So I guess this is goodbye.

You guys have been the loves of my life for over four years now, but I've gotta go. I'm not really interested in fandom and I can't/don't want to be the kind of person that only barely keeps up with ya'll. I've never known how to love only halfway.Be good to each other and take care, dolls!LOVE LOVE LOVE-jet

By some forgotten chance, Gen, PG-13

By some forgotten chance WC: 2075A/N: Totally stole the "mathlete" idea from a movie that was playing in the background, Never Been Kissed. That's right, ladies, I am a closet Drew Barrymore fan. I just think she's cute, is all. Really. (eta: I'm rewatching the movie and they call themselves The Denominators. Where the HELL did I get Mathlete from?)Thanks to elsie for skimming over this and pointing out my more embarrassing typos.Title comes from a Robinson poem because I am clueless and pretentious that way.Fluff! Gen young!Dean fluff!This is for the sn_flashback prompt #120: Dean is a math nerd.Students pushed past him in a hurry to get to their classes, jostling his books and just plain pissing him off. Christ, this was an annoying school."Hi," a girl chirped at his side and he twisted his head to look at her. She pushed her crooked glasses up her nose with a finger and said, "I'm Lisa."Well, hell. She wasn't really his type, but chicks introducing themselves within ten minutes wasn't half bad. He felt his mouth curve into a slow, insolent smile, the one that made cheerleaders look twice and waitresses blush.Lisa frowned. "I'm supposed to show you around.""I'm sure there's lots you could show me," Dean said.Lisa’s displeased expression said that clearly, she thought Dean was an idiot. "Follow me," she said, ignoring his grin.Dean blinked. That'd never happened to him before. "Christo," he muttered."What?" she asked, looking even more annoyed."Nothing," Dean said. Where had he put his holy water?***"So what's a Mathlete?” Dean asked, reading the front of her shirt while following her down the hall. He’d passed time in first period by making spit balls and trying to get them to stick to the ceiling. Lisa, who sat a row over, had ignored him when he tried to get her attention. Dean considered throwing a few spit balls at her, but then figured that wasn’t the best way to get her to like him.“Nothing you’d be interested in.”“Hey,” Dean said, stopping up short. “I’ll be the judge of that.”She seemed surprised for a moment, then settled back into faintly annoyed. “It’s a math club.”“Where you sit around and talk about math?” Dean hazarded, trying not to sound stupid. “Sounds exciting.”“It is. And we compete.”“With math.”“With math,” she said. Her eyes added, idiot.Dean bristled. He wasn‘t completely dumb - most of the time. “Sounds like fun. Where do I sign up?”“You don’t sign up, you qualify.”“Because I’m sure everyone wants to be a Mathlete.”“Right, you think you’re smart enough to be on the team.”“Smarter than you,” Dean said, which was patently untrue, unless they were talking about werewolves.“Fine. Meet me in the science lab after school,” she said smugly before she left him in the hall, staring after her.“Sounds good,” Dean called after her, just for spite. Dean knew she just wanted to make him look stupid in front of her geeky club. He wasn’t an idiot, he wasn’t.Dean looked around and realised he had no idea where his next class was.***The science lab was like every other high school science lab in America: long, black tables lined up with various vials and shit on the top, faintly sour air, and the mother ship of every geek in the school.They were gathered around the longest table in the back of the room, chatting quietly and laughing, brightly colored notebooks and pencils scattered across the top.He was in the lion’s den now, he thought, their turf. They could make him do unspeakable things like read poetry or listen to pop music and he wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it. “Hi,” Dean said, feeling suddenly, stupidly nervous. He wiped his palms against his jeans.A girl he didn’t recognize stood up and asked, “Hey, do you need something?”Before he could open his mouth, a voice said behind him, “He’s here to try out for the Mathletes.” Lisa dropped her books and backpack on one of the empty tables at the front and pushed past Dean.The other girl gave him a disbelieving glance, which just pissed Dean off more. “I love math,” he lied feebly. “We’ll see.” Then, speaking the whole group, Lisa said, “Split up into two teams, not the ones you were in last time.”They scooted their stools around until they were on opposite sides of the table. Each had grabbed notebook and pen. “Which team am I on?” Dean asked awkwardly. He thought nerds were supposed to be nice.“You can be on our team,” a guy said, not looking particularly happy about it. He was dark-skinned, maybe Indian, and had the kind of distracted air that Dean had learned to take advantage of when he needed a few extra bucks. He probably shouldn’t steal his teammate’s wallet, Dean decided generously. That didn’t seem very sporting.“Thanks,” Dean said and went to sit on his side of the table. He rubbed his neck and leaned over. “Do you uh, have paper?”***Sines? Cosines? Shit was easy as scratching your balls.Lisa looked disappointed when she announced that Dean had a place on the team if he wanted it. He’d played seven times and solved his problem faster than his competitor six of those times. The other Mathletes were cheering him on while he competed and then patting him on the back when he won. “Good job,” one of the girls said with a shy smile. “My name’s Laurie.”It didn’t surprise Dean that he’d made the team, but it did surprise him when he said yes.***“Where were you?” Sam demanded from the kitchen, where he was stuffing turkey sandwiches in his mouth like they were going out of style.“Had shit to do,” Dean grunted, throwing his books on the floor in their bedroom.“Oh, you mean you’ve already found the cheapest girl in school? You’re so disgusting.” Sam’s first growth spurt had hit last year, leaving him awkward as a new-born colt and bitchy as hell.“Yeah, you wish you could get some action, too.”