Sam," Cas promised. "He can't be far. I'll meet you back here."

"You got enough mojo to track him down the fast way?" Dean asked.

Cas shook his head. "I'll go on foot. Don't worry, Dean. I'll find him."

Dean nodded gratefully.

"Sherlock, are you coming?" John called. Sherlock was still sitting in the passenger seat of the van and eyeing a blue Porsche that was parked across the street. As John watched, Sherlock dashed out of the van and across the street to swipe his finger along the window edge of the car. He studied his fingertip for a second, then ran back across the street to reply, "No, I think not. You have fun though." John looked baffled, but he didn't argue.

As Cas took off down the street and Sherlock installed himself back in the van, the rest of the group stormed into the lobby of the hotel. "Um," said the receptionist. "Do you want to book a room?"

The Doctor held up a slip of psychic paper in a leather holder and said, "Scotland Yard, ma'am!"

"He means FBI," Rose added as they all rushed past the stunned receptionist.

They had rounded the corner, thundered up the stairs, and made their way down the hallway to room 211 before Dean remembered what Sam had said about orgies and ice water.

"Do you think we should, you know, knock?" he wondered aloud.

After their purposeful approach, no one seemed to know what to do with that suggestion.

"I suppose?" said the Doctor.

Rose reached between Dean and John and rapped on the door. There was no answer. She knocked again, louder. Still nothing.

"Screw this," said Dean, and he kicked the door in.

Because there was really no point in being subtle at that point, they all stormed in. Then they promptly stopped in their tracks at the sight of Captain Jack Harkness, naked from head to toe, handcuffed to the headboard of the bed and looking extremely nonplussed at the influx of new arrivals.

That sight was distracting enough that they almost missed the man in the crisp suit who was standing by the bed, in the process of unhooking the vortex manipulator from Jack's wrist.

"Moriarty!" John shouted, leveling his gun. Rose followed his lead, supposing that if someone as rational as John was prepared to shoot this man then he must be someone worth shooting. Dean did the same.

The Doctor peeked over their shoulders, his hands empty. He waved to Jack. "Hello!" he said. "I'm the Doctor. We spoke on the phone."

Slowly, with a long-suffering roll of his eyes, Moriarty put his hands in the air. "This is your fault," he said to Jack not-unpleasantly. "If you had just accepted my offer to go up to your room instead of insisting on drinking and flirting for hours on end, I would have been gone long before they arrived."

Jack grinned up at Moriarty from where he was shackled to the bed. "I was just enjoying your company," he replied. "If I'd known you were going to get kinky with me as soon as we went upstairs, I would have sped things up."

"Who is he?" Rose muttered to John.

"Long story," John muttered back. "Short version: clever, evil, once tried to blow me up in a swimming pool."

"What?" Dean muttered to them both.

Then Rose decided that someone ought to take control of this standoff. "Keep your guns trained on him, boys," she said, and strode toward Moriarty. She plucked the vortex manipulator neatly out of his hand. Moriarty made no move to stop her. All he did was smile, at once benign and vaguely threatening.

Rose turned away from Moriarty for just long enough to toss the vortex manipulator across the room to the Doctor. He caught it, cradling it like it was made of glass. Even watching him only out of the corner of her eye, Rose knew that his eyes must have been sparkling. She hadn't forgotten what he'd said back at the farmhouse. Now that he had the device in his hands, he might never let it go.

And Rose wasn't sure if she wanted him to. For as long as he held the thing, he was once more a master of space and time. The vortex manipulator belonged to Jack, yes, but it wasn't as if neither of them had ever stolen something before. The Doctor had originally stolen the TARDIS, after all.

The Doctor flipped the device open and, with only a second to look at its innards, he pushed one or two components back into place and clicked it closed. "Fixed. It's not pretty, but it'll work. It just needs an hour or so to recalibrate." He slipped it into his jacket pocket.

Jack had been watching the whole drama unfold around him with hardly a slip in his smile, but his eyes followed the vortex manipulator nervously as it was put away. "So you're the Doctor," he said. "I guess you really are as good as you claim. Now how about getting me out of here, unless you're into this kind of thing?"

"He's spoken for, I'm afraid," said Rose. Then, holding her hand out to Moriarty, "Key, please."

Moriarty didn't even pretend not to know what she was talking about. He just reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and handed over the key to Jack's handcuffs.

While Rose freed Jack, he smiled broadly up at her. "Can I ask who I have the pleasure of being rescued by?" he said.

"Torchwood," Rose replied brightly. "I'm Rose Tyler, by the way."

Jack's eyes swept over the Doctor, John, and Dean before returning incredulously to Rose. "You guys are Torchwood? Are they hiring from modeling agencies now?"

Rose laughed. It was good to know that Jack was the same no matter what universe they were in. She finished unlocking his handcuffs and he stood, rubbing his wrists.

"Dude," said Dean. His eyes were still on Moriarty, but Jack's full-frontal nudity was inescapably in his peripheral vision. "Do you think you could skip the sweet talk and put some clothes on?"

Jack turned and put his hands on his hips so that his groin was pushed forward. "Why? Am I making you uncomfortable?" he said with a grin.

"Stop it, all of you!" John snapped. "I don't think you appreciate just how dangerous Moriarty is." Moriarty, for his part, was still holding his hands up and looking quietly amused at the whole proceedings. John went on. "There's clearly something else going on here. Someone go down and get Sherlock; he'll know what to do."

But before anyone could think about following John's order, a voice floated in from the direction of the hallway. "Hey, Dean-o!"

Dean flinched so violently that he almost dropped his gun.

"Who…?" the Doctor wondered.

"Meg," said Dean tersely.

"Come on out, Dean!" Meg called again. "I've got something I think belongs to you."

Dean lowered his gun to his side, shoved past the Doctor, and skidded out into the hall, leaving John as the only person still covering Moriarty.

"Excuse me!" John protested.

Rose added her own weapon to the situation, pointing it straight-armed at the back of Moriarty's head. "Go!" she ordered. "Walk!" Moriarty complied, and Rose steered him out into the hall after Dean. John and the Doctor followed her. With a shrug, Jack brought up the rear.

The scene in the hallway made it immediately apparent why Dean had been in such a hurry. A bright-faced, dark-haired woman stood several yards down the hall. She was dual-wielding pistols that she held pointed at her two hostages, who were on their knees in front of her. On her left knelt Sam, sporting a bloody nose, a split lip, and a black eye. On her right was Castiel. He looked in better shape than Sam, but his hunched posture hinted at injuries hidden beneath his clothes.

A couple of doors along the hallway cracked open and curious faces appeared, drawn by the noise. The doors quickly closed again.

"Sorry, Dean," said Sam. "She got the drop on me."

Dean's gun was pointed at Meg's head, but his hand was shaking. "Let them go, Meg," he said.

Meg looked at him almost pityingly. "Aw, honey. Do you really think that's likely? Now, all of you put your guns down and kick them towards me."

Dean tightened his grip on his gun for a moment, but then the tension went out of his shoulders and he dropped it to his side, defeated. Slowly, he placed his gun on the floor and kicked it toward Meg. A glance at Rose and John silently begged them to do the same.

"I could hit her from this distance," John offered in a whisper. He wasn't keen on shooting anyone, especially when there was so much he didn't know about the situation, but if people's lives were in danger then he was ready to spring into action. Besides, he was confident that he could make a non-lethal shot.

"Wouldn't matter," Dean replied. "She's a demon. You could shoot her in the heart and it'd be about as useful as poking a bear with a stick."

"What about Moriarty?" Rose whispered, the barrel of her gun still resting between his shoulder blades. "We'll be sitting ducks."

Just then, Meg called out, "I'm waiting! Five more seconds and I'm gonna start shooting off body parts. They don't actually need ears, right? Five… four…"

Dean turned toward Rose and John one more time. "Guys…" he said.

He didn't need to say anything more. Rose and John tossed their weapons into the no-man's land between the two sides.

"Good choice," said Meg. "Now, toss me the vortex manipulator."

"What?" the Doctor snapped.

"What?" Rose echoed.

"Hey…" Jack said, holding up a finger as if to remind everyone of the actual owner of said vortex manipulator.

John glared. "Why?"

"Because that's what all of this was about," Meg groaned, rolling her eyes. "You guys are really not that bright, are you? I mean, what did you think Moriarty and I were trying to accomplish here? Get this asshole shackled to a bed?" She jerked her head toward Jack. Then her eyes did a once-over of his naked body and she added, "Actually, that wouldn't be a terrible plan."

Jack stopped looking worried about losing his vortex manipulator for long enough to look flattered.

"You want it?" said Dean. "You got it. I don't care about it anyway. Just let them go."

Meg almost did a little dance of glee. "Oh, here's the really fun part," she said. "I will let one of them go. And guess who gets to choose?"

Sam looked up at her from his position on the ground and said wryly, "You know that's probably the worst cliché you could possibly have pulled?"

"The classics are classics for a reason," said Meg. "Just look at your brother's face."

Dean could only imagine what his face looked like. Somewhere in the back of his mind he had known that this was coming as soon as he saw that both Sam and Cas had been taken hostage, but every fiber of his being had hoped that it wouldn't go that way. Now his knees felt weak as his eyes flicked frantically between his two choices.

