Second star on the right

Fic, To Be Continued (Jensen/Jared, PG)

luzdeestrellas@insanejournal.com — Wed, 25 Jun 2008 14:03:50 GMT

I have watched some of the Australian vids, and it became clear to me last night that Jared Padalecki has half the awesome in the universe. Sorry, universe, but you can't have it back. It's only half because Jensen has the other half. Trufax.

Clearly, this means they must be together, and so, I have written fic. Also, this is the result of the first deal that backfired with angelgazing. You'd think I'd stop making them.

***

To Be Continued
by luzdeestrellas
Jared/Jensen, 1,712 words, "That's the difference between you and me. You are a man of words. And I, my friend, am a man of actions."

For Nichole, I suppose. Thanks to merryish for the beta and the title.

***

To Be Continued

They wrap season four just after three on a Wednesday morning, right as the rain starts again, fat drops that slide down Jared's neck and make him shiver. Dean says, "Guess we'll find out then," and Sam keeps the gun pointed right at him, thirty seconds where Jared doesn't move, doesn't even blink, that feel like an eternity, and then Kim's saying, "Fuckin' nailed it, boys," and that's that.

There's some hugging and high-fiving, and then everyone's just trying to get out of the rain, looking to get back home before dawn. Jim flips them off, says, "See you next year," like that’s certain. The other guest stars are already being ushered towards cars or trailers or makeup. Jared's got a trailer of his own twenty feet away, and a house within easy driving distance. More importantly, he's got the promise of the kind of long, awesome sleep he hasn’t had in days. He stands where he is, reluctant to go and feeling stupid about it, and not much able to help it.

Jensen bumps their shoulders together, and says, "Pretty good scene. You almost measured up to me there." He's got one eye still made up to look bruised and swollen, and fake blood smeared across his jaw, and he's grinning like he's got the world on a string, like he could pull it into the palm of his hand the second he wants. It makes Jared uneasy, a little giddy.

"I'm so far above you by now, I'm starting to get altitude sickness," Jared says, natural, like this is every other day.

Jensen laughs, warm and bright in the rain. "I think that was the shrimp. They looked kinda funny to me." He gets a hand against Jared's shoulder to nudge him forward, and he lets it linger there, even when Jared starts walking. "We're gonna get cleaned up, and then I'm gonna drink your beer and monopolize your TV." When Jared looks back, Jensen's still smiling. It's the smile Jared always works for, the one that always hits him like caffeine when he gets it. Right now, it's just wrong.

"What's with you?" he asks. Because the thing is, Jared remembers the end of season two, when nobody knew if they'd get another shot, and Jensen had been a mess of jittery nerves and never sleeping, tension vibrating out of him so hard it made Jared's teeth ache. That was before Canada wormed its way in and started to feel like home, before Jared bought a house and Jensen practically moved in. Jared really does feel a little sick when he thinks about not coming back to all of this, and Jensen's been as freaked out as Jared--or at least, Jared's pretty sure he has been.

Jensen shrugs, a row of freckles appearing and disappearing through the rip in Dean's shirt. "At least a whole two months without you, Padalecki. It's like a fucking miracle."

Jared looks away. He preferred Jensen when he was on the verge of nervous collapse. This smug, happy version is making it sort of difficult for Jared to angst sufficiently over where they'll be next year and who they'll be with, and if he'll have to sell his house and ship all his furniture back to Texas, and whether it'll be six months before he sees Jensen again--by which time Jensen will probably have shaved all his hair off and grown a beard, or something, and Jared won't even recognize him. "Bite me," he says, in lieu of all that. It's not nearly as satisfying.

Jensen snorts and drops his hand