“No way! Shut up, dickweed,” Sam said, his voice cracking on the last syllable.***Three weeks into the new year, when his dad noticed Dean hadn’t been coming home directly from school and asked about it, Dean said he’d been training more. From then on, after Mathletes practice, Dean would spend an extra hour training until his arms ached and his legs were shaky.He wasn’t gonna lie again.***“Our first match is in three days,” Lisa announced, eyes happily alight. She looked pretty like that. All glowy and smart and shit.“And Dean, you’ll be starting.”Dean leaned back, pleased. “We have a gift for you.” She hopped off her stool and picked up a box from the floor. She slid the box down the table towards Dean, where it slapped against his palm as he stopped it. It was wrapped in newspaper and had a lopsided bow that looked like it‘d been stuffed in someone‘s locker for the better part of a week. Dean let his fingers ghost over it, brushing the paper beneath his hands. He’d never gotten a gift from someone other than Sam or Dad, and even those had been expected things, practical.“Open it,” someone prodded and Dean complied. He ripped the paper off, shredding it like he’d seen Sam do. When he opened the box, a sweatshirt proclaiming “Mathlete!” across the front was nestled into a wad of untidy tissue-paper.“It’s sort of lame,” Lisa said, uncomfortable with his long silence. “But I thought you’d want one now that you’re part of the group.”Dean shook his head and rubbed his palm against the stitched lettering, stiff and new against his skin. For once, he didn’t have anything to say.***When Dean got home, Dad was assembling guns on the table. “Get your stuff together, Dean.”“Are we moving?” Dean asked dumbly.“No, just gotta take care of some stuff up north. Looks like a simple Wendigo, but those can be tricky. Best to have two people.”“I’ll go,” Sam offered from their bedroom door, dressed in faded jeans two sizes too big for him that he’d hated but Dad had insisted on because it’d last him at least another year.John looked up. “You want to go?” he asked disbelievingly.“That’s what I said, wasn’t it?”John’s face darkened. “You want to watch your tone with me, son.”“Just - I think Dean should stay home this time.”John shook his head. “I need someone stronger for this, sorry Sammy. Maybe in a couple years.”“You never let me do anything I want to,“ Sam yelled and stomped back into his room, slamming the door and muttering to himself.John slumped in his chair, and looked up at Dean. “First he‘s angry because I take him hunting with me and now he‘s angry because he can’t go?”“All teenagers are like that, he’ll grow out of it,” Dean lied. “You aren’t like that,” John pointed out, looking more tired than Dean had seen him in a long while.“I’ve got more important things to do than bitch.”John nodded, not even bothering to correct Dean's language anymore, and turned back to his guns. The defeated slump of his shoulders had lessened some, maybe. Some lies were worth telling, Dean thought.***Dean went back to school with a slight limp and a busted lip. He‘d waited until the worst of it healed so no one called Child Protective Services, but if he missed anymore, he’d get held back a year. He was okay if he ignored the way his bones shifted and ached every time he moved too fast. The bell rang as he slid into his homeroom seat.“You missed our competition,” Lisa said quietly with a cold glare in first period, once the teacher had turned her back.“Yeah, I was sick.”Her expression softened. “We still won, anyway. But you could have told someone you’d miss it.”“About that,” Dean whispered, not looking over at her. “I don’t think I’m gonna make any of the competitions.” Family came in a lot of forms, but you can only have one. One has to come before all the others and he already had his.“You know, I kind of thought you wouldn’t,” she said smugly.Dean grinned and slouched down in his chair. “Guess you had me pegged right at the beginning, sweetheart.”The look she gave him was weirdly thoughtful. “Did I?”***“Dean?” Sam asked in the dark. He was on the bed across the room, lying on his stomach, head resting on his folded arms. “What?” Dean asked gruffly, wishing Sam would just shut the fuck up and go to sleep already. Dean had so much shit to catch up on, he might have to actually do his homework. The thought offended him.“’M sorry you missed your competition.” When Dean sat up to stare at him, Sam half-shrugged, bony shoulders moving gracefully under his thin cotton t-shirt. It was about the only movement Sam could manage with any sort of grace these days, probably because he practiced it so much, the pissy little bastard. "I followed you after school one day."“I didn’t see you,” Dean said, half-accusingly.Sam smiled. “You’re getting sloppy in your old age. You should work on that, man.”“Yeah, maybe,” Dean acknowledged, a surge of warm pride worming its way into his belly. He let himself fall back onto his pillow with a soft oof and a sigh.“Hey, Dean?”"Fuckin’ what, dude?"“Mathletes? Who’s the geek now?” Sam snickered. “You never get to call me ‘geek-boy’ ever again.”***Four months and they were on the road again. Sam stomped out to the car where he refused to help with packing and sat, arms crossed and ignoring the rest of the world as he listened to his walkman.Dean had a few old shirts that he was going to cut up and use for rags to clean their guns during the drive. Beneath the shirts was the sweatshirt the other Mathletes had given him, never worn and still wrapped in crisp tissue-paper. He grabbed that first. Scissors in one hand, he cut into the ribbed hem and up the front. He got to the lettering, stopped, put the scissors down. Outside Sam and Dad were arguing about something that would make the ride to wherever they were going miserable.It was a nice morning and not many people were out yet, so he opened the window to let a breeze in. No one was waiting for him, no one to say goodbye to. He’d not told anyone he’d be leaving and he doubted many would notice when he was gone.Dean wrapped the sweatshirt back up and tucked it into the bottom of his duffle bag. End.

He says the hig...