His brother? Or the man he loved?

"Dean," Sam said gravely. "Save Castiel. I'll be fine."

Cas was quick to answer. "No, Dean! You have to save Sam."

Meg looked delighted. "I'd tell them to shut up," she said to Dean, "But I think they might actually be making this harder on you."

But then Rose stepped forward with a solution. "We'll trade you the vortex manipulator for one of them, and Moriarty for the other. He's your accomplice, right?"

"So?" said Meg, shrugging. "Kill him if you want. See if I care."

"Not to mention," Moriarty finally spoke up, "Now that your guns are over there and not pointed at me, there's really nothing to stop me from… doing this." And then, holding his arms out dramatically, as if he were performing a magic trick, he walked across the no-man's land between the two groups and installed himself behind Meg. John lurched forward once, as if he were considering tackling Moriarty before he reached safety, but he thought better of it and fell back in line.

"What's this about?" said the Doctor suspiciously. "What do a demon and a… um…"

"Consulting criminal," John supplied.

"What do a demon and a consulting criminal want with the vortex manipulator?" the Doctor finished.

Meg shrugged enigmatically. "You'll have to ask him what he wants with it," she said. "As for me, that shouldn't be too hard to figure out."

Cas turned to glare up at Meg. "You want to go back in time and use your knowledge of future events to ensure that Lucifer defeats Michael and brings about the apocalypse," he said.

"Point for the pretty one," said Meg with a smile.

John gaped for a moment before barking, "The apocalypse? She wants to start the apocalypse?" He caught Moriarty's eye. "I knew you were insane, but even you can't want the world to end!"

Moriarty, who looked bored by the whole affair, replied, "Oh, I don't. Once we get the vortex manipulator, I'll double-cross her and take it for myself." When everyone's eyes went to Meg, he added, "Oh, don't worry. She knows. She's working on her own plan to double-cross me, too."

"You think you can win against her?" asked the Doctor. "She's a demon, you know."

"Oh, like I've never dealt with demons before," said Moriarty. He reached into the collar of his shirt and fished out a thin silver chain. A pendant engraved with the anti-possession sigil dangled from the end.

"But what are you going to do if you win?" John demanded.

"When I win," Moriarty corrected. "And why on earth would I tell you and ruin the surprise? I haven't even properly decided what I'm going to do with it yet. I mean, it's time travel. I can think of fifteen ways to bring down the British government and install myself as Emperor, and I'm not even trying!"

Meg nudged him with her elbow, not looking at all concerned about his declaration of his plans to betray her. "Would you quit monologuing?" she said. "We aren't even supposed to be here. Fucking with Dean is the only thing that makes this whole mess worth it right now, and you're distracting him." She looked back at Dean, letting him know that she hadn't forgotten her challenge.

Dean had barely heard the whole conversation. He had been silent so far, desperately trying to find an alternative to the scenario Meg had laid out. Now he swallowed hard and asked, "What happens to the one I don't choose?"

"I keep him as insurance against you following me when I make my getaway," said Meg. "After that… who knows?" Her toothy smile made Dean sure that she already had a few ideas.

"Take me instead," he said, but Meg only laughed.

"You know I'm not going to let you get away with that."

As the horror of the decision settled into Dean's chest, making it feel like his lungs were collapsing, he could hear his father's voice mingling with his own, repeating the mantra that had carried him through life ever since he was four years old. Protect your brother. Sammy came first, always, in everything, before anyone.

But Cas.

But Cas.

Ashen-faced, Dean made a noise that was barely recognizable as a single, choked syllable.

"You're going to have to speak up, there," said Meg, cocking an exaggerated hand to her ear.

Dean had to try twice more before he managed to say it. "Sam," he said, "Sam. Sam. Give me Sam."

His eyes flicked to Cas, dreading the expression of betrayal that he expected to find. But Cas held Dean's gaze evenly and, as Dean watched, a ghost of a smile flitted across his face. Then Cas's eyes closed and he gave a single, deliberate nod.

He had known who Dean would pick. He had known before Dean had known. Somehow, that made it worse.

Meg shrugged. "Yeah, that's what I figured," she said, sounding bored now that the game was over. "Gimme the vortex manipulator and he's yours."

Dean was too distracted to remember where the device had gone, but Jack, John, and Rose turned to the Doctor. Their eyes dropped to his pocket. For a second he hesitated, and Dean wasn't sure if he was going to give it up.

The Doctor's hand settled over the bulging pocket protectively. Then, stiffly, it dipped inside and drew out the gleaming device in its leather strap. He clutched it, still holding it close to himself. Dean stretched out his hand for it in a way that made it clear that if the Doctor didn't hand it over, Dean would take it.

"We could rush them," the Doctor whispered. "Take them out. We don't need to play into their hands."

Dean might have listened if he hadn't known that the Doctor was more concerned with not losing the vortex manipulator than he was with keeping people alive. Instead, he just felt like punching the Doctor in the face.

"They're armed," Jack pointed out. "We're not. We can win, but not here. Not now. Not without people getting killed. And I don't really care about most of you, but I kind of like Sam, and right now it looks like we don't have very many options that don't end in Sam getting shot."

But the Doctor didn't loosen his grip until Rose leaned forward and whispered something into his ear. She spoke so softly that Dean couldn't make out a single word, but the Doctor's face fell immediately upon hearing it. Rose pulled away. The Doctor placed the vortex manipulator in Dean's hand.

Dean threw it, a spiteful fastball aimed straight at Meg's face. She snatched it out of the air easily. And true to her word, she dropped the gun aimed at Sam and kicked him toward Dean. Sam looked back quickly, but Cas shook his head. "Sammy!" Dean called out, warning him not to do anything stupid.

His face drawn in a grimace, Sam scampered across to join his brother.

Once Sam was back behind friendly lines, Dean let himself look back at Castiel. Though Dean didn't say a word, Cas smiled in understanding.

Dean's eyes rose to Meg's smiling face. "I'll send you back to Hell for this, you evil bitch."

Meg holstered both her guns and grabbed Cas around the back of the neck. "Good luck with that," she said cheerily. Moriarty put his hand on Meg's shoulder.

And in that split second before Meg, Moriarty, and Castiel disappeared into thin air, the elevator doors just to their left opened. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, Sherlock Holmes stepped out of the elevator, sidled up to Moriarty, and took his hand.

With a dramatic snap of Meg's fingers, all four of them were gone.

-----

When Meg rematerialized at her destination – a conveniently abandoned convenience store in the next state over – she wobbled on her feet and nearly fell. She only managed to stay upright by using the angel as a crutch, grip tightening on the back of his neck. He grunted in pain as she leaned into him.

She had gotten so used to being juiced up on souls that it was almost painful to fall back to the level she had been at before her deal with Moriarty. Unfortunately, that last jump had taken up the last of her power boost. She was an ordinary black-eyed demon again – perhaps stronger than most, due to her parentage, but without certain extra conveniences like teleportation. She couldn't even get herself out of driving range of the Winchesters which, though she knew they had no hope of finding her, made her jumpy. Now that she was so close to completing her plan, she would have preferred to be completely out of their reach. Like Barbados. Or the moon. She would have to settle for rural Kentucky.

It was only then that she bothered to look over at Moriarty, and found the unexpected passenger at his side.

"What is he doing here?" she shrieked, after recovering from a moment of silent shock.

Moriarty shrugged, still holding Sherlock's hand and looking intensely amused at the unexpected turn of events. Sherlock was silent. He just threw Meg the kind of smarmy smile that begged to be slapped off his face.

So Meg complied, backhanding Sherlock so hard that he was knocked off his feet. He spat blood into the dust, but the grin still hovered on his lips. Meg resisted the urge to kick him. She had more important things to do.

She pulled Sherlock to his feet and checked his pockets. Aside from a pack of nicotine patches, they were empty.

"Lock them in a closet or something," she ordered, handing Moriarty her gun and holding up the vortex manipulator. "We need to figure out how to use this damned thing."

Castiel and Sherlock walked compliantly in front of Moriarty as he guided them with the barrel of his pistol. Castiel looked resigned to whatever was about to happen, but Sherlock was still smiling that infuriating smile. It didn't leave his face even as Moriarty found a cellar with a locking door and shut both the hostages inside.

Part 3

In Another Place (SuperWhoLock Big Bang) Part 1

2012-11-05T20:38:04Z

Fic Masterpost
Whenever John Watson had the dubious pleasure of seeing Mycroft Holmes, it was usually under one of two circumstances. Either Mycroft would visit 221B Baker Street, in which case he was probably there to ask his little brother for a favor, or John would be kidnapped by one of Mycroft's assistants. Occurrences of the former were amusing due to Sherlock's merciless teasing, while the latter were exasperating due to the fact that despite multiple abductions, Anthea still had not learned John's name nor given him her real one.

But this time was different: for once, Sherlock had sought out his brother instead of the other way around. Sherlock had insisted that John accompany him to Mycroft's private room of the Diogenes Club, and while he had refused to say the words "moral support," John was fairly sure that was what he needed. After all the times Sherlock had belittled Mycroft for begging favors, it had to be humiliating to have the tables turned.

John stood by the window, out of the way of the action, while the Holmes brothers conversed. Mycroft sat comfortably in his chair. Sherlock paced manically.

