on a stormy sea of moving emotion

wraith816 — Tue, 28 Oct 2014 23:10:27 GMT

HAPPY BIRTHDAY delphia2000!

wraith816 — Mon, 23 Jun 2014 19:39:50 GMT

HAPPY BIRTHDAY switch842!

wraith816 — Sat, 04 Jan 2014 14:18:58 GMT

ONE WEEK FROM TODAY I WILL BE IN DISNEY WORLD

Apparently it's going to be like 80 degrees down there holy crap. It's 5 degrees here today so I can't even imagine 80 right now really holy crap.

Saturday 1/11.
Flight leaves at 8:00 am, lands in Orlando at 11:00
Then we hit Epcot to try and get most of Future World done. Hopefully we'll be in the park by about 2-ish

Sunday 1/12
Animal Kingdom. Park hours are pretty short that day, so we're a little worried we might not be able to hit everything we'd like.
After that, we'll hit Downtown Disney for dinner and pop into Disney Quest for a bit.

Monday 1/13
Hollywood Studios with dinner at the SciFi Drive-In.

Tuesday 1/14
Epcot again. First, DOLPHINS. The official description is here. Apparently they teach you the hand signals to get the dolphins to do tricks. I WILL GET TO MAKE A DOLPHIN WAVE AT ME! EEEEEEEEEEEEE! Afterwards, we'll go through the World Showcase.

Wednesday 1/15
Magic Kingdom. Hoping to get through Fantasyland and most of Tomorrowland. We have a fastpass to do lunch at Be Our Guest, and a reservation for dinner with Winnie the Pooh characters at the Crystal Palace.

Thursday 1/16
Magic Kingdom again. Breakfast at Cinderella's castle, and then hit the rest of the lands and anything else we might've missed. Then the Main Street Electrical Parade and Fireworks, and a late dinner at Be Our Guest.

Friday 1/17
Late breakfast at Chef Mickey's, and then hoping to hit one of the mini-golf courses since we get free vouchers included with our package. And then our flight back is from 6:00 pm to 8:30.

ONE WEEK ONE WEEK ONE WEEK OMG OMG.

wraith816 — Mon, 11 Mar 2013 23:51:39 GMT

HAPPY BIRTHDAY maab_connor!

32 Sherlock Icons

wraith816 — Thu, 28 Jun 2012 01:19:16 GMT

[32] Sherlock (S2)

Teasers:

04	14	18

01	02	03	04

05	06	07	08

09	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	28

29	30	31	32

Comments = ♥
Credit = please
Resources = here

28 Sherlock Icons

wraith816 — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 04:09:40 GMT

[28] Sherlock (sherlock20in20 & alternates, Spoilers for S2)

Teasers

10 THEMES

Dangerous	Two Colours	Corner	Unhappy	Outside


Faceless	Touch	Body Part	Bright	Levels

CATEGORY - Black & White

CAT 1	CAT 2	CAT 3	CAT 4	CAT 5

ARTIST'S CHOICE

AC 1	AC 2	AC 3	AC 4	AC 5

Alternates

1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

Comments = ♥
Credit = please
Resources = here

26 Sherlock Icons

wraith816 — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 21:16:55 GMT

[26] Sherlock (2x01 A Scandal in Belgravia)

Teasers:

03	13	21

01	02	03	04

05	06	07	08

09	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

	25	26

Comments = ♥
Credit = please
Resources = here

30 Suits Icons

wraith816 — Tue, 09 Aug 2011 19:54:24 GMT

Tentatively planning to do at least a few icons from all the eps; we'll see how it goes. Three episodes down, a bunch more to go.

[30] Suits (1x02 Errors and Omissions & 1x03 Inside Track)

Teasers:

08	15	19

01	02	03

04	05	06

07	08	09

10	11	12

13	14	15

16	17	18

19	20	21

22	23	24

25	26	27

28	29	30

Comments = ♥
Credit = please
Resources = here

21 Suits icons

wraith816 — Sun, 31 Jul 2011 19:20:53 GMT

So I haven't make icons, in, uh ~~four years~~ quite awhile, but now there is Suits and it is wonderful and I am in love and it turns out I'd forgotten that moving little sliders up and down is more entertaining than it sounds and so here are icons. Yes. Possibly more to follow, eventually.

[21] Suits (1x01 Pilot)

Teasers:

03	08	10

01	02	03

04	05	06

07	08	09

10	11	12

13	14	15

16	17	18

19	20	21

Comments = ♥
Credit = please
Resources = here

Podfic available: Sexile (and Other Hazards of Dorm Life) read by cee_m

wraith816 — Fri, 01 Jul 2011 17:58:21 GMT

So brate7 asked me awhile ago if she could use one of her charity auction wins to have Sexile (and Other Hazards of Dorm Life) recorded, and here it is, read by the lovely cee_m. Don't forget to drop her a comment if you download!

now archived on AO3

wraith816 — Fri, 15 Apr 2011 16:47:09 GMT

My fic is now available on AO3. I'm wraith816 there as usual, and I do plan to crosspost whenever I start writing again.

SPN Fic: and although I know it's a long road back - Sam/Dean (PG-13)

wraith816 — Fri, 24 Dec 2010 16:53:43 GMT

Title: and although I know it's a long road back
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: incest, mild violence
Spoilers: through 6x11 Appointment in Samarra
Word Count: ~2,500
Summary: Five days 'til Christmas and they've got somewhere to be.
A/N: spn_j2_xmas gift for neros_violin, who asked for Sam/Dean Christmas, in the style of horror and hunting or in the style of schmoop; I kind of tried to average the two, and this is what came out. Hope you like it. Thanks to switch842 for the look-over. Obvious title is obvious and also from I'll Be Home for Christmas.

December 20th and they're in Pennsylvania, not far from the dark, hulking ruins of Pittsburgh. To be this close to a city, it's dangerous these days, with all the nasty things that crawl up from the cracks – the Hell-things and the Purgatory-things and all those in between – congregating where people once thrived. But they're on a timetable and the roads are easier to pass here, when they aren't blocked by bodies to salt and burn. It's a necessary risk.

Dean hums Zeppelin off-key like he's not worried, but Sam knows better. It's in the grip of his hands on the wheel, how he can't keep his eyes steadily on the road, lets them dart to the outskirts of the city when he thinks Sam won't notice. But Sam does see, because he's doing the same thing, scanning the sides of the highway for any sign of something coming their way. Together they've sent more things screaming back to Hell than any people alive, but armies have stormed places like Pittsburgh with nothing to show for it but streaks of blood.

Two guys, no matter how good, don't stand a chance.

"We gonna be out of here by nightfall?" Sam asks.

"If nothing gets in the way before then. 'Course, that's a pretty big if."

"We've made good time so far."

Dean scowls. "Don't jinx it."

"I'm just thinking, seems a little easier than usual this time."

"You call this easy?"

"Easier," Sam corrects. "It's been days since something came specifically for us." Because that is the true danger: the things they stopped and those they killed, returned and renewed and looking for an especially painful kind of payback. Add to that the things Dad killed, and the ones Mom killed, and the Campbells going back who knows how far...there are a lot of monsters with reasons to hate the Winchesters.

"Could just be dumb luck," Dean says.

"Or could be someone's keeping them off our backs."

"You think Cas sent somebody again?"

Sam shrugs. "An early Christmas present?"

"Woulda been more useful if he just came down and zapped us there," Dean says.

"We've still got time. We'll make it."

Neither of them sighs with relief when they've passed by the city unchallenged, but it's a near thing. Instead, Sam just reaches out, brushes his hand against the back of his brother's neck, lets his fingers linger for a moment. It's an affirmation, one Sam finds himself needing more and more after little victories like these. Dean used to roll his eyes at Sam, used to crack jokes, but years have taught him the feel of Sam's hands on him, have made it something familiar and wanted. Sam withdraws, though, because there's only so much Dean will put up with, and he knows his brother's limits well. Still, Sam'll take what he can.

An hour later, in that last bit of light near the end of dusk, they pull over by a burnt-out McDonald's to switch places, Sam in the driver's seat now. They don't dare waste the night.

* * * * *
December 21st, they go through Indiana.

Mid-afternoon, they find signs of life continued, even now. A roadblock: cars parked so as to leave just a narrow path through and half a dozen men on guard, all of them with guns and identical distrustful looks. Somewhere in the distance, smoke rises, not sinister, just one necessity of civilization these days. A town can't be far up the road.

Sam pulls the car over just feet in front of the blockage, and he and Dean get out, weapons left behind, hands up and empty. They hold still as the group approaches, checks them – silver knives and holy water. One man nods when they don't flinch and says, "Passing through or looking to stay?"

"Just on our way through. We're headed west," Sam answers.

"Came from Massachusetts last week," Dean says.

"You've been out east?" The guy whistles low, impressed. "We've heard things..."

"It's not that bad, if you know where you're going." Dean smiles like it was that easy, like they don't fight tooth and nail each time they cross the country. That's their act, the lie they let people like this believe, just in case. We can take on anything; don't even think about fucking with us.

The man steps back, whispers to the others for a long moment, then says, "You're welcome to stay with us for the holiday, if you like."

Sam shakes his head. "We've got somewhere to be." And even if they didn't, towns like this hold nothing good for them. The people look to take what they can – weapons, supplies, knowledge, labor – and none of it with much care for where it comes from. Or worse, demands for demonstrations of a faith he and Dean can't even pretend to respect. This time of the year, people like this, their frenzied devotion is at its peak and they will hear of nothing but all the ways they think God has punished the world; Sam's seen it countless places now, back since even before his final, awful yes.

The lead man nods. "All right then. You can go through, but with an escort. Don't even think 'bout driving off anywhere they don't lead you, otherwise they'll have to shoot."

"Of course. Won't be a problem," Sam says, grabs Dean's arm and leads him to the car before he can say something to get them in trouble.

The minute the car door closes, Dean rolls his eyes. "So much for peace on Earth and good will towards men."

"Hey, they didn't even try to search the car. It's better than the last few we've run into."

"Yeah, yeah. Let's just get out of here before they change their minds and get trigger happy."

A truck pulls away from the roadblock, and Sam starts the car to follow.

Just once, barely half an hour out from that little town, they pass a sign for Cicero. Neither of them mentions it, or the months they spent on that fruitless search when Purgatory first broke open. They don't talk about how Dean eyes each town like it might be the answer even now, after years. They've always been good at leaving things unsaid.

* * * * *
Three days to Christmas and they're delayed by a cemetery overrun with ghouls.

"You wanna take them?" Dean asks.

"Can't just leave 'em loose," Sam says. "Let's do it."

They enter the graveyard with guns drawn, and they're not there a minute before the first ghoul raises its head from its grim feast. The thing howls, low and angry, and the others take notice; the whole horde turns to stare. Dean raises his gun, lets the first bullet fly and hit its mark right between the nearest ghoul's eyes. And then there is the rush of doing what they've always been meant to do – the aim and fire and aim again, the practiced way they move in unison. It's that welcome flash of adrenaline that's sustained them through this hard-fought trip over ground broken open. It's their well-placed shots and near misses and that relief – release – that comes when the last of the things falls.

They stand back to back at the end, with heavy breaths in the newly-won stillness. Dean turns to him then, with that look he gets more and more often, something heavy and lust-laced that makes Sam wonder why he's ever doubted what's here between them.

It's a mutual move forward, a meeting in the middle. They kiss, fueled with energy and victory and the firm knowledge that there is nothing left in this wasteland but each other. Sam wants to touch, to take his brother and make him fall apart again and again until the world crashes down around them. It wasn't this easy, once, to reach out, to need this. But years and miles of this nightmare landscape have softened the edges of this, made it something warm and broken in, something nearly as natural as breathing.

They break for a moment, and Sam says, "Not here," though he wishes he could just let it happen. But it's not safe in the open, not with the way this thing between them breaks down all their defenses.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Okay." He pulls back, steps over the ghouls' bodies on the way back to the car.

They find a half-collapsed motel not far from the graveyard and park behind it, out of view. Dean picks the lock to one of the rooms on the end that still looks stable, its walls undamaged unlike most of the others. The room smells stale, but there's no sign of anything that might've taken up residence, and so they drop their bags and set to work – Dean blocks the door with the dresser and useless TV, turns the second bed on its side to cover the window; Sam lays out salt, thin lines that can't put much of a dent in their precious supply.

When they're done, Sam wants to chase that moment they had back in the cemetery – safety's never guaranteed, and opportunities have been few lately – but he sees then how tired Dean is, the darkness around his eyes and the hunch of his shoulders. There's a day of rough roads and ghouls behind them, and a week of similar days before that, and they aren't quite so young anymore. So instead, Sam says, "I'll take first watch," and Dean doesn't argue, for once, just mutters thanks and drops heavily onto the bed, fully dressed. He's asleep in moments. Sam takes a chair, sets his shotgun on the table, still in easy reach, and waits.

It's harder in these quiet hours, when there's nothing to listen to but that nagging hum at the back of his head. It's harder to remember all those warnings of the past few years, the horrible things he might let loose if he keeps listening to that unrelenting buzz. So he concentrates on the low rhythm of Dean's breaths instead, does his best to ignore what's there, just under the surface of his own mind. This, too, is routine now.

They switch up a few hours later, Dean taking his place beside the gun while Sam sleeps. They leave at first light, driving out and on, always, always onward.

* * * * *
On the 23rd, the gas gauge sinks into the red when they're miles away from anything. No gas stations to raid, no abandoned cars from which to siphon, and Dean curses every detour and back-road they've had to take this far.

"I've got it covered," Sam says. "Pull over here."

Dean does as he's told, and Sam gets out to open the trunk, digging out the box he'd shoved near the back. A poor hiding place, but Dean's somehow left it miraculously undisturbed. "Was hoping we could get through without this, but here." Sam takes a battered red can out of the box and hands it to Dean. "Part of your Christmas present."

Dean takes the can, looks at it like it's something precious. Gasoline, more valuable than gold, now. "Where'd you get this?" he asks.

Sam shrugs. "Around. Everywhere. Had everybody saving it up any place they could get a few drops. There's more waiting for us when we get there."

Dean smiles, and Sam knows what it means to him – more miles, more time before the car must be left behind to rust. More of them and the road and the hunt, like it's always been.

"Might as well give you yours, then," Dean says. He rifles through the trunk and pulls out a small paper bag, tossing it to Sam. Dean's got that grin on, the one where he's fighting to make it look genuine, like he hasn't got some scheme ready to spring.

Sam opens the bag warily, shakes out a large red rubber clown nose into his palm. "Haha, very funny, asshole." He shakes his head and throws the damned thing at Dean's head, laughs because they can still joke like this, even when things have changed so far through all this time.

"I'm hilarious," Dean says as he picks up the nose from the ground and tosses it back in the trunk. "Don't worry, your real present's at Bobby's. Now c'mon, let's get the car filled up. We're burning daylight just standing around here."

* * * * *
They roll into Sioux Falls in the last few minutes of Christmas Eve.

Jodie's at the fence, grinning as she unlocks it for them, lets the great metal gate swing open. "It's good to see you boys again,” she says when Dean puts the window down. “We almost thought you wouldn't make it in time."

"And miss dinner?" Dean scoffs. "Never."

She laughs. "Shoulda known that's all you show up for. If food's what you want, we've got plenty; had a good harvest while you were gone. But Bobby's been waiting up for you at the house, if you think your stomach can wait."

"Eh, I guess it can. We'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah, I'm off duty at six."

"Awesome. Thanks."

Dean pulls the car through the gate and takes them down the familiar street to Bobby's house. The little town that the survivors have built up around it is quiet, fires dark and sidewalks empty save for the usual few sentries who wave as they go by. The house is the one place still alight, with candles flickering somewhere inside and a tree in one of the windows - not decorated, no ornaments or strings of lights, but it's there nonetheless. Dean parks amongst the junked cars and they grab their bags before heading inside.

The door flies open when they're just steps away, and then Bobby's there to grip them in tight hugs, each in their turn, and it seems to Sam that he looks older each time they come back, more lines and rough edges than there should be, even now.

"You had much trouble on the way here?" Bobby asks.

"Nothing we couldn't handle," Dean says. "Glad to be back, though."

"Well, get your asses inside."

Bobby leads them through the house and into the kitchen. Rufus is at the table, looking the same as he ever does, like he's a moment away from pulling a gun and vaguely annoyed at nothing at all. He nods in greeting, says, "Sam. Dean. Welcome back. Sit down and have yourselves a drink." He's got a jug of something homemade, vile, and probably incredibly alcoholic, and he doles it out liberally into mismatched glasses.

They take seats side by side, and somewhere in the house, a clock chimes midnight. Dean raises his drink, looks to Sam with a smile, an expression that promises later, and says, "Merry Christmas."

Podfic available: Things That Never Age, read by chemm80

wraith816 — Fri, 17 Sep 2010 01:44:39 GMT

So chemm80 awesomely recorded Things That Never Age, my spn_j2_bigbang from last year. You can find the full info and download links at her post here, and don't forget to let her know you enjoy it. :D

AU SPN RPF: Sexile (and Other Hazards of Dorm Life) – Jared/Jensen (PG-13)

wraith816 — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 15:22:05 GMT

Title: Sexile (and Other Hazards of Dorm Life)
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none
Word Count: ~4,200
Summary: College AU. Jensen really wishes he'd stop making a fool of himself in front of the hot guy who sleeps in the common room.
A/N: For abx_journal for spn_j2_xmas; I'm sorry I didn't go with your prompts, but I hope you enjoy it! Thanks very much to switch842 for the beta, and to sgflutegirl for listening to me babble about the title.

ETA: Now also available as a podfic read by the lovely cee_m.

Jensen's first weekend back at school is an exercise in bad decisions. This isn't anything new, really, but it's his last first weekend back, an occasion his friends think is something worthy of an unusual level of alcohol-fueled celebration. Which is how Jensen ends up drunkenly making his way across campus and back to his room, cursing the circumstances that led to him being the only senior on the top floor of a mostly-freshmen dorm with no fucking elevator. So what if it's a single covered by his scholarship – stairs are evil. Clearly he should've just paid up the ridiculous rent for an off campus apartment to avoid situations like this.

His coordination's pretty shot – it's always the first thing to go when he drinks, which often leaves him bumping into walls and furniture even when he's only barely buzzed. Tonight's no different, and it's making the endless stairs up to his floor really damned unbearable as he stumbles up them, hanging on the railing like it's a lifeline. Each step is way harder than it should be, and by the time he makes it to the third floor, he's ready to give up and drop where he stands.

But there's a common room between him and his next staircase, and it's dark and quiet, and Jensen thinks about maybe just taking a break on one of the couches for a few minutes before braving the last two flights. He goes to gratefully take a seat, but before he can actually flop down on the cushions, there's an alarmed yelp from behind him. Jensen scrambles away and turns to see a guy sit up right where he almost plopped down.

"Dude, watch where you're sitting," the guy says, and even in the darkness, Jensen can tell he's glaring a little.

"I didn't see you there; it's dark. I'm sorry."

"Just be more careful, okay?"

"I will." He eyes the couch longingly. "Can I sit now?" Jensen's not surprised when he sounds amazingly pathetic.

"Yeah, I guess so," the guy answers and swings his feet onto the floor so Jensen can take a seat. "So, why the urgent need for a couch?"

"Living on the fifth floor is torture. This many stairs is cruel and unusual punishment for…something."

The guy laughs a bit. "You're completely trashed, aren't you?"

"I'm not that bad. Just get clumsy when I drink."

"Uh-huh. You gonna be all right to get up to your room? Or do you need help?"

Jensen thinks about it for a minute. Stairs are definitely not his friend at the moment, but he's also sure that having a complete stranger haul his drunken ass around would be a new kind of humiliating low in his life. He's about to say no when the guy cuts him off, saying, "Screw it, if it's taking you that long to decide, you definitely need a hand. C'mon."

