Souvenirs of a Madman

I don’t know where this came from, exactly, as I swore off writing Star Trek reboot slash long, long ago. Damn it. This is hurt/comfort pre-slash, though, so I haven’t broken my vow. Honest.

There are certain advantages to being dead.

One is, you don’t have to deal with tribunals. Hard to interrogate a corpse. As far as you know, anyway; there’s probably some weird Vulcan shit that could yank stuff out of a dead guy, and hell, you wonder if you’d even remember if anybody’d tried it, if Spock had, while you were, um, temporarily deceased.

Huh. Or if you’d want to.

What being dead also gets you is plausible deniability: you can pretend that gods, you doesn’t remember a damn thing that happened, what with the radiation torching your brain. There were no tears, no last-minute attempts at admission, no moment when you thought anything other than friend.

Nope. Radiation brain, you tell yourself. That’s why it all looked green there, at the end.

Best of all, being dead makes it impossible for anyone to ask, to pepper you with questions about your dying breath or what it felt like to stare your own fucking mortality in the face.

Because that would just be rude.

“You do realize a zombie tribble saved your life,” McCoy wheezes, pushing back from the console. “I mean, if you wanna get technical about it.”

Of course, not everyone defines rude quite the same.

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Butterfly With Legs

This is one of those stories I started in my head a long time ago. The events of 8.17 reminded me what I see in these two, together. So here you go: a little season 7-era Megstiel.

It’s sort of disgusting how good Castiel makes Meg feel. Even when they’re both prisoners, basically, inside this damn institution.

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Free From Faults

So my friend DarkCaustic and I started writing together well on a month ago, and next thing you know, we had 15,000 words of romantic smut to show for it.

In this story, you’ve got DarkCaustic on Sam, me on Cas, and oh, how we wish that were so.

So. If Dean’s going to leave Sam for an angel of the Lord—which he didn’t even believe in two years ago—he should at least have the decency to tell Sam to his face. And the high-end flirting routine Dean and Cas are staging in front of him right now? So does not count.

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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.

The Storybook Comes to a Close


Pre-series. Pre-slash. Dean’s always taken care of Sam. Or is it the other way around?  
Inspired in part by the awesome askbabynatural’s tumblr. Go check it out.

The Storybook Comes to a Close

When Sam was four, he got lost in a used bookstore in Maine.

It was one of those places that was more barn than store, an old warehouse with row after row of tumbled-down shelves with books piled on them three deep. There were stacks of magazines and paperbacks and postcards and it was exactly the kind of place that their dad liked to hide in when his flask got a little too familiar. When he’d spent too many nights in a row on the couch, a blanket over his hips and a bottle curled in his hand. With Dean perched in the doorway, one eye on his father and the other on Sammy.

So it was good for him to be up and around and bullshitting with the owner, chatting up the locals who wandered through. Digging through the knowledge there in more ways than one. It was good. Dean knew that.

But it didn’t stop him from being bored of his mind.

He sat on the floor under the counter while Sammy leaned into Dad’s hip, his fingers dug into Dad’s knee. Every now and then, Dad would reach down and rustle Sam’s hair or squeeze his shoulder, Sam grinning like the happiest of clams.

Dean couldn’t follow what his dad was saying, couldn’t understand why anyone would want to talk to the old guy behind the counter about fishing or tackle or the nearest lake or whatever. And he couldn’t even play with Sam, or at least annoy him, because Sam was staring up at Dad like he was the greatest thing in the world and Dean wasn’t a big fan of that.

That was his look, Sammy’s eyes wide and happy like that. Those were his. Dad hadn’t done a damn thing to earn it and Dean didn’t know how Sam couldn’t see that. How he couldn’t know who it was who loved him. Took care of him.

It sure as hell wasn’t Dad.

So he pulled into himself, shoved his head into his knees and bit his lip, hard. So that if he did cry, if Dad saw his tears, he’d have an excuse.

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