"Surely your friend at Scotland Yard has something for you to do," said Mycroft smoothly. Though he tried to busy himself with a stack of envelopes, he was clearly watching Sherlock's agitation with barely-suppressed glee.

"Lestrade hasn't contacted me in weeks," said Sherlock, never breaking stride. "Clearly the Yard has nothing on their plate that requires my expertise."

"Maybe he's avoiding you," Mycroft suggested. "I would, if I were him."

Sherlock's lip twitched, but he didn't rise to Mycroft's bait. "Do you have something for me, or not?" he said.

"There may be one or two matters that are worth looking into," said Mycroft, shuffling his papers. "But I'm sure they wouldn't interest you."

Sherlock stopped his pacing to whirl and grab the armrests of Mycroft's chair. He hovered over him, wild-eyed. "I haven't had a case in months," he said.

At this, John interjected, "You had a case three days ago."

Without so much as a glance at John, Sherlock amended himself to, "I haven't had a decent case in months. Mycroft, you have to help me. I can feel my mind stagnating with each passing day. Give me a case. I'll do anything."

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. "Anything?"

Sherlock straightened, scrunched his face, and admitted, "Well, no. Not anything."

"If you're going to be picky about it," said Mycroft, scooping up his papers, "Then I'm afraid I won't be of much use to you." He started toward the door, but Sherlock blocked his path.

"Oh, come now, Mycroft," he said. "You know what I want."

Mycroft's face fell. "That is out of the question!"

"What is?" John asked. He was ignored.

"Just get me in the door," Sherlock wheedled. "I'll find something to divert me once I get inside. Torchwood always has something interesting going on."

"It's not that simple," said Mycroft. "They won't just let you wander around. I'd need to assign an operative to look after you, and I can't do that."

"Why not?" Sherlock demanded.

"Because they've met you," said Mycroft flatly. "Every person who I've ever assigned to be your chaperone has asked me very politely to never let you near their division ever again."

"Oh," said Sherlock, momentarily crestfallen. "Even Lisa?"

"Especially Lisa," said Mycroft.

Though he was having trouble keeping up, John pitched in, "Surely he can't have met everyone at this Torchwood place. Can't you find someone new and unsuspecting to give him to?" Mycroft glared, silently warning him not to interfere. John rolled his eyes. "Don't give me that. I'm the one who has to live with him, and he's insufferable when he's bored."

Sherlock beamed. Mycroft looked about ready to storm out for good when a sudden change came over his face. "Actually…" he said, considering. "Now that you mention it, I think there is someone. Yes. You know, I think you'll get along quite well with her."

"Why do you say that?" Sherlock and John asked simultaneously. Sherlock's voice held a note of suspicion, while John's held a twinge of jealousy.

Mycroft smiled at them both. "Because I've met her boyfriend," he said. "If she can put up with him, then she can put up with anybody. I'll have a car pick you up in the morning. Now if you'll excuse me…"

Sherlock waited until his brother had left the room before spinning in an excited circle and pumping his fists.

John smiled at his friend's excitement, though he was still quite lost. "What was that all about?" he asked. "What do you want with Torchwood? I thought they were some kind of R&D operation."

"As usual, you take everything at face value," said Sherlock, still flailing his hands happily. "Torchwood is much more than they appear. They have alien technology! Trans-dimensional capabilities! Artificial intelligence!"

"Doesn't sound likely that we'll find a crime to solve there," said John.

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "I'm not looking for a crime. I'm looking for a puzzle that will test my intellect. That's the beauty of Torchwood. When you put that many idiots in a building with all the nation's greatest technological discoveries, something is bound to go wrong. And it does. Constantly. There are always problems that need solving at Torchwood, and they're always interesting." He smoothed his coat as he added, "Besides, we might solve a few crimes while we're at it. You'd be amazed how many of the suspicious deaths that happen in London can be traced back to aliens."

"I don't know," said John. "It's certainly not our usual."

John's dubious tone made Sherlock pause. "But you're with me, aren't you?" he said.

John put his misgivings aside. "Do you even need to ask?"

They tiptoed out of the Diogenes Club like two little boys with a permission slip for a field trip. Once they were out in the sunlight again and away from the rooms full of stodgy, old, silence-preoccupied politicians, John brought up one last concern. "Who do you suppose she is? The one Mycroft mentioned."

Sherlock shook his head with a wry smile. "Doesn't matter," he said. "If she's like the rest of the Torchwood lot, there's nothing remarkable about her."

-----

Rose Tyler was the second most remarkable person at Torchwood. She was a time traveler and a dimension-hopper. She had been knighted by Queen Victoria and witnessed the end of the world. She had also prevented the end of the world a couple of times, once by becoming an omniscient, omnipresent, all-powerful avatar of the Time Vortex.

At the moment, she was handing tools down to the first most remarkable person at Torchwood, who was working inside the shell of an ancient spacecraft. "I don't suppose you have a 3/17 occipital left-leaning Heterodyne wrench up there, do you?" asked the Doctor.

Rose looked through the toolkit that Torchwood had given her. It contained gadgets that would have given a science fiction writer a nosebleed, but to someone of the Doctor's expertise it was like having to work with nothing but a hammer and some twine. "Will this do?" she said, handing down something that she thought might resemble what the Doctor was looking for.

He took it with a grimace. "I suppose it'll have to," he said before disappearing back into the fuselage.

They had found the wreck in Torchwood's basement storage. No one knew what it was or how long it had been there, but the Doctor had been quick to identify it as the remains of a Persephonean long-range shuttle. Rose thought it looked like a piece of junk, but the Doctor thought he could get it flying again.

For the both of them, the thought of going back into the stars was like a whiff of secondhand smoke to a recovering addict. They threw themselves into the work of restoring the ship. As it came together, Rose noticed that the Doctor was beginning to act more like his old self. The cheeky smile was back, as were the corny jokes. Even being forced to work with ordinary tools instead of his sonic screwdriver couldn't dampen his spirits much. It was almost like having the proper Doctor back.

No, Rose reminded herself. There is no proper Doctor. This is the Doctor. The only one I've got.

The Doctor in question popped his head back out, beaming. "It worked!" he announced. "Now all we need is a new compression coil and we'll be spacebound."

Rose blinked once, the smile sliding from her face. "A compression coil like the one in the TARDIS?"

"Obviously nothing so advanced as that," said the Doctor, "But you've got the right idea."

"Doctor," said Rose slowly, "Wasn't that coil made of an alloy of metals that are only found on Gallifrey?"

The Doctor was quick to reply. "Yes, but that's because it was a really top-of-the-line part. We could make do with something much simpler. As long as it…" And there he began to slow as realization took hold. "As long as it… had the correct properties… that are possessed by absolutely nothing on Earth at this time."

Rose was searching for a way to reassure him when the Doctor suddenly struck the hull of the ship with the wrench. The angry, metallic sound reverberated through the storage area, and all at once the light went out of the Doctor's eyes. With a few more sweeps of the wrench, he tore apart the intricate inner workings of the ship that they had spent days rebuilding. The helpless rage on his face made Rose recoil as the memory of her last visit to Bad Wolf Bay ran through her head.

Born in battle, the proper Doctor had said of his clone, Full of blood and anger and revenge.

Rose pushed the words out of her head and snatched the wrench out of the Doctor's hands before he could do any more damage. "That's enough," she snapped. "We might want to use some of these parts later."

The Doctor's anger had cooled to resentful sulkiness. "What for?" he said bitterly. "We'll never make it back up there. We've tried everything! We're going to be stuck on this stupid planet for the rest of our lives." He clambered out of the useless ship and gave the exterior one last kick.

Rose didn't point out the fact that most people aren't bothered by that, but instead reminded him, "You used to like Earth."

"I used to be able to leave Earth if I wanted," the Doctor sulked. "Apparently absence really does make the hearts grow fonder." Then he corrected himself with a frown, "Heart. Singular."

Rose would have told him to stop feeling sorry for himself, perhaps a little more harshly than she should have, but she was interrupted by the approach of two men. Their confident, synchronized strides made Rose think they must be Torchwood agents until she noticed the visitor badges pinned to their coats. The shorter man greeted her with a nod and asked, "Rose Tyler?"

"That's right," said Rose dubiously.

The man extended his hand. "Doctor John Watson," he said, "and this is my friend, Sherlock Holmes."

Rose searched her memory for a second before she recognized the name. "Holmes!" she said. "You must be Mycroft's little brother. Lisa warned me about you."

Sherlock Holmes ignored her. His gaze skittered over every surface and fixture of the storage unit, taking it in silently but intently. Most of the contents of the room looked like junk, but Rose got the impression that Sherlock Holmes understood more about each object with a glance than the whole of Torchwood did with all their tests.

"Did you say you were Doctor Watson?" asked the Doctor, bounding forward eagerly, his spirits evidently repaired. "It's good to meet you! I'm a fan of your blog."

"You read blogs?" said Rose out of the side of her mouth, amused.

"I can't read the Time Vortex anymore," whispered the Doctor, almost managing to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "I might as well read murder mysteries."

"Cheers," said John, ignoring their hushed exchange and shaking the Doctor's hand. "And you are?"

"I'm the Doctor," said the Doctor.

