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”

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”

Before We Can Speak

Part V [jesus] in the Stray No More series. Standard warnings for RPF, knotting, and the possibility of mpreg.

In this story, Jared accidentally tells the truth and ends up in Jen’s arms.

Before We Can Speak

You lean on the freaking doorbell as hard as you can. Inside, you can hear the chime sound again and again, this tinny awful sound that hits your nerves just wrong, ratchets up your teeth that much higher.

He’s here. He’s gotta be.

His car’s in the driveway, for Christ’s sake.

But more that that, deeper, you know he’s here. You can feel it. Your body can.

So you lean and you wince and you pound on the door, now, one fist heavy against the wood and steady: pound. pound. pound. Continue reading “Before We Can Speak”

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”

[more] Feels Like The First Time

The sixth chapter of Feels Like The First Time by my friend fanspired and I is up over on the Sam/Dean Slash Archive. In this chapter: mini-golf! unfortunate wagers! and a little light bondage.

In this story, the first time was just a fluke. The second first time? A big misunderstanding. But the third first time? Now wait just a damn minute…

academic [undercover]


So my parents have no idea what I do.

Oh, sure, they could tell you the basics [or what they see as the basics, anyway]: grad student, PhD, large state university.

If you pressed, they might manage to add: goes to “conferences” [whatever those are]. Teaches freshmen how to write. Writes papers about stuff.

But they have no clue as to what I study, what I’m fascinated by, what I, you know, do. They’re not really that interested, haven’t been for a long time. What matters are the letters behind my name: right now, it’s MA squared. But they’re really looking ahead, waiting with baited breath for: PhD.

At some level, I understand this. “PhD” has a connotation out there in the real world of, I don’t know, intelligence? Or some special kind of worth? A betterness, maybe?

But we in academia know better, of course. We’re different. Not better, or smarter. Just wired funny: all critical and analytical and boy does that make us fucking confused a lot of the time, in our interactions with the “real” world. But we think we’re awesome. We think what we do is the most interesting thing on the damn planet.

So, at some level, there’s part of me that’s like, hey disengaged parents: how come you’re not interested in what I study? It’s awesome!

Still, how do you have that conversation?

Mom, Dad: I study gay incest porn.

Strike that.

Mom, Dad: I write gay incest porn. Really well. Oh, and I study it, too, or something.


Of course, I like to tell myself that their approval doesn’t matter. And it really doesn’t, most of the time.

But still.

Like, all kinds of cool stuff about me has changed, metamorphasised or whatever, in the past six or nine months. And the most important part of all of that is that I’m a writer, damn it. I’m a writer.

Granted, what I write is slash fiction. But come on, that is so fucking cool! It makes me so happy to say that, to share that with people, even if it usually leads to the “what is slash?” conversation.

One thing I do love about conferences is that the first question one is asked is usually: So what do you study? Or, tell me about your research. As I said, we academics think that what we do [which = who we are] is frickin’ fascinating.

That said, I had a colleague ask me at a conference this past week if people make certain assumptions about me when they find out what I research. He told us about a female professor he knows who’s in porn studies. She gets propositioned constantly at conferences and other “professional” settings. The assumption being, he assumed, that studying porn = doing porn.

I assured him that this was highly, highly unlikely to happen to me. For a whole host of reasons. First and foremost, many people are squicked out by slash, but toss incest in to the mix and oh hell yes, you can really scare people off. I had a middle-aged woman at my presentation last week tune out immediately once I dropped the phrase “gay incest porn” in my opening paragraph, which, yeah. Was totally a strategy on my part. Heh. Dude, it’s fun to freak out academics. But their approval is very very nice, too.

So let’s be clear: my parents’ approval is in no way in hell forthcoming. Nor do I want it, not really, though that’s hardwired into my attitudes towards academics, even now. But I’d take curiosity, I think.

Thank you, 2011, for Supernatural. Especially for Dean.

2011 has given me all kinds of cool things. Here’s one of them.

A TV show that transformed 2011 for me. Ok, that sounds a bit melodramatic. But: it’s true. It’s given me a fictional world to think about (obsess over) in the midst of PhD work, a primary narrative and growing metatext to write about as both a slasher and an academic, and it’s reminded me how fucking awesome it is to turn the music up loud and sing in the car, passers by be damned.

Here’s the premise: two brothers in a hot car who kill monsters. Or: Buffy with boys.

So why do I love this show? Good question. I think that depends on the day. It’s become aggressively meta. It has no idea how to deal with women in any sort of realistic way. It’s fucking hilarious and really gross, often in the same beat. Sam and Dean Winchester, the two protagonists, have a truckload of Daddy issues–and rightly so–and are generally fucked up in the head. The arc of the first five seasons is awesome. There’s Castiel, an angel in a trenchcoat who’s in love with Dean. There’s Bobby, the boys’ surrogate (and far superior) father figure. Angels, demons, monsters, vamps, weird monsters.

Doesn’t hurt that Sam and Dean are beautiful, either, each in their own way.

Oh, and it’s slashy as all get out. It’s even spawned its own distinct genre of slash fic: the Wincest narrative.

But I love it (and write slash fic about it) because of Dean.

Continue reading “Thank you, 2011, for Supernatural. Especially for Dean.”