Come Spring

tumblr_l9k4raCh1J1qclbsno1_500My parents live about 4 hours away from me, and to get to them, to the town I grew up in, I tend to take the backroads, that kind wind through a handful of counties that are littered with little towns, places with not much more than a stoplight. Driving back to my house last Thanksgiving, key pieces of what would become this story came to me in chunks: the opening lines, for instance; then passing by a tractor dealership strung up in Christmas lights; then seeing a little cafe tucked in at a railroad crossing.

A long way of saying: sometimes, stories sneak up on you. And then take months and months to make any damn sense.

Objectively, he can see that his brother isn’t beautiful. Not like this, stretched out like some humanoid starfish, his hair in his eyes and his mouth a drawbridge open to sleep. No, Sam looks like a naked frat boy who passed out in his little brother’s bed, legs knotted in Spiderman sheets and feet almost touching the floor. He looks oversized, too big for the everyday world they’ve wound up in; but then, he’s always been too much for Dean.

Continue reading “Come Spring”

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”

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.

Continue reading “Free From Faults”

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”

Now In Stereo

For winchester-cathedral over on tumblr, who prompted: “How about something where Sam and Dean are cursed (blessed???) to feel what each other feels, so it makes for some really super intense sex?”

Now In Stereo

In retrospect, maybe Dean shouldn’t have kicked that elf in the crotch.

Continue reading “Now In Stereo”

Know When To Fold ‘Em

For outofmymindbebackshortly, by way of thanks.

It wasn’t until they reached the campsite that Dean realized what he’d done.

“You did WHAT?” Sam barked.

Dean held up his hands. “Look, it’s not my fault it took two extra washes to get all that zombie blood out of your sleeping bag, dude. And then the fucker wouldn’t dry. And we were in a hurry, right, and so I kinda–left it there.”

“In the goddamn dryer,” Sam groaned. “In a laundromat. That’s 500 miles from here! Jesus! It’s gonna be fucking freezing tonight! What the hell am I supposed to do?”

Dean scowled. Reached into his pack and yanked out his flask. Chucked it into Sam’s hand.

“Try this,” he huffed.

Sam glared at him, that teenaged pout Dean thought he’d outgrown. “Fine!” he shouted. “Whatever, Dean. What the FUCK ever.”

Dean watched him stomp away. Called:

“Hey, it’ll toughen you up again, sport! Got too soft, all that time away!”

It was a dick thing to say, and Sam thought so, too, because he gave Dean the finger without turning around and disappeared into the trees.

Great. Just freaking fucking great Continue reading “Know When To Fold ‘Em”

The Eye Burns Brighter

Over on teh tumblr, outofmymindbebackshortly requested “Sam/Castiel Space Pirates.”

Space pirates, ya’ll. Sassy fucking space pirates. 

I hope it goes without saying, but this was a goddamn blast to write.

The Eye Burns Brighter

When things went to shit, Cas was the first to notice.

He was burrowed into Sam’s lap, knees tucked into hips, his hand tangled in dark hair, his mouth open and willing and wide. Sam’s nails were in the small of his back, his growl curled around Cas’ tongue, the pilot’s seat tipped so far back that the floor seemed closer than the stars.

He had Sam’s cock in his fist, that lovely living thing shuddering in his palm, right on the edge of breaking. Sam was kicking his hips up, digging his mouth into Cas’ neck and moaning, the sound slinking under Cas’ collar and painting his chest with want.

Yes. They were busy.

But Cas could feel the shift in the plates, hear the whine of the engine go a little bit dark. It broke through the haze that Sam always twisted around him, the one that made his choices, however foolish, never quite seem like mistakes.

He cocked his head, tugged his mouth away, and sat up. Listening.

Sam chased him, swung his weight up so fast the chair almost snapped from its moorings. That sweet howl in his throat:

“Cas. Baby. Don’t leave me–”

“Shhh,” Cas whispered. “Don’t you hear it?” Continue reading “The Eye Burns Brighter”

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.

Continue reading “The Storybook Comes to a Close”

Not As Easy To Pretend

A couple of weeks ago, someone found this blog via the search term “becky and sam slash fiction.” Which reminded me of a question that’s always bothered me about 7.8, “It’s Time For A Wedding”: why doesn’t Becky sleep with Sam when she has the chance?

This wee dram of a story is Becky’s answer.

Not As Easy To Pretend

Here’s why it didn’t work out between me and Sam:

He’s supposed to be with Dean.

You’d think I’d have known that.

I mean, you’d think of anyone, I would have known that!

Geez.

But I let, you know, other stuff overrule my brain and ended up making the worst mistake of my life.

Ok, maybe more than one.

I mean, I’m not an idiot. At some level, I knew it was a terrible plan, like Wesley-in-Angel level bad, but the first time I touched him again, in Vegas, I so did not care. I mean, I’d have risked the Apocalypse at that point, just have him look at me the way he does Dean.