John looked like he was waiting for the punchline, so Rose explained, "He's not teasing you. That's actually his name."

"No, it's not," said Sherlock, suddenly joining the conversation, "The two of you are listed as field agents, not researchers, and yet here you are in one of Torchwood's most remote storage rooms with an alien spacecraft that crashed, oh, sixty or seventy years ago in the Welsh countryside if I'm not mistaken. The only reason a specimen like this would be tossed into storage is because Torchwood doesn't know what to do with it. But you certainly do – judging by the toolkit on the hull and the stains on your clothing you've been doing more than simply studying it. You've been repairing it. So we've established that you have a better understanding of alien engineering than the best minds that Torchwood has been able to produce in the last several decades. I might believe that you'd been recruited from out of the country if it weren't for your accent. No, it's more likely that you are an extraterrestrial masquerading as a human. Making the reasonable assumption that your kind has their own language and naming conventions, it is inconceivable that your real name is, in fact, 'the Doctor.' Deduction? You've adopted a human profession as your name in order to ease your interactions with our species."

There were a few seconds of stunned silence all around before Rose said, "Well, I'm impressed. And I can see why Lisa hated you."

Sherlock handed her a sheaf of papers with a humorless smile. "You've been assigned to be my handler while I'm here. I'm confident that I'll manage to earn your hatred soon enough."

Before Rose could answer, John raised his hand and said, "Wait. Back up just a bit. He's an alien?" He pointed at the Doctor incredulously.

"Well, sort of, but I don't like to brag," said the Doctor, looking pleased with himself.

The first paper in Rose's stack was a letter from Mycroft, which she flipped past without reading. Underneath was an intelligence packet. The first few lines stopped her dead in her tracks. "What is this?" she demanded, holding it up and halting all other conversation.

"Oh, er," said John, still processing Sherlock's deduction about the Doctor, "That's for you. They asked us to deliver it to you when we came in."

Rose was no longer concerned with the visitors. She had stopped wondering how Sherlock had pulled off his little trick. She scanned the report in her hands, words springing out at her and lodging themselves in her imagination. UFO… Flight pattern indicates distress… Delta waves suggest time travel capabilities.

Time travel capabilities.

She handed the papers to the Doctor without a word. His eyes flicked over the first page for a few seconds before he looked back at Rose, startled. "Where's it landing?"

"Midwest United States," she answered. "And it looks like the landing might be closer to a crash."

Each held the other's gaze until Sherlock interrupted, "So, are we going on a field trip?"

Rose's mind was racing. It was all she could do to answer briskly, "This is classified."

"A small spacecraft of unknown origin is on a collision course with Nebraska," said Sherlock smugly. "If you care about keeping classified information classified, you shouldn't hand it out to visitors. Now, by the looks on your faces I'd say you have some ideas about what this particular spacecraft might be. You should really fill us in now. If you don't, I'll figure it out soon enough."

"Look," said Rose, reaching the end of her patience. "It's been fun, but your play date with Torchwood is over. We have work to do." She turned on her heel and began marching out of the room, saying to the Doctor, "We'll need to catch a plane… I mean airship… this afternoon if we'll have any chance of getting there in time. Do you think…"

Sherlock stopped her with a loud clearing of his throat. "I think you had better take another look at the letter from my brother," he said. "I am attached to you for the next week. Wherever you go, I go."

Rose whipped the letter back out and checked it. Sure enough, he was right. She was pretty sure that a trip to America was not what Mycroft had had in mind, but she had her orders and no time to dispute them. "Then you'd better get packed," she said. "Be at the airfield in three hours. If you're late, we'll leave without you."

When the intruders had gone, John scolding Sherlock gently for being confrontational, Rose and the Doctor rolled the useless ship back into its storage compartment and left to make some preparations of their own. On the long ride up the elevator, Rose broke the awkward silence. "You've been awfully quiet."

"You've been awfully tetchy," the Doctor replied. "I thought you would have been happy to have those two along. They have an impressive record. They might be helpful."

"I just don't want any distractions is all," Rose said.

The Doctor pressed his lips together. "Because of who you expect to find over there?" he said.

And there it was.

"It could be anybody," said Rose. "There are lots of people who can time-travel."

"But you've only got one on your mind," said the Doctor. "You think it's him. Me. The Doctor from this universe."

Rose didn't want to admit that that was exactly what she had been thinking, so she equivocated, "We've done the research. There's no evidence that the Doctor exists here at all. That you exist here at all, I mean."

"And yet you still have them send you every report with even a mention of time travel in it," the Doctor challenged. "Even if it's not our jurisdiction."

"The Americans would only cock it up anyway," Rose mumbled.

"That's not what this is about," said the Doctor. "This is about me not being good enough for you. About you holding out for something better. The real thing."

"That's not what I'm doing!" Rose protested.

"Then why haven't you accepted my proposal?" said the Doctor, and suddenly Rose was staring very intently at the floor. "Marry me."

"Doctor…" She couldn't say yes. Things just weren't right yet. She wasn't ready, and he still wasn't quite himself. It wasn't that she was holding out for something better.

Was she?

"That's what I thought," said the Doctor, and he pounded the button to get off at the next floor.

Rose rode the rest of the way up to ground level alone with her thoughts. The first time she had kissed him at Bad Wolf Bay, she had thought the rest would come easy. But it hadn't. It had turned out that loving a human Doctor was somewhat more emotionally complicated than being assistant to a Time Lord.

She knew that she had it good. Her parents were both alive, and her brother was growing up strong. She had a job at Torchwood and her very own Doctor who was human enough to grow old with her. She had everything.

And yet she knew that if she arrived in Nebraska to find the TARDIS waiting for her, she would fly away in it without looking back.

-----

"This is bullshit, you know that?"

Dean had known this was coming. No matter how many of them they made, long road trips never got any easier. After a couple of days in a car, switching seats every few hours so at least one person could sleep in the back, eating drive-through food, and not showering, everyone was on edge. Now they were on a lonely, dark stretch of road in the middle of the night with no civilization to be seen, and Sam had finally decided to speak up.

"What's your problem?" Dean sighed, trying to keep his voice down. He tilted the rearview mirror to make sure Cas was still asleep in the back seat. Cas had taken the last shift, driving for six hours straight. He deserved the rest. And ever since Stull Cemetery, he actually needed it.

After Sam had averted the apocalypse, Cas had come back with just enough angelic mojo to revive Bobby and pull Sam out of the cage. After sleeping for about a week (during which time Dean was going out of his mind with worry), he had woken up almost completely human. He still had flashes of power – a little healing here and there, some smiting if there was no other option – but it took a lot out of him and it wasn't very reliable anyway. There had been nothing left to do but teach him how to shoot and let him come along in the Impala.

Of course, it hadn't been that simple. Somewhere along the way Dean and Cas had fallen into each other, and the more Dean tried to run away from his feelings the more he found himself running into Cas's arms. Finally the dam had broken and the truth had spilled irresistibly out: Dean was in love with Cas. And then Dean had suddenly found himself in the terrifying position of having not one, but two people who he could not live without.

"By the time we get there, that vampire nest is going to be long gone," said Sam. "I know you love driving, but the car just isn't fast enough."

"We're less than a day out," Dean said. "The nest is in Georgia, and we're in… what? Wyoming? Or are we in Nebraska now? Whatever. We're almost there."

Sam swiped a hand over his face. "But we started in Oregon," he whined, "On these cross-country trips we should really just take an airship."

Dean squirmed in his seat at the mere mention. "Not happening," was all he said.

"Come on, Dean," said Sam, "The new ones are huge. If you stay away from the windows, you'd never know you were in the air."

"I'd know," Dean said. "Besides, how would we get the Impala over there with us?"

"We could have left it on the West coast," said Sam, "And then come back for it when the job was done."

Dean shot Sam a warning glance. "I'm not leaving my baby anywhere," he said. "I've got everything I need right here, and I'm not letting any of it out of my sight."

"Great," Sam sighed, leaning back in his seat as comfortably as he could manage. "Then I guess we'll just keep doing these days-long road trips through the ass-end of nowhere where nothing interesting ever happens. Ever."

The whole car shook as the field beside the road suddenly exploded in a shower of dirt clods and grass.

"SON OF A BITCH!" Dean shouted. He jerked the wheel away from the impact, then overcorrected. They spun into the shoulder. The car jerked to a stop as the last of the debris fell back to earth. Everything was silent except for the sound of Sam and Dean’s startled panting.

"What was that?" asked a sleepy voice from the backseat. Castiel sat up, holding his head where it had bumped the car door during their spin-out.

"Hell if I know," said Sam, visibly shaken. All three of them looked over at the field with its fresh, smoking crater. "You know, if we were normal people, we would just keep on driving. Away. Fast."

"Too bad we've never been normal," Dean sighed. "Better go check it out." He opened the door and stood on legs that were wobbly from disuse and adrenaline. Sam and Cas soon joined him, stretching their legs and eyeing the field suspiciously. Cas pulled his trenchcoat out from under the seat and put it on over the AC/DC shirt he was wearing. Since becoming human, he had traded in the suit for jeans and t-shirts stolen from Dean's wardrobe, but he still loved that damn coat.

Each of them grabbed a weapon from the trunk before venturing into the field.