Then the guy puts an arm around him and lifts him up off the couch, and wow. The guy's pressed closed against Jensen's side, and even through two sets of clothes, Jensen can tell that he's got some serious muscles. He still can't really see the guy's face, not when the only light around is the distant glow of the emergency exit signs, but if the guy's body is any indication of what the rest of him is like, Jensen's halfway to in love already. Luckily, he's never been a talkative drunk, and he keeps that thought to himself.

Being nearly dragged up the stairs is awkward on a lot of levels, and with all his concentration on not tripping, there isn't much opportunity to do any covert lusting over his newfound helper. But two flights of stairs and one too-long hallway later, they're outside Jensen's room, and the guy pulls away, which makes Jensen want to protest, even if he'd rather have at least a little bit of dignity left in the morning. But he digs his keys out of his jeans pocket instead, and before he can even try opening the door, the guy grabs the key from his hand to do it himself.

The guy flips the lights on and leads Jensen in, and fucking finally, Jensen gets a good look at him. His previous assessment of the guy's attractiveness is nothing to what he can see now, because this guy just might be the hottest person Jensen's ever actually seen. He's insanely tall and built, and has longish brown hair that falls into his eyes. Instead of annoyance, he's got a kind of amused half-smile that hints at some awesome dimples.

Jensen's thoughts are just turning to deciding which bit of skin he'd like to lick first when the guy interrupts, "So, I should let you go to sleep. Are you gonna be okay for the night?"

Somewhat disappointed, Jensen says, "Yeah, I guess."

"You've got water? And Advil or something?"

"Yes."

"All right, I'm gonna go then. Just don’t, like…drown in your own vomit or anything, okay?" The guy heads back for the hallway, hits the lights off, and says, "Good night," as he shuts the door.

Jensen flops down face-first onto his bed, and he's out within minutes.

* * * * *
Jensen manages to go a whole two weeks without making an idiot of himself like that again.

It's early for a Friday night, the second week of classes is behind him, and he's already drunk enough to be heading to bed. The stairs aren't any better this time, but they've become just another fact of life at this point. As Jensen passes through the third floor again, he thinks about taking a break – definitely checking the couch before he sits this time – but the guy's there again, asleep. His eyes are shut tightly and he's curled up into a ball under a blanket and with a pillow like he'd actually planned to spend the night on the sofa.

The guy is still just as attractive as Jensen thought before, though he looks, well, kind of adorable and insanely vulnerable the way he's sleeping, all curled in on himself. Jensen thinks about maybe trying touching him, just a little something innocent; the guy is good looking enough to risk a punch in the face if it doesn't work out. But then Jensen remembers how creepy that would be, and how staring at someone sleeping isn't much better, so instead he says, "Hey." The guy lets out a quiet little snore. "Hey." He pokes the guy in the thigh. "Wake up."

"Huh?" The guy blinks sleepily at Jensen, sits up, and then groans. "You again."

"Yes. And you're here again."

"Well, obviously. Is there a reason you woke me up?"

"You shouldn't fall asleep in the common room, y'know. Somebody'll draw on you."

"Draw on me?"

"That's what they always do to people who pass out places, right? Draw dicks on their faces with permanent markers."

"Okay, first, I didn't pass out; I'm nowhere near as drunk as you. Two, that wouldn't be that big a deal." He snorts. "I'm kinda used to having dick near my face."

"...What?"

"It was a joke. Not a very funny one. 'Cause I'm gay," the guy says.

"Oh. I'm Jensen."

The guy laughs and holds out his hand. "Jared." Jared – in his drunken state, Jensen thinks that’s a great name, and Jared is gay and also incredibly good looking, and he's shaking Jensen's hand. It might be the best night ever. Jared asks, "So was there a reason you woke me up? Besides worrying about the state of my face, I mean."

"Not really. Why're you sleeping in the common room?"

"Sexiled."

"That sucks."

"At least the couch is almost comfortable."

"No, it's not. It's an invention of Satan sent here to make us all miserable."

Jared shrugs. "I can sleep just about anywhere, so it doesn't really bother me. So, you gonna need me to drag you up to your room again?"

Jensen's pretty sure he goes red at how embarrassing the memory of last time is, and he shakes his head. "I'll be fine."

"If you're sure."

"I'll let you get back to sleep."

"Good night, Jensen."

"Good night," he replies as he heads for the stairs.

Jensen does make it to his room by himself, thankfully, and it isn't until he's suffering through a hangover the next morning that he realizes just how stupid he must've sounded the previous night. Being a drunken fool in front of a hot guy one time, that's bad. Doing it more than once, that's just a thousand times worse. Because this Jared guy is exactly his type, and amazingly enough is also gay, and if Jensen had been sober when they'd met, he would've asked Jared out immediately. But now Jensen's made one of the worst first impressions ever – the only way it could've been more horrible would be if he'd thrown up – and he's pretty sure there's little chance he can convince Jared that he's not that much of an idiot.

Even so, when he gets back from lunch in the cafeteria, he takes a few minutes to wander the third floor, planning out a dozen witty-sounding apologies for his behavior while he searches the nametags on the doors for any Jared. There's only one, and Jensen's about to knock, but that's when he notices there's a stolen Holiday Inn do not disturb sign on the handle, so he turns and continues on to his room, still mentally kicking himself.

* * * * *
It isn't until a Tuesday afternoon in early October that he sees Jared in the common room again, and this time he's completely and mercifully sober. Jared's bent over the battered table, thumbing through a hefty-looking textbook, tapping a highlighter against his thigh as he reads.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Jensen says, "Hey."

Jared looks up from his book. "Oh, it's you. Jensen, right?"

"Yeah. And you're Jared."

"Good to finally meet you when you're not drunk."

Jensen smiles self-deprecatingly and rubs at the back of his neck. "I never thanked you for putting up with me, did I?"

"Hey, it's no problem. I've dealt with a lot worse."

That isn't exactly a ringing endorsement, and Jensen cringes. "Really, man, I'm sorry. I'm not usually like that. I just have friends who like to ply me with alcohol way more often than I'd like."

"I know what you mean. Chad, my roommate? He thinks that it's a crime not to party Thursday through Sunday. He's always trying to drag me along and make me do shit that's kind of stupid."

"You said last time you were out here because he'd kicked you out of the room?"

"Yeah…he brings girls back a lot. He's kind of the biggest manwhore on campus."

"So you get stuck out here pretty regularly."

"Well, you expect it, right? Nightmare roommate, the first rite of passage for a college freshman."

"That's no excuse for him being an asshole."

"He's not really, not most of the time. We usually get along pretty well. He's not a bad guy. Really."

"You don't have a guy to bring back to the room, give him a taste of his own medicine, maybe?"

"Ugh, you remembered that? That's probably the stupidest way I've ever come out to someone." Jared laughs, and it's the most incredible thing Jensen thinks he's ever seen, the way Jared's face lights with it. It makes Jensen's stomach seem like it's doing gymnastics, makes him feel like he's a pre-teen with his first crush. He wants to see Jared laugh again, to make him happy like that again, and that, more than anything else, is a sign of just how far gone Jensen already is.

"So…" Jensen asks carefully, "…boyfriend? Any opportunities to lock Chad out?"

"No, not seeing anybody right now. And not really looking for anything either. Getting used to this college thing is hard enough without worrying about hookups."

And just like that, Jensen's last small spark of hope dies a sad and lonely death, because there's no point in even trying to ask Jared out now, not when he's made it clear he's not interested in anyone, let alone Jensen. "Yeah, I can understand that," he says, trying not to let his disappointment show. "Too bad your roommate doesn't see it that way."

"You don't know how much I wish."

"I think I can imagine. Makes me even more glad I've got a single."

"Lucky bastard. So, you're an upperclassman, then?"

"Senior, actually."

"You haven't taken Intro Biology, have you? 'Cause I've got a test on Thursday and I'm ready to throw this friggin' book out a window."

"You're in luck. I'm a bio major, actually. What're you having trouble with?"

Jared snorts. "Everything? Take a seat, man; this might take a while. I hope you've got time."

"I've got a coupla hours until my next class." Jensen pulls out a chair and sits. "Let's get started."

* * * * *
So he and Jared become friends, of a sort. Now that he knows how messed up Jared's living situation is, Jensen notices just how much time Jared spends in the common room. He studies there, fools around on his computer there, sleeps on the couch there more weekends than not. Jared eats and folds his laundry and writes papers at the common room table. The only time that's ever consistently safe for him to be in his room seems to be the late morning, between when Chad leaves for breakfast and returns. Jensen's heard – and lived – his share of bad roommate stories, but Jared's is probably the most ridiculous he's seen, and Jared's way too nice and likes the guy too much to ever make a big deal about it.

The only plus side to all this is that they usually end up hanging out whenever Jared's sexiled, and Jensen's kind of amazed at how well they click. It's easy, talking with Jared, joking around and getting to know each other and awkwardly gaping at how damned loud Chad is whenever he brings a girl back to the dorm. Jared's got a wacky, upbeat sense of humor that seems to involve a lot of flailing around weirdly, and while Jensen usually has no patience for such hyperactivity, with Jared it just works. He can put up with Jensen's sarcasm like no one else, and can actually pull Jensen out of his foulest temper with just a few words. They fit together like no friendship Jensen's had before.

So Jensen's warm and fuzzy feelings don't go away; in fact, they get worse. They're friends, and really, that's great, but it isn't enough, not by far, and Jensen isn't above daydreaming about an elusive someday when Jared might realize he's madly in love with Jensen, declare said love, and then drag Jensen off somewhere for happily-ever-after marathon sex. Jensen's quite painfully aware of how ridiculously besotted he is, thanks very much. Hell, he doesn't even mind how much his friends tease him for having a thing for a freshman.

It's a Thursday in mid-November, and Jensen is trudging up the stairs on his way back from class, pathetically trying to fool himself into believing that he's not hoping to run into Jared as he passes through the third floor. Which means he's completely preoccupied and doesn't watch where he's going until he almost runs smack into Jared near the top of the stairs.

Jared, who is apparently wearing nothing but a towel held tightly around his waist. His hair is wet, plastered against his head oddly and dripping water in slow trails down his chest. His chest, which is bare and wet and holy fuck, Jared's abs have to be the most amazing ones in all of existence. And then there's the towel, which Jensen can't forget about, because it's damned obvious that there's nothing under there, that it's only an easily dropped layer of terrycloth between Jensen and a completely naked Jared.

But then Jensen notices Jared's expression, and all those lustful thoughts aren't important anymore, because Jared should never look like this: a little annoyed and a lot embarrassed. "Hey, you okay?" Jensen asks.

"Chad was out and I went to grab a shower, and then I came back and…" Jared trails off and gestures towards the door where that damned hotel do not disturb sign is hanging again.

"Fucking hell. How long have you been stuck out here?"

"Like ten minutes so far. D'you think I could maybe wait in your room until he's finished? Standing out here in a towel really, really sucks."

"Of course."

They head up to Jensen's room, and once they're inside, Jensen rifles through his dresser for his loosest pair of boxers and a tee shirt, tossing them to Jared. "Here. So you don't have to hang onto that towel for dear life."

"Thanks, man."

Jensen turns to face the wall, and those dirty thoughts are back in a rush. He hears the towel drop to the floor, the soft sound of fabric moving as Jared pulls on the boxers and then the shirt, and Jensen desperately tries not to picture exactly what's going on behind him, how Jared must look.

"'K," Jared says when he's done, and Jensen can look again, and what he sees makes it difficult to breathe. It's worse than in the hallway now, because Jared's still wet and gorgeous, but now he's wearing Jensen's clothes, and it sends a guilty little thrill through Jensen to wonder if this is what he might look like the morning after. Jared doesn't seem to notice how Jensen's practically drooling, though, and he says, "Really, thanks again."

"Not a problem," Jensen mumbles.

"I'm gonna have to talk to him about this sometime, aren't I?"

"You should've done it months ago, Jared."

"It's just, I'm not a confrontational kind of guy. What'm I supposed to do, tell him to have less sex?" That expression's back, the one that brings all these absurd protective feelings bubbling up inside Jensen, and something just snaps.

"You know what? Enough of this shit. You wait here."

Before Jared can say anything, Jensen marches out of the room, down to the third floor, and to Jared's door. Chad's at the loud stage of things again, his moaning clearly audible even in the hallway, but Jensen doesn't pay attention to the noise or that stupid fucking sign. Instead, he bangs on the door, not letting up until the door is yanked open, revealing a very irate looking Chad wrapped in a sheet. Over Chad's shoulder, he can see a blonde girl mostly hiding under a blanket.

"What the fuck do you want?"

Loudly and with an evil grin, Jensen says, "Oh, I didn't realize you were with somebody. I guess that means your rash cleared up?" The girl gasps and Chad sputters, but Jensen keeps on smiling.

"Who are you?"

"Friend of Jared's. And you see, he really needs to get in the room right now, so it'd be great if you'd wrap this up in the next five minutes so he can get his stuff. And if you don't, I'll kick your ass." Jensen turns and heads back for the stairs. He calls over his shoulder, "Really. You've got five minutes."

When he comes downstairs again, this time with Jared in tow, there's no sign of Chad. Jared thanks him profusely, promises to have Jensen's clothes washed and back soon, but Jensen waves it off. Jared can thank him when he's got a more permanent solution to this problem. And Jensen might just have an answer.

* * * * *
In the end, it doesn't take much, just a few words to the sympathetic janitor, and a twenty dollar bill slipped to a teenage employee at the nearest hardware store. And then comes the part that's actually hard, the telling Jared part. Because maybe he'll think it's stupid, or too much and too close, or maybe he'll laugh it off like some kind of joke. And maybe Jared will realize what Jensen's really saying – he's so gone over Jared that he's stooping to sappy, almost-romantic gestures.

It's almost time for finals, and Jared's spending most of his time at the table, hunched over his class notes, and that's where Jensen goes when things are set, when he's ready to spring his surprise.

"Hey," Jared says when Jensen walks into the common room. He grins, and Jensen's heart pounds a little faster because he knows that smile is just for him, just because he came into the room.

"How's the studying going?"

"It's not too late to join a circus or something, right?"

"Yeah, you'd rock the trapeze. All that spandex and sequins? Totally you."

"Screw you."

"Right back at you." Jensen looks away, unable to really look at Jared as he starts, "So…there's something I wanna show you."

"Sure. What's up?"

"Just come upstairs."

Jensen heads back to his room, and Jared follows close behind. They get to the door, and Jensen has to pause and nervously wipe his hands on his jeans before he pushes it open and motions for Jared to go inside. Jared does, and he notices the changes to the room immediately.

"Why's there another bed in here?"

"Um, well, I was talking to Bob the other day, and he mentioned there were a couple of extra beds in the storage room downstairs, said it'd be okay if I took one. I thought maybe you should have something better than the couch to sleep on next time Chad does his thing. And I, uh, might've bribed a kid at Home Depot to make a copy of my room key. So you can let yourself in when I'm not around. If you need to." Jensen holds out the key even though he still can't look Jared in the eye.

"Oh, wow, Jensen..." Jared takes the key, looking at it with awe, like it's something incredibly marvelous.

Then Jared's leaning closer, bringing his hand up to cup Jensen's face, and Jensen's heart is thundering because he's sure this can't be happening. But then it does – Jared kisses him, warm and soft and wonderful, and Jensen kisses back, tentatively, with a desperate hope that his eagerness doesn't show. Because this – him and Jared – is exactly what he's spent a whole semester wanting and now he has it, maybe. He needs to know what this means, needs to be sure they're on the same page, but he can't pull back, not when he still doesn't know if he's got this for good.

But Jared does break the kiss, eventually, leaving Jensen a little breathless and dazed. He says, "So, I might've wanted to do that for a while now. I'm thinking you don't mind."

"Only that it took you so long," Jensen blurts.

Jared laughs and kisses him again, short and chaste this time. "You like me."

"I can't stand you."

"No you don't. You're letting me share your room. You got me a bed."

"No, I stole you a bed. Totally different."

"Completely." Jared smiles, but it can't mask the sudden unsure look in his eyes. "So, are we...?"

"I was kind of hoping you'd go out with me sometime. Gotta make sure you're a decent date before I go committing myself. Don't want a boyfriend who's a lousy date."

And just like that, Jared grins full-force, says, "Ha, just you wait. I'm gonna knock your socks off."

"Knock my socks off? Who the fuck even says that?"

"Keep talking like that and you're never getting laid."

"Okay, okay. Not talking anymore."

There are much better things to do with his mouth, anyway.

* * * * *
Jensen's on his way back in from his first final when he notices that Jared and Chad's door sits open for the first time all semester. Jared is sorting through his closet, haphazardly tossing clothes into a duffle on the floor when Jensen comes in, but he stops and grins when he notices Jensen standing at the doorway.

"So, Chad strike out?" Jensen asks. "Did he finally get slapped by every girl on campus?"

"Ha! No, he actually went to his final. Don't know how he's gonna pass considering he didn't go to a single class, but whatever. Figured it'd be a good time to move some of my stuff up to your room so I'm not stuck without clothes again. I mean, if it's okay with you."

"More than," Jensen answers, and leans up for a kiss, one just firm enough to promise more coming soon. He pulls back quickly, though, and says, "Hey, I got an idea. When's Chad gonna be back?"

"Uh, twenty minutes, maybe?"

"Where's that do not disturb sign?"

It takes Jared a fraction of a second to get what Jensen's planning, but when he does, a slow, mischievous smile spreads across his face. He grabs the sign from Chad's dresser, hangs it on the handle, and shuts the door. "Let's see how loud we can get."

No, I'm not actually writing this...

wraith816 — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 01:30:16 GMT

...so don't get excited, sgflutegirl.

~200 word gen SPN crossover snippet

The guy who answers the door is dressed to match the quality of the building - swanky's the only word Dean can think of for it. He's in dress pants and a vest that are clearly expensive and he's got a gray fedora pulled down to shade his eyes. "Can I help you?" he asks.

"Yeah," Dean says, pulling his ID from his suit jacket. "I'm Agent Dean Baker, this is my partner Agent Daniels. We we were wondering if we could ask you some questions about the recent disappearances in the area, Mister..."

"Caffrey. And I wouldn't mind answering questions, if I thought you guys were actually FBI agents."

Sam gives the guy one of his 'trust me, I'm harmless' smiles and says, "Mr. Caffrey, I can assure you-"

"Look, you're trying to con the wrong guy. Which you'd know if you were actually from the FBI."

"Sir-"

"If you want to pass for feds, you guys should really do a better job on your IDs. The printing quality is terrible, the spacing's all wrong near the bottom, and the picture's about a quarter of an inch too small. What, did you make them at Kinkos?"

He looks to Sam, and Sam shrugs. Dean faces the guy again and says, "Yeah, kinda."

"Well, why you come in and tell me why you're really here, and I can give you some pointers on forgery."

SPN RPF ficlet: Jared/Jensen (PG-13)

wraith816 — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 01:41:07 GMT

...have some completely ridiculous J2 fic about a certain line from 5x04. I don't really feel like cleaning this up or giving it a title or anything, so beware the lack of beta'd-ness.

"Oh, fuck me."

"Was that a request?" Jared asks as he walks in the room. "'Cause you know I'm willing."

"No it wasn't, keep your pants on for now. Have you seen the whole script for the fourth episode yet?"

"No, I only looked at my scenes."

Jensen holds out the script. "Here. Halfway down the page."

Jared takes a minute to read the page in front of him, and then bursts out in uncontrollable laughter. "Panties? Really?"

"Shut up."

"Pink panties," he says between laughs. "Seriously? Pink satin panties."

"I have to say that line with a straight face."

"Pink satin panties and he liked it. Panties."

"If you don't shut up right now you are never getting laid again."

"Okay, okay. Shutting up. Jeeze."

Bringing the line to Jared's attention is Jensen's first mistake. His second mistake is thinking it'll end there.

* * * * *

Jared's in LA, the fucker. Jared is in LA, and Jensen is doing twice the work because there are two Deans and the whole thing is just a bitch to film and of course Jared doesn't have to be here for any of it. Jensen would kind of like to throw Jared's ass out a window for being lucky enough to avoid this, but he's actually kind of fond of Jared's ass and prefers it to be undamaged. So basically all Jensen can do to make Jared suffer for his fortune is to resolve to send him whiny texts every hour.