He says the highway dust is over allWC: 1620Dean/Sam, PGFor spn_50states: Tennessee. Sorry for fucking up your urban legends.Thanks to hansbekhart for saying, "I've read better." The title comes from the Robert Frost poem, The Oven Bird.1. A storm’s brewing outside the car windows and Sam quells the urge to push them down and stick his head out like a dog. They've been through these parts before, some kind of familiarity that's closer to deja vu than home, but the sky wasn’t this shade of gray and everything looks different now under the faded light.“We gonna stop soon?” Sam hates when his voice goes whiny-high and bitchy likes this, but he can't stop it. There's no manly way to say you need a pee break.“Yeah, soon,” Dean says without looking over.2.Dean grudgingly pushes the plate across the table towards Sam the third time he glances longingly at the half-finished pancakes. “What’s up with you, man? You haven’t eaten this much since you were fourteen. God, I hope you don’t get another growth spurt.”Sam grins around a mouthful of syrupy pancake. “What’s wrong, can’t handle me being any bigger than you?”“It’s hard enough to get you in the car as it is. God, you try traveling across the country with the jolly green giant.”“You say the sweetest things."Dean mutters something like "kiss my ass" but Sam ignores him in favor of turning the laptop around to show Dean the article he found yesterday. "I think we should stop in Tennessee next. There’ve been three murders in the last two months.”“Yeah, and?” Dean prompts, tearing his napkin into little strips and stacking them into a box shape and looking bored already with this city. His boot hammers a staccato beat against the table leg.“All the victims were men and they were all killed the same way.”“So some crazy’s chopping guys up. Doesn’t mean it’s our kind of problem.”Sam puts down his fork and slaps a hand so quickly over the napkin strips that half of them escape, fluttering haphazardly to the ground. Dean's foot stops and he can hear the plates and silverware rattle together in the kitchen. “The police never found their heads.”“You think crazy people don’t do crazy things?”“I think this is something,” Sam says and hold Dean’s gaze. “Dean, please.”“Tennessee it is,” Dean says evenly.3.It’s always hot here in July, Sam remembers. It’s like the moment they roll into the state, their clothes stick to their bodies, matted with sweat and all the shit they never could say out loud.When they were here last, Sam fell and scraped his hand, ass to the ground, and angrily fisted handfuls of dry dirt between his fingers. "I'm sick of this bullshit, Dean," he said. Blunt fingernails scrabbled against his shirtfront, pushed him back down again. Desperately, he threw a leg out and heard it connect with a solid grunt. "If you want to go, then get the hell out." Breathless, angry words hissed in his ear.His lungs hurt, scorched from the heat inside out. "Fuck you, I never said I wanted to leave, ever.""Dad's gone, the demon's gone. Why the hell would you stay?""You think I'm only here for the demon? God." A fist to his stomach cut off the last curse and he doubled over and hit the ground.Dad always taught him that some fights just weren't worth it, that sometimes it was better to live to fight another day, but that lesson didn’t take with him or Dean.Sometimes Dad gave shitty advice.4.“So I looked up the area where the victims all died and there’s a local legend about it.”“I’m shocked.”“At the Big Sandy Railroad Junction, a conductor supposedly fell off the train and his head was torn off by the wheels. During foggy nights, people claim to see him searching for it.”“That’s gross, dude,” Dean says, shading his eyes with his hand against the harsh sun. His sunglasses got eaten by a hellhound somewhere back in Kentucky.“We’ve seen worse.”“So what makes this guy suddenly go crazy and decide rather than look for his own, he’s gonna go looking to try on others?"Sam shrugs. “They’re doing some construction on the railroads and making a train museum. Maybe that’s what set him off.”“Why do we always get the nasty ones?” Dean complains. “Never something like a succubus. They’re cute.”“They’re evil,” Sam reminds him. “And they have sex with you until you die.”Dean looks misty at the thought. “But what a way to go.”5.“Goddamn,” Dean says, rubbing his neck. “I knew this was a bad idea.”“Are you okay?” Sam calls out, lowering his shotgun and running towards Dean, who for once, doesn't object to the question. It probably has something to do with the fact that some crazy-ass ghost just tried to pop his head like a coke tab.Ignoring Sam’s question, Dean looks around at the shallow grave. “Did you burn the bones?” Sam rolls his eyes, even though Dean can't see it in the dark.“Of course-” he trails off as a figure appears over the hill, through the unnaturally dense fog. Dean looks up in time to see the goddamn ghost lumbering towards them, body twisted and broken from the fall it took before it died, its neck ending in a bloody stump.“I thought you said you burned it,” Dean accuses, eyes wide and reflective in the dim light. “I did,” Sam insists, “I- shit.”“I’m not going to like this, am I?” Dean asks, getting unsteadily to his feet.Sam lets every curse word he knows fly and even makes up a couple on the spot. "The head is still missing."“I caught that, Sam! That’s kind of why this ghost is out looking for fun, new ones to try on.”“We can figure this out later. But right now,” Sam says, “we need to run.” He grabs Dean’s sweat-soaked gray tee shirt and hauls him to his feet.6.The air conditioning works overtime, rattling and wheezing in the window, making it cold enough to raise goosebumps on their arms when they stumble into the room. Dean rifles through his duffle bag until he pulls out the battered first aid kit Dad gave him with a stern warning to take care of it because it could mean the difference between life and death. He pops the latches, searching for some kind of pain killer, any kind. There’s Tylenol and he swallows four dry before toeing off his boots and flopping face first on the bed.“You nearly died,” Sam says quietly from the window. Outside it’s hot and muggy and Sam’s hair curls slightly around his neck and ears. Dean wishes it would rain to relieve some of this heat pressing down on them. At least make it bearable for a week, long enough for them to find this bastard and get the hell out of dodge.“I nearly a lot of things, Sam. And none of ‘em count for shit.”“You’re a real poet in the evenings.”“Nearly getting my head ripped off does that to me,” Dean mumbles into his pillow without looking up, not the least interested in seeing Sam emo out. There isn’t enough glue left in him to keep himself together and Sam too.Sam leans against the windows as it fogs up until he can’t see anything outside. “We passed a museum on the way here. There’s a gallery of old train memorabilia.”“And you think they kept his head there for kicks?”“No, but I bet they kept something of his that he's attached to, something he can't leave behind.”“Worth a try.”Dean still doesn’t look at him, but he doesn’t sleep either, instead lying there with his face in the pillow, tense, waiting.“I’m not going to leave this time,” Sam says suddenly. He rounds the bed, stops next to Dean. “Move over.”“It’s too goddamn hot.”“Please, Dean,” Sam says, scooting in close as he can until Dean rolls over and makes room for him.7.He wakes up in the middle of the night and instantly knows Dean isn’t asleep, even though the whole room is silent. On the nightstand, a local brochure welcomes them to the beautiful state of Tennessee, but he doesn't need to be reminded where they are.Tennessee is where they fought, where Sam cursed and swore he’d never be back. It's where he got ten paces away, turned around to get a last angry word in and saw Dean sitting in the dirt where he'd left him and realized Dean had no intention of getting up.It's where he had the option to leave again. The kind of opportunity that was only supposed to come around once in a lifetime but had come twice for him, like death for Dean, like everything that was supposed to be dice against a table. Tennessee is where he sees the door, the tense set of Dean’s shoulders, even as he pretends to sleep and thinks that for Dean, Tennessee has become another place he’ll never find peace. We’ll keep running, Sam thinks. And this time I’ll stay with you.He settles in close to Dean, thinking about all the shit they have to do in the morning and how exactly to break into a train museum, and smiles as he smoothes a hand over the pale skin of Dean’s back and Dean doesn't pull away. The room’s cooled off some and the pitter-patter against the roof lulls him some place between sleeping and waking, comfortably hazy and half-asleep.“Dean,” Sam leans over and whispers, even as he knows Dean’s listening silently, waiting. “Go to sleep. It’s raining now.”The end.