Sam started to rush forward, but Dean stopped him with a hand on his wrist. "Hold up," he said. "We don't know what's in there. You two just stay behind me, okay?" Sam rolled his eyes, but he humored Dean by stepping back. Cas obediently stepped back and left, covering Dean with his shotgun.

The three of them inched closer to the crater and peered inside, their weapons at the ready. A silver ship was nestled in the smoking hole dug by its own impact. It was clearly damaged – there were burns and scrapes all over it, and circuitry was visible where panels had been lifted and torn - but it appeared mostly intact. It didn't look like anything Dean had ever seen before. Coupled with the fact that it had fallen from the sky…

Sam, following Dean's train of thought, began whistling the theme to The Twilight Zone while Cas stared blankly.

"It's not a UFO, you dumbass," said Dean.

"How do you know?" said Sam. "It's starting to look like a pretty good possibility."

"Cause," said Dean, "Aliens don't exist."

Cas piped up, "Of course they do," earning stares from both Winchesters. He didn't elaborate.

"Uh," said Dean, trying to figure out what to do with that information. "Whatever. But this is probably just an experimental aircraft or something. Someone should go check if there's a pilot. They might be hurt."

Sam laughed. "Dude, there is no way I'm climbing down into that hole and opening up the creepy alien spaceship."

Luckily, he didn't have to. At that moment, a door opened in the side of the ship and a figure staggered out in a cloud of smoke and sparks. As the smoke cleared, Dean got a better look at what appeared to be a handsome man in a long coat. The man coughed, sighed deeply, and gave a soft whistle while looking back at the remains of his ship. Then he looked up at the lip of the crater where three firearms were pointed at his face.

He smiled, seeming less interested in the guns than in the men holding them. "Is this my welcoming committee?" said the stranger cheerfully. "I think I like this planet already."

Sam grinned. "Alien," he said. "Told you." After a moment, he shrugged and lowered his gun.

"Careful!" Dean muttered as Sam knelt and offered his hand to the man in the crater.

"Thanks," said the stranger. He took the proffered hand and scrambled out of the pit with Sam's assistance. Once on solid ground, he dusted off his coat and smiled. "Well, it was nice to meet the locals, but I've got to run."

"I don't think so, buddy," said Dean. "We've got a few questions for you. And by 'a few' I mean 'a lot.' And by 'a lot' I mean 'Are you an alien?'"

The stranger clicked his tongue in disappointment. "I'd really love to stay and chat." He paused to let his eyes sweep Sam's body from head to toe before he continued, "I really, really would. But when I say 'I've got to run' I mean 'I've got to run.' I didn't crash here by accident. There's something on my tail, and I'd hate to get a cute bunch of civilians like you mixed up in all this."

"We're not civilians!" Dean protested, but the stranger was already fiddling with a device strapped to his wrist.

"Sure you're not," said the stranger as he continued to press buttons. "Take care now."

"Hey, wait a minute…" said Sam, reaching out to put his hand on the stranger's arm.

As soon as hand touched sleeve there was a quiet noise like radio static. An instant later, both Sam and the stranger were gone.

There was a moment of stunned silence while Dean tried to figure out what had just happened. He jerked his head around toward Cas, but he looked just as confused as Dean felt. They both slowly turned back to the spot where Sam had been just a moment before, staring as if they expected him to come back at any moment.

When he didn't, Dean's confusion quickly spiraled into abject terror. "SAM?" he screamed into the darkness. "SAM!"

There was no answer.

-----

It wasn't so bad having Sherlock and John along, Rose had decided. It was impossible not to like John, and the Doctor seemed to have hit it off with Sherlock nicely. They'd babbled at each other all the way over the Atlantic.

"You know," John had said to Rose as he peeked back at their companions, "Sherlock won't usually listen to someone for that long without interrupting or correcting them. I think he likes having someone to talk to who's as smart as he is."

"Keeping an eye on your boyfriend, are you?" Rose had teased, eyes crinkling as she smiled.

John had whipped around to look at her as he protested, "Why does everyone think we're dating?"

"Maybe because you've spent half the flight turned around backwards in your chair so you can see him," Rose had good-naturedly replied.

Now they were barreling down a dusty road in Nebraska at an alarming speed. The Doctor had never quite gotten used to driving cars. After spending so much time flying the TARDIS, he must have found cars terribly dull. Rose wondered if that was why he seemed unable to stop fiddling with the dials, turning the radio and windshield wipers on and off, and pushing the speedometer needle into the red.

Their vehicle was a nondescript white van that had been waiting for them when they'd gotten off the airship, courtesy of Torchwood. The Doctor and Sherlock had installed themselves in the two front seats, while Rose and John sat in the spacious back along with their supplies: some United States money, some food, and a truly impressive array of weapons.

John had been studying some of the firearms, trying to distract himself from the Doctor's terrifying driving. "I've never even seen half of these," he said.

"You never know what you're going to find when you go to intercept a crash," Rose explained. "Torchwood likes us to be prepared for anything."

They had been driving for a few hours when a sudden stop jerked everyone hard in their seats. "Did we hit something?" John shouted.

"No," said Sherlock, turning around in the passenger seat and looking entirely unshaken by their wild ride. "We've arrived."

"And we're not the first ones," said the Doctor, pointing to the vintage car parked clumsily by the side of the road.

The Doctor and Sherlock bounded out of the van to inspect the intruding vehicle. John and Rose exchanged a look, and both armed themselves before climbing out the back. John grabbed a familiar-looking handgun. Rose opted for something that looked like a tazer with too many buttons.

The car, which proved to be a beautiful old Chevy Impala, was empty. Rose didn't think it was worth a second look, but Sherlock scuttled around it and peered from every angle before finally popping the trunk open and flipping up the false bottom. John gave a low whistle. The trunk was overflowing with weapons of every kind.

By the soft light of the rising sun Rose could see the silhouettes of two men out in the middle of a nearby field. One was as still as a statue while the other paced frantically around the periphery of a large crater. Rose approached them, waving at the others to follow her.

"Hello!" Rose called out cheerfully. "This area is now under the jurisdiction of Torchwood. If you could just step away from the crater, please?"

Both men turned to look at her. The one in a trenchcoat stared at her, a puzzled expression on his face. The other, a broad-shouldered man in layers of plaid, stomped toward her while pulling an official-looking badge out of his pocket and holding it up. "Sorry, but you've been out-jurisdictioned. Get lost."

But the man in the trenchcoat was already moving to intercept his companion. "Dean," he said. "These people might be able to help us."

"Look, I'm Rose Tyler," Rose explained. "I'm from Torchwood. We deal with this kind of thing all the time. And if you'd just let me look at what's behind you, I'm sure we can sort everything out." She was already less than hopeful about what she would find. She had never known the TARDIS to land so roughly as to leave a crater.

The man in plaid still didn't exactly look happy to have her there, but he stepped aside. "Be my guest."

As Rose slipped past him, her companions spoke up. "Hello! I'm the Doctor!" said the Doctor. He followed Rose toward the lip of the crater.

"Doctor John Watson," said John. Then, since Sherlock was too busy curiously studying the trenchcoated man to notice that niceties were being exchanged, John added on his behalf, "And this is Sherlock Holmes."

"I'm Dean Winchester," said the man in plaid. "This is Castiel, my boyfriend." He said the last word – boyfriend – just a little too loudly, as if daring someone to say something about it. No one did. "Look, I don't know what you people are doing here, but a spaceman just crashed here and zapped my brother someplace. If Torchwood - whatever that is - knows anything about this, you'd better tell me right goddamn now."

Rose was about to say that it didn't sound like the Doctor to kidnap someone when she finally got a good look at what was in the crater. Instead of the little blue box she had been expecting, there was a banged-up silver ship.

The Doctor was beside her, staring down at it with equal surprise. "It's not the TARDIS," he said.

"I noticed," Rose sighed, trying to hide her disappointment. "But it looks sort of familiar, doesn't it?"

"It's a Chula warship," said the Doctor. "Do we know anyone who flies a Chula warship?"

Then, simultaneously, it came to them. They stared at each other for a beat, their mouths hanging open, before Rose turned back to Dean Winchester. "Did he, um…" she said. "Did the spaceman happen to mention his name?"

"Yeah, right before he offered us a cup of tea," said Dean sarcastically. "No! He just took my brother and fucked off!"

"Did he wear a long coat?" said the Doctor.

Dean looked about ready to punch someone. "Are we playing twenty questions or…"

"Yes," Castiel interrupted. "He wore a coat."

"That means nothing," said Sherlock offhandedly. "Three out of the six of us are wearing long coats." He was still staring at Castiel so intensely that Rose was somewhat surprised to find that he had been following the conversation at all. Castiel stared back, unblinking. Dean shuffled between the two of them, but it didn't seem to make a difference.

Then it came to Rose. "Did he flirt with you?" she asked.

"What?" said Dean.

"Yes," said Castiel calmly. "Unless I am mistaken. Based on what you've taught me, Dean, his body language and intonation indicated that he was sexually attracted to all three of us. The direction of his gaze was particularly focused on Sam."

Dean looked like he wished he could un-hear that. Rose and the Doctor caught each other's eye and said in unison, "Jack."