Jensen walks into makeup at ass-o-clock on Monday, and hanging there on the wall is something pretty much out of one of his weirder nightmares. It's a giant poster of his face photoshopped onto the body of some twink who is, of course, wearing bright pink panties. It's actually not a bad job – his head's actually in proportion, which is better than some of the stuff you can find on the scarier corners of the internet – but it's still slightly terrifying all the same, especially considering that the picture they used of him looks like he's about twelve years old.

He goes to tear it down before whole crew gets wind of it, and that's when he sees the note taped to the bottom: Hey there hot stuff! Lookin' good. ♥, Jared. Jensen rolls his eyes and balls the poster up - he would feel bad about destroying Jared's handiwork, but he's sure Jared's got another dozen of the things stashed away somewhere. He digs his phone out of his pocket and starts a new text message.

That was disturbing. I know you're useless with photoshop, who'd you get to do it?

I'll never tell! :-P

* * * * *

On Tuesday, they actually film that scene. It takes him about a million tries before he can say the line without cracking up, and by the end, he's got the whole crew glaring at him for screwing up so many times. So when they finally break, he's tired and cranky and maybe ready to punch Sera (he may have been taught never to hit a woman, but he's sure she's somehow responsible for that damned line). He stalks off the set and over to his trailer, ready to spend his entire break cursing all these weird, embarrassing turns his career seems to take.

Jensen opens the trailer door, and as he walks in, something soft falls down right on his head. He sputters, waving his hands in some kind of ridiculous flailing motion, until whatever fell on him goes to the floor.

Panties.

It's a bunch of panties, all different colors, some lacy, some satin, some indecently small. And, in fact, as Jensen looks up at the rest of his trailer, he realizes that the entire place is covered in them. There are more panties in Jensen's trailer than he'd find in the average Victoria's Secret. There are more panties in Jensen's trailer than he's ever even seen before.

He texts Jared, Dude, creeper much? No guy should be buying this much woman's underwear.

I guess you've seen your trailer redecoration? :D

You know you're going to pay for this.

Eh, it's worth it.

* * * * *

Thursday morning, when Jensen goes to get dressed, he finds all his boxers replaced with the panties from the day before. He calls Clif.

"How much did Jared pay you for all this?"

"I have no clue what you're talking about."

"Don't try to play innocent. I know he's got someone up here doing his dirty work. So how much did he pay you?"

"A hundred bucks for all three pranks."

"I'll pay you a hundred fifty to stop any other pranks he might have planned and tell me where the hell my underwear is."

"As long as you don't tell him I turned, you've got yourself a deal."

"Done."

"They're in one of the kitchen cabinets, behind the big frying pan."

"Thank you."

As Jensen digs out his boxers from the cabinet, he considers all the ways he can get back at Jared – withholding sex, more pranks, letting the dogs chew on his pillow… but really, there's only one method of revenge that would be appropriate. It might be embarrassing, and it might be a little of exactly what Jared wanted out of this whole thing, but it's the best retaliation he's got. He grabs his phone and one of the pairs of panties.

* * * * *

You have four new messages.

"Holy crap, Jensen. I mean, holy crap. I can't believe you actually put on those on. You look… fuck. C'mon, pick up your phone or I'm gonna jerk off without you." Beep.

"Man, you can't send me a picture like that and then not answer your phone! Seriously, Jensen, pick up. Please?" Beep.

"Look, I'm sorry about the pranks, just pick up now so we can phone sex. This is just cruel, Jensen. Please pick up your damned phone." Beep.

"I really, really hate you right now." Beep.

SPN Fic: Love in the End Times - Sam/Dean (NC-17)

wraith816 — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 00:16:35 GMT

Title: Love in the End Times
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: incest, moderate violence, minor mention of past underage
Contains: graphic sex
Spoilers: through the beginning of S5
Word Count: ~1,500
Summary: Maybe there isn't an old Sam for Dean to reach, no new Sam to banish. Maybe there is just Sam.
A/N: For sendthewolves, who asked for evil!Sam/Dean at the fandom free-for-all. Thanks very much to switch842.

In Atlanta, they fuck in a deserted hotel. It's a nice place, way out of their old budget, with soft sheets and a jacuzzi tub and mints on the pillows still left from when everyone fled the city. Sam kisses Dean slow and thorough like they've got more than these few stolen hours, like there's no underlying desperation between them now. Sam is steady and gentle and like nothing they've ever been before as he pushes Dean down against the bed, slides his fingers and then his cock into Dean's body. Dean clutches and whimpers through it, pleads to come with each stroke of Sam inside him. Sam breathes out Dean's name near the end, says it with a soft reverence like it's the one prayer he has left.

After, when they've cleaned up and dressed again, when Sam is inches from the door, he says, "What you're hoping – it won't work. There's the just the easy way and the hard way, now. Those are the options, and it's always your choice."

* * * * *
The battle for Salt Lake City doesn't go well for their side. They lose at least half, though Dean's group fares better than most, the way he wields the Knife, takes down demon after demon as they flood through the doors. But it's like one lone wall against a hurricane, and half of them are gone within a few hours, possessed or killed or injured so badly there's no point in even trying. The survivors retreat on Dean's orders, leave the city to the demons and other things Hell's brought up with them. Camp for the night is cars, tents, blankets stretched out over dirt. They spray paint protective symbols on trees, dig devil's traps into the ground, pass around hex bags for what little peace of mind it can give them. Dean has the Impala, parks it far from everyone else like that can give him some small amount of privacy.

After midnight, Sam's there, sitting shotgun next to Dean like he always has. He doesn't appear suddenly, doesn't pop into existence where he wasn't before, he's just there – like he was in his seat all along and this is just the first time Dean's noticed. No words as Sam opens the door, swings his legs out to rest his feet on the ground though he doesn't get up. Silence as Dean gets out of the car, walks around to the passenger side and sinks to his knees.

He runs his palm over Sam's thigh, up to where Sam's erection begins to bulge against his jeans, and then he's reaching for the zipper, and Sam murmurs something that sounds like, "Yes." He takes Sam's dick out, trails his fingers along the length before he takes it in his mouth, works his tongue around the head. Sam touches Dean's shoulders, the back of his neck, moans loud enough that it should wake the rest of the camp. But they aren't interrupted, and Dean can pretend this is like before, that they're parked in some nowhere, just the two of them, back when there was no purposeful hope to this, when Dean didn't have to feel such crushing guilt for still wanting it.

Once Sam comes, he pulls Dean up from the ground, wraps his hand around Dean's cock, strokes him to orgasm right there, licks the come from his fingers when Dean's done. He smiles – look what I did – and it's like a punch.

"We can't do this anymore," Dean says. "I can't do this."

Sam stands, crossing his arms over his chest with a look something like defiance. "Then say no. If you've given up, then tell me no right now and I won't come back again."

And there it is. Dean can't say no, can't even contemplate it, not when maybe, maybe this is the thing that will save his brother, save them all. Because maybe this thing between them is the one last tether tying Sam to who he used to be. Never mind how Dean is fucked up and needy and lets it happen, all for that old feeling of together.

"You can't say it, can you? Still think you can save me?" Sam asks, smiling again, this time with a predator's edge to it. "I'll see you soon, Dean." And between one breath and the next, he disappears.

In the dark hours of the morning, Dean gets into the car and drives. He leaves the Knife behind at the camp. The others need its protection more than he does anyway – orders are no that demon is to touch the Boy King's brother.

* * * * *
Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Afterward –

"How's Ellen?" Dean asks, though he's not sure he wants to know the answer.

"Alive and unharmed, just like I promised." Sam splays his hand across Dean's bare chest, rubs up and down like anything he does anymore could be soothing.

"And Cas?"

It takes Sam a moment. "Alive," he answers. "Not exactly unharmed, but you probably guessed that already. They say we're close to figuring out what makes that weapon of his tick. Maybe we'll have our own stash of angel-killers soon enough."

"Don't."

"Okay, I get it; no work talk. Social, then? You talk to Bobby lately? How's he doing?"

Dean snorts. "I'm not an idiot. I know better than to tell you."

"Well it doesn't matter anyway; we're getting close to him. And trust me, warning him won't help." Sam curls closer, resting his hand on Dean's hip, pressing a soft kiss to Dean's shoulder. "Remember the summer we lived here?" he asks suddenly.

"The year you were fifteen," Dean answers.

"Yeah. You worked at that copy place, taught me to make IDs."

"And you complained the whole time."

"That was the year…" Sam trails off, doesn't finish it, though Dean thinks he can imagine what came next. That summer, when things twisted around and changed and led them hurtling down a road that eventually got them here, naked and entwined. Sam says, "We're leveling this area tomorrow; you might wanna leave now."

"And miss all the fun? Nah. I'll stick around."

* * * * *
In Mississippi, it's in a tiny, plain church with Sam seated on a pew and Dean in his lap. They're both half clothed still as Dean fucks himself down onto Sam, kisses him hard and sloppy, heedless of where they are, and when he brokenly calls out Sam's name, it echoes through the empty room. They move together, languid and warm, and Dean knows this is the way he deludes himself. It's how he pretends.

They're both close when there's a sound somewhere behind Dean, footsteps and then a surprised gasp. Dean stills, just for a moment, awkward and shamed, but Sam flicks his fingers, casual and easy, and then there's a loud crack that reverberates through the church, followed by the thud of a body hitting the floor.

Dean wants to stop, to turn and see for himself one more piece of evidence for what his brother's become, but Sam thrusts up just right then, holds tighter and says, "Dean, Dean," like nothing's changed. It's so fucking sick, knowing exactly what just happened, what Sam did, but Sam is inside him, around him, and there's no way to stop. Sam comes quick after that, warm and slick inside Dean, and then his hand is around Dean's dick, tight and good, and Dean comes too, orgasm dragged up reluctantly from him. Sam killed somebody just minutes ago, and Dean's coming, and all he can think is of the time when they had nothing but the road, the hunt, and each other.

When Sam's gone, Dean's left with the body where it fell to the floor. It's a guy, maybe just out of his teens, and his neck is bent at some sickeningly unnatural angle. He drags the body outside, builds a pyre with some branches, spills salt and lighter fluid. He stands by as it burns down to ashes.

* * * * *
Outside an abandoned truck stop somewhere near Buffalo, Sam arrives with black eyes and innocents' blood on his clothes. The eyes fade, eventually, but the blood doesn't go away. They thrust against each other in the dirt, gravel digging into Dean's back as Sam loosely holds him down, as Sam says Dean's name over and over, looks at him like Dean is still all he sees in the world.

When Dean looks at Sam, he sees his baby brother, sees the man who's slowly killing everything around them bit by bit. Maybe there isn't an old Sam to reach, no new Sam to banish. There is just Sam, the little boy who Dean raised and who grew up to end the world. Maybe that's everything Dean needs to learn.

* * * * *
In Georgia, Utah, Mississippi, Wisconsin, Sam makes an offer.

"You know this would stop if you'd just come with me. All the battles, all the blood – it's only because you still think you can fight. Say that you're mine and I'll cut to the end of this, make the rest quick and painless for everyone. And it'll be me and you again. Like it should be."

Outside that broken-down truck stop in New York, two years and six months after the world ended, Dean says, "Okay, Sammy. Okay." He seals it with a kiss.

SPN Fic: for peace comes dropping slow – Sam/Dean (R)

wraith816 — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 01:01:03 GMT

Title: for peace comes dropping slow
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warnings: incest
Contains: moderately graphic sex
Spoilers: through the end of S4
Word Count: ~8,000
Summary: It's not a home, or a base, or even a place they stay all that often, but in the aftermath of the war, Minnesota's where things happen. It's where things between them change.
For whenthewarsover prompt #15: Sam and Dean decide it's time for a much needed vacation. They wind up at a cabin near a lake. There's swimsuits and fishing and sitting on the porch drinking lemonade watching the sunset.
A/N: Thanks to switch842 for looking over this. Title from Yeats' "The Lake Isle of Innisfree"

There are no beginnings or endings to their story, or maybe it's that there are too many.

* * * * *

It doesn't start here.

The aftermath – when Lucifer's screams from behind his new prison walls still echo in their ears along with the flap of wings that was the angels' final goodbye. Long months when Sam barely speaks, when Dean talks enough for the both of them, all strained smiles and no substance. The car eats up miles of back roads and highways as they leave a trail of dead monsters (never demons, anymore) behind them, but hunting doesn't help, not to Sam, not in the face of all the things he's done.

Dean knows this, that crushing sense of guilt for his screw ups, for all the things he's had to do to make it right again. But that's nothing in Sam's eyes; the Apocalypse he brought down around them is no comparison at all, no matter how much that knife in the back in Cold Oak had felt like the end of the world to Dean. It's like those first months after Jessica, like the year before Lucifer, only magnified by a thousand, with sleepless nights and sharp-edged silences that stretch so far between them. It's a fight, not with words, not with blows; it's all in their eyes, in the way Sam keeps shutting down, pulling away, in the way everything Dean says is exactly what Sam doesn't seem to want to hear. It's they way they fucking grate against each other now.

Over the phone, Bobby says once, "Take a break or something. You boys deserve it, you know." Dean starts to protest, but Bobby snorts. "Don't you try that with me now. Just think about it; you could use some downtime."

Dropping off a curse box at Ellen's new place, she eyes them like she knows something, telling Dean, "Bill had a cabin on a lake up in Minnesota, back from before we were married. I try to get up there once a year or so since he passed, make sure it hasn't fallen apart or anything. Otherwise I've got no use for the place and neither does Jo. You and Sam are welcome to it anytime, if you want." She slides a banged-up key ring over the table to him and gives him a look that says she won't take anything but a yes. "It's not much, but it's got water and electric, and it's as well-protected as any hunter's place. A vacation wouldn't kill you." Dean pockets the keys and she nods like he's made the right decision.

The next morning, they start heading north.

The cabin is on a little street that's a dozen back roads and a half hour away from anything like civilization, and the drive is another filled with that bone-deep tension Dean's learned to expect now. Sam doesn't really look at him the whole day, not until the car's stopped in the gravel driveway. "Where are we?"

Dean shrugs, says, "Thought we could use a few days off."

"Okay." It's the same kind of one word answer Dean's been getting for far longer than he's comfortable with.

"I'll grab the bags; you go check the place out." He tosses the keys, which Sam catches easily, and then heads to open the trunk.

Once he's done with the car, he makes his way inside, throws their duffels onto a sheet-covered couch and takes a look around the main room. It's pretty bare – not that Dean expected anything else – just the couch, an old antenna TV, a battered table, the kitchenette, and there's nearly as much dust as their average haunted house. There's a huge window that takes up most of one wall and overlooks the lake, and Sam's examining the ceiling above it where there's a devil's trap drawn in faded red.

"Ellen's," Dean says by way of explanation for the protective measures and Sam nods, turning his attention back toward the view.

Leaving Sam to what he's doing, Dean explores. He finds two bedrooms separated by a small hallway on one end of the house, a bathroom with seriously fugly yellow-flowered wallpaper that Bill Harvelle couldn't possibly have been responsible for, and a door out to a screened porch off the back of the house. The porch is in the same condition as the house – a bit worn, in need of more work than Ellen's rare visits can achieve. The white floorboards are losing paint that flakes off in curls that crunch under Dean's boots as he walks in. There's a set of old plastic deck furniture that's seen better days and a ceiling fan that might still work.

The porch has another door, one that leads out into the yard, and so Dean goes through it. The lawn takes an abrupt drop into a large hill a few yards from the cabin, and he follows the steep, weed-covered slope down to the lake where there's a weather-roughened dock jutting out into the water. He steps onto it carefully, testing his weight on the worn boards, and it holds, so he walks out the rest of the way and looks over the small lake. It's late – the heat of the day is just beginning to bleed away and the sun's already halfway down the horizon, leaving the sky and water a brilliant mix of burning golds and reds. Dean's not the kind of guy who sits around and watches sunsets, but it's sort of nice this once, to look out at a view more attractive than that of a crumbling graveyard or a motel parking lot. He thinks this might be it; here, if nowhere else, maybe they can find some temporary peace.

It's nice, but the mosquitoes are out in full force and making a meal of Dean already, so he reluctantly flees back to the cabin. When he comes back in, Sam is unpacking in the bathroom with the door open, setting down a pile of stolen motel towels on the counter next to the shower.

"It's a pretty sweet piece of property they've got here," Dean says.

"Yeah. We staying here long?"

"Not really. A week, maybe? Unless you wanna hang around for a while."

"No, that's fine." Sam grabs his bag from the floor. "I'm gonna go to bed."

"A little early, isn't it?"

"I don't know; maybe."

Dean doesn't have to ask. "You didn't sleep again last night. Sam–"

"Good night, Dean." Sam heads for the bedroom at the back of the house, closing the door behind him.

This is the problem – has always been the problem – the way Sam feels no one else can ever understand his issues, as if he doesn't know that Dean would throw out all his moratoriums on touchy-feely stuff in an instant just to get Sam to explain things to him. Like he doesn't know that Dean bears scars just as twisted as his own. They need to talk; they need to start fixing things before they both implode because Sam is more at war with himself every day, more fucked up and tangled around with guilt.

But there's nothing left for Dean to do tonight except follow his brother's lead, so he goes into the other bedroom and shuts the door. The bed's small and the sheets smell musty even at a distance, but Dean's slept in worse conditions, so he strips down to his boxers and tee without thinking too much of it before he slides under the covers.

He doesn't sleep. It's too quiet like this, without Sam's even breathing only feet away, and Dean almost laughs at how pathetic he's gotten if he can't get to sleep when his brother's not in the same room. He used to be okay with the quiet, back when Sam was still sneaking out with Ruby most nights, but in the time since the Apocalypse, he relearned to need his brother's sound. So now, he lies awake and stares at the ceiling. But he knows Sam's just as sleepless across the hall.

There's a Super Target three towns over, and that's where Dean ends up the next morning, pushing an over-filled cart down the too-bright aisles of the food section and picking up all the things he knows Sam likes best. He buys wheat bread and grape tomatoes and orange juice without pulp. He buys plastic utensils and paper plates. He gets clean sheets and a twelve-cup coffee pot and the smallest flatscreen TV they have in stock.

It's late enough in the season that all the summer stuff's half off already, including the seemingly endless rows of garish swimwear. On a whim, he grabs two pair of the least ugly trunks from a rack, one in Sam's size and one in his own. It's been years since he's gone swimming – the time he got thrown off a boat by a human-form selkie notwithstanding – and he thinks that taking a dive or two off the dock could be fun, even if the water looked kinda murky. Making his way to the front of the store, a display catches his eye: it's a shelf full of knockoff Speedos, and a part of Dean's brain, the one that's always looking for a new way to annoy Sam, lights up at the possibilities. He grabs two of those as well, tossing them into the cart and heading for the nearest cash register.

Sam helps him unload the groceries when he gets back, and he doesn't make a single comment about all the junk food Dean's bought. He does raise an eyebrow when he gets to the TV though. "You know we're not moving in, right?"

"Ellen said we can crash here whenever we want. Might as well make it more livable. And hey, we don't come back, it's not like we actually paid for it."

As Sam sets the TV box down next to the old set, Dean figures that's the perfect time to spring the swimsuits on him. Dean grabs the bag and throws one of the Speedos right in Sam's face. Sam sputters for a second and then glares.

"What the hell?"

"I'm not letting a perfectly good lake go to waste. You're going swimming if I have to throw you in."

"Like you could." Sam picks up the suit from the floor and his eyes go wide. "You didn't."

"Oh yes I did."

"There's no way in the world I'm wearing this thing."

"It's that or skinny dip, Sammy. Your choice. Either way, I'm dragging you down to that water. Go get changed."

Dean turns and heads down the hall to the bedrooms, where he drops off the regular trunks on Sam's bed before going to his own room to get changed. Sam's door is closed when Dean comes back out, and it's almost too much for him to hope that Sam is actually going to get out of his own head long enough to come along. He goes outside and down to the dock, sits on the end where the rough wood scrapes uncomfortably at the back of his calves.

