Supernatural’s New God, At Last

This week, my first critical essay on Supernatural—that blessed bane of my existence—was published in this gorgeous edited collection:


[You can check out the table of contents and read the first chapter of the collection for free here (and even buy it on Amazon, if you like).]

For me, the publication of this book is exciting not only because hell yes, publication, but also because the essay itself, “‘We’re Just Food . . . and Perverse Entertainment’: Supernatural‘s New God and the Narrative Objectification of Sam and Dean” went through a HUGE evolutionary process. The abstract that I proposed to the collection’s editors back in the spring of 2012 bears little resemblance to the final product—and is the stronger for it. Indeed, the editors did an amazing job of pointing out what elements in the early drafts worked and which didn’t, leading over time to the essay becoming more focused and its central argument more coherent.

And it meant I got to write almost exclusively about Castiel. What a hardship! Heh.

There’s a lot of discussion in academic circles as to whether there’s value in publishing work in edited collections. A lot of people say no. I think it depends in part on one’s field; in fan studies, we tend to draw on edited collections quite frequently, in part because the field is still growing. That said, my experience in working with this collection, with these editors, was rewarding both practically and personally.

Truly, I learned a great about academic writing from working with these editors over the past two years. Their comments were always on target and thoughtful, they were always happy to answer my questions, and they were patient with me and with the work. In the end, that collaboration resulted in an essay that I’m very fond of and even (dare I say) a little bit proud.

Do What Feels Good


My friend cymbalism and I had a hankering for some Dean/Castiel shower smut, so we wrote some. Like, 12K+ words worth. What can I say? We had way too much fun. Hope you get a kick out of it, too.

Title: Do What Feels Good
Authors: catchclaw & cymbalism
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Castiel learns to love alone time in the shower. And then he learns to share. 
Warnings: Prolonged showers may cause skin to prune. Also, human!Cas, autoerotica, tattoo worship, and uber-indulgent fangirl fantasy. And PWP like whoa.
Word Count: ~12.5k
Notes: Inspired by [x]. Egged on by [x]. And [x] didn’t hurt, either.
FicMix: Story soundtrack / our smut-writing playlist extraordinaire.

[Read it on AO3]

There’s Chaos Theory in My Blood

I hated “The French Mistake” the first I watched it. Like, flames-on-the-side-of-my-face hate. Supernatural and I broke up for like two weeks over that, for reasons that I can’t completely explain. It just pissed me off, is all. It felt mean-spirited and so inside-y baseball as to be incomprehensible.

Basically, this is the ep that pushed me towards the real-life side of fandom before I was ready and I freaking resented that for a long time.

But I got over it, got to a point where I could sort out the bits still that make me want to throw things and the bits that are clever and intriguing.

One of those bits? Is meta!Misha. This story been rattling around unfinished for months, going nowhere fast. Then that besweatered bastard claimed it for himself and I didn’t have it in me to resist. So. Here goes.

There’s Chaos Theory in My Blood

Nobody believes me when I tell this story. That’s why I don’t tell it at cons.

Now it may be because I’ve cultivated what you might call, oh, an ethos of extravagance.

People tend to not take me seriously, for some reason. Most of the time, that’s a relief. Because if they did, then I’d have to, and I find that—terrifying.

That said: no matter what you’ve heard, minions, I swear this one is true.

The first thing Castiel ever said to me was:

“Hello, Dmitri.”

Continue reading “There’s Chaos Theory in My Blood”

All The Ways This Is Gonna Go Wrong

A Destiel college AU drabble that I posted back in March on my tumblr; one I liked well enough, in retrospect, to archive over here.

I’ll overthink it, like I always do. Hell, I think I already have if I’m writing this shit down. All the ways this is gonna go wrong.