SPN Overview (Commentary! With Caplocks!)

Wherein I attempt to explain the more perplexing aspects of the Supernatural fandom.On Dean Worship:Sam: *makes a valid point, like the fact that he would like to live a normal, safe life* (Like it’s UNHEARD OF for teens to crave normalcy in their lives)Fandom: YOU ABANDONED YOUR FAMILY.Sam: Dean, I’m hungry. We’ve been traveling for a week on Ding-dongs and Twinkies.Fandom: WHAT A WHINY BITCH.Dean: *says something semi-clever*Fandom: D’awwww.Dean: *angsts about family not needing him and leaving him*Sam: *is blithe* Boy, I’ll be glad when this is all over and I can get back to my normal life, therefore leaving you and confirming all your worst fears.Dean: *shatters*Sam: Was it something I said?On Evil Pimp Daddy!JohnJohn: It is clear I love my children because I couldn't bear to part with them, even though they had a ready made home with Pastor Jim and it would have made hunting easier on me.Fandom: YOU ARE A BAD FATHER THAT HATES YOUR CHILDREN.John: *weakly* No, really...Fandom: POOR DEAN.Dean: *eats Twinkie* I'm okay.Fandom: YOU ARE HEARTBROKEN AND UNAPPRECIATED FOR YOUR SACRIFICES.Dean: IN MY PANTS.Sam: Why is it that you don't have syphilis yet?On the IncestDean: Sammy - for that is my special pet name for you - let’s share a hotel room!Fandom: SO GAYSam: Totally not gay. *prances around in a towel*Dean: *slaps Sam’s butt and calls him honey*Fandom: SEE?Dean: I do NOT know what gives that impression. *to Sam* Come on, baby, let me hold you while you have your nightmares.On the Music/Impala frontDean: See how cool and retro I am? I drive an old muscle car and listen to oldies.Sam: Kansas is SO LAME.Fandom: WE AGREE.Dean: I like them...Fandom: *THROWS OUT BRIGHT EYES CDS AND BUYS METALLICA AND KANE*On the Monster of the WeekSam: Here is a spooky house that is killing everyone that goes into it. I think it might be paranormal!Dean: *still not convinced* I don’t know, Sam.Sam: I’ll give you a blowjob.Dean: M’kay.Haunted House: *is spooky*Fandom: DON’T GO IN THERE!Dean: Let’s split up!Fandom: NOOOOO!Sam: Even though I have a very good degree and am brainy, I agree!Fandom: YOU CANNOT DIE, BECAUSE THERE ARE ONLY TWO CHARACTERS AND ONE BROTHER TRAVELLING ACROSS THE COUNTRY, TALKING TO HIMSELF, IS BORING. AND KIND OF CREEPY.Sam: *is taken down by the MotW in about five minutes flat*Dean: *angsts prettily* Where is my brother, with whom I have a curiously gay relationship?Haunted House: You are kind of fruity...Fandom: SEE?Dean: *saves Sam*Sam: Thanks, Dean. I really love you and I’m sorry about that callous remark I made, even though I’m supposed to be the sensitive one. But like I told you earlier, I would seriously die for you. Dean: *cuts Sam off with a glib remark* Secretly thinks: NOBODY LOVES ME AND EVERYONE I HAVE LEFT IN THE WORLD WILL EVENTUALLY LEAVE ME.Fandom: OH, DEAN!Haunted House: No, really, Dean. Your family totally loves you. They may not GET you, but they love you.Dean: *burns down house*Haunted House: Guess my agent was right, guess I really was only a plot device to woobify Dean. *burns*The END. Questions?(Okay, not so much the end. Remix: Sammy style)

Every year but the last (implied Sam/Dean) PG-13

Every year but the lastWC: 1290Warnings: Please see the cut and don't get pissy.He finds the book - leather bound and frayed around the edges - tucked into the right side of Dean's duffle bag, next to his dirty socks and a rolled up t-shirt.Sam's fingers skim over the complicated pattern on the front: a crazy, twisted leaf-pattern that’s as much of a mystery as Dean is/was. The faint smell of tobacco clings to the pages. All the cigarettes Dean smoked that he never told Sam about, that Sam feigned ignorance of. Why hadn’t he said anything when he had the chance? Maybe tell Dean he didn’t have to hide that part of himself.He clutches the book tightly and thinks, Oh, Dean.***He doesn't open it til the seventh day, when dust begins to gather on the TV and he feels like crawling out of his skin from sheer boredom but can’t bring himself to face a world without Dean in it. As long as he sits here on his bed, he can pretend like Dean’s just out for coffee and will come back any minute, bitching about the weather. The channel changes with a click. No cable. Goddamn PBS.***Inside the book is a list of cities with a few notes underneath. There aren't any dates or anything, but Dean’s all over these pages - from the surprisingly neat handwriting to the doodles in the margins. This isn’t like Dad’s journal, an equally descriptive and puzzling glimpse of a mysterious, troubled man, it’s no more than travel logs, perfunctory notes on what Dean saw and how he kicked its ass. It isn't until he sees Palo Alto appear multiple times that he realizes that this is Dean's journal of years Sam was gone, busy trying to live someone else's life.Sam's stomach clenches in a funny way when he realizes Dean never stayed at any more than six cities without stopping by Palo Alto again. He rubs his chest absently and keeps flipping through the pages.***When Sam starts the Impala, it groans around him like a tired old thing on the last leg of its journey, which it probably is. He pats the steering wheel softly just as Dean would have done and says, “Just a little further, I promise.”