Half an hour later, Sam still hasn't shown, and Dean has to concede that it's not going to happen. For a moment, he thinks about making good on his threat to drag Sam out naked, but he knows that in the end that would just get him a vocally angry brother in place of their strained silence, no improvement there. So screw it, Dean slides off the dock and into the water by himself. It's a good temperature thanks to the long days of summer heat, but it still feels nicely cool where Dean's skin began to go pink as he waited for Sam. He goes under for a bit, getting used to being in the water for fun instead of work; he comes back up with a breath and starts in towards the middle of the lake. It's easy to lose track of the hours out there, doing laps from the center-most point and back to the dock, over and over again, and it isn't until he looks up to see the beginnings of the sunset that he realizes just how long he's been in the water.

He drips water all over the floor when he comes back in – forgot to bring a towel down with him – and finds Sam seated at the kitchen table, the entire trunkful of weapons spread out in front of him. Dean grabs a beer from the fridge, pops the top off with his ring, and says, "You don't really get the concept of vacation, do you?"

"These needed to be cleaned."

"Not right this minute, they didn't."

Sam doesn't answer, just picks up one of the shotguns and starts tending to it.

Dean sets down his drink, pulls out the chair across from Sam, and grabs the nearest knife; it's fine, doesn't need any work, but Dean goes through the motions of sharpening it anyway.

Every day, Dean swims.

He's giving Sam space, as much as he can when they live as closely as they do. He's fed up with trying again and again to make headway when all Sam ever gives him for it is that same stony expression. It's time to let Sam come to him. So Dean swims, around the perimeter of the lake, across its width, or just idly floats somewhere near the middle. He waves to people who pass on their boats, chats up a woman renting a place down the street from them. He tries to tan lying on a threadbare towel on the dock, but all he gets for his trouble is a nasty burn where he missed putting sunscreen on his back.

On their seventh day there, Sam comes down to the lake.

He's wearing the trunks Dean bought the other day and has an apologetic look in his eyes. Dean's so shocked that he maybe almost swallows a mouthful of water. He asks, "You coming in?"

"I was thinking 'bout it."

"Race ya?"

Sam looks out at the lake. "To the other side and back?"

"Sure. Turn-around point is that huge tree over there."

"Sounds good." Sam drops his towel onto the dock and lowers himself into the water.

"On my mark," Dean says. "One... two..." He starts swimming before three, just like he always has. And like rock-paper-scissors, like popping in dislocated shoulders, Sam knew it was coming, taking off right when Dean did.

Moving alongside his brother in the water is nothing like it used to be, all those hours they logged in dingy motel pools teaching Sam how to swim without floaties. Sam was unsure then, a little scared and a little hopeful he could manage to impress Dean, eating up each bit of praise, gaining confidence slowly. There is nothing left of that unsure little boy in the way Sam cuts through the water now. Those swimming lessons paid off, apparently, because he looks like he could be a damned professional the way he moves, keeps his rhythm. They hit the tree on far side of the lake at the same time, and turn back towards their dock in unison.

Things feel normal like this, competing against Sam. It's what they do, have always done, really, and it's like Dean can almost pretend that none of it – the Apocalypse, Lucifer – had ever happened. They're halfway across when Sam begins to take the lead, just a few feet ahead, but Dean gains a little when they're almost there. They both speed up for that last stretch, but it's too late for Dean because Sam slaps his hand against the dock just moments later, the ghost of a smug smile on his face.

"Knew I should've bet you laundry duty on that."

"I let you win."

"Uh-huh. Of course you did," Sam says before he pulls himself out of the lake and onto the dock in one easy motion, and Dean does the same a moment later. They sit side by side, nearly pressed together, legs dangling off the side in the water.

After a minute, Dean notices that Sam is staring at him, a wide-eyed kind of consideration that makes Dean want to squirm under the scrutiny. "Dude, what?"

"What the hell are you wearing? You look ridiculous."

It's then that Dean remembers that he'd swapped out his swim trunks for that tight-fitting Speedo today, and that his goods are practically on display for all to see. "Oh, fuck you," he says and spreads his legs a little wider, touching his knee to Sam's. "I look awesome in these. Women'll be lining up for me any minute."

"I can't believe you," Sam says, but he's smiling like he hasn't in months, his eyes alight with it.

On a dock in Minnesota, Sam is laughing, just a little, for the first time since long before their final battle. They're both still breathing heavy from their race, and Dean can watch the water still dripping from Sam's hair, running down his shoulders and chest. It feels like this, Sam smiling at his side, is the only thing Dean's ever wanted.

"I'm gonna go back in and get some lunch," Sam says, breaking the moment as he stands.

"Make me a sandwich while you're at it, bitch."

"Make your own sandwich, asshole." Sam rolls his eyes and starts for the house.

When they head to bed that night, Sam leaves his door open. The sound of his breathing is fainter from across the hall, but it's enough, and Dean feels like an indefinable something is set back in its place. They're not all right, not yet, but for the first time, it feels like they will be.

Sam hands him a page of the Star Tribune over breakfast the next day, and there's a headline circled in red: Fourth Body Found in Puzzling Indianapolis Murder Case. They're on their way there by lunchtime.

It doesn't start here, but something does.

* * * * *

One thing bleeds into the next and into another and into more after that.

Two months of hunts. Two months of poltergeists and cursed jewelry and rock salt rounds. They take jobs at a pace they haven't seen since the end of that first year with Sam back; with each one, they fit together a little closer, move a little more in synch. Not perfect, but better. This is what it's supposed to be, Dean thinks.

Until a guy driven mad by a spirit tries to carve up Dean's leg bad enough that it's past Sam's ability to stitch up on his own. He limps into the hospital with a long, bloody gash from above his knee down to his calf, Sam practically carrying him into the ER, and then it's lies and doctors and some pretty awesome painkillers.

He checks out AMA as soon as he's stable, stretches out in the backseat of the car, and falls asleep as Sam drives. When he wakes up, it's as they pass by a Welcome to Minnesota sign. Dean should be surprised, but he's not. They pull up in front of the cabin late that afternoon and he doesn't even protest much as Sam helps him inside.

Dean heals. It's slow; the guy did a number on his leg and bending his knee hurts like a motherfucker, but it looks a little less gross each day. It's going to scar – not the first he's had since Hell, but certainly the worst, bad by even his old standards, before resurrection wiped him clean.

Sam hovers. He gets Dean food and helps him up and is generally a pain in the ass, though Dean is mostly thankful for it. Sometimes he gives Dean this look, one that's been showing up more and more since the last time they came to the cabin, and for all Dean knows about his brother, he can't quite figure this one out. It reminds him of that time with the faith healer, or maybe in the hospital with Dad after the semi, and considering what they're willing to do for each other, he's glad this time wasn't as bad.

It's warm for early October, like summer clings on well past when it was supposed to retreat, and the sky slowly fills with clouds that promise rain later in the day. The lake is calm and metal-gray under the darkening cloud cover. Not that Dean knows much about the weather lately, considering how he's been confined to the cabin long enough that he's beginning to go a little nuts. Which is why he's on the dock, seated in one of the battered chairs from the porch, a fishing pole he found in the garage resting in his hand. It doesn't help that itching feeling that comes with too-long in one place, that need for movement that's always in the back of his mind, but it's almost a change in scenery, and that's enough for now.

Dean hears the dock creak behind him and knows it's Sam. He ends up right next to Dean's chair, his hand resting on the back of it. "Walking down here can't be good for your leg," Sam says.

"Man, I'm fine. Barely even hurts anymore." He stretches it out a little, doesn't even wince when the movement pulls painfully at the skin where his knee got cut.

"And if you wanna keep it that way, you shouldn't be climbing down hills. You should stay in the house."

"And die slowly of boredom? No thanks."

"Because sitting on a dock all day waiting for a fish stupid enough to take your bait is so exciting."

"Hey, don't knock it when it's gonna be your dinner."

"You do realize that fish need to be cleaned before you eat them? Do you even know how to clean a fish?"

He claps Sam on the arm and flashes his best 'innocent' grin. "Figured I'd leave the nasty fish guts to you."

"I'd be more concerned about that if you'd actually caught anything yet." Sam kicks Dean's empty fish bucket.

"Give it time, Sammy."

"I'd rather not. Come back inside and I'll make you lunch or something."

"No, I'm good here."

"C'mon, it's gonna rain soon."

"And I'll go back in when it does."

"Up that hill, in the rain, and with your leg."

So maybe Sam has a point – it was hard enough getting down the hill with dry grass, and Dean doesn't want to try it when it's slippery, not when, if he's being honest, his leg still throbs dully. He says, "All right, I'm coming. But I'm not a freakin' invalid."

"Yeah, yeah. C'mon, there's a Star Wars marathon on. You haven't missed the metal bikini yet."

"Dude, why didn't you say that in the first place?"

Dean sways a little as he gets up, leg stiff from sitting for so long, and it's enough to knock the chair a little and send him off-balance. He reaches out a hand that lands on Sam's chest – it's that or go head-first into the lake – and Sam's hands wrap around his biceps, holding his tenuous balance; Sam's there to steady him like always. But it's different this time, closer, the way they nearly fall together. Sam's face is only inches from his, near enough that he's looking straight at Sam's mouth, at the way his chapped lips are slightly parted as he breathes. Even through layers of clothes, he can feel Sam's pulse where he still has his hand on his brother's chest.

They stay like that for a moment, quiet and close, Sam oddly not moving, and Dean doesn't pull back for reasons he's not really comfortable examining. The chair's knocked over, Dean's dropped the fishing pole, and he and Sam are still touching. It's not long before Sam finally does move, leaning forward, getting closer, and then they're kissing.

Sam is kissing him.

Sam is kissing him, and it's not tentative, not the kind of kiss you give when things are new and unsure; it's firm and confident, something thought out, something he's wanted for longer than just these past few minutes. Sam's mouth against his is a fulfillment of something that Dean can't (doesn't want to) consider too carefully. He doesn't push his brother away, wouldn't do that again, not when they're still so fragile under the weight of the memories of all the ways they've hurt each other. So he stays still, lets Sam kiss him with all that pent up need and feelings they won't name.

Dean lets it happen, but he doesn't kiss back, and Sam notices after a few long minutes, pulling back with fear-bright eyes like he can't be thinking anything but the worst. They stand there for a moment, neither one able to do anything more than breathe harshly in the quiet afternoon. Finally, Sam turns and walks away – like it seems he's been doing his entire life – and makes his way back up to the cabin without a word, leaving Dean still down on the dock.

By the time Dean hobbles back up the hill, Sam's not in the house, nothing but a note (gone to town, be back later. – S) to let Dean know he hasn't run off for good.

Sam comes back some time near midnight, though he sits out in the car for a good fifteen minutes before he comes into the cabin. Dean's on the couch with the TV on some news channel when Sam walks in, the front door banging closed behind him.

"We should head out tomorrow," Dean says as Sam tosses the keys onto the kitchen table and hangs his jacket over a chair.

"Okay," Sam says before going into his room.

The morning's awkward, maybe even more than Dean expected it to be. Sam won't look at him, keeps his eyes fixed to an insignificant spot somewhere near his feet as they pack up their things. They don't talk – almost end up leaving a bag in the house because of it – and things between them haven't been this strained since the last time they were here.

Loading the car, Sam hands him a duffle and, for just a second, their fingers brush. They both spring back immediately, like that one short moment of contact could drive them back to that crazy wrongness (rightness) from yesterday. Dean holds his breath almost without realizing it, waiting to see what Sam might say. But he doesn't say anything, or do anything but continue filling the trunk in silence, still with his eyes on the ground.

It feels to Dean like he doesn't breathe again until they've crossed the line into Wisconsin three hours later.

* * * * *

There's a second time for most things.

Dean sits in the long grass at the top of the hill, looking out at the night sky over the water. The moon is just a sliver, and the only light around comes from the lamp in the porch and from the house next door. There's a party or something over there; the sounds of many voices packed into a small space and a pounding bass line filter over to take away the silence Dean would much rather have.

Minnesota's the last place he wants to be, not when this is where it began, but Sam brought them here this morning, didn't even ask if was okay, like he'd forgotten all about what happened the last time. It's where they lost their minds and Sam kissed him and Dean let it happen. Something started here all those months ago, started with half-caught glances and accidental brushes of skin. More and more of it, with more freakin' intimacy each time, with awkward moves and unacknowledged tension building up until that night.

The night they got each other off.

He won't call it actual sex (didn't get that far), just rubbing and touching and one long kiss that lasted through it all. He knows what it's like to lick the taste of alcohol from his brother's mouth; he knows the sounds Sam makes when he's one good stroke from coming. He knows these things like he knows every other thing there is to Sam – thoroughly and with a certainty that can't be matched. It's too much, too close, and he doesn't want a reason to need Sam any more than he already does.

He sits in the dark and tries not to wonder if this thing with Sam was there all along.

Dean's been outside for hours when he hears someone approach. It doesn't come from the cabin, and it's definitely someone smaller than Sam, so he turns to look. It's a woman, coming over from the property next door. She's petite and dark haired, the kind of pretty that wins local pageants but doesn't quite hold up to that unattainable Hollywood ideal. She stops a few feet away and offers him a hand.

"Hi," she says. "My name's Carly."

"Dean," he says, and takes her outstretched hand.

"I was coming out for some air and saw you over here, figured I'd come introduce myself. Looks like you were doing some heavy-duty thinking there."

He thinks about it for a moment, about confessing all the ways he's messed up; he thinks about telling her that he maybe has some decidedly inappropriate feelings for his brother, who is currently somewhere inside the cabin being kind of scarily okay with said inappropriate feelings. But he isn't up to seeing the disgust on her face when he says it, not when he feels a little like that himself. "Not really," he lies.

"Don't feel like spilling your guts to a stranger? I don't blame you." She takes a seat next to him, folding her legs and resting her elbows on her knees. "So are you a local or are you vacationing?"

"A friend of ours owns the place, lets us use it whenever we want."

"Us?"

"My brother," he says, trying so hard to sound like it's that easy, like that's still all Sam is to him.

"That's cool," Carly replies. "It's pretty nice up here, for the middle of nowhere. Me and some friends are renting the place next door for a coupla weeks. One last vacation before we start grad school next month." She motions back to her place. "We're having a thing right now, actually. You could come join us, if you want, take your mind off things for a little while. There's free beer," she offers.

Dean almost says no, but the alternatives aren't great – stay here and run mental circles around this thing with Sam, or go inside and do the same. Not really a question, there. He says, "I've never been one to turn down a free drink."

He stands and reaches out a hand to help her up; she takes it, and together they walk next door. Even in the dark, Dean can see that the house is about the same size as the cabin, but newer and better maintained. No protective symbols etched into the walls of this house, he knows. A nice little place for nice, normal people. They head up to the back door and she lets him inside, where the party is clearly just hitting its high point.

"I'll get you a drink." He nods and she makes her way into the crowd.

Dean may not have gone to college, but he's been to college parties, and this is no different than the ones he's attended before. The music's too loud, everyone's too drunk, and he wonders when this kind of thing stopped seeming awesome. The house is full of people (all ten years younger than him) and he has trouble finding an unoccupied corner to claim as his own. He stakes out a spot away from everyone else, leans against the wall and watches the party go on around him.

Carly's back at his side a moment later, handing him a red Solo cup full of beer, and he takes it with a nod. "Having a good time?"

"Yeah," he says, though he can't muster up any enthusiasm in his answer.

"You're not a very good liar," she says with a little smile. "This isn't your kinda thing, is it?"

"Not lately." He takes a drink. "But it's better than sitting outside alone. So tell me about yourself."

Carly talks, tells him about studying chemistry at the state university, about her plans for grad school and how her vacation's gone. She talks about her friends and the party and her three little sisters over in Madison. He sips his beer and asks the right questions, smiles at her jokes though he can't bring himself to really laugh when the only thing in his head anymore is Sam, Sam, Sam.

He wonders what Sam's doing right now, back there in the cabin, if he's freaking out just as badly. He wonders how long Sam's felt this way, if this is a product of their fucked up lives and the way they can never seem to let each other go. He thinks about how it was to touch Sam that way, of that feeling of finally that he's spent a week trying not to acknowledge. And somewhere, in that little corner of his mind that he doesn't want to listen to, he knows that holding up a wall at this party isn't where he wants to be tonight. But he's got a drink in his hand and a pretty girl at his side, and he's spent years convincing himself that's almost all he needs. So he stays, leaning against the wall and forcing himself to keep making conversation.

The crowd begins to thin at some point as people begin making their drunken way home, and the relative quiet is a small relief. Carly waves off one of her friends, and then turns to say, "It's getting kinda late. Do you need to head back or…?"

She trails off, looking at him intently for a moment – like she's been doing all night – before she leans up for a kiss, soft and fleeting like she doesn't do this kind of thing often. It's nothing like kissing Sam, nothing like the pounding heat and want of it; her mouth is on his, careful and inviting and safe, and all he can think about is his brother. When she pulls back, it would be easy to say yes anyway, just out of reflex from years of charming women in places like this, just to hope he could have a moment when Sam wasn't the only thing on his mind. It'd be easy, but then nothing else in his life ever has been.

He takes too long to reply, caught in his own head, and she says, "This isn't going to happen, is it?"

Dean shakes his head, knows he won't go through with it no matter how much he may want the distraction. He says, "Sorry, I'm just–"

"Hey, don't worry about it. I get it. How you were earlier, and you're not into the party; you've obviously got…" She waves her hand around vaguely. "Stuff. I'm guessing it's somebody. And it's complicated. Right?"

"Don't know the half of it," he mutters and sighs. He pushes himself away from the wall. "I should go."

"You want some advice before you leave?"

"I think I'll get by without it."

She speaks anyway, "Whoever she is, you'll have to talk to her eventually, you know." She smiles like she pities him, and he can't fucking stand it. "Go. Sort it out, whatever it is. Just my loss, I guess."

He gives her a half-hearted smirk, wearing like armor as he says, "Don't get me wrong, any other time…"

"Well, in that case, I'm here 'til the thirteenth if you change your mind. But I don't think you will."

"Yeah. Good night," he says and turns to head for the cabin.

It's so late that's it's almost more like early morning by the time Dean gets back, so he turns towards the bedrooms where Sam's door is cracked open. He pauses outside the room, looks in to see Sam still awake, sitting on the bed in boxers and a tee, his back propped against the wall and a book in his lap. He holds his breath and watches, just for a minute, takes in the slope of Sam's shoulders and the length of his body laid out on the bed.

This is the moment, the one that everything hangs on, the last point where turning back is still a possibility. They'll talk, and it'll suck, but they'll lay the blame on alcohol or adrenaline, anything but their own fucked-up-ness. There's still time to get over it, to sweep the whole thing under a metaphorical rug and press on like this feeling wouldn't always be around. Like someday he'd be able to look at Sam and not see everything that matters in the world.

Right.

"Sam," he says as he pushes the door open wider.

Sam looks up from whatever he's reading, meets Dean's eyes for the first time in weeks. He's never looked more like a confused little boy than he does right now, hair hanging in his face and everything he's feeling reflected there in his eyes. And fuck it, he wants to do anything it might take to make his brother's uncertainty go away – it's all he's ever wanted, really.

Something in Dean's head snaps then, like jagged pieces coming violently together to that one truth that's anything but simple: Sam, everything and always. It's fucked up and wrong and wonderful, etched so deep into Dean's bones and heart that it's only conclusion there can be.

"Sam," Dean says again, and then he's crossing the room to straddle Sam on the bed, to put his hand on the back of Sam's head and pull him in for a kiss.

There's no hesitation from either of them this time; Sam goes along easy, parting his lips to let Dean's tongue slide in, meeting it with his own. His hands come up to rest on Dean's hips, not urging on, not yet, just holding them there like he's afraid Dean might run away any minute now. But Dean's not running this time, not when he's maybe finally figured out that this thing between them isn't going away.

