A Goddamn Decathlon

Second in the “thanks for the fic rec” series. This one’s for bellisle-destiel, who asked for: 

I’d really like a Cockles fic where they have a pillow fight.

Here goes. Hey, fanspired: stop reading now.

A Goddamn Decathlon 

The first blow catches you by surprise.

The second catches you in the face.

You stumble, your knees knocking the coffee table, and you get a snap of green as you reel.

Ok. Ok. If that’s the way he wants to play it.

You duck the next blow, go to your knees and snag the nearest pillow from the couch.

He’s swinging, too much energy in a single direction and there it is, your opening.

You jerk up, plant the paisley right in his beautiful mouth and howl as he falls back in surprise.

His eye finds yours and for a moment, there’s detente.

You can hear the Moose in the kitchen, singing to himself as he shuffles around at the bar and you’re kind of glad he’s not here to see this.

Because this is between you and Jen.

Whatever this is.

Continue reading “A Goddamn Decathlon”

The most beautiful thing I’ve read in forever.


I don’t fangirl out over fic very often. Hell, it’s been ages. But this? This? is the most beautiful fic I’ve read in ages:

A Good Place For Letting Go (Sour_Idealist)
AU Destiel with UST. Dean and Cas are on this beautiful little island off Scotland and all Dean can think about, accidentally, is how he’s so not gay. And how much he wants to be with Cas.

I don’t want to sound like a dick, but do yourself a favor and go read this one. Right the fuck now.

Accept All Offers


Whenever I tell your story, I always hear “yes, and.”

The three women to whom I’ve said something, more, too much about us have all said: “Me, too” and “Here’s my story, my boy.”

Which is interesting, I think.

You’re generative even when you’re not around. Even in absence, invoking your presence makes other women say: “ok.”

The last, the oldest, was knowing, about us.

I knew, she said. When you came back. I thought that it was more than you said.

I told her that you read my writing, my fic, and she asked: Why?

To know me, I said. To see who I am, now.

And to know me in that other way, I said, I swept, I repeated. The way that he can’t have, except in text.

[For now, I thought, but did not say.]

You know you’re getting into dangerous territory, she said, too certain, a little too smug.

Oh no, I said. We’ve always been there. We have a fucking base camp in dangerous territory. Except now we actually acknowledge where we are. Get out of the tent and look around, every once and awhile.

If you could, do you think you would? she asked, as if the answer weren’t written on my face as if it had never left.

Oh yes, I said, a little too certain. Trying not to say: I’d fuck him in an instant. Or: Want to make him senseless with my mouth my hands my mind. Or: If he would have me, I’d have already had him.

Instead I said: It’s complicated.

We’re so much alike in some ways, fundamentally opposed in others. Him: stability, family, certainty. Me: selfish, impatient, wanderlust.

Ah, she nodded as if she knew, as they all do when I say love to them in the context of you.

I have heard of the one who yearns for freedom, the one who’s coming to her wedding, the one who got away after years of fuck-and-run.

And I laugh, every time, because none of them are you.

But to my friends, in the telling, you are theirs, for a while.

To my friends, in the telling, you aren’t mine, even then.

The difference between wanting, having: all of that I know. All of that: no shit. But for now, planting a flag in your chest is almost as good as having.

Almost.

No Reply At All


Aaannd, wouldn’t you know, I’ve written myself into another [short?] series, apparently. Nice work, me. Schoolwork? Pshaw! I blame Phil Collins. 

Because the series? Is called Abacab

So. This is a Sam and Dean pre-slash story that follows “Take A Look At Me Now.” In this story, Dean considers the advantages of being underestimated by the one person who should sure as hell know better.

No Reply At All

I swear, Sammy is the master of the buzzkill.

Really, I think it’s his natural talent.

I mean, it’s not like he doesn’t have a reason to be a little down or whatever, with Ava missing and all, but still. Boy could out Eeyore Eeyore some days.

He’s been mopey like all fucking day now, and in that way where he thinks that I don’t notice. Just goes all zen master and silent and deep thoughts and ignores me, which sucks, ’cause he’s not doing it in a way I can give him shit about, not really. It’s too quiet, he’s too quiet, when he’s like this.

It’s annoying as fuck.

And the worst part is that he thinks he’s bein’ too subtle for me to notice, which is just crap. Just shows you how much he underestimates me.

He didn’t always. He used to think I was like, god or something, except with better hair and no pesky nails in my palms to slow me down.

Now? He’d fuckin’ slam those nails into his own hands, if I let him. Every damn day.

I mean, I love the boy, but holy crap has he got a martyr complex. And he’d be like, oh, no, Dean, that’s you! You’re just projecting all of this stuff on me. I don’t mentally flog myself every night when I should be whacking off, or something. I don’t beat myself up every waking moment for shit I should have done, will never do, couldn’t have stopped. Hell no. That’s on you, Dean. Not me.

Pfft. Whatever. Which is exactly why I don’t have to have that conversation with him, because I know exactly what he’d say. I know exactly how he feels, about everything, although I’ll bet you he thinks I have no fucking clue.

Because, again. Underestimating.

I mean, I can kinda understand it. Him not properly ascribing god-like powers to me anymore. He’s not a kid, now, and he was away long enough for my sheen to lose its luster, or whatever. For him to escape the magnetic glow of my personality long enough to see it for the house of mirrors that it really is, most of the time. Continue reading “No Reply At All”

Take A Look At Me Now


A pre-slash Sam/Dean story set right after season 2, episode 11: “Playthings.” Inspired by too much Phil Collins and by the hook that fanspired, a fellow writer [whose Supernatural slash you should go read, people], planted in my head: I should, she suggested, try writing POV Sammy. And so I have. Cheers, fanspired.

Take A Look At Me Now

When Dean gets depressed, he puts on “Against All Odds” and sulks for a couple hundred miles and then everything’s ok again. He’s ok.

Me? I don’t know. Maybe I’ve had more practice at it, or something, but it’s more complicated than that, for me.

It’s always been all right for him to scream and yell when he’s angry, to punch me or the wall or whatever random creep gets in his way. He’s allowed to be sad or whatever in the same way: right there out in the open, so there’s no question as to how he’s feeling. If he’s pissed, you’ll know it, along with everyone in a quarter mile radius. If he’s happy, then he’s freakin’ ecstatic, and you will be too, because it’s kind of great when he’s like that. He’s great, then.

Doesn’t happen as much as I remember, him being happy, but I guess I’ve been away for a long time.

It doesn’t feel like that, though. Mostly, it feels like I’ve gone back in time somehow, to who I was before. It feels like time has kind of stopped around Dean and now that I’m with him, again, it’s stopped for me, too.

Doesn’t change what’s happened, since I left, of course. Since Jess died. Since he came back for me. And, yeah, in my darker moments, or when he’s being a complete asshole, I tell myself that I didn’t want to come, that he dragged me away from where I was happy. That I can be happy again if I just go back. Go home, or something.

Times like that, I think he couldn’t stand the thought of being alone, when you get right down to it. That I’m kind of like his security blanket, some kind of material reassurance that things haven’t really changed that much. That if we’re together, everything’s gonna be ok–well, as ok as it ever was, for us.

Sometimes I think that he sees me the same way that I do him. That, for him, time stops when we’re together. When I’m around.

But I doubt that he thinks about things–about us, or whatever–in quite the same way that I do. He needs me with him, I think, needs to know I’m close by, because otherwise he’d be alone and worse, I wouldn’t be safe, in his mind. He thinks of me as a totem, a sacred object, or something. I’m He Who Must Be Protected. Period.

But there’s more to it than that, I think. Continue reading “Take A Look At Me Now”