***The first stop isn't far. Sam turns on the radio to a top 20 station that would of made Dean bust something. Sam grins at the thought, imagining all the insults Dean would fling at him: Your hair is stupid; you suck up all that crap 'cause you don’t know better, which is pretty sad for a college boy; you wouldn’t know good music if it tattooed its name on your ass.Dean had once promised to haunt Sam and Sam figures this shitty music is as good a grounds for haunting as any.Come on, Sam pleads silently. I dare you to haunt me.After twenty minutes of boring music, Sam shuts off the radio and drives the rest of the way in silence.***The air is so hot, it feels like cotton in his mouth. In the far distance, he can see dirt clouds coming closer. He feels the staccato beat of some mullet-haired band before he hears them. Sam keeps his head down and keeps walking.Eventually the car reaches him and slows to a rolling stop. "Thought you weren't coming back," Sam says to the driver, finally looking up and squinting through the sun’s glare.Dean rolls his eyes. "Yeah right, dude. Get in the car."And this is what they keep fucking arguing about - Dean's constant need to bark orders, but the fact that Dean came back for Sam says...something.Sam’s not an idiot. He’s not going to change Dean, nor is he ever going to get a real apology, but this whole thing means something to him too, even if he doesn’t want to think too hard about the what of it.He opens the door and slides over the sticky leather. "Yeah," Sam admits finally. "I knew you’d come back for me."***There's a handwritten receipt for a local body shop tucked inside the front cover. Earlier, Sam googled the city to find that there had been some vicious bear attacks in an oddly regular pattern. There hadn’t been any witnesses but a whole bunch of scared people, and Sam guesses that would have been enough to get Dean. He can imagine the Impala roaring through town with some kinda attitude, Dean asking around to find out a body shop that wouldn’t stick it to travellers too badly. Like Sam, he'd pull up and ask for a Mr. Guy. The man would step out of the backroom, scratch his head and eye him assessingly, nod his head and ask what the hell he wants. This is where their stories diverge: Dean was looking for parts for the car and Sam is looking for parts of his brother."Hi," Sam says nervously, holding out a well-handled picture of Dean from his wallet. "I’m looking for my brother and I think he might have passed through here. Do you remember him?"Mr. Guy scratches his head, grimy from sweat and shop grease, and studies the picture before shaking his head. "Can’t say I do.""It was a few years ago," Sam supplies, begging this man to know more about his brother, to be able to tell him something.Mr. Guy shakes his head again and it’s somehow worse this time because he really does seem regretful. "Sorry, son. I hope you find him.""So do I," Sam says, a heavy weight settling somewhere in his stomach and lodging there. Before he turns to leave, he asks, "Hey, do you remember those bear attacks here some years back?"The man seems startled. "Course I do, boy. You don’t think that had anything to do with your brother?""No," Sam assures him, "not really. You remember when the attacks stopped?""Sure do, some time back. Weirdest thing, they stopped without any explanation, like they started."Sam smiles, just a bit. "And you don’t remember my brother?"It’s not a question, Sam's already turning away, but he hears the guy’s response anyway. It just makes him feel worse, is all.***When he gets back to the room he falls into an exhausted heap on the bed, even though it's only midday. Dean probably saved half these people’s lives and they can’t even be bothered to remember him. The injustice of it all sours in Sam’s stomach and he barely makes it to the bathroom in time to throw up into the toilette.***A neon light outside the window highlights the lines of Dean's back. The air warm and damp, almost unpleasant but not quite. Sam stretches, muscles lazy and humming. He runs a hand down Dean’s back until Dean turns over with mussed hair and sleepy eyes. He never lets himself get this relaxed unless its around Sam, which Sam secretly loves."Hey, Sammy," Dean says, voice raspy and low."It's Sam," he corrects, too relaxed to be really angry."Sorry," Dean says, though he doesn’t look it at all. "I’ll make it up to you."Sam grins. "Show me."So Dean leans in closer and kisses Sam, a lazy swipe of tongue across his lower lip that Sam leans into.***There's a bug-zapper outside the motel door and the sound, a harsh buzz-snap-snap jars him awake. It’s dark outside and the room is cold. Sam bought a double without thinking about it and the empty bed is too much to look at right now. He rolls over, faces the wall and says, "You could’ve called me Sammy. I never really minded."_________________________A/N: I called hansbekhart at some ungodly hour and crowed, “I have an idea! For a fic! And it doesn’t involve porn (immediately)! She mumbled, "What the hell are you smoking? Ahem. I mean, go on, do tell."I gibbered on happily, "Well, you see, Dean dies!""HOW DO WE MAKE THAT INTO PORN?""SHUT UP AND LET ME TALK." Then I explained it and she said, "Oooh, angst! Shiny."That's not quite how it went, but close enough. So this is not really a multi-part fic, though it really kind of is. Each post is meant to stand on its own and subsequent fics will loosely follow each other, hopefully. If we don’t suck too bad and rewrite each others fics. At any rate, that’s the plan. This might actually be all you get.