They kiss long and slow and somewhere through it, Dean realizes that Sam is hard, can feel the warm press of Sam's erection against his own. Sam must have noticed too, because he pulls Dean's shirt off, pushes down Dean's jeans just enough to get his dick out, and then does the same with his own boxers. Nothing separating them now, Sam pulls Dean closer, letting Dean's weight press him down against the bed, and then they're rutting clumsily against each other, all need and no skill as they thrust their bare cocks together. Dean can't take his hands off Sam long enough to coordinate anything more complicated, doesn't want to think about what that more could entail quite yet.

It's no different than the first time, with the feel of Sam's skin against his, the way Sam's hands clutch desperately at his arms, his back. It still makes him cry out and writhe and nearly fall apart. It's still good. And there's still that sick twisting feeling in his stomach when he thinks, this is Sam. This is my brother, but he imagines that's something that will never go away even if they do this for the rest of their lives.

It doesn't last long, of course, couldn't last through their shared urgency. Sam comes first, silent but for a gasp of breath as he spills all over their stomachs. Dean watches, rapt as Sam's eyes squeeze shut with pleasure. A few more thrusts and then it's his turn, and it takes all his effort not to call out Sam's name as he comes, adding to the mess between them.

They still then, sated and breathing harshly, and Sam looks at him wide-eyed like he can't quite believe what they did. Dean can't face that gaze, so he rolls away and onto his back like that could actually give him some space. Sam sits up, grabs a towel that's lying on the floor and wipes himself off before pulling his boxers back up and handing the towel over. Dean cleans up and tosses the towel away. He looks to the door, wonders if there's a protocol to excusing yourself from the room after sex with your brother or if he should just get out before things get more strained.

But then Sam mumbles, "Stay," like he knows exactly what Dean's thinking. "Just… stay for now," he says.

It's a bad idea, one of the worst either of them has ever had, but he says, "Okay," anyway.

Sam lies back down, sticking close to the edge of the bed so that only their arms are touching. Dean thinks for a moment that they'll lie there awake all night, tense and quiet and still so fucking confused about where this is heading, but he's lax and sleepy from his orgasm, Sam's soft breathing is there to lull him, and it doesn't take long for Dean to drift off.

When Dean wakes up, he's alone in bed, which isn't surprising. He's still in his jeans from the day before, and there's spunk on them from where he didn't bother cleaning up all that well. He finds his shirt where it got tossed across the room, picks it up and pulls it on. He opens the blinds, letting the late morning light in. The bed's a mess, a practical disaster area, so he straightens the covers some. And then there are no more excuses to keep him from going to find Sam.

He's in the main room, seated at the kitchen table with an untouched mug of coffee in front of him when Dean walks in. He looks at Dean, eyes skittish in a way Dean hasn't seen from Sam since he was hiding college applications in a shoebox under his bed. Dean knows there's nothing he could say now to take that look away, and he doesn't want to be the one to start the painfully inevitable conversation that's coming any minute, so he goes to the kitchenette to pour himself a cup of coffee.

He's barely taken the first sip when Sam breaks the silence. "Dean–"

"Don't."

"I wasn't going to," Sam says. "Can we just…"

At the same time, Dean sets down his coffee and interrupts, saying, "Look, let's just admit that it's fucked up and that we liked it anyway and move the hell on."

It takes a minute, but Sam finally answers, "Okay."

"Okay?"

"You said pretty much what I was going to say."

"All right."

They stand there for a moment, Dean leaning back against the counter and Sam still in his chair. Then Sam gets up and crosses the room, plants his hands on the counter on either side of Dean, and leans in for a kiss.

It's not like before; this is soft, gentler in a way that's almost innocent. There's a learned ease to it now, less desperation than all the other times they've kissed. No hands clutching hard enough to bruise, no fighting to control the kiss. When Sam pulls back, Dean unconsciously moves a little closer like he's following to try and capture Sam's mouth again.

"Not exactly sure that counts as moving on," Dean says.

"Yeah it does. Just moving in a different direction than you were planning, is all," Sam says with a smug almost-smile before he goes in for another kiss.

And then they're making out right there in the cabin's main room, pressed up close together all the while. The last bit of Dean's resistance dies there, with Sam's mouth against his on a sunny northern morning. This is a start.

* * * * *

And so this is their middle – they hunt, they fuck, they wrap themselves around each other again and again like it's the only way they can breathe.

They still argue and Dean still does everything he can to be annoying and they still ask for two queen beds. But one bed's just to hold the weapons now, and half their bickering is over whose turn it is to catch the next time they end up naked. Sam's hands linger when he has to stitch Dean up and sometimes Dean has to pretend that he can't see when Sam's expression goes softly fond. Dean can barely remember the last time he followed a girl home. He lets himself try to forget any sense that this might be wrong. It works, mostly.

This is one middle to their story and Minnesota is a footnote; it's something set apart, but no less than vital to understanding how they live their shared life.

They change the wallpaper in the bathroom and repaint the porch. They buy a new couch and a new stove and a bigger bed and sheets the highest thread count credit card fraud can buy. Ellen never gives them the cabin outright, but she calls it their place like it's obvious that's what it is.

They've settled. As much as they'll ever be capable of it, at least. Sam is the only thing in his head and in his heart, and that's no longer something that destroys them over and over again.

This is how they are now. This is how they've changed.

* * * * *

Doors close and open, eras start and stop, and there is always something next.

The solstice sun lasts long into nighttime, hanging on above the horizon to reflect shining colors in the water. The ceiling fan beats out a steady turning rhythm overhead; that and the breeze keep it pleasantly cool out on the porch. Dean sits in one of the chairs, nursing a slowly-warming beer in his hand as he looks out over the lake. Sam's asleep in the seat next to him, his neck bent weirdly with how his head rests on his shoulder.

Dean reaches out to touch, to run his fingers over where gray is creeping into Sam's hair, to skim his hand along Sam's thigh. It's comfortable, finally, now that years of twisted worry have melted into this slow ease. It's something he never dared to think would happen, that they could fall so naturally to this. He touches again because he can, because they're here together, in this place that's something like a home. He leaves his hand on Sam's leg, wishing idly that it were skin under his fingers instead of denim.

Looking at his brother, at his hand still on Sam's knee, Dean thinks, this is how we are now.

For a moment, Dean considers getting Sam up and taking him to the front bedroom (their room), undressing him along the way. He thinks about sucking kisses into Sam's neck, leaving marks because Sam is his in all ways and he's allowed. Thinks about all the ways they can make each other come apart. But there's time for that later; Sam's sleeping deep and sound, Dean's still got beer to drink, and the sun isn't quite finished setting. It'll wait.

In the morning, he'll wake Sam with sure touches on warm skin, bring him off while he's still hazy with sleep and half-forgotten dreams. He'll complain that Sam's coffee is too weak and Sam will bitch at him for using all the hot water. They'll spend the day out by the lake with the obituaries, decide where to go next. They'll pack their things and drive away and keep evil things from hurting good people. And they'll come back here, eventually, and do it all over again.

This is not an end and everything's inevitable.

SPN RPF: Saturday Morning Q&A – J2 (PG-13)

wraith816 — Fri, 29 May 2009 03:42:21 GMT

Title: Saturday Morning Q&A
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none
Word Count: ~1,600
Summary: Jensen wants to spend the rest of his life with Jared; that's pretty much a given. Letting Jared know this is the hard part.
A/N: This is pretty much unrepentant schmoop. Merci mille fois to sgflutegirl for putting up with me.

The thing about Jensen – well, one of the many things about Jensen – is that he's not the kind of guy who goes for grand romantic gestures. Sure, he remembers birthdays and anniversaries, and he's usually good for a nice meal and a thoughtful gift on those occasions, but he's never been the person who will sweep a girl off her feet. That brand of conventional romance just isn't him. And even if Jensen were so inclined, his current partner…significant other…whatever is: a) not a woman and b) way too gigantic to be swept anywhere. Yes, Jensen is completely gone over Jared, but the idea of giving him a dozen roses or serenading him with some cheesy love song seems more than a little bit absurd.

Jared, of course, has a very different view on the subject. For their first official date, sometime after the drunken handjobs that clued them in to the 'more than friends' thing, he planned an honest-to-god picnic, complete with a red-checked table cloth to sit on. Granted, they had the picnic on the living room floor because it was the middle of February, and Harley tried to stick his head in the food basket more than once, but still, definitely more romantic than anything Jensen would've come up with. Then there was their one year anniversary, when Jared whisked him off for a weekend trip that may have involved copious time in a hot tub surrounded by scented candles. And that's not even getting into Jared's extremely elaborate Valentine's Day traditions.

Jensen would complain about all this, but it's practically unavoidable, part and parcel of who Jared is, and Jensen wouldn't ever change that. It's been years and Jensen's gotten used to it, and it's almost sort of strangely nice – in moderation, of course – though Jensen will never ever admit that out loud. Anyway, Jared doesn't push it, doesn't expect Jensen to reciprocate, and it works for them. They work.

Another thing about Jensen: he wants to spend the rest of his life with Jared. That's pretty much a given.

Jensen's known this for a while, since the time when their relationship was more close friends than mushy feelings and making out. Back during Supernatural, when he thought about what he wanted for the future, there was always Jared, partner in crime and confidant, a constant at his side. None of that changed with the addition of a not so platonic element to things. Somewhere along the line, Jensen's visions of them growing old (and teasing each other over shuffleboard or another equally clichéd senior citizen hobby) evolved to include rings and vows, because Jensen may not normally do romantic gestures but that doesn't mean the feeling isn't there. So even as he dodged rumors, telling reporters things like it's not in the cards for me right now, he was really thinking Jared and someday.

It's also a given that Jensen will do just about anything if there's even the slightest chance it might make Jared happy. And that's why Jensen starts making plans.

It's almost Jared's birthday.

Miraculously, they both have a few weeks off at the same time; Jared's finished the promotion work for his latest movie and Jensen's not needed on his new series until mid-August. It's the perfect opportunity for both a vacation and the surprise Jensen's got in mind. He rented a small house down in Florida, right on a stretch of beach that promises to be pretty spectacular. He hasn't let Jared in on it yet, probably won't tell him they're even going anywhere until the night before they leave, but he knows it's the kind of place Jared will love. He thinks about doing it that morning, sometime between the inevitable lazy birthday sex and whenever they drag themselves out of bed, because getting down on one knee seems like it'd be a bit much.

Jensen bought rings last month, plain and shining platinum, ready for engraving if Jared wants it. He stashed them in the deepest drawer of his desk under a pile of scripts he'd already auditioned for.

When Jensen wakes, Jared's dead to the world with his face still half buried in the pillows. Though unusual, it's completely understandable considering what ass-tastic hour of the morning it was when he collapsed into bed, finally home from his last round of interviews. ("Are you seeing anyone right now?" "I don't have a girlfriend." It's not a lie.)

He watches Jared for a moment, considers waking him with a kiss or a promising touch, but Jared looks too comfortable to disturb. Instead, Jensen extricates himself from the covers, throws on some clothes and makes his way downstairs to cover Jared's normal morning routine. The dogs are pacing the kitchen when he gets there, so Jensen doles out their breakfast quickly before letting them out into the yard. Jensen's just finishing his coffee when they come back inside. They head straight for the front of the house, and he watches as they plop themselves at the door, looking pointedly at the peg where their leashes hang. They turn their pleading puppy faces on him, and Sadie even lets out this sad little whimper. It might be the most pathetic thing Jensen's ever seen.

"Okay, okay! I'll take you for a run," he says, setting down his mug.

Five minutes later, they're taking a steady pace down the street, though Jensen's mind is elsewhere. He tests out the words in his head, like he has every minute he's had alone over the past month, trying out the all the ways he could say it. I love you, he thinks. Marry me?

Jared's already up when Jensen gets back, hair still sleep-rumpled as he sits at the kitchen table and stares intently at his half-full coffee cup. "Morning," Jensen says as he lets the dogs loose. "I see you finally got your ass out of bed."

"You love having my ass in bed."

"Okay, yeah. I can't argue with that." Jensen fixes himself some more coffee and seats himself in one of the empty chairs. It takes him a minute to really look at Jared, to notice the stress around his eyes, the way he fidgets in his seat; he seems almost nervous. "Hey, you all right?" Jensen asks.

Jared looks at him, all nerves and hope and something deep that Jensen can't describe. "I've been thinking."

"Don't strain yourself." It's easy to tease, to hope to break some of the tension in Jared's expression, though all Jensen gets for his joke is a weak smile that makes him worry even more.

Jared takes a breath and says, "I think we should get married."

There's a long moment of silence as Jared waits for an answer that Jensen's too shocked to give. It's a sunny Saturday morning and they're sitting in the kitchen like it's any normal day. The dogs are winding their way around the room in hopes of some affection, Jensen's kind of gross and sweaty from his run, and Jared looks like he could use another few hours of sleep. This is nothing like Jensen's detailed arrangements; it's simple like nothing he thought Jared would ever do. And somehow it's so amazingly perfect that he doesn't know what to say.

So in one of his stupidest moves ever, Jensen bursts out laughing.

Jared flinches, so slight Jensen almost misses it, but then his expression falls, that hope quickly receding, and Jensen scrambles to apologize. "Oh shit, no; don't think…I'm not laughing at you." Jared doesn't look impressed. Jensen keeps going, tries to explain, "I have rings. For us, I mean. I was waiting for your birthday, had this whole thing set up. Just looks like you beat me to it. It's funny."

"You were going to propose to me on my birthday?"

Jensen looks down, rubs a hand over the back of his neck. "Um, yeah."

"My birthday. Really? Isn't that a little…sappy for you?"

"Hey, you're the one who gets into all that stuff. Figured you'd eat it up."

"Asshole. See if I do anything nice for you again." He smacks Jensen hard on the arm, but he's smiling brightly now, all signs of his earlier nervousness completely gone. He laughs and pulls a little black velvet-covered box out from somewhere, sets it on the table and slides it over like an offer. Jensen doesn't have to open it to know it holds two rings that probably aren't that different from the ones he has hidden away. Jared's eyes meet his, steady and sure now as he asks, "So can I take that as a yes?"

"Definitely," Jensen says with a smile to match Jared's, and then he's surging forward to pull Jared into a hard kiss. It's an uncoordinated meeting of mouths, all sloppy and at some weird angle as they both try to keep grinning through it, but he doesn't care. He just wants his hands and mouth on Jared now more than ever.

Soon, things will get closer to R-rated territory and Jared will make a crack about traumatizing the dogs. He'll take Jensen's hand and suggest they move their celebration to the bedroom, probably for the rest of the day. And eventually, when they're sated and near sleep, Jared will wonder how Jensen was going to ask, and Jensen will tell him every gooey little detail he had planned. They'll talk about how to let their families know, about what kinds of decisions they'll need to make. But that's for later.

Right now, the most important thing about Jensen is that he's kind of ridiculously, stupidly in love with Jared.

5 Ficlets: SPN gen, J2 RPF, & BBT gen (PG)

wraith816 — Tue, 19 May 2009 01:03:05 GMT

All right, so here are my responses to the call for prompts from the other night. Feel free to hit me over the head if I've made any grammar/spelling mistakes. ;-)

For egotists, Jared holding Jensen
Implied J2, ~500 words

It's a scene played out too often, a routine that Jensen would rather forget.

The director of the week yells cut, we're good, but Jensen's slow stream of tears remains steady, won't stop as long as Dean is still this vocal, this living in his head. Dean's emotions, they're always a maze, a deep tunnel, but on days like this, the places Jensen goes for them… they're anything but easy to get back from. It's familiar, the panic – this bone-deep sadness, a blade-edged guilt – like some clawed thing trying to burst forth from his (Dean's) chest each time Sam (Jared) is dying.

Jared praises Jensen's work as he hauls himself up from the ground with a grin, face smeared with dirt and fake blood, but Dean still cries out for his injured brother in every corner of Jensen's mind. It takes Jared only a look, a quickly spared glance before that old concern washes over his expression. With a gentle hand, he nudges Jensen towards the trailers and stalks off to demand they get a break.

Jensen does as he's urged, makes for the relative peace of his trailer. Inside, he sheds his costume bit by bit, wishing Dean would shrug off that easy every time. The necklace, the jacket, thrown carelessly onto the table in a pile to sort out later. He's kicking off Dean's boots when Jared arrives, face clean, shutting the door behind him before doing the same with Sam's clothes. When they're both just in jeans and t-shirts – the least Winchester they can look without a more suspicious strip-down – Jared flops down on the well-worn sofa and grabs Jensen's hand.

The couch isn't made for two guys their size, but Jared drags him down anyway, shifts and shuffles until Jensen's seated between his legs. They're pressed together, back to chest, and somewhere near his shoulder, Jensen can feel the soft thump of Jared's heart against him. Jared talks, a long ramble in a tone more upbeat than Sam could ever manage, letting his hands drift over Jensen's stomach, chest, thighs.

With each word, every touch, Jensen can feel a little piece of himself slot back into the forefront, the fear for Sam (Jared) receding a bit further as the moments pass. The thoughts of a beloved's blood and broken body fade faster now, and Jensen finally feels the tears stop as Jared continues his too-often practiced comfort.

By the time a PA comes knocking on the trailer door, Dean's angst is only lines on a page again, and Jensen untangles himself from Jared's limbs, ready to work. Before he can leave, Jared grabs his shoulders, holds him still to check over. Jensen gives him a smile, a little weak, but true, not a character. Apparently satisfied with what he sees, Jared lets him go and stands, and though Jensen doesn't say it, he misses Jared's hands on him.

But there's work still to do today, and more of that coveted touch wordlessly scheduled for tonight. They head back to set side by side.

For switch842, J2 adopting a new puppy
Implied J2, ~180 words

Predictably, Jared would take home every puppy in the shelter if he could, but he keeps coming back to a black lab mix with floppy ears and pleading eyes. With a smile, he thrusts the dog into Jensen's arms and says, "What about him? Does he look like our Eric Brady?"

The puppy squirms in his hands as Jensen sighs. "For Christ's sake, I told you we are not naming him that."

"How about Alec?"

"No."

"Jason?"

"Jared…"

"Priestly?"

"We already had this discussion, dumbass…"

"Tom?"

"Only if his middle name's Kinkade."

"Okay, maybe not," Jared concedes. He gestures to the dog and says, "But this one? Do you like him?"

Jensen looks down at the puppy, who's gone slack and sleepy in his arms. The dog yawns, a little squeak of a sound, and Jensen's heart maybe melts just a little. "Yeah, all right," he says. "But so help me god, if you try to name him after any part I've ever played, I'm training him to answer only to Cupcake and I'll make you yell for him when he gets out of the yard."

For egotists, 'I'm Not Alright' by Sanctus Real
SPN gen, ~290 words, finale spoilers, deals with addiction

Withdrawal's no easier the second time through, but Dean almost makes it feel like it could be.

Sam still isn't sure what Ruby meant with her fanatical devotion and Disney analogies, but the need's there, even now, burning-itching-goading somewhere under his skin. But the long battle's coming and he has to be clear; he needs this gone. The iron walls are as cold as they were before, the light as dim, and the cot as small, but Sam steps into the panic room – voluntarily, this time – with Dean right beside him, a guiding hand wrapped around his arm.

A willing detox is no smoother. There's pain and shaking and more than one terrifying moment when his body begins to rise off the bed and Dean has to hold him down. When he sees a second Dean, one who whispers sick words and slick promises, he knows it's a hallucination, that his real brother is the one who pets his hair, leaves a firm hand on his shoulder, who retells bad porno 'plots' as distracting tales of his own exploits. He knows which is real, but that doesn't make the other go away, doesn't stop him from bringing up every terrible, sordid little thing Sam's done this past year.

"Sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry," Sam finds himself saying in between gasped-out sobs. Something he's said many times since Dean burst in that convent too late, since Castiel appeared to whisk them away in the last second. But he says it now, again, a steady chant as he grabs on to Dean, fingers clutching, drawing his brother close 'til there's no space left between them.

Dean clings back just as hard. "It'll be okay, Sammy," he says. "We'll get you through this."