Before Rose could decide whether this was a good thing or a bad thing, Dean's cell phone rang. He yanked it out of his pocket and bellowed into it, "Sammy?" Whatever he heard at the other end made all the tension melt out of his body as he laughed in helpless relief. "What the hell happened?" he demanded. "It's been over an hour! I was scared out of my mind!"

"Is he with Jack?" Rose whispered in Dean's ear.

"Put it on speaker phone," the Doctor requested, popping up on Dean's other side.

Dean swatted them both away. "Private conversation!" he said.

"Not if it can help us find this Jack person," John pointed out, but Dean ignored him.

Then Castiel placed a hand on Dean's arm. "I would like to hear what Sam has to say," he said quietly. Dean took one look at his face, sighed, and put the phone on speaker.

"…in Hong Kong, Dean," Sam was saying, "Hong Kong! I've been trying to get this guy to send me back, but he won't."

Then a different voice spoke up in the background. It was quieter and less distinct, but it was unmistakably Captain Jack Harkness. "It's not that I won't," he said. "I can't. Do you think I meant to end up halfway around the planet?"

Rose couldn't stop herself from calling out, "Hi, Jack! It's Rose and the Doctor!" before she remembered that this Jack would have no idea who she was.

Sure enough, both Jack's and Sam's voices answered, "Who?"

Dean tried to explain, "I think they're kind of like hunters, only with aliens. I dunno. Think Mulder and Scully with British accents."

"Dude, you called the Men in Black on this guy?" said Sam.

Dean frowned at the phone impatiently. "Okay, three things. One, Mulder and Scully are X-Files, not MIB. Two, I didn't call them; they just showed up. Three, what the hell are you complaining about? You were just abducted! Maybe we want the Men in Black on our side!"

"I don't want this getting out of hand. He doesn't seem like a bad guy," said Sam. "He just wants to fix his ship and get out of here."

Dean muttered, "Great. Why doesn't he?"

Jack spoke up again, louder this time, "Because I'm stranded on the wrong continent, genius."

"You got yourself there, didn't you?" Dean shouted into the phone. "Just bring Sam back and then you can go do whatever you want!"

"Well, not whatever he wants," the Doctor pointed out. "We'd kind of like for him to come with us." Everyone had gravitated toward the conversation, and now the six of them stood huddled around Dean's phone.

"Are you not listening?" said Jack. His voice was now clear enough that Rose was certain he had taken the phone away from Sam. "My vortex manipulator dropped me off about ten thousand miles away from my destination. If it's randomizing my location whenever I use it, then I can't risk activating it again."

Sherlock leaned into the circle of bodies, steadying himself with a hand on John's shoulder, and said, "It can't be truly random. If that were the case, the chances of you reappearing on Earth at ground level would be astronomically low. More likely you would have ended up inside a mountain, or in orbit. Or in another galaxy, for that matter."

"What's a vortex manipulator?" John muttered to Sherlock. He looked a bit dazed at the recent developments, but he seemed resigned to accept any new oddity that might be thrown his way.

"Clearly it's some sort of teleportation device," Sherlock sighed. "Do try to keep up."

"It's more than that," said the Doctor, edging closer to the phone. "With enough power, you can use it to travel through time."

Jack said, "Actually, it looks like the time travel function got knocked out in the crash, but…" There was a pause before he continued, "Wait, how did you know that? Who are you?"

"What?" said the Doctor indignantly. "I'm the Doctor! And that should answer both your questions." He had one hand on the phone now, angling it toward his mouth.

"Well, sorry," said Jack sarcastically. "But how am I supposed to keep your names straight when I can't even see which of you is hot?"

The Doctor snatched up the phone, ignoring Dean's protests, and began to speak very quickly into it. "It sounds like your planar distortion dampener got shaken loose," he said. "That's what’s mucking with your navigation. The damage probably activated your orbital failsafe, which is keeping you from leaving the planet. The reason you didn't end up underground or at the bottom of the sea is because your matter summation prevention safety system is still working. So there shouldn't be any real danger in using it again, even though the chances of you hitting your programmed destination are… let me see, with the distortion levels in this sector… somewhere in the low thousandths of a percent."

"Well, what do you know? A man who can talk tech!" said Jack, his voice suddenly dropping an octave and taking on a playful tone. "Have I introduced myself? Captain Jack Harkness."

"Yes, we know," said Rose. "Don't ask how. Long story."

"Gimme that!" Dean shouted as he retrieved his phone from the Doctor. Then, to Jack, "How long will it take you to fix it?"

"I can't," said Jack.

"What do you mean you can't?!"

"Hey, I'm a field agent, not an engineer."

The Doctor raised his hand tentatively. "I can fix it," he said.

"Doctor, you are my new favorite person," said Jack. "How can we…"

Jack was cut off mid-sentence, and for a few seconds all that could be heard over the phone was rustling and indignant voices as Sam wrestled the phone back from him. Finally, Sam said, "You mean we're going to have to keep pushing the 'random' button on this thing until it happens to take us somewhere near where we started?" He sounded less than pleased.

"Again, it's not random. There are numerous systems in place that are narrowing down your possible destinations," the Doctor explained. "But essentially, yes."

"To hell with that," said Sam. "Dean, just come and get me."

Dean blanched noticeably. "What, you mean like… fly?" he gulped. "You know, maybe that vortex thingamajig will work. I mean, all you need to do is get back to North America, and then I can drive to you."

Jack's voice made a reappearance as he said cheerfully, "Sounds good to me. We'll keep hopping around until we get close, Sammy gets reunited with his hunky friends, the Doctor fixes my vortex manipulator, I get out of here before certain parties catch up with me, and everyone's happy." As he spoke, Rose could barely make out computerized beeps and the whir of electronics in the background.

Sam said, "You don't get to call me Sammy. Hey, what are you doing with…" And then the line went dead.

-----

Sam barely managed to grab onto Jack again before the vortex manipulator flashed to life and the lights of Hong Kong were replaced by a desolate, rocky landscape.

The change was so abrupt that Sam stumbled. It took him a moment to right himself on the uneven rocks. For as far as Sam could see, the ground looked like a slab of stone that had been broken into jutting, overlapping pieces. Lichen filled the spaces between the rocks, and there were a few patches of snow.

"Is this your country?" Jack asked, surveying the desolate view. "It's been a while since I last visited this planet."

"Um, maybe?" said Sam. "It's kind of a big place. But I don't see any roads, so Dean wouldn't be able to get to us anyway. Let's keep going."

Jack obliged by linking arms with Sam and pushing a sequence of buttons on his vortex manipulator. A second later, they both yelped as they splashed down into icy water.

Sam surfaced, spitting salt water. A quick glance around showed no land anywhere in sight. He grabbed Jack's wrist to try to hold the vortex manipulator above the swells as they both treaded against the roll of the ocean. "Try again!" Sam gurgled through the waves slapping him in the face.

They jumped again, this time landing on blessed solid ground. After he had spat out the worst of the salt water and caught his breath, Sam noticed the sound of cars. Sure enough, when he turned around he saw that they were standing just outside a small city. "Thank God!" he said. "People! Let's go ask where we've landed."

They didn't have to walk far before they reached a road running out of the city. Sam flagged down a car and got the old man inside to roll down his window. The man looked very confused as Sam asked, "This might be a weird question, but can you tell us where we are?"

"¿Por què estàs mojado?" said the man. That was a bad sign.

"Let me handle this," said Jack, nudging Sam out of the way."This might be a weird question, but can you tell us where we are?"

The man's face lit up. "¿Tuviste una noche loca, no?" he said, chuckling, "Estàis en Zapala."

Jack glanced at Sam, saw that he was clearly lost, and turned back to the man. "Uh, Zapala?"

The man began laughing almost uncontrollably. "Zapala, Argentina!" he clarified. "¿Aùn estàs emborrachado?"

"I wish," said Jack with a laugh. "Thanks." And he waved the old man off.

"How did you do that?" Sam demanded.

Jack shook his head. "It's not much use traveling through time and space if you can't communicate with the locals when you get there," he said smugly.

Sam ignored the part of his mind that was boggling at the technological marvel of a universal translator. Instead, he said, "So, did I hear that we're in Argentina?"

"Yep," said Jack, "That's kind of the right land mass, isn't it?"

Sam shook his head. "Too far away. Let's roll the dice one more time."

The vortex dumped them into hot sand next, and this time there was no civilization in sight. Sam could see nothing but golden dunes in every direction.

"Maybe we should have stayed in Hong Kong," Sam grumbled.

Jack flopped into the sand, letting the scorching sun begin to dry his clothes. "This isn't so bad."

"Yeah, well, this isn't exactly what I had in mind for my day," said Sam, but he sat down beside Jack to try to enjoy the sun. There was sand in his shoes already. Lovely.

Jack sighed contentedly. "If I were traveling with buddies like yours," he said, "The only thing I would have in mind is a hot three-way."

Sam almost coughed up a lung, and it didn't have anything to do with the salt water he had inhaled. "That was my brother and his boyfriend," he sputtered. "So stop smiling like that."

"Like what?" said Jack, still wearing a smirk.

"Like you're imagining them both naked," said Sam.

"Would you rather I imagine you naked?"

Sam didn't dignify that with an answer.

After a several minutes of silence, Jack said, "At least all this jumping around might make it harder for that thing to find me."