Two men I barely know (Dean/Sam) NC-17

Two men I barely know (Dean/Sam) NC-17 PWPWC: 2170Dean is pissed off. Like, getting your ass handed to you by a wendigo pissed off. Only worse this time because it was an old woman who nearly killed them both."Fucking crones," Dean mutters, hating the way his boots slosh. Oh, if that old bitch ruined his shoes...Sam shakes the water out of his hair and Dean is all at once reminded of the boy Sam used to be and a stupid shaggy dog. The thought confuses him and he wonders if he hit his head going in the water after Sam."I didn't think she'd try to pull me under," Sam says. "Yeah, well, old women can't resist you. Even if they're evil and just want to eat the flesh off your bones.""Dude, don't be gross."There is water in my underwear, Dean thinks indignantly. We are past the gross stage."Dibs on the shower."Sam stops up short. "You can't call dibs on the shower before we even get there," he explains, trying to sound reasonable, all lawyer-like, but the effect is ruined by the fact that they're arguing over a shower, Sam's hair is plastered his face and Dean does not understand how he can see. Maybe, Dean thinks, the odd bit of freezing-water-induced-paranoia gripping him, maybe Sam has these extra powers that include being able to see through the most jacked-up hairstyles known to man.Then: I might have mud in my asscrack. God."I get the shower because I'm the oldest," Dean says and nearly sags with relief when he sees the car, unharmed and gleaming in the dull light. It's not the car that means that much to him, it's the feeling, as loath as he is to try to explain it. The car means they've lived through another day."Get a room," Sam mutters, slopping past Dean and heading towards the passenger side."What's your problem, man?""You act like you're happier to see the car unhurt than me."Dean feels gobsmacked and his droopy shorts aren't the reason. "You think I'm not happy you're okay?"Sam stops to look at Dean, leaning against the open door, face outlined by the car's interior lights. This is familiar, Dean thinks, and has another flash of Sammy from years ago: Pulled under by a water demon, body wrapped against his. Hold on to me, Sammy. You're okay. I'll keep your head above the water.Dean always liked school okay. Well, he really liked the school girls, but he hated English class when he realised words like wendigo and shtriga didn't exist. There weren't words to describe his life and he remembers thinking: If there aren't words to describe our life, then what kind of unspeakable things does that make us?Sam was always the one with the gift for words; he could bend them and manipulate them until they did what he wanted and Dean could only marvel at that. Because dad and him weren't so gifted. What couldn’t be expressed in words could only be shown in gruff gestures and soft touches."I'm sorry, man," Sam's saying. "I don't know-" He scrubs a weary hand over his face. "I know I matter to you. I'm just tired, I guess."Dean nods numbly. There is, this is - if Sam thinks Dean doesn't care about him, then he's failed. Sam's half of everything that ever mattered to Dean and now he's everything. His fingers are numb and he utters those unspeakable words he never thought he'd say: "Maybe you should drive."Sam's eyes widen almost comically. "I said I'm sorry, you know. Seriously, I'm just tired."Dean smiles at him - fake, like he does so often - and tosses him the keys. "I know, being nearly drowned is liable to make anyone bitchy."Sam catches the keys by sheer reflex and stares at them dumbly for a moment before rounding on Dean. "Are you okay?"Dean looks at Sam like he's crazy. "I've got mud in unmentionable places and we're having a talk about our feelings at three in the morning and you're asking me if I’m okay?"Sam lets out a breath, irritation etched across his face. "I was just asking.""Yeah, well. You don't need to," Dean says sharply and pushes past Sam. With his hand on the door, he thinks he almost got away with it, when Sam grabs him from behind and spins him around sharply, pushing him against the car door in one swift movement. "Nice try, asshole. Almost had me there." Sam is close, close enough for Dean to smell the filth on him and the cheap hotel soap beneath that. "I-" Dean starts but Sam cuts him off."Oh, shut up. You're so full of shit," Sam says and kisses him. It's dirty and not at all how he imagined kissing Sam would be, not soft lips and flowers, but teeth against his lip and harsh breaths. Hands fumble against his belt buckle and it's almost enough to make him step back, push Sammy away because this is so many shades of fucked up, but he doesn't. This may be wrong, but it doesn't feel wrong and Dean's always gone with his feelings, even the ones he was too afraid to do more than whisper. "Please," he hears himself murmur against Sam's lips as Sam's hand steals into his pants. Dignity, Dean thinks distantly. I must have had it once.But then he's not thinking at all because Sam's warm hands are wrapped around his cock and he doesn't care to think about how long its been since anyone touched him like this. Can't have been too long, but it feels forever ago, or maybe its just the immediacy of this. The now-ness that hums under his skin. "I need," Sam's saying, but doesn't seem to be able to get past the first words, where they stick in his throat. "I need.""What?" Dean asks and this is the truth and they both know it: that anything Sam needed, Dean would give him. It's scary. It's liberating. Dean might throw up at any minute.Yes, he thinks. Ask."I need you."Dean blames the fact that his brother's jerking him off for any momentary lapse into stupidity, though truth be told, that's probably what got them here in the first place."Got me, Sammy."Sam's shaking his head against Dean's shoulder. "Want you so bad."And