For sgflutegirl, 'Back On Earth' by Ozzy Osbourne
SPN gen, ~430 words, past character death

The older children whisper that it's cursed; the parents say it's not safe, to stay away. What's left of that old Lawrence neighborhood is no place to play. There are stories, of course, about other kids who've snuck off there for fun, about ghosts and nameless things and a hurt so bad it could break your heart in two. But you're braver than most and anyway, Todd dared you to go; you can't back down.

In the deepest part of the night, it's easy for you and your friends to sneak past parents, away from your growing little town that's all that was left of Kansas when the war was over. Over heaved pavement and cracked sidewalks, through the rubble, you walk to the house with the gnarled tree in front, the only one of the old buildings still mostly standing.

"Do it," Todd says. "Stand in the spot or you're a chicken."

The spot. A perfect circle of scorched grass on the house's front lawn, a circle big enough for a man to lie in, the center to all the stories. Your dare.

Your friends urge you on and you swallow any fear that might be coming before you step on to the spot. Your feet hit that burnt grass, and for a moment, it's quiet, not even those usual night-sounds breaking the silence. You breathe easier when nothing seems to happen.

But then it's there, that feeling so many others in town have described, beating up through your blood and before your eyes. Something like sorrow, you think, like losing everything that's ever mattered, a sadness that runs too deep to ever describe in words. You see things, flashes too fast to catch them all. A little boy clinging to a baby, fire all around them. Fire, always fire as they grow older, grow apart, come back closer. Pain and love and sadness and men with yellow flames in their eyes. Someone, someone who means everything, light pouring into him, out of him, covering the world. A struggle, a battle, a killing blow with blood spreading out over your vision. And that sorrow, again, tinged with bile-bitter guilt as a voice says, sorry, Sammy.

As soon as it all came, it's done, and you're back standing in that patch of dead grass with tears you don't remember crying slowly tracking down your face. Your friends are gone, you don't know where, and so you run desperately away from that infamous house. You run away from the place they say Dean Winchester defeated Lucifer and his vessel so many years ago.

For lunachickk, BBT elevator
BBT gen, ~180 words

"You do realize that if this elevator were airtight, we'd have run out of oxygen by now? We'd have died a slow death from asphyxiation and it would be entirely your fault."

"Sheldon…"

"No, don't even try to argue with me. You noticed the out of order sign was gone, you goaded me into taking the elevator with you, and therefore it is your fault that we've been trapped in here for god knows how long."

"Sheldon…"

"And who even knows when or if someone will find us! I mean, clearly my presence will be soon missed, but who would ever think that I might possibly be stuck in this elevator? No one, that's who!"

"No, really, Sheldon…"

"We'll be trapped here until we begin to starve and then have to consider the merits of eating our own flesh! On my tombstone, it will read, 'Doctor Sheldon Cooper, resorted to cannibalism, died in an elevator, and didn't live long enough to win a Nobel Prize.'"

"Sheldon! Will you just listen? The doors opened by themselves like five minutes ago."

BBT Fic: The Brownie Sundae Catastrophe – Gen (PG-13)

wraith816 — Fri, 24 Apr 2009 02:47:17 GMT

Title: The Brownie Sundae Catastrophe
Pairing: None (gen)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~5,700
Warnings: none
Contains: crack, genderswap, lack of scientific accuracy, Howard being skeevy
Spoilers: none
Summary: An enforced babysitting job and Leslie Winkle's latest project combine with some interesting consequences for Sheldon.
A/N: Hello Big Bang Theory fandom! I'm apparently insane. And this fic wouldn't exist if it weren't for the ever-enabling lunachickk. Thank you. ♥

At eight in the morning on the dot, Leonard and Sheldon arrived in the Physics Department in the manner they often did: in the middle of a heated argument.

"And anyway, most models of TIE Fighter don't even have shields," Sheldon pointed out. "They wouldn't stand a chance against an army of Daleks. So Daleks beat the Death Star and the galaxy far, far away is unceremoniously exterminated."

"You're probably right."

"No, I am right. As I always am. You just rarely acknowledge it."

As they walked the halls, passing various offices and labs, their dispute was interrupted by a voice calling, "Good morning, Doctor Hofstadter."

The two turned to their boss' office, from where the greeting had come. "Oh, good morning, Doctor Gablehauser," Leonard said.

"Doctor Cooper."

"Doctor Gablehauser," Sheldon said.

"I was hoping you both would come by; I've got a little job for you today." Rising from his seat, Doctor Gablehauser came to the doorway, and a small boy, who had previously been hiding behind the desk, followed not far behind him. He leaned down and rested his hands on the boy's shoulders. "I'd like to introduce you to my nephew, Bryce. I'm watching him this week while my sister and her husband are in the Caribbean on their second honeymoon."

The boy looked more like a particularly primitive Homo habilis than any offspring a modern person could've produced. He was about four or five years old at the most, with long, shaggy brown hair and a vacant expression. There was no spark of real human intelligence in his eyes, no sign that he was supposed to be, in fact, a relatively sophisticated life form.

"He's very advanced for his age and is showing a keen interest in science," Doctor Gablehauser continued. "Going to be a physicist just like your Uncle Eric, aren't you, buddy?" The boy grunted. "That's right. So, gentlemen, I'm giving him free reign of the lab today. I expect that he'll be well cared for."

Sheldon frowned. "I don't think…ow!" he cried out when Leonard stepped on his foot. "Why did you do that?"

"We'll look after him, Doctor Gablehauser."

"Thank you, Doctor Hofstadter. I'll be around to collect him this afternoon." He ushered his nephew out into the hall and closed the office door, leaving them alone with the boy.

As soon as his uncle was out of sight, Bryce seemed to sense that he was no longer under any decent kind of supervision; his expression perked up, and he immediately set about poking and prodding every object within his reach. He zoomed back and forth around the hallway, quick enough that Leonard was contemplating comparisons to The Flash. This was not going to be good.

Sheldon turned to Leonard. "Why did you stomp on my foot? That was completely uncalled for."

"Whatever you were about to say was going to get you fired again. Trust me."

"But now we're stuck babysitting a small child who by no means should be allowed to just cavort about a highly sensitive physics lab!"

Leonard sighed. "Look, this is just one of those things you're going to have to deal with. Your boss asks you to look after his nephew, you do it."

"Well, I think your reasoning is completely unsound."

"Maybe it is in your world, but out here where everyone else is living, we just have to go with it. Oh no, Bryce, don't touch that, please." Leonard went over to where he realized that Bryce was trying to rip down an entire bulletin board. He took the boy's hand and began to lead him down the hall. "C'mon, how'd you like to see a centrifuge?"

*******

"You were supposed to be watching him!"

"No, I was supposed to be doing my job, which is solving the mysteries of the universe and letting others recognize my brilliance. Not child-rearing."

"You won't have a job anymore if we've lost Bryce! Just help me find him."

Leonard frantically threw open the nearest door, checked the room was clear, and moved on to the next door, all while Sheldon followed reluctantly behind him. All of the offices were empty, or occupied only by adults, none of whom had seen the missing boy.

After twenty minutes with no luck, Leonard said, "Maybe he left the Physics Department."

"That is a possibility, but there's still one more lab in this hall. And look, the door's ajar." Sheldon pointed towards it.

"That's promising. Let's go see if he's in there."

"Oh, wait. That's Leslie Winkle's lab."

"Yeah? So? C'mon, we might find him there."

"I don't want to go in Leslie Winkle's lab."

Leonard rolled his eyes, grabbed Sheldon's arm, and dragged him over to the lab. As they went into the room, Sheldon made a face at a handwritten sign on the door reading: KEEP OUT. That means you, Dr. Sheldon DUMBASS. "Just…c'mon," Leonard said.

Inside the lab, most of the room was filled with an incredibly large piece of equipment. The thing looked like some kind of giant laser, though no kind of laser that would be seen in any state of the art science facility. Instead it was more like something a particularly down-on-his-luck supervillain would cobble together from spare parts in his basement. There were random metal panels sticking out from odd places, Leonard was pretty sure a couple of the buttons had been scrounged from a game of Simon, and the whole base of the thing was covered in multi-colored blinking lights.

"Is she conducting research or starting her own small junkyard in here?" Sheldon asked.

"I don't know. She's been keeping a lot of her work under wraps lately. We probably shouldn't touch anything; we don't want her to know we were in here."

Just then, a giggle came from behind the mysterious machine, a soft, childlike sound. Leonard and Sheldon froze, going silent. Again, another hushed laugh from the other side of the laser. Signaling Sheldon to stay quiet, Leonard tip-toed across the room and over to where the noise had come from. Bryce was there, seated in front of what looked like the laser's control panel, happily playing with it.

"Ah-ha!" Leonard exclaimed.

Bryce looked up from what he'd been doing, and the moment he saw Leonard there, his eyes went wide. He jumped from his stool and took off quicker than Leonard would've thought possible, running right past Sheldon and out the door.

"He's getting away! C'mon, we have to go after him!"

"Leonard, need I remind you that it's highly unlikely that either of us could outrun a five year old and that therefore the probability of us catching him is very low?"

"We can't just let him run off."

"I beg to differ. I think it's a perfectly acceptable course of action. Or, more accurately, a course of inaction."

Leonard sighed. "Maybe if we give him a couple of minutes, he'll pick another lab to settle down in and we can grab him there." He walked back over to the laser control panel and took a moment to examine it. "Aw crap. I think Bryce did mess with the settings. Leslie'll kill us if she finds out. Come over here and help me try to figure out how to put things back the way they were."

"No. I am no longer taking part in this wild goose chase. I have much more important things to do than babysitting, and I couldn't care less about Leslie Winkle or her piece of so-called equipment. I'm going back to work." He turned away and walked towards the door.

"Sheldon, wait, this should only take a minute. I think he might have only turned this dial and hit that switch over there…"

Leonard flipped the aforementioned switch and the contraption began to make a low whining noise, which quickly graduated to a loud buzz. The laser came to life then, shooting out a wide bluish beam right in Sheldon's direction. Before Leonard could react, the machine made a loud banging noise, and a sudden blinding flash of light filled the room.

As quickly as the light had come, it disappeared, leaving Leonard blinking confusedly. "Sheldon?" he asked. "You all right?"

"No, I am not all right!" Sheldon screeched hysterically.

"Oh god, what happened?" Leonard asked. He blindly stumbled over to where Sheldon had been, his eyes still recovering from whatever the laser had just done. It took a minute, but the spots in his vision began to clear, and the blurriness in front of him began to focus once more, and after another few moments, he was able to really see Sheldon.

Sheldon didn't look all that different. He was a bit shorter – though still taller than Leonard – and his features were a little softer, just a touch less masculine, but he was still Sheldon, mostly. Same eyes, same shape of the head, same short-cropped hair, same perpetually displeased expression. The only major difference was…

"Oh good lord, I have breasts."

"You're… you're…"

"I have breasts, Leonard. Breasts! And I think I have a vagina! For the love of Spock, a vagina!"

"You've got…"

"It turned me into a woman!" Sheldon screeched, his voice now much higher-pitched. He started wildly fiddling with his clothes.

"What are you doing?"

"Checking to see if I really do have a vagina."

"Oh for…keep your pants on, Sheldon."

"I am a woman."

"Yes, I see that."

"A woman!"

Leonard pinched the bridge of his nose and said, "Okay, I don't know how this happened, but there's gotta be a way to reverse it, or maybe it wears off, or something."

"Wears off? We can't just sit here and hope it wears off!"

"Well, what do you want me to do? Mess around with this thing more and hope I can fix whatever it did to you?"

"Of course not! I'm not letting you use a piece of unknown, untested equipment on me, especially not when it's responsible for this in the first place. You and that demon spawn of a child have done enough damage, thank you very much."

"It's not like we can just announce that you've been turned into a woman and ask if anybody's got any ideas. What the hell are we gonna do?"

"Leonard, are you in here? Why is there a kid hitting people with a ruler in the hallway?" Raj poked his head through the still-open door, but the second he caught sight of Sheldon, his eyes went wide. He made a rather undignified squeaking sound and clammed up immediately.

"Oh great," said Sheldon, "he's gone into silent mode. He'll be of no help now."

Leonard sighed, went over to Raj, and pulled him into the lab. "Hey, you don't have to worry; it's not really a woman…"

"Raj, where'd you go?" Howard burst into the room, or came as close to bursting in as a person could when limping. "Holy crap that little kid can kick some ass. I barely got past him and his yardstick." He looked from Raj to Leonard, before staring straight at Sheldon. To Leonard, he said, "My, my, you've been holding out, having a lovely lady in the lab and not telling us."

"Actually, that's–" Leonard began.

Howard didn't listen though, just plastered on his cheesiest expression, got uncomfortably close to Sheldon, and said, "Bonjour, Mademoiselle. I'm Howard Wolowitz, world renowned engineer and significant contributor to most of NASA's recent projects. Who might you be?"

"I'm Sheldon! I'm not a woman! I am Sheldon, Doctor Sheldon Cooper!"

"He's telling the truth," Leonard said, "and it's not a prank. That's Sheldon. There was a little problem with this…whatever it is that Leslie's made, and it changed him into this."

"If it's not a joke, then prove it," Howard challenged.

"All right then. Wednesday, when you were in our apartment before Leonard came back with dinner, you were watching a movie on Lifetime in hopes that it would give you some sort of insight to the female mind."

"Ah, but what movie was it?"

"How should I know? I was far too busy reading the latest issue of Batman. And I have no interest whatsoever in your continued failure to understand women."

"Okay, it's Sheldon all right."

"All right, now that we've established that, can we please figure out how to get him back to normal, for a Sheldon value of normal, at least? Do you guys have any ideas?"

"Well…" Howard leered.

Leonard gagged. "Ugh, Wolowitz, that's disgusting. You really will hit on anyone."

"What? He owes it to science and men everywhere to experiment and report on his findings. And who better to do this with than yours truly?"

"If you continue along this train of thought, I will have no choice but to ensure that there will be no future generation of Wolowitzes." Sheldon glared.

"All right, all right. It was just a suggestion. You don't have to get so uppity."

Raj tugged on Leonard's sleeve, and then leaned to whisper something.

"I don't know…" Leonard said. "That couldn't end well."

"What?" Sheldon asked.

"He knows a guy in the Biology Department who might be willing to take a look at you."

"Absolutely not! I always planned on donating my body to science, but not while I'm still using it."

Raj shrugged, and again whispered to Leonard, who translated, "He says that since it's Leslie's equipment, maybe we should find her and see if she can reverse it."

"Oh definitely not! I refuse to go crying to that waste of perfectly good neurons for anything, especially not this."

"And no can do anyway," Howard said. "Leslie's gone for the next two weeks. That conference in London, remember? The International Society of Female Physicists? I'd give anything to crash that party, if you know what I'm saying."

"All right, well, standing around here isn't going to do any good. We need more information. Raj, you go try and find Doctor Gablehauser's nephew, and Howard, you see if you can find out how to get in touch with Leslie, just as a last resort."

"What are you going to do?"

"Sheldon can't stay here like this. I'm gonna tell Doctor Gablehauser he's sick and has to go home, and that we've left his nephew with you guys. I'll see if I can dig up anything relevant online. We can meet back at our place later tonight and figure out where to go from there."

*******

Leonard closed the apartment door behind them with a sigh. "If you're so uncomfortable, go change."

"I seriously doubt that I have any clothing of sufficient size to accommodate this anatomy." Sheldon motioned to where his t-shirt stretched across his newly acquired breasts. "All of my things will be far too tight."

"You've got that 'what would Jesus do?' sweatshirt your mom gave you last year. That'd be loose enough."

"But that's not astrophysics-related. Today's the second Tuesday of the month. I always wear an astrophysics-related shirt on the second Tuesday of the month."

"I think your clothing schedule kind of went out the window when you suddenly turned into a woman. Just wear the damn sweatshirt."

"Perhaps you're right. I'll go try it on."

"Yes, you go do that."

Sheldon went off to his room, and Leonard went immediately for the bottle of extra-strength Advil, shaking out the maximum dose and swallowing them dry. Headache hopefully taken care of, he grabbed his laptop, settled in his chair, and turned on the computer.

Sheldon reappeared a few minutes later wearing the sweatshirt and looking even more traumatized than before. He stood there for a moment, uncharacteristically quiet, before saying in a terrified whisper, "I do have vagina."

"Um. Oh. Wow." Leonard stammered. "Um, I understand that this is weird for you, but can we please work on figuring out how to make you a guy again? We need to see if anything like this has been mentioned anywhere. Ever. In any way. I'll take anything at this point."

"So how are we dividing the research?"

"How about you take the whole field of biology and I'll take the entire science fiction genre?"

"No. I want science fiction."

"Okay, you can have science fiction! Just start looking."

Sheldon glared for a moment, and then turned towards the desk and his laptop. He pulled out the chair and sat, a look of dismay crossing his face. He stood and sat again, and again a few more times. "Oh no."

"What?" Leonard asked.

"This won't do. This won't do at all. You see, because women in the United States are, on average, 14.1 centimeters shorter than men, I've lost an unknown amount of height, which means that this chair is no longer in the optimal position."

"Well, lower it then."

"Lower the chair? I can't just lower the chair! It took me hours of testing to determine the exact perfect position for reaching the keyboard! I can't lower the chair and lose all of that work!"

"Oh for the love of… just sit somewhere else, Sheldon."

Again, Sheldon glared, but did as he was told, grabbing the laptop and situating himself in his spot on the couch. Things were quiet again for a few minutes, both of them tapping away at their computers. Then Sheldon started squirming.

"What now?" Leonard said.

"I can't work with these things." Sheldon poked one breast. "I don't know how women deal with them! It feels like they're constantly in the way, and this sweatshirt is still too tight. Not to mention how utterly disconcerting the lack of penis is proving to be."

"Oh, if only you hadn't mentioned it…"

"This condition is not at all conducive to research!"

Leonard set his laptop on the coffee table, rubbed his temples for a moment, and said, "Look, you think that you're the greatest scientific mind of this century, right?"

"I don't think I am; I know I am."

"Yeah, well, then that clearly means that you're the only one who can solve this problem. Do you really want to trust something this important to lesser minds?"

"Ooh, you're right. I certainly can't rely on you, Wolowitz, or Koothrappali to fix this. I suppose I must power through the discomfort in the name of science and my usual reproductive system."

"That's the spirit. Let's do this."

Leonard retrieved his laptop and was about to go to work again when Sheldon said, "Can we switch again? I'd rather do biology."

*******

Two hours later, Sheldon had disappeared into the bathroom and Leonard had diddlysquat to show for his search. All he'd managed to find was a lot of information on transsexuals, an account from two guys who said a witch had turned them female for a month, and an alarming amount of adult-rated fanfiction. None of which was applicable in their particular crisis. Resigned to the idea that the internet had failed him, he shut his laptop with a sigh.

"Leonard!"

It was Sheldon, calling out from where he'd barricaded himself in the bathroom. While talking to Sheldon through the bathroom door was usually an offense punishable by days of extreme whininess, Leonard figured he had probably a fifty-fifty chance that the current situation acted as a get out of jail free card. With a healthy sense of trepidation, he walked over to the door and said, "Yeah?"

"It appears that this body is at a rather inconvenient point in the menstrual cycle."

*******

Knock, knock, knock.

"Oh, hi, Leonard," Penny said when she opened the door.

"Hi."

"Did you need something?"

"Um, yeah. You see, Sheldon's having a bit of a predicament."

"Oh no. What's wrong?"

"There was a bit of an accident at work today."

"An accident? Oh my god, is he all right?"

"Uh, yeah, mostly. It's nothing life-threatening, but, um…you see…Sheldon's been turned into a woman."

Penny just stared at him silently for a moment, and then smacked him hard on the shoulder. "Oh my god, you are horrible! You made me think that Sheldon was actually in trouble when you were just pulling my leg."

"I'm not kidding. Sheldon got hit with a beam from some unknown apparatus and we're guessing that it somehow manipulated his DNA and has turned him into a woman."

"Haha, very funny. You got this idea from one of your comic books, didn't you? Or one of your Twilight Zone-type TV shows?"

"Penny, I know it's hard to believe, but I'm serious."