"What thing?" said Sam, lifting his head out of the sand.

"Well, I didn't crash on my own," said Jack. "I'm not that incompetent. I was on my way to Earth when something got on my ship. I couldn't see it, but it made a mess of my controls."

"What was it?" asked Sam. Spaceman or no, this was starting to sound like something up the Winchesters' alley.

"I said I couldn't see it," said Jack. "But I've run across weirder things out in the black, so I'm not too worried. I'd just like to get my ship up and running before it finds me again. Or if I have to deal with it, I at least want a working vortex manipulator."

Before he could think better of it, Sam said, "Maybe we can help you. It's kind of what we do."

"Oh, don't worry your pretty little sideburns about me," Jack said as he stood and stretched. "I've got everything under control. Now, shall we?" He offered his hand to Sam. Sam only hesitated for a moment before taking it.

"At least we're dry now," said Sam as Jack reactivated the vortex manipulator.

They rematerialized in the ocean again.

-----

With nowhere better to go, the Torchwood group along with Dean and Castiel had retreated to an abandoned farmhouse not far from the crash site. There they waited for any news from Sam and Jack.

Sherlock was enjoying himself. As expected, the trip so far had been full of interesting puzzles to solve. It was a pity that there wasn't a murder at the center of it all, but Sherlock tried not to complain. Even though a good murder would have been much more fun to solve than a simple UFO crash.

Rose and the Doctor were seated on a ratty old couch in the main room. Sherlock might have joined them there if he hadn't already identified three species of insect and four species of mold on its fabric. Instead he perched on a wooden stool that was in serious danger of toppling at any second. John leaned against the wall just behind him.

Dean had started out by pacing back and forth across the room. Eventually he had taken to standing with his arms crossed, and finally he had sunk down to sit on the floor against the wall. The entire time, Castiel had stood preternaturally still and straight. His only movement had been to track Dean's nervous progress around the room with his eyes.

Castiel was interesting, to say the least. There was still something Sherlock hadn't quite figured out about him.

Dean dug his thumbs into his eyes as he said slowly, "So let me get this straight. Blondie is human. Hair-boy is the human clone of an alien. You're both from Torchwood. Which is from England. And you hunt aliens. And you're here because the alien who took my brother… You knew him. From… when you used to live… in a different dimension." He pouted his lips and nodded approvingly. "Well, that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"We don't actually hunt aliens so much as make contact with potential allies and neutralize threats," said Rose. "But that's the short version, yes."

Dean took a deep breath, laughed, and said, "You know what? I actually believe you. I mean, it's not like I can say that your story's too crazy. I'm the guy who hunts demons for a living and helped start the Apocalypse."

At that, Sherlock perked up. "What sort of Apocalypse?" he demanded. "Judeo-Christian? Norse? Thermonuclear?"

Dean stared at Sherlock as if he might be an alien too. "Uh," said Dean. "The first one."

Sherlock nodded. "That explains it." He didn't say what it explained. John began picking at his sleeve in the way that he sometimes did when Sherlock was breaking some social norm. Sherlock looked at him questioningly, but John only shook his head. Apparently, whatever Sherlock's transgression, it wasn't severe enough to require John to speak up.

Castiel was squinting at Sherlock and John. "You are all from this other dimension?" he asked.

"Well, no," said John. "The two of us aren't. We're not even Torchwood, technically."

Castiel tipped his head slightly. "Then what are you?"

"Consulting detective," said Sherlock quickly.

John shrugged, smiled, and said, "Blogger."

Dean opened his mouth to ask something, but then closed it and turned back to Rose and the Doctor. Apparently he could only deal with one set of confusions at a time. "So what's your game?" he said suspiciously. "You gonna take this guy back to your lab and experiment on him?"

Rose looked offended. "We don't do that!" she said. "He's an old friend. We just want to see him."

"And steal his vortex manipulator," said Sherlock. All eyes were suddenly on him. "Oh, come now. You didn't know the alien's identity until you saw the ship. You're only here because the report indicated time travel abilities. Clearly that's what you've been after all along."

"We don't steal," said Rose testily.

"I'd steal it," said the Doctor.

Rose turned, looking at the Doctor with disgust. "He's our friend!" she protested.

"No, he isn't," said the Doctor. "He doesn't even know who we are. And we could use the vortex manipulator. It'd be almost like having a little mini-TARDIS, although admittedly far less sexy."

Rose just frowned and shook her head. "Sometimes I think I don't even know who you are," she muttered.

"Your only way of finding this Jack person is by following us when we eventually go to Sam," Castiel pointed out. "Without us, you have no way of contacting him and he has no reason to contact you. And if we allow you to find him, you will rob him of a valuable possession." He turned to Dean. "Remind me again why we are working with them."

Dean smiled devlishly. "That's a good point," he said, "Especially since, without them, we'd have a shot at getting that vortex modulator for ourselves."

The Doctor's face darkened. "Manipulator," he corrected. "And you have no idea the damage you could do with a time travel device and no proper training in how to use it."

"Yeah, sure," said Dean, his smile only growing. "I'm shaking in my boots."

There was a tense silence before John spoke up. "If I'm not mistaken, that Jack fellow mentioned something about trying to keep someone from catching up with him. There might be more going on here than we realize. I think it's better that we stick together for now. Safety in numbers, after all."

The Doctor brightened. "That's right. You need us just as much as we need you. You clearly don't know the first thing about aliens."

"You clearly don't know the first thing about… anything," Dean muttered sulkily.

"For that matter," said Rose, "How do we know we can trust you? You say you're hunters, whatever that means, but all we know for sure is that you have a trunk full of weapons and holy water."

"Would it help to know that Castiel is actually a fallen angel?" said Sherlock nonchalantly.

Once again, everyone turned to stare at him incredulously. Castiel and Dean exchanged a puzzled look.

Sherlock continued, "I deduced that he had been long removed from human society based on his unusual mannerisms, but it took me a little while to figure out exactly what he was. I considered demon, but the intact devil's trap on the ceiling of the Impala made that highly unlikely. It wasn't until you mentioned the Apocalypse that I put it together."

John cleared his throat and put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock," he said. "Do you know that broadcasting people's secrets tends to make them angry?" His voice sounded strained, but Sherlock couldn't see why.

"Yes."

"We are currently in an abandoned farmhouse in the middle of nowhere in America with four people that we just met today," John said in a deliberately calm voice. "Three of them are currently armed."

"So?"

John removed his hand from Sherlock's shoulder and placed it over his own eyes.

Dean stood, shaking his head dazedly. "I'm gonna get some fresh air," he said as he stomped toward the door, brushing past Sherlock on his way out.

John glared reproachfully at Sherlock.

"What did I do?" Sherlock said innocently.

Rose leaned forward, studying Sherlock and John. "Are you sure you two aren't dating?" she said.

-----

Castiel was one step behind Dean as he stormed out of the farmhouse. "Dean, wait!" he called.

Dean didn't stop until he reached the Impala. He leaned against the driver-side door, arms folded over his chest. "This sucks," he grunted when Castiel was close enough to hear.

Castiel linked his arm with Dean's, leaning beside him, as he said, "It is not an ideal situation, but we've been through worse. It might make it easier if you would try not to antagonize our new acquaintances."

"I'm not antagonizing anyone!" Dean protested.

Castiel raised an eyebrow. "You threatened to steal something very valuable from them," he pointed out.

Dean opened his mouth as if he were about to argue further, but then he caught Castiel's eyes and the fight went out of him. "I wasn't serious about that," he admitted. "I'm just worried about Sam."

"He has contacted us," said Castiel. "He doesn't seem to be in any immediate danger."

Dean tilted his head, unconvinced. "Yeah, well," he muttered, "I'll relax when I've got him back."

They stood like that, leaning up against each other ever so slightly, for several minutes. Castiel could still feel the worry radiating off of Dean. Finally he offered, "Would you like me to help take your mind off of the situation?"

"What…" Dean started to ask, but then he looked at Castiel and got the hint. "Wow. Have I turned you into that much of a sex fiend?"

"It always seems to cheer you up," said Castiel, already dropping to his knees and undoing Dean's fly.

Dean blew out a long, slow breath. "I'm a terrible brother," he said. He didn't sound sorry.

"But a wonderful boyfriend," Castiel added before going to work.

-----

Meg was kind of in love.

It wasn't that he had brought her in on this beautiful scheme. It wasn't that he had given her access to enough souls to supercharge her powers to ridiculous levels. It wasn't even the suit, although that was sexy.

Mostly, it was how intense he got when he was really pissed off.

"You let him get away?" he bellowed, looking for all the world like steam was about to come out of his ears. Or maybe like he was about to dismember the entire population of a small city; Meg couldn't tell. Once again: sexy.

She kept her voice nonchalant as she replied, "Space travel is hard. You're lucky I brought him down on the right planet. As for afterwards, well, how was I supposed to know that the Winchesters were coming down that road?"

"So you backed off your prey because you were scared of a couple of stupid, inbred, hick American hunters?" he hissed.

"Hey," said Meg. "You'd hesitate too, if you'd tangled with them before. They have a way of throwing a wrench into plans that you thought were wrench-proof."