that does bring up Dean short. He might not have a PhD in English, but he knows the difference between want and need. Need is what he has for Sam - this all-consuming fear that threatens to eat him alive if he doesn't keep it in check. Want is every cheap-ass offer he's had at a bar, hell, every offer he's made at a bar. It's a whole 'nother ballgame.But no isn't a word that's ever been in Dean's vocabulary, not with Sam.Want. So different from need. Dean had always thought need was what he wanted from Sam, but now he's facing the startling revelation that he doesn't know a damn thing. "Come on," Sam says in a gruff voice that Dean's never heard before. "Let me.""Yes," Dean replies against the salt of Sam's neck and means it, like he's never meant anything else. "Anything."Dean's sodden, wet jeans slide down his legs, the edges scraping against his skin and Sam tugs his jacket and shirt off. The air and cold metal behind him is a shock that goes through his whole body.Sam moves him over towards the hood of the car and this is every dirty dream Dean's even had, but in none of them was he the one getting fucked. Sam stops. "I don't have anything-""I do," Dean grunts. "Glove compartment, to the right."A smile nearly splits Sam's face. "You cocky bastard.""Pays to be prepared."Dean feels a more than little stupid while soggy and cold, standing stark-ass naked in the middle of the woods, but the expression Sam has on his face when he takes Dean in - devouring him with his eyes - is something Dean feels to his very toes."Come on," Sam says and pushes Dean onto the hood of the car. The cold presses up and envelopes him until all he can feel is the hot slide of Sam's hand against his back and over the curve of his ass. He shivers."You don't know what you look like, do you?"Dean can't answer. He nearly jumps out of his skin when the warm press of a tongue hits his back, tracing his spine and moving lower. He groans as Sam's tongue finds his ass and circles lazily. Obscene words explode from Dean's mouth, a litany of twisted letters and phrases that even his father might be shocked he knows. "You taste gross.""Thanks a lot," Dean mutters."No, I mean," Sam sounds apologetic, "the water.""Yeah, I know.""It was, it was sexy in my head."Dean wasn't prepared for this, not Sam, not any of it. His cock rubs against the rapidly warming car and even that little bit of friction feels good."Do it, Sam," Dean whispers, pleads. "Come on."Sam retreats, but only for a moment.When he returns, he practically lays his body over Dean's and the weight is incredible, the feel of being protected. Is this how I made you feel? Dean wonders, dazed."Come on, man, do it,” Dean urges to cover the fact that his stomach is in knots. He hasn't done this with a guy before, but his body screams for it, aches for it.Sam whispers soothing words in his ear and Dean would snap that he isn't a fucking woman, but this shit hurts.He runs soothing hands up and down Dean's back like he's calming a spooked animal, as he slowly enters him and Dean bites his lip to keep from making girly noises that he's just gonna have to deny later. Sam pushes Dean's leg up further to give him better access as he pushes into his brother. He leans forward, kisses the back of Dean's neck, then bites it."Aw, fuck," Dean groans."Okay?" Sam manages, stilling."Just get on with it," Dean grumbles, body hot and aching. He doesn't know how men do this, fuck, how women do this. His body feels like it's on fire, but it's kind of worth it to have Sam this close to him.“Just breathe.” Sam thrusts shallowly. "Jesus, so fucking tight," he groans amid inarticulate sounds. "That's because-" Dean starts, but a wicked little twist of Sam's hips cuts him off. Fucking hell, what was that?Sam hits it again and it's like his nerves sing with pleasure and the dull roar of pain recedes in the face of the overwhelming feeling of Sam inside him, making him feel this way. His knuckles curls against the cool metal, his dirty fingernails scratch at the paint. The sweat pouring off him is making it hard for Dean to keep his balance, but Sam's there behind him, holding his hips like a vise. There'll be bruises there come morning, but Dean doesn't much mind the thought of being marked by Sam.But being Dean, he can't go down without some kind of fight. He pushes back against Sam, taking him in as deep as he can, faster and faster. Sam bites his neck again, warm and sharp.Sam's hand works around to Dean's cock and he fists it roughly, too far gone in his own pleasure to do more than this for Dean, but it's enough. He comes against the hood of the car, mouth open in a silent groan and head thrown back against Sam. He hears the sharp intake of air behind him, then the feel of Sam coming, marking him inside and out. Dean hisses as Sam pulls out while pressing soft, sweaty kisses to the back of his neck. "We should probably get back," Dean manages after a few minutes."Soon," Sam murmurs sleepily against Dean, wrapping his arms around him. It's kind of girly, but okay, Dean figures, since really hot sex was just had. Still, it's...nice. Kind of.Figures Sam would be a cuddler anyway. Dean almost doesn't hear it, he's so wrapped up in his own stupid thoughts."Love you, Dean."That wasn't really what this was about, him needing to know Sam loved him. It was supposed to be the other way around, but sometimes, Dean figures, you get something you didn't even know you needed.This is also familiar, their bodies curled in on one another. He thinks of the water demon so long ago, of saving Sam, then realizes like so many things, he’s remembering it all wrong. The water demon had tried to pull Dean under and Sam had been the one to save him. Even at that age, with all his long limbs, Sam was the better swimmer.Hold on to me, Dean. You're okay. I’ll keep your head above the water.

