The Right State of Mind

Most of my stories start like this, as semi-legible scribbles:

derek

Sometimes those scribbles end up scrawled on my whiteboard, sometimes they land on post-it notes that then drown among their brethren.

The kernel of this story has been hanging out on my office wall since last fall. This week, for some reason, I just sat down and wrote the damn thing in two days.

My writing process, illustrated. My brain’s either a crock pot or a flash fryer. Pretty much no in-between.

Anyway! On to some fluffy amnesia fic!

After an unfortunate encounter with a blow to the head, Derek has no clue who he is. The one thing he can’t forget, however, is that he’s dating Stiles. And, well, Stiles can’t bring himself to correct the record, even when he really, really should.

Continue reading “The Right State of Mind”

Television for Women

I’ve been sick for the last few days and, for me, something about being sick screams bad TV movies and tea. So one night in a Vicks Vapor Rub huff, I wrote this, some post-season eight Destiel bunker fluff.

His first month in the bunker, Cas won’t stop watching Lifetime. Television for women, the promos proclaim, but Cas doesn’t seem to care.

At first, they think it’s because he’s lost the remote. but then he starts name-checking Meredith Baxter Birney at the dinner table. Lynda Carter and Jaclyn Smith. Heather Locklear and Tori Spelling and that’s a little weird, sure. Earns him an eyebrow over the green beans but hey, you know, whatever.

Continue reading “Television for Women”

salud

for my friend makingfists, via booze: a little new year’s destiel fluff.

they’re supposed to go out, to sam’s, but cas has a cold.

won’t admit it, of course. just pads around all day looking miserable and pulling tissues from his sleeves like a freaking old man. curls up on the couch in dean’s ratty sweater and watches home shopping network on mute.

but he’s fine.

“i’m fine,” he whines every time dean touches his forehead. “dean. leave me alone. i’m fine.”

dean rolls his eyes and feeds cas popsicles—“i don’t like the grape ones, dean”—and tries not to wince every time he coughs.

cas finally passes out around 10 with the cat in his lap and dean sneaks out to the kitchen to call sam, to cancel. “yeah,” dean says, soft. “i’m sorry, dude. but drink some champagne for me, yeah? ok. i’ll tell him. thanks. and hey, good luck popping sarah’s cork tonight, sport.” he hangs up while sam’s still swearing and smirks his way back to the couch.

they stay there all evening: dean’s fingers on cas’ neck, slow; the cat shooting dean looks from cas’ lap like: “can’t you see i’m working here, human?”; cas snoring hoarse and drooling on a pillow.

and maybe dean sleeps a little there, too.

he wakes up just after one disoriented and dry-mouthed to see cas’ face in his, his weight sweet heavy full in dean’s lap and those blue blue eyes that dean would know in any darkness staring right down to his soul.

“um,” cas scratches. “dean. happy new year.”

and dean grins and leans up for his kiss because that’s what’s supposed to happen now, right? but cas just leans back and pushes a glass of—what? orange juice? into his hand.

clinks his cup into dean’s and says: “salud.”

they drink and dean laughs and catches cas’ face with his free hand.

“baby,” he breathes. “cas. happy new year.”

cas’ kisses taste like nyquil and tea and they’re sweeter than any champagne.

King For A Day

balthatzar is all kinds of awesome

Merry Christmas, all. Have a little Destiel from Balthazar’s perspective. 

Against his better judgement, Balthazar agrees to spend Christmas with Cas, Dean, Sam, and Gabriel. It is, to his surprise, not entirely unpleasant.

Christmas with humanity is, to be frank, a drag.

But I’ve had centuries, nay, millennia, to hone my avoidance techniques.

It’s gotten to the point, in fact, where I manage to very nearly forget about Christmas until the very last minute, leaving me to suffer for only a day or two when certain of the more flexible humans I know are “celebrating” with their families, which I know they enjoy not a jot. But still, they go every year and leave me bored enough to try skiing or draft beer or sex in the missionary position and really, life is too bloody short for any of that.

So it was with great trepidation that I accepted Cas’ invitation to “celebrate” the “holidays” with he and his favorite pets: the short one Cas was in love with, for some reason, and the gangly one who’d been banging a demon, which frankly put him head and shoulders above the other one, in my book, but, alas. There’s no accounting for taste. Continue reading “King For A Day”