In an instant his rage cooled to a deadly serious calm. Meg straightened. As cute as he was when he was mad, Meg didn't take it lightly when he threatened to take her apart organ by organ and leave her skin for the birds. Unlike other men who had made her similar promises she kind of thought this one might not be talking out his ass. So she listened when he said, "After the down payment of souls that I gave you, I expect results."

"Relax," she said, wiping the mocking smile off her face. "I burned most of the soul-power you gave me just taking his ship down, and I've been using up the rest trying to keep up with them while they leap-frog around the globe. It's not good strategy. If you want me to have any juice left at all when we take them on, you'll wait for them to stay in one place. Then I'll take you straight to them."

"That's what I like to hear."

Meg shuddered. She might kind of love this guy, but she had no illusions about him. She loved him the way she might have loved a snake that could turn and bite her at any moment. Beautiful, but not to be trusted.

Not that she trusted anyone, anyway.

Part 2

GISHWHES: Thursday (cont.)

2012-11-02T17:07:46Z

There were no fake snakes anywhere in the city. It had been verified.

I seemed to remember lots of fake snakes existing when I was a child. We had the giant stuffed snakes, the wooden jointed snakes that we got at the zoo, and the hyper-realistic plastic snakes that my mom put in the joints of the roof to keep the birds from nesting there. I didn’t expect finding a fake snake to be so difficult. A live one, maybe. But fake?

Elise was glancing at her phone while she drove. “Anna doesn’t know anyone who owns a snake either,” she said. I love Elise. Besides driving me around to various stores looking for fake snakes, she was bothering everyone in her address book to try to find me a live one.

I shuffled my feet in their gourds. They needed more duct tape.

Then Elise’s phone pinged again.

“Snake?” I asked.

“No,” said Elise, “I told this guy Dylan I’d have coffee with him, but I’ll have to postpone so I can get this video of you jogging in gourd-shoes.”

“Is GISHWHES forcing you to play hard-to-get?” I said.

“Not like that,” said Elise, “He’s just an old friend I haven’t seen in a while.”

We drove in silence for a while. As we neared the Memorial Union parking lot, I prepared myself to jog across the quad wearing a spaghetti squash on one foot and a butternut squash on the other.

“WAIT!” Elise gasped suddenly, “Dylan has a snake! I’m almost positive that Dylan has a snake!”

I gaped. “You mean the guy you just blew off?”

“Text him!” said Elise, handing me her phone.

“I don’t know him!” I sputtered, “You text him!”

“I’m driving!” she replied.

I did my best to sound like Elise as I composed my text:

Do you have a snake? My friend is doing a scavenger hunt. She needs a picture of herself holding a snake at a bus stop. It’s supposed to be a Eve and the serpent thing. She’ll be wearing fig leaves…

I read through the text as Elise parked the car. I handed her the phone and she read it, too. She started laughing.

“On second thought,” I said, “Maybe you should call him.”

Item 70 conclusion

GISHWHES: Thursday

2012-11-02T06:58:48Z

Item 119:
“I have kind of a weird request for you,” I said into the phone. I had been saying that a lot over the past few days. Luckily, this time the request really wasn’t that weird in the grand scheme of things.

“I’m doing an online scavenger hunt, and one of the items is a video of me reciting The Raven to a crow. I’ve volunteered at your rehabilitation center before - I know you sometimes get injured carrion birds. I was wondering if you have any crows or ravens or… large black birds of any kind at the moment. And if so, can I come by tomorrow to read them some poetry?”

The girl on the other end of the phone managed to hide her laughing quite well. “If we had any teaching birds like that, I’d say it was fine,” she said, “But all we have right now are some injured crows that someone brought in, and we can’t allow people to visit them in case it stresses them out.”

I probably could have argued it a little harder, but I know what it’s like to be protective of your patients. “I totally get it,” I said, “Thanks for your time.”

I hung up.

“No luck?” said Elise, glancing away from the road to notice my disappointed face.

“No luck,” I replied, slouching in the passenger seat, “Oh, a crow!”

We froze. Sure enough, a crow had just flown right in front of our windshield and landed on a lawn just to the side of the road. Our momentum quickly took us past it and down the block until it was out of sight.

I looked at Elise plaintively.

“Do you want me to stop?” she asked.

“Yes…” I squeaked.

“It’s raining pretty hard,” she pointed out.

“Yeah…” I said.

“And you want to get out of the car and chase a bird to recite poetry at it.”

“Yes.”

I’m not sure the crow appreciated it, but everyone who witnessed me yelling Poe up at a power line in the pouring rain sure seemed to find it amusing.

Item 102:
“No, no,” I told Elise, “I have a vision for this one.”

Elise had put up with a lot from me that day. She had driven me around to various stores collecting kale, cucumbers, spray cheese, an apple, several yards of cloth, and an ungodly amount of Jello. She’d climbed into an industrial-sized recycle bin for me. Most recently, she’d hollowed out a spaghetti squash and helped me duct tape it to my foot.

I would have to buy her dinner later.

“You have to get my iPod playing Carry On Wayward Son before I plug my headphones in,” I told her. The spaghetti squash didn’t feel so bad on my foot now that Elise had sawed off the back to make room for my heel, but it was starting to crack. The butternut squash on my right foot - the one I had hollowed out myself - was in no danger of cracking but was exceedingly, painfully uncomfortable.

“Okay,” said Elise.

“And then when I edit it,” I said, “I’ll put the ‘Don’t you cry no-o more dun-dun dun dun DUN!’ at the end as I’m running away.” I waited for her to look impressed.

“Okay,” said Elise.

On the first take, one of my shoes flew off. A little more duct tape, and on the second take I made it ten yards or so down the sidewalk before I gave up and limped back to Elise.

“Let me see!” I demanded.

The video was perfect. Except that Elise had filmed it in portrait and the video from my camera always, no matter what, uploads in landscape. I would have to run in the gourd-shoes again.

“I hate you,” I told Elise as I added more duct tape to the places where the spaghetti squash was in danger of losing pieces.

“No you don’t,” she said.

“WHAT THE HELL?” said a passerby. He was the first person to comment on what we were doing at all since we arrived.

I took off running for a third time. A chunk of spaghetti squash almost immediately fell off, but I didn’t stop. I wouldn’t get another chance at this shot and I would be damned if I was going to hollow out another squash that day.

Item 70:
We were walking down the street when I asked, “What time is it?”

“5:55PM”

“What time does the bus come?”

“On the hour.”

That gave me pause. “If the bus comes,” I said, “Please tell me so I can put my clothes back on.”

“Okay,” said Dylan. Dylan was some kind of guardian angel. He was the kind of friend of a friend who, when you send him an incomprehensible text message about a scavenger hunt and reenacting the seduction of Eve, responds, “Sure, I have a pet snake you can use! There’s a bus stop not too far from my place too.” And then offers you one of his coats to wear over your fig leaves.

I’d never met him before that day but I was already developing a GISH-crush on him.

While Dylan advised me about how best to find a car predating 1980 (for item 35), Elise gave me a knowing look. I was doing that awkward shuffling maneuver one does to try to get one’s underwear back into place. Except in this case, my underwear consisted of a felt fig leaf that was in danger of coming unstuck from my groin.

We got to the bus stop. Dylan handed over his snake (a gorgeous little ball python) and Elise handed me my apple. I looked in every direction. There were any number of places where a person could suddenly appear to witness the scene.

“Is the bus coming?” I asked.

“No,” Elise assured me.

I shrugged out of the coat, leaving only a fig leaf loincloth and two fig leaf pasties to cover me.

“You’re still wearing your shoes,” said Dylan helpfully.

Elise busted up laughing. “YOU’RE NOT NAKED ENOUGH, BITCH!” she choked.

I kicked off my shoes, held up the snake, and set my teeth against the apple. “Take the goddamn picture!” I hissed.

“I’m pretty sure Eve didn’t wear a watch, either,” said Dylan.

Item 70 prologue

One Species Too Many (Dean/Cas Big Bang) Fic Masterpost

2012-10-30T23:15:00Z

Author: wallmakerrelict
Artist: krioboly
Beta: mixeduppainter
Genre: fluff, drama, established relationship
Characters: Dean/Castiel, Sam, Jody, Tamara
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 21,500
Warnings: language, sexual content, ableist behavior

Fic: Part 1|Part 2|AO3
Art Masterpost

Summary: While Dean is laid up for a month after breaking his leg on a hunt, Cas decides that it's a perfect time to adopt a litter of kittens. But even though he's gotten better since Purgatory, Cas still isn't quite the same as he was before fixing Sam's head, and being trapped in a cabin with him for weeks on end is making that all the more obvious to Dean. When Sam takes off on a hunt, Dean has to figure out on his own how to navigate his new relationship with Cas while also helping to raise a bunch of fuzzballs that aren't even cute. Not even a little bit. (Well, maybe a little bit.)

Note: This was my first deancasbigbang, and it was a blast! I wouldn't take back a single day spent hammering my way toward the minimum word count or a single hair yanked out during the editing process. Major props to mixeduppainter for her excellent suggestions, and all the thanks in the world to my artist krioboly. She picked up my fic when it went to the pinch hitter list at the last minute, and she turned out stunning art in record time to make sure I kept my posting date. I love you both.

ETA: Now translated into Mandarin here and here by the wonderful ekabell.