"Uh-huh. Of course you are."

"Look, I really, really wish it was a joke. There aren't words for how much I wish I was joking. But I'm not, so can you just come over and take a look at him and you'll see that I'm not kidding."

"Okay, if you wanna keep running with this, I've got nothing better to do right now and I'll humor you. Where is he?"

Leonard lead her back to his apartment and over to the bathroom door, where he called out, "Sheldon? Penny's here. Can she come in?"

"No."

"Sheldon, she thinks I'm pulling a prank and she won't believe me until she sees you. Please let her in."

He didn't answer, but the door knob did click to let them know it had been unlocked. Penny looked at Leonard and then opened the door and went into the bathroom.

Leonard didn't hear what they said in there, but five minutes later Penny came out, an indescribable expression on her face. She said, "That's Sheldon."

"Yes."

"He's a woman."

"Yeah."

"I'll be right back."

Penny headed back to her apartment, still looking somewhat shell-shocked. She reappeared a few moments later, arms full of hygiene products, painkillers, heating pads…things Leonard didn't even want to think about, especially in relation to Sheldon. He sat on the couch and tried to occupy himself with the television while Penny went back into the bathroom.

Though it seemed to take forever, Penny eventually returned to the living room and said, "Okay, he's not feeling too great, so I've got him situated in his bedroom. I've…explained things and he should know how to deal."

"Oh good. And listen, thanks so much for coming over here and helping him."

"I'd say you're welcome, but…I think I'm gonna go now."

"Wait, what if he needs something else? I won't know what to do."

"You're a genius, Leonard; you can figure it out." She headed for the door. "Now I need to go drink. Really, really heavily."

*******

"Leonard!"

"Yes?"

"I need more midol."

"Okay, Penny left you some. I'll go get it."

"Leonard."

"What else, Sheldon?"

"I want some ice cream."

"We're out of ice cream."

"Well go get some."

"I'm not going to waste time at the grocery store when I should be figuring out how to fix you."

"I want ice cream. A sundae. With hot fudge and caramel."

"Okay, okay. Anything else?"

"And a brownie. And sprinkles. The rainbow ones, not just chocolate."

"All right. I'll be back in a little bit."

"Leonard?"

"Yes, Sheldon?"

"Can you bring me season five of Stargate SG-1 before you go?"

*******

"I brought your ice cream. Are you crying?"

"No! My eyes are just watering."

"You are crying. Are you all right?"

"Daniel Jackson just died to ascend to a higher plane of being, leaving his friends and teammates to mourn," Sheldon said, like that should answer anything.

"Okay, well, here's your sundae. Enjoy."

Sheldon accepted the offered bowl, took a bite, and immediately made a face. "I asked for a brownie sundae, not brownie sundae flavored ice cream."

"There's a difference?"

"Of course there's a difference! The brownie chunks in this do not add up to the full size of a regular brownie, and they're cold. Oh, this is all wrong. Make me another one."

"I'm not making you another. Catering to your every whim isn't getting you your Y chromosome back, which is what we're supposed to be doing because if I have to deal with this once a month forever I will end up slitting my own throat. So you are going to stay here, watch Stargate, and leave me alone so I find out how to fix you!"

"I want a sundae with a brownie and hot fudge–"

*******

"All right, here's your ice cream, exactly how you asked for it, so no complaining this time," Leonard said, setting down the bowl in front of Sheldon. "What were you just reading?"

"Nothing."

"No, you just had a book, and you shoved it under your pillow."

"I did nothing of the sort."

"Yes you did." Leonard lunged towards Sheldon, thrusting his hand under the pillow to pull out the book that had just been stashed there. Book in hand, Leonard gaped. "You're reading Twilight?!"

"No I am not. I have no idea how that got there."

"Sheldon, I saw you reading it."

"Oh, I give up. All right, yes, I was reading it. Penny brought it over with the other…things earlier."

"I can't believe…you were the one who spent a full three hours last year ranting about how Twilight spits in the face of the traditional vampire mythos!"

"I think I perhaps judged it too harshly. Despite its myriad problems, I'm finding Edward and Bella's romance somewhat endearing. It's surprisingly enjoyable. Though I still don't quite understand what evolutionary purpose sparkly skin serves."

"What about Emma Frost?"

"Oh, yes, I forgot. Your point is taken." Sheldon took the book back from Leonard, opened to his previous page, and said, "I need you to go to the bookstore for me."

"What?"

"Penny only brought the first book. There are three more. So I need you to go to the bookstore and get me the sequels."

"I'm not driving all the way to the mall to buy you books."

"Will you drive all the way to the mall to buy me the movie? I'm given to understand that many women find Robert Pattinson 'dreamy.'"

"Goodbye, Sheldon."

*******

"What is that noise?" Raj said as he entered the apartment later that evening. "It sounds like a dying Wookie."

"It's Sheldon."

"Oh god, is he okay?" Howard asked as he came in behind Raj, holding a large, pink shopping bag.

"He's just not feeling too well right now. He's got, um, er…cramps," Leonard answered.

"Cramps…?" Raj asked. He looked at Howard, and together they said, "Oh. Ewwwwwwwww."

"Yeah. It's not pretty." Leonard sighed. "I've turned up nothing all day. Please tell me you guys found something that could help."

Howard shrugged. "I got the name of the hotel Leslie Winkle's in for her conference, but other than that? Nothing."

"Me neither," Raj said.

"So you guys didn't get anything useful at all?"

"Well, I did pick up some supplies in case this lasts longer than anticipated." Howard answered, rifling through his bag. "Let's see, we've got your basic lacy black panties, your little pink thong, lacy red panties…no bras unfortunately. The manager at Victoria's Secret called security on me before I could figure out cup sizes."

"That is definitely not useful. And also kinda creepy."

"We could always try the Spiderman route," Raj offered.

"Go on."

"Have a radioactive guy bite Sheldon and hopefully rewrite his DNA back to male."

"You know that idea has absolutely no scientific merit. And who the heck would be willing to expose themselves to radiation like that?"

"The bigger question is who would be willing to bite Sheldon?" Howard asked. "I'm definitely not going to."

"Maybe Doctor Gablehauser's nephew? He's certainly past teething age, but young enough that he might take a nibble given the right provocation."

"I don't think Doctor Gablehauser would like that," Leonard said.

"Well, that's all I've got."

Howard cringed. "It looks like you'll have to bite the bullet and call Leslie."

*******

"Hi, Leslie? It's Leonard."

"Hello Leonard."

"Yes, um, hi Leslie. How are you?"

"I am in a state most would characterize as 'fine,' other than the fact that my REM cycle has been interrupted. Is there a particular reason why you're calling me in the middle of the night?"

"Oh, crap, I forgot about the time difference. I'm sorry I woke you. And yes, well, there is, actually. A particular reason why I'm calling. Yes. A definite, particular reason…"

"This is a very inefficient way to make your point. Can we please bypass this and get right to what you're calling about?"

"Ah, um. Yes. It's just…you see…what's that piece of equipment you've been working on actually do?"

"I'm not permitted to reveal that information at this time. And you went into my lab? When the sign on the door expressly said to stay out?"

"Yes, but it wasn't my fault, or Sheldon's either. You see, there was a little accident…"

"What kind of accident?"

"Doctor Gablehauser's nephew got into the room and messed with the settings, and I tried to put them back, but turned it on instead, and Sheldon…he turned into…he turned into a woman."

"While I would normally assume that you're joking, I hear none of the typical indicators of amusement or deception in your tone, and since you have a reputation as an unusually substandard liar, I have to conclude that you are, in fact, telling the truth."

"Yes! Thank you for believing me. Now I need you to tell me how to change him back."

"Change him back? Why would I want to do that? Maybe that chauvinistic asshat will finally learn that women are just as capable in the scientific fields."

"Leslie, you know how annoying Sheldon is normally?"

"I am familiar with his normal attitude."

"Yeah, now imagine how bad he'd be PMS-ing every month."

"Oh." She paused for a moment, and then said, "You have a point. But that doesn't preclude us from leaving him in his current state for a period of time long enough to teach him a lesson."

"Yes, yes it does preclude that! I can't take this anymore!"

"That's not my problem."

Leonard sighed and said, "I hate to do this, but…if you don't tell me how to fix this, I'll set him loose in your office while you're at the conference."

"You wouldn't."

"Oh yes I would. Just picture what kind of havoc he'd wreak."

There was a long silence, like she was weighing her options before she answered, "Well played, Leonard. I'll do it. Given that you provide me with conclusive photographic evidence that this incident did truly occur."

"Yes! Okay, I can do that. It's a deal. Thank you, thank you, thank you. What do we have to do to get him back?"

"I'm not sure; that certainly wasn't its intended purpose. Though as side effects go, it's pretty amusing. If you get to the lab, I can tell you the original settings. That might reverse the change, but it's not guaranteed."

*******

"Okay, so I turned the dial as far as it'll go," Leonard said into the phone.

"That should be it," Leslie replied over the line. "Have the dumbass stand as far away from the laser as he can and flip the topmost switch on the right side."

"All right, I'll let you know in a minute how it goes." Leonard put down the phone. To Sheldon, he said, "Go stand by the door."

"I can't believe I'm relying on Leslie Winkle. I'd probably have better luck trusting Doctor Gablehauser's nephew," Sheldon muttered, but did as he was told.

When he was in place, Leonard flipped the switch. Like before, the machine buzzed and then banged, and the laser activated, followed by that same flash of light. It was only a moment before the light receded and the thing powered down, the buzz cutting off and leaving the room silent.

"Sheldon? You okay?"

"I believe so."

"Are you, you know…"

"Evidence suggests that I am male again, though we really should confirm."

"Oh thank god." Leonard let out a grateful sigh and grabbed his phone. "It worked, we think. Thanks, Leslie." He ended the call and went over to Sheldon.

Sheldon was, indeed, back to normal, it seemed. The breasts were gone, and he was once again his normal height. His features had returned to how they'd previously looked and his clothes fit properly. Leonard could've cried in relief, at least until Sheldon's hands went for his fly.

"Ugh, Sheldon, if you need to double check go do it in the bathroom."

*******

The next morning, they were back in Leslie's lab, both of them staring at the thing that had made the previous day a living hell.

"Are we sure this is the right thing to do?" Sheldon asked, still looking at the laser.

"What do you mean?" Leonard asked.

"As much as it pains me to give Leslie Winkle and a kindergartener credit for anything, this is a major scientific breakthrough; we can't just dismantle it. Who knows if this apparatus can be replicated for further study?"

"Sheldon, do you want to have a uterus again?"

"No, of course not."

"Then we're taking this thing apart."

Howard appeared in the doorway, saying, "Hey, Raj has got the truck right at the entrance so we can start loading this thing anytime you're ready."

"All right, just gotta turn it off first." Leonard went over to examine the control panel. "I'm pretty sure Leslie said this was the power button…"

For the third time, the laser went on, buzz filling the room, and Leonard had just enough time to cover his eyes before the thing blinded him again. After a minute, when he guessed it would safe, he took his hand from his face to check the damage he'd just done. He first found Sheldon, who was fine, back against the wall with a panicky expression, but still definitely male.

But then Leonard looked over at the door, where there stood a young boy, not more than ten years old, with a familiar haircut and Howard's too-large clothes hanging loosely on his small frame.

"Son of a bitch," Howard said.

SPN RPF: ...and on to tomorrow - Gen (PG-13)

wraith816 — Sun, 19 Apr 2009 03:18:21 GMT

Title: …and on to tomorrow
Pairing: None (gen J2 friendship)
Rating: PG-13 for language
Warnings: none
Word Count: ~2,300
Summary: It's the end of season five, Supernatural's drawing to a close, and Jared is absolutely not freaking out.
A/N: Thanks to egotists for looking this over. For spnflashfic's "it's the end of the world" challenge. Originally posted here.

Of the two of them, Jared's always been the more laid-back, and it's a title he claims happily. It's not that Jensen is high-strung or anything, but he's the worrier, the one who picks things apart and plans ahead and annoys Jared to death with his pacing when he's nervous. Jared's the one who shakes his head with a smile and a calm the heck down, man.

Which is why it comes as a surprise when, in the middle of filming Sam's breakdown for the end of episode twenty, he suddenly thinks, holy shit, this is really almost over.

The thought comes seemingly out of nowhere, and he misses his line completely as it hits him just how close they are to the end of this all, ruining what had probably been his best take in the process. This is almost done. He knows with a striking clarity that it's an idea he needs to think long and hard about, but Jensen's ribbing him about screwing the scene and Kripke, who's in Vancouver for these last few weeks, starts grumbling about shooting schedules. Jared shoves whatever that was down until he's ready to be Sam Winchester again.

He doesn't think about it again until late that night, when he's lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, hopelessly waiting for sleep to come. Jared turns the notion over in his head; the show is ending, for real and for good. Two episodes left to finish, some interviews to hype the finale, and then done. He almost can't believe it, that this period in his life and career is coming so quickly to a close.

It's not that he wants Supernatural to go on forever; far from it, in fact. The endless hours of filming, the distance, the near-relentless anguish…they've taken their toll. It has been good work, challenging like Jared doubts he'll find again. But as heart-rending as it is to say good-bye, this is a timely end. No reason he should panic. Nothing to explain why he's been shaken all day.

But it's not the only thing I'm leaving behind, Jared thinks.

And there, he realizes, is the problem. Because they could finish filming today and he could walk away with nothing more than a little sense of melancholy, but the people, that's what he'll miss, what he'll regret not having everyday. The crew, the directors, the other actors, and…Jensen. God, he'll miss Jensen, and that idea stops him cold.

Jared knows that his friendship with Jensen has never really been a typical one. So maybe some of Sam and Dean's codependency issues have rubbed off on him. Unfortunate, and awkward, but probably unavoidable considering just how much time they've spent together over the past five years. He can't remember what it was like before he could reach an arm out, or pick up a phone, and find Jensen there and ready to listen to all his inane chatter or deeply buried angst. He can't imagine going their separate ways without the promise of a mandatory reunion.

He tries to wrap his head around it, tries to fall asleep, but both prove difficult. He finally drifts off sometime after 3:00 am, glad that his call time's relatively late.

The next week, Jared's tense and jumpy on set, enough that people start commenting on his mood. He smiles and tells them they're crazy and that there's nothing up, though he doubts anyone believes him. He starts getting clingy, throwing an arm over Jensen's shoulder, or resting a hand on his bicep, not realizing what he's doing until they're already touching. It's the kind of behavior he usually only reserves for when there's a camera to show off for, and Jensen gives him odd looks every time.

When they've got an hour break on Tuesday, Jared calls his sister from his trailer and stupidly spills all his fears. She laughs at him.

"You do realize that Jensen can barely take a deep breath without letting you know about it, right?" she asks.

"We're not that bad."

"Trust me; you really are. I bet you guys don't last more than a week apart."

"Do you know how sad you're making us sound?"

"I'm not saying anything that isn't true," she argues. "You two are like, the definition of 'joined at the hip.' So just get it through your head that he actually likes spending time with you and stop flipping out already."

When his mother calls a few days later, she says nearly the same thing.

"Honey, you and Jensen are inseparable. It's a rare thing to have a friendship like yours, and I'm sure it isn't going to change anytime soon."

Jared doesn't really believe either of them, tries to come up with someone else he could talk to about his sudden issues, but he felt dumb enough discussing it with family, so there's no way he's trusting most of his friends to be helpful. If it were anything else, he'd already have told Jensen, but…

Jared's on his own.

The last scene they film is the last one of the series. They only need two takes to nail it, and when they cut, Jared's left just looking at Jensen with nothing less than awe. They're standing in a Vancouver street at midday, covered in fake blood, one of the cars is parked not far away, and the entire crew around them is absolutely silent. The moment doesn't last long, broken when someone starts applauding, and then everyone's clapping, and Kripke's walking over, practically sobbing as he pulls them both into a firm hug.

Everyone's still cheering, bodies flooding the road as they all clamor to shake hands or pat them on the back. And somewhere in the midst of it all, he gets his arms around Jensen, holding on tightly like that'll keep them close, and Jensen, too quiet for anyone else to hear, says, "Good job, man." This, it's what Jared can't bear to lose, why he can't resign to voluntarily walking away.

When Jensen finally pulls back, his eyes look a little wet to match how Jared's feel, and then it's back to the whirlwind of accepting congratulations.

He and Jensen walk into the wrap party side by side that night, and someone calls out, "To the Winchesters!" and everyone else follows, all raising their drinks in salute, and Jared maybe is still a little close to crying. He settles instead for taking the first shot glass someone hands him and downing it. People keep giving them drinks, and they both keep taking them, and eventually someone starts in on the half-drunken speeches. Eric's is a long-winded ramble punctuated by bursts of tears, Sera's is short and packed with innuendo, and then someone pushes Jensen up to the front of the room, the crowd egging him on.

Jensen smiles. "I'm just glad I don't have to put up with all of you anymore," he shouts and everyone else laughs along with him.

When they call Jared up next, all the things he could've considered saying have left him. He declines the invitation, and instead, he hollers, "What Jensen said!" though it's the last thing he means.

After a week of sleeping in and lazing around, Jensen starts packing.

Jensen is moving back to LA fulltime, and so is Jared, probably, though he plans on keeping the house to rent out. He has to pack too, but he's got three times the stuff Jensen has, twice the time to clear out, and no firm living situation yet; he's in no hurry. So he takes a spot on the couch instead, ready to observe the spectacle.

"Are you planning on helping or are you just gonna sit on your ass and watch me work?" Jensen asks, shooting him a glare.

"I'm supervising."

"You're lazy, more like it."

"Hey, I don't wanna get in the way of your 'system,'" Jared says, gesturing to the box that Jensen haphazardly dumps his DVD collection in.

As detail-oriented as he may normally be, Jensen's packing method is actually the same as his organizational scheme: throw things in boxes and hope nothing gets lost or broken. This isn't the first time Jared's been audience to the process, and it's entertaining enough that Jared probably should consider selling tickets. Jensen curses and rants, snapping at anyone who dare interrupt him. He throws things into the garbage only to decide ten minutes later that he didn't really want to get rid of them.

Jared thinks about how easy it would be to just swipe a box, hide it somewhere Jensen would never think to look, if he even noticed it was missing before he got all the way back to California. It could be something important, something Jensen would want back right away. Something he'd have to call Jared to get it returned. The more he thinks about it, the more appealing the idea begins to seem.

Or not, because really, he doesn't want to be that much of an ass. Or that needy. Jared shakes his head at his own ridiculousness.

"So," Jensen suddenly begins, "you wanna tell me why you've been so twitchy lately?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You're freaking out about something."

"No, I'm not."

"You totally are."

"I don't get freaked out."

Jensen starts ticking off points on his fingers. "The time you thought Sadie broke her leg. The time I got that concussion on set. Every time you thought we might get cancelled…"

"Those weren't freak outs," Jared argues. Jensen raises an eyebrow. "They weren't! They were…moments of concern. Very manly concern."

"All right, well you've been concerned for weeks now, so I gotta assume it has something to do with the show ending. Am I right?"

"No!" Jensen shoots him a stern look. "Maybe," Jared finally mutters.

"So, out with it. What's got you acting even weirder than usual?"

Jared sighs. "You don't get to laugh at me for this."

"I won't."

"Or call me a girl."

"No making fun of you. Got it."

"I mean it. I know it's hard for you, but don't be an asshole."

"Just spit it out already."

"It's you," Jared reluctantly mumbles.

"Come again?"

"It's you, okay? If you haven't noticed, you're pretty much the best friend I've ever had. Five years and the longest I've gone without talking to you is less than a week. And now you're gonna go off and do your own thing and you don't have to put up with my stupid ass anymore. You can do whatever and forget about me completely. So yeah, maybe I'm freaking out just a little bit."