FIC: Living in the green (Sam/Dean) PG13

Living in the greenSummary: It begins in a fight, and it ends in a fight.Rating: PG13 for languageWC: 1350Illegal in fifty states is first, Devil's in the Details is second and this is last. Need to read the others to get this? Maybe. Dean got off with Sam in "Illegal in fifty states" and walked into a fairly obvious trap in "Devil's in the Details". That should bring you up to speed. This is just a kind of coda to really finish things off.A Dean that's not flirting with every set of breasts they come across is a seriously fucked up Dean."What can I do for ya, honey?" the waitress asks, and sure, she's probably the wrong side of forty, but that never stopped Dean before.Instead Dean glances at his menu and snaps it shut. "Just a burger. No pickles.""Same," Sam says and studies Dean. He doesn't ask if he’s okay, because that'd just earn a smartassy remark and wouldn't help at all. In a few minutes, the waitress brings back the food and sets it down with a sympathetic glance in Sam's direction.Is he okay?, she seems to ask and Sam smiles tightly and nods. I'm not sure, he thinks.***They don't have anywhere to go. Dean's not in any shape to fight and Sam's too busy watching Dean and it's not like they have a home to go to, anyway.Dean's sleeping and Sam has his phone open, scrolling through the list of numbers that don't mean anything: All people that would hook him up with a new set of tires and some holy water if he needed it, but that's just nuts and bolts and nothing that can put his brother back together.He stops on Missouri's number. Dad found his answer in her, why can't he?"Sam?" she asks, her voice sounding tired and tinny in the small motel room.The muscles in his throat don't work. After two weeks of watching Dean like he might fall apart, Sam feels raw and cut up on the inside, stripped bare and he doesn't have anything left to lie to Missouri with."We're lost," he says dully."Then come on home," she says and Sam's legs nearly sag with relief.***Dean doesn't protest when Sam tells them they're going to see Missouri. He's taken up smoking some time in the past week and the acrid smell of nicotine clings to everything they touch. He smells like very run-down motel room they've been in now, like somewhere along the way he'd stopped being himself and sank into his surroundings. Sometimes he wanders off for hours and sometimes, he just sits on his bed while taking his gun apart, cleaning it, putting it back together, then taking it apart again.On Wednesday, they day they leave for Missouri's, he doesn't put it together again. He leaves it in strung-out pieces on the small bedside table as he packs his duffle bag.Sam scoops it up before they leave, wraps them together in his coat and stuffs in in the space beneath the backseat.One day, Sam promises himself, Dean will want it again.***Sam listens to Metallica the whole way down, turns it up until the windows and his teeth rattle with it. Dean never says anything, just stares out the window at the shapes and colours bleeding together until he has to look away or he'll be sick.***Missouri doesn't run out and greet them, but she does stand in front, watching them dark, solemn eyes."Good to see you," she says to Sam and he can't help it, he's so glad to see a familiar face that he hugs her, tight, close as he can.When Sam lets go of her, she turns to Dean. "And it's good to see you," she says.Dean nods, hangs back from her. "Why don't you boys come in?" Missouri says, opening the door for them. When Dean passes, she brushes the back of his neck in an oddly motherly gesture and Dean bites his lip hard enough to draw blood.***"I only have one guest room," Missouri's saying, as apologetically as she does anything, which is not very.Sam smiles at her reassuringly. "It's fine, really."She studies him carefully for a moment. "I guess it is."***Dean wanders off within the hour. When he comes back, it's with an empty bottle of tequila that Sam's pretty sure used to be full a short time ago."Dean," Sam goes to him and almost asks if he's okay, but he already knows the answer to that. "Can you walk?""M'fine, Sammy.""Yeah," Sam says bitterly, fed up with worrying constantly about Dean only to have him look at Sam like he's an idiot. "I can see that, because drinking before lunch is the epitome of fine.""Right," Dean says, equally pissed now. "You're really one to judge, Sam. All tore up about your girlfriend. No one can be upset about anything but Sam, 'cause he has the grief market all to himself.""You're a mean drunk.""Runs in the family.""What the hell is the matter with you?"Dean looks away. "You wouldn't understand."Sam feels like pulling his hair out, maybe Dean's too. "What wouldn't I understand? I'm here for you, Dean. I'm here.""I don't, it's not. It's not about you.""Why can't you see that you have me, Dean? This isn't some fucking movie. You don't have to go through whatever the hell you're going through all by your heroic lonesome.""Shut up, Sam," Dean warns. "Or what?" Sam taunts him. An angry Dean is better than the broken one."Or I swear to God, I'll shut you up myself.""Then do it."Dean throws the first punch, as always, and Sam manages to step back so it only his him in the shoulder. He reminds himself to be more careful. Even drunk, Dean's still a hell of a dangerous fighter. Sam pulls Dean close and soon it's wrestling desperately against each other, angry and panting. "Fuck you," Sam says and the heel of Dean's hand catches him in the chin, snapping his head back far enough to see stars. "No, fuck you. Fuck you for leaving and fuck you for coming back.""You brought me back, asshole." Sam grunts and knocks Dean's head to the floor. "Only because I thought, I thought-" Dean's gasping for breath and this is so familiar, like putting on a pair of favorite old jeans you'd forgotten about."You thought what?""I thought I could trust myself." The words are wrenched from Dean's throat, distorted by alcohol and stale cigarettes and grief. Sam stops, then. "You can.""I can't. I didn't. I never thought - Dad would have never walked into a trap like that. And you, I'm not. I can't, Sammy."Sam pulls Dean close then, right there on Missouri's floor and she might come home soon, but he doesn't care. This is some kind of circle, he thinks. They need to break out of it."It's not up to you," Sam tells Dean. He feels Dean's eyelashes fluttering against his neck. His jaw hurts and he moves it experimentally.Dean pulls back, confused. "What?""I said it's not up to you. You can't trust yourself, fine. Then I'll trust you enough for the both of us."Dean has nothing to say in the overwhelming presence of Sam's faith in him, but his body, taught and hard with angry self-doubt, goes soft against Sam's. Finally.***They stay with Missouri for a month, doing odd jobs around the house. Missouri teaches Sam how to control his visions better while Dean secretly leaves bowls of milk out for the stray cat that lives under Missouri's bushes."We could," Dean says, "we could stay."Sam laughs. "I don't think Missouri'd like that.""No, I mean would could get a place here and just...stay."Sam looks at Dean carefully, at his hands which thump restlessly against the side of the truck, the way his feet shuffle when Sam makes him uncomfortable."Not yet," Sam says, "but some day. Soon." When Sam puts his bag in the backseat, the pieces of Dean’s gun rattle together, wrapped in the safe cocoon of Sam's jacket, waiting to become whole again. It’s a promise that both of them hear.END. (for real, I am done.)