Which, see? I knew better. Knew he didn’t belong with me. Knew those eyes wouldn’t have the same depth, or darkness, or love or lust or anything when they looked at me, no matter how much demon crap I gave him. Not the same as when he gazed down at Dean, all that affection practically spilling over his eyelashes and into his brother’s face.

Hmm. I like that. Maybe I can use it in the AU I’m working on.

Anyway.

So even then, when I should have been focused on writing my own story–OUR own story–I couldn’t escape the pull of theirs. It was stronger, hotter, sweeter than anything I could dream of between Sam and me.

Because, you know. I totally had that chance.

For over a week.

He was half-naked in my bed for more than a week and I–

Never so much as kissed him.

Except for that one time, at the table, but that doesn’t count because we were both upright and I had other things to worry about, then, than in cataloguing the smooth of his lips, the swing of his hips.

If you want to know the truth: at night, I slept on the couch.

He wanted to. Offered even, to give up the bed for me.

He’s really thoughtful, like that.

But no. There’s no way he would have fit there, and even he could see that through his puppy dog haze. So he’d sigh, every night, and pat my head. Kiss my cheek and hold me close just long enough for me to remember why I was doing this in the first place. Why I was willing to take all these crazy chances which, honestly, is not really my MO, taking chances.

Then he’d open his arms and squeeze my elbow and wind himself in my sheets. Bury his head under my pillows where I’d sighed his name a hundred times and tumble over into sleep.

He snored, but just a little. Not enough to keep me up, but enough to remind me that he was still there.

It was comforting. Human-generated white noise.

I’d stretch out on the couch and just lie there, for a while. Listening.

Thinking about the curve of his spine in the dark. I wondered if it looked like the way I’d described it in my story “Ceremony”:

He arched above Dean and his spine was like a snake, warm and alive under Dean’s fingers as he stroked, coaxed Sam’s tongue into his mouth and counted down each vertebrae like a rosary, Hail Marys in his mouth as they fucked.

And I knew I could get up and go look. Could watch his back rise and fall with sleep. Told myself it was research for my next fic, but something stopped me. Held me back.

I guess I felt like his body wasn’t mine to see. Not like that.

I mean, don’t get me wrong. There was part of me that wanted to dive under the covers and swallow him whole. I mean, yeah.

To see if he really was proportional.

And I knew he’d have let me. Heck, he’d have liked it, if only because of the drugs, but.

It wasn’t his decision to make. Not his body to give.

It was Dean’s.

If Sam belongs to anyone, it’s not to himself. It’s Dean.

So I didn’t get up. Never did. Just lay there and listened and thought of all the nights that Dean had done the same.

**

And then, I admit, things got a little weird.

I did.

Because when the drug ran out, when Guy started acting like a jerk, I was desperate. Didn’t know what else to do.

It was as though all my logic got stripped away, all of my ability to reason, to think, and there was just Sam, his heavy body in my parents’ bed at the cabin, and I’d have done almost anything–I did–to keep him close.

Even though I knew it was just a loan. That Dean would come to collect him sooner or later. Because he always does.

And the worst part is, I babbled. You know, somebody like me that’s always thinking in words, choosing them deliberately, being really careful about crafting and I just lost all of that, in front of Sam. I said all the worst things that popped into my head, all the stuff I’ve thought about us but never even written in the forums because everyone would think I was trolling. It was awful. So embarrassing. I could see that, in his eyes, how crazy I must have looked to him, then.

But I couldn’t stop.

He does something to me. Something I can almost control in my fic, but in real life? Forget it. He is just too–

Too–

Beautiful and perfect and broken. A body with a billion pieces that only Dean can reassemble, can stitch together with his hands and his mouth and a thousand whispers of “I’ve got you, Sammy.”

That’s from “Religion of the Fields.” One of the first things I ever wrote.

And it’s true. I’ve seen it.

Ok, I haven’t seen them like, you know, but the way they are when they’re in the same space? The way they stand, kind of leaning towards the other like magnets? Their eyes snagged on each other’s faces? Oh yeah. I’m telling you.

It’s all true.

Anyway.

I’ll never see them again.

When I write it down like that, I believe it.

When I see it on the page, I know that it’s true.

But in my heart, I keep hoping, I guess. Which is silly.

I mean, I’ve got them here with me all the time, in my fic. On my site. In my writing.

Sometimes, I sleep on the couch at night and pretend that Sam’s still here. That the whir of the fan in the bedroom is really the sound of his breath. That I can get up anytime I want and stand over him, watch his spine ripple like a snake in the dark.

It’s not as easy to pretend, now, as it was. As I’d still like it to be.

Gimme What You Got (But Not Your Cock)

Magic Mike in three lines:

  1. Too much Soderbergh.
  2. Not enough cock.
  3. The female gaze says what?

A spoiler-y feminist take after the jump. Continue reading “Gimme What You Got (But Not Your Cock)”