Jensen just stares at him for a minute, eyes a little wide, before he bursts out laughing, the doubles-you-over, bust-a-gut kind of laughter that he so rarely displays. "That's it? Really? You're a moron, you know." Jensen leaves the box he was working on filling and sits on the couch next to Jared. His expression goes more serious, warmer than Jared's ever seen. He says, "Look…yeah, we won't see each other twenty-four seven anymore, but that doesn't mean we're gonna be strangers or something. Anybody else, yeah, best case scenario, I'd call them up a couple of times a year at the most. But that…it's not us and never will be. I mean it, Jared."

"I know. I mean, I should know; I'm just…"

"A massive idiot?" Jensen offers.

"I hate you."

"Yeah, yeah."

"You're a dick and I don't know why I deal with you."

"Because you'd be a wreck without me. You just said so." Jensen smacks him on the arm. "Now are we done with the sappy stuff? Because you are so helping me pack after putting me through all that."

Jared rolls his eyes. "You just want me to do all the heavy lifting."

"Damn right I do."

Jensen leaves on a Friday, driving out into a persistent drizzle. Jared resists the urge to watch him go.

On Wednesday, Jared's cell rings, Jensen's name flashing on the caller ID, and there's a smile spreading over his face before he's even got the phone to his ear.

"Hey. When's the next time you're going to be in LA?" Jensen asks, no preamble.

"Uh, I don't know," Jared answers. "Why?"

"My agent actually sent me a script that actually doesn't suck."

"It's a good part?"

"Yeah, it's…fuck, Jared, I'd kill to get this thing. You've really gotta read this; it could…yeah, it's good." His excitement is plain in his voice.

"That sounds awesome, man. You'll have to show me when I come down."

"Yeah…" He sounds uncertain then, trailing off before he admits, "Only problem is I can't really get a handle on it; the thing's kicking my ass. I could use your advice, man."

"The great Jensen Ackles is asking for my help?" Jared teases, not caring about the eagerness in his tone.

"Just tell me if you can come, asshole."

"I can check out flights for the weekend, if that works for you," he says, already crossing the room to grab his laptop.

"Yeah, that'd be good. And thanks, y'know."

"It's no problem. But I want it on the record that you're the one who broke down and called first." Jared laughs.

"Only because I knew you'd cry if I didn't."

"Uh-huh. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you can't deal with even a week away from my awesome presence."

"I really should stop letting you labor under the delusion that you're not the pathetic one in this friendship." Jensen snorts. "I gotta run, but text me when you've got your flight sorted out, okay? I can pick you up at the airport."

"Will do. See you soon."

Jared hangs up, and for the first time in weeks, he's sure they'll be okay.

so I comment-fic'ed at micheleeeex...

wraith816 — Fri, 13 Mar 2009 00:32:32 GMT

...because this pic called for hookerfic.

untitled hooker!J2 commentfic, ~400 words, PG-13ish?

The June day’s been hot as fuck, and with the way the sun clings above the horizon, that isn’t going to change as Jared takes his usual spot along the fence. It’s early yet and the street’s pretty empty; Chad’s not even there yet, let alone anybody who’d pick up Jared, but he’s still got a vague hope he can get tonight’s work over with quickly. Jared settles in against the fence to wait.

He doesn’t wait long, though. After a few minutes, there’s a familiar guy making his way over. He gets in close, close enough to touch, and shoots Jared a fond smile. “So, when’re you gonna let me take you away from all this?” Jensen asks.

Jensen’s dressed casually, but a hell of a lot nicer than Jared – no ripped patches in his jeans – and he’s the best thing Jared’s seen all day. Jared grins and says, “You gunning for the Pretty Woman scenario again, Jen?”

“Only if the movie ended with Julia Roberts getting upgraded from hooker to ridiculously high-priced call girl.”

“We gonna have that discussion again?”

Jensen shrugs. “You know I gotta offer.”

“And you know I gotta turn it down. And I’m so not the chick in this relationship.”

“You wish you were as masculine as me.” Jensen snorts. “I can’t stay long.”

“Got an appointment?”

“Some big-shot producer, been with the agency awhile. I just never had him before. Tom says the guy’s a kinky fucker.” Jensen rolls his eyes.

“That so? He gonna make you call him ‘sir’? Call you his whore?” Jared moves in closer, enough to feel Jensen’s breath against his skin. He says, low and intimate, “You gonna tell him your ass belongs to me no matter how much he’s payin’?”

“Yeah, Jay, I’ll tell him.” Jensen leans to close that last bit of distance, bringing his mouth hard against Jared’s in a rough kiss. They don’t linger – just a few quick, dirty brushes of tongue and a soft moan from Jensen before they pull apart.

“I should go,” Jensen says, pupils wide and arousal still plain on his face. Jared wants to haul him in again, to kiss and hold and cling to.

Instead he says, “Yeah. Get outta here; you’re scaring away my customers.”

Jensen laughs a little and pulls back, ready to turn and go. “I’ll see you later?”

“’Course. Later, Jen.”

“Bye, Jay.”

Jared watches Jensen leave the way he came, down the block and around the corner. When he’s out of sight, a promising car pulls up to the curb and Jared approaches as the window goes down. The voice inside asks, “How much?”

SPN fic: on with the action now - Gen (PG-13)

wraith816 — Wed, 25 Feb 2009 00:36:54 GMT

Title: on with the action now
Pairing: none, ’tis gen
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: mild-to-moderately graphic torture
Spoilers: 4x10 Heaven and Hell
Word Count: ~1,300
Summary: Five strategies for five souls.
A/N: Thanks to sgflutegirl for looking this over. For spnflashfic's five things challenge. Originally posted here.

two

This isn’t a priority. The blues man isn’t a VIP, or someone with promise for delicious cruelty, or even worth the short time he’ll take to turn. Just another wretched little human too stupid to know when something’s too good to be true. When his eyes edge into black and he goes his own way – not long, now – he probably won’t have the power to dream of getting topside.

But he serves as an amusing distraction.

“I have to say, Mr. Johnson, I’m a fan,” Alastair says. He hums a few measures, a grating, penetrating sound against the background noise of hoarse screams. “Whoever brokered your deal, she did good work with you.”

So many things, so many ways to tear the humanity from his charge, and Alastair trails his fingers along them, over knives and needles and things there aren’t words for. With a crooked gash of a smile, he chooses, hand closing around the handle of a blade of sharpened bone. He turns, still humming, and sets his knife lightly against the man’s head, where only one quick motion would take an ear, and the music the blues man lived for.

Alastair says, “I do good work too, Mr. Johnson. And I’m hoping by the time we’re done here, you’ll be a fan of mine.”

four

Lilith is no less a tyrant than Azazel was – maybe more so because she’s got something to prove – but she sends out her salesmen and her hellhounds more and more, and has little time to spend minding the results. And so Alastair reaps the benefits, like one Bela Talbot, newly added to the rack, and who greets him with jagged-edged pleading.

“The ones who brought me here… they said that you make bargains.”

“And you’re interested already? You do know what it entails?”

“Yes.”

“An interesting proposition. I don’t think we’ve had anyone give in this quickly before.” He takes a moment, lets it stretch between them as she begins to hope, and when that optimism blushes on her face, there’s a pleasure in robbing her of it. “I’m sorry,” he says, “but that’s not in our Lady Lilith’s plans. You see, you didn’t end Sam Winchester when you had the chance, and now she wants you to really suffer and you’ve barely been here a day.”

There’s something like joy, like rapture that rises up in him as she cries and begs, and he tells her, “That’s funny. Really. Begging for mercy from me? You’re very funny. I think I’ll be spending quite some time with you.”

Her fear thrums through her, like it has since she was a teenager, living and pounding in her blood, and Alastair lets it gush out, covers her in it.

one

Arguments in Hell are never small affairs.

When the metaphorical dust settles and the respective armies retreat to their corners, the witch-queen backs down and gives Azazel the rights to the new girl. What Azazel says to her, no one knows; all are barred from the area for days, and even the heavyweights are warned to stay away. There are theories, of course, from those with ambition, things about contingency plans, about the endgame. Alastair doesn’t speculate, because like many, she eventually comes into his skillful care.

“We’ve come to an agreement,” Azazel tells him, “so I’ll need some… special work from you. Don’t damage her too much. Take the specifics, leave the generalities.”

“Whatever you need.”

She’s a pretty, sobbing thing when he first sees her, a mess of devotion and poorly chosen affection responsible for dragging her down here. She shakes and shivers, knowing that the terms of her arrangement can’t be as easy as she thinks they are, and Alastair aches to prove her right with his preferred blade.

“I think we’ll take your name first,” he says, and begins to carve out that bit of soul-flesh in her chest where she holds it close.

Each day, he takes it first, that tiny piece dissected from her, cut out or torn out or ripped out by hellhounds’ teeth. Each day, she comes back a little less whole, the memory of who she was a little slower to come.

When her name is forgotten, along with the name of the man she loved, along with everything that made her a ‘person’ instead of just human, Alastair pronounces, “I think we’ll call you Ruby.”

three

“How’d you like a babysitting job?” Azazel says when he hands over a dull-eyed and sluggish John Winchester. “Call it a gift for your loyal service.”

To Winchester, he says, “Don’t worry, John, I’ll be back to collect you when my business with your Sammy is done. If things go well, you’ll get to say ‘hi.’”

Every part of John’s soul smolders, inextricable, even with Alastair’s methods, if he were allowed to do permanent harm. Winchester burns hotter than hellfire, with his mission, his need for vengeance, and three names: Sam, Dean, and loudest of all, Mary.

“She’s here,” Alastair says, “your pretty little wife. Even when your soul isn’t the price, turns out the higher powers don’t appreciate those who deal with demons.” The right lies flow off his tongue as easy as blood while he sinks his hands deeper into Winchester’s warm insides, toying with his sense of purpose. “Maybe you’ll see her sometime. And it doesn’t look like too long before we have the whole set.”

Much later, Alastair wipes dripping blood from the ruin of his hands and tells John, “This is normally where I’d make you an offer, but since you’re just on loan…” With a wave of his hand, broken bones knit together, flesh heals itself, stains fade away. “It looks like we’ll just have to start again.”

five

There’s celebration in Hell the day Lilith calls open season on Dean Winchester’s soul.

A soul in the shape of a body, spread before Alastair day after day for him to taunt and torture.

“Dean… I can call you Dean now, right?” Alastair circles him, long, curved knife in hand, biding time ’til that initial cut. “We know each other so well by now. We’re familiar.”

“Fuck you,” he bites out, spirit still firmly in place.

“Tsk, tsk. Talking back isn’t going to get you anywhere. You need to learn a little humility, I think.”

Dean’s pride lives in his hands, in the work he did and the lives he saved, and Alastair takes them first, slicing off thin strips of skin to expose muscle and bone. When there’s nothing of that left, he moves on to the guts – Dean’s bravery – and haphazardly shreds them, letting the pieces fall further into the black depths. Dean’s bravado in his lips and tongue, in the things he says and doesn’t mean, that takes small slices, almost delicate.

Dean’s heart, a beacon of his love for his brother, even here where no light shines. It’s hard as iron, and pure enough to sting when he lifts it, still beating, from Dean’s chest. Like every day, Alastair takes his blade to it. Like every day, it never cuts through. Not even a mark, yet. There’s no hacking it out, no ripping it from him.

Yet.

“I’ll tear this out, eventually,” Alastair tells him. “There has to be a hungry hound around here somewhere that’d love to taste this heart of yours. It may take time, but I will rid you of this foolhardy devotion to your brother. Because you see, Dean, Sam’s not coming for you. He’d rather let himself get killed than actually figure out how to bring you back.” The right lies with the right granule of truth, another weapon. “And when Sam does die, he’ll just be joining you, you have to know. Still sure you don’t want to take my offer? I was hoping you’d be ready by the time he gets down here. No? Well, we’ve got an eternity to work on it.”

On with the action now, I'll strip your pride.
I'll spread your blood around, I'll see you ride.
- Am I Evil?

SPN Fic: Holding Tight - Sam/Dean (PG)

wraith816 — Fri, 30 Jan 2009 03:45:18 GMT

Title: Holding Tight
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Warnings: incest
Spoilers: none
Word Count: ~1,600
Summary: Dean hugs Sam and it all goes downhill from there.
A/N: Vague spoilers up through 4x09. Thanks to switch842 for giving this a look over. Written for spnflashfic's hugging challenge, and originally posted here.

It happens on a Tuesday, sometime long after midnight but before the first flush of dawn creeps over the horizon. The cemetery is still around them now, a new calm that settled in as soon as one Gillian Thatcher's spirit was pacified with salt and flame. Sam's breathing hard from the exertion of digging up and refilling her grave, his skin and clothes are streaked with dark dirt and perspiration, and he's pretty sure that Dean stuck an earthworm in his hair at some point during the night. He wants at least eight hours of sleep, a hot shower, and to give his brother a good smack upside the head, though not necessarily in that order. Dean's in a similar condition, yawning and dirty and probably a little bit grumpy, so it's completely unexpected when Dean drops his shovel on the freshly moved earth and wraps an arm around Sam's shoulders, and then the other around Sam's waist, pulling Sam closer into a full-bodied hug.

Sam barely has time to stiffen in surprise before Dean pulls away, picks his shovel back up, and walks off towards the car, all without a word. Sam stands over the filled grave, shocked to inaction by the fact that Dean, who avoids physical affection like he's allergic to it, just hugged him, no provocation or explanation. It's like Sam's confusion has stuck him in that spot, unable to do anything other than watch Dean's retreating back, at least until Dean calls over his shoulder, "Haul ass, Sam, I wanna get back to the motel sometime this century." Sam shakes his head and follows, knowing better than to ask Dean about what just happened.

Later, awkwardly half-sitting on the motel dresser, Sam waits for his brother to finish with the shower and still puzzles over the hug. He can't quite count on one hand the number of times Dean's hugged him since Stanford, but it's a near thing. It's been almost an unspoken agreement between them: hugs are reserved for their highest and lowest points, for deaths and near-deaths and narrow aversions of the Apocalypse, not routine hunts that leave them marked only with dirt. That's never changed, even when they took their first fumbling steps towards something not so brotherly, even when Sam first put his hands on Dean with intent, the no-hugs rule was still in place. What happened in the graveyard, it's an anomaly, something different coming from Dean, who is nothing if not set firmly in his ways, and Sam can't make sense of it.

When Dean finally comes out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam and a loosely-held towel, Sam's still no closer to figuring out Dean's behavior, especially when, instead of going straight for his duffel, Dean leaves a lingering pat on Sam's shoulder, wet palm making a damp patch on Sam's shirt, and says, "Shower's all yours."

The next morning, while Dean's out getting coffee, Sam calls Bobby first thing. "I think Dean's cursed, or under some kind of spell, or something."

"Jesus, Sam, slow down. Now what is this 'bout your brother?"

"He's acting strange; he keeps touching me. Do you know of any spell that has to do with touching, or demonstrating affection, or anything like that?"

"Touching? I don't know, that doesn't sound like something..."

"He hugged me. He never hugs me and something's gotta be wrong."

"All right, I'll look into it, but I think you're blowing this out of proportion."

"Trust me, I'm not. Thanks, Bobby."

They spend the day on the road, mostly, driving vaguely towards a possible poltergeist in Harrisburg that's probably just an overly jumpy homeowner, but worth the check just in case. Dean touches Sam twelve times over the course of the day. By the time they've got a room for the night and have settled in their bed - one bed now, thanks to this thing between them - every move Dean makes, each time they so much as brush against each other seems weighted with some new significance, a new worry. Dean's out immediately, laid out on his stomach, but Sam is too tense to fall asleep so quickly, on alert for the next manifestation of whatever supernatural force Dean's got latched on to him. He doesn't have to wait long; Dean's been sleeping for barely minutes when he reaches an arm out in Sam's direction, his palm landing right in the middle of Sam's bare chest, calloused fingers resting against Sam's skin. It's not unusual for Dean to move weirdly in his sleep - Sam's used to waking up to find Dean's elbow in his ear or Dean's foot dangerously close to his crotch - but this, this feels different: warm and fond. And as much as Sam enjoys the feel of it, this physical closeness isn't Dean, and he vows to correct whatever's been done to his brother.

On Thursday, Bobby calls back, telling Sam's voicemail, "I've dug up diddlysquat. No such thing as a spell or curse matching what you told me to look for. I'm sure Dean's perfectly fine, so calm down already."

Sam kind of deflates at that; he'd been so ready to charge into action and cast whatever counter-spell or ritual needed to get Dean back to normal, and now that there is none, Sam's not sure where to go next. Because no matter what Bobby might say, something has to be wrong with Dean because hugging is so completely far from their normal. Something has to be wrong with Dean; hugs are for when someone dies...

It hits Sam then: hugs are for deaths. And Dean, stupid, stubborn Dean is the kind of guy who calls gaping wounds 'just scratches,' and who had never even planned on telling Sam that he'd sold his soul and had a year to live. He's the kind of guy who wouldn't tell Sam if he were seriously ill.

Sam spends the next few days really looking at his brother, trying to decide if Dean's any paler than normal, if the grimace on his face is disgust over bad diner food or the consequence of some unseen pain. He recalls those long, bleak months without Dean, how even with Ruby's manipulations, all he wanted was to lay down and die. He thinks about heart conditions and brain tumors and all the small ways the human body is so fragile. Sam goes over the past few weeks in his head, wondering when Dean might have had time to slip away for a clandestine diagnosis. He digs through Dean's bag, looking for little orange prescription bottles, but finds nothing than their usual stash of emergency painkillers. Finally, faced with the realization that he has no clue what he's looking for, Sam decides its time for a professional opinion.

"Tell me again why the hell we're here," Dean gripes, looking disdainfully at the pile of magazines the doctor's office has provided for the waiting room.

"We haven't had a real physical in years and we kind of need to keep in working order, you know."

"When'd you get so paranoid?"

"Not paranoid, just cautious."

"Mister Ulrich?" the receptionist calls. "Doctor Guilford will see you now."

There's an awkward moment or so when Sam demands to follow Dean into the exam room, but Dean caves eventually, and the doctor looks over Dean from top to bottom, twice at Sam's insistence. He pronounces Dean to be in better health than any other guy his age before sending them both on their way. Dean isn't dying, at least not anytime soon. It should be a relief, knowing that Dean is more than fine, but Sam's no closer to an explanation than he was that night in the graveyard.

Dean's still complaining about having to see the doctor while they have dinner, ranting about needles and gesturing wildly with a slice of delivery pizza in his hand, when Sam snaps. "Why'd you hug me?"

"Wha?" Dean asks, mouth stuffed with food.

"Two weeks ago, in that cemetery, you hugged me."

"Sam-"

"No, Dean, don't try to brush it off. You hugged me, which you never do, and first I thought you were under some kind of spell, but Bobby said I was an idiot, and then I thought you might be dying, but the doctor said you're healthy, and now I have no idea what to think, so just tell me why you hugged me."

Dean chucks his pizza crust into the greasy box and rubs his other hand over the back of his neck. He mumbles, "I just wanted a hug."

Sam can feel his jaw literally drop. "What?"

"I wanted a hug, okay? Jesus Christ, Sam. I'm not cursed and I'm not dying."

"Then what was all the touching about? You kept touching me."

"I touch you all the time and you never notice! Not my fault you got all paranoid about it this time. I wanted a freakin' hug, so I hugged you. That's it. Now can we please end this conversation?" Sam nods, still a little dumbstruck as Dean gets up and stalks towards the bathroom. He pauses in the doorway, looks back at Sam, and says, "You breathe a word of this ever again and I swear to god I will kill you. Slowly and painfully." Dean disappears into the bathroom, banging the door shut behind him, leaving Sam to wonder if Dean will ever stop surprising him.

When Dean comes out again twenty minutes later, Sam's not stupid - well, not usually - and he knows better than to mention hugging again even without Dean's prior warning, though he resolves to hug back next time, however long away that may be. But if, in bed late that night, Sam rolls closer to Dean, pressing his chest to Dean's back, and slinging an arm over Dean's middle, well, they both know that Dean's the one who contorts himself into strange positions when he sleeps.

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17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	28

29	30	31	32

01	02	03

04	05	06

07	08	09

10	11	12

13	14	15

16	17	18

19	20	21

22	23	24

25	26	27

28	29	30