I’ll plan really careful what to say and when, and then something random will happen–you’ll snort popcorn up your nose, or I’ll hit a pedestrian, or the bar will be too crowded after the movie and we’ll have to go someplace else. Except it’ll be Friday and every bar will be slammed with undergrads and you’ll get quiet and I’ll get pissed and we won’t go anywhere, fine, and you won’t even let me drive you home. You’ll insist on walking, ok, only like four blocks, but still, it’ll be enough to convince me that you’re out trolling for a soriority chick, like the last girl you were with in that LDR that you’ve brought up more than once just so I know that you’re not looking for a serious thing but that you’re free to fuck whoever you want, no strings but plenty of baggage. And then I’ll drive home with the radio off and scowl and slam the door a little harder than I should and wake up fucking Sam, who’ll interrogate me outta the goodness of his heart and his sympathy will make me want to punch a wall, which of course I can’t because then you’d see the scars on Monday in class and say:

Oh. Dean. Are you ok?

Continue reading “All The Ways This Is Gonna Go Wrong”

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.

Continue reading “Butterfly With Legs”

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”

Here’s Truth


Ok, so I posted this story briefly last weekend and then freaked the fuck out about it and took the thing down. But a kind friend read it, unruffled my feathers, and encouraged me nicely to get a grip and post it again.

Here’s the deal: this story’s a Western AU for Supernatural, one that begins at the end of episode 6.18, “Frontierland.” I’m fond of it. It’s different. I hope you dig it, too.

This is Part I of III, I think.

The sheriff of Sunrise knows that something in his head ain’t right. That he don’t quite fit in, where he’s at, even if he’s not sure why. He stands out a little, sure. But then, so does the town doctor—a man who seems determined to run Sheriff outta Sunrise once and for goddamn all.


 When the dust settled, the sheriff was alone.

Six-shooter, sure. Dead Phoenix at his feet. Ok. But no Sam, no fucking clue as to why watching the clock on the courthouse strike twelve felt final, once and for all.

He waited there in the street for a while. Alone, only by rights, because the rest of the town was still terrified: of him, of the thing he’d just smoked, of each other.

He stood stock still, yelling his brother’s name like it was the only word he could remember. Hell, at that point, maybe it was.

His head felt cloudy, like a June day with a storm that wouldn’t break. Like something was wrong. Like he was.

But he couldn’t remember why.

There was just Sunrise. An afternoon in April in the year of Our Lord 18 and 61.

“Well, shit,” he whispered finally, all shouted out at last.

And that was the smartest damn thing he said all day.


Continue reading “Here’s Truth”


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.

this is for you

a wee fic about claire novak, inspired by photo above.

the first set you make from the guts of one of your pillows and brokebent wire hangers: they collapse the first time you try them on.

you bite your lip and then your hand to keep from crying too loud, to keep your mom from hearing. because you know that she wouldn’t understand. she’d think you were doing it to hurt her, to make her sad, and you’re not, really. you’re not.

you miss him, too.

but this is for you.

the second pair are sturdier and they stay snug on your back and settle, push at something between your shoulder blades that suddenly feels whole and complete. black feathers this time, shoplifted from the craft store, careful, bag after bag, once a week for a month until the bottom drawer of your dresser is full. but the feathers, they keep finding their way out, is the thing, and you wake up with one stuck to your cheek and another in your fist and you say hi dad.

so this second pair is better, they feel right on your body, but when you look in the mirror you see this weird collage, like the one you made for andrew james when you still thought he was cute, except instead of hearts trailing one into the other you see your face and your dad’s and his smashed together, lips eyes grace like melted crayons and it’s ugly. it hurts.

the wings still aren’t right.

still aren’t yours.

the third pair you make in summer, in the woods behind the house where your mom’s staked her claim for a while. she’s been wearing one of your dad’s shirts for a week and not really talking and so you’re glad when it finally stops raining, when the sun breaks hot and bright and you can push through the trees on your own.

she doesn’t stop you.

you think you’re wandering but when you fall into the clearing, you know you’re being led. your heart slows down and your breathing gets deep and you go right to the saplings, strip branch after branch and build, your hands working without you telling and it feels good to be led like that.

when they’re done, it’s almost evening and the sunset cuts clear to your eyes. so you turn your back and pick up the wings–your wings now; nobody else’s–and, just for a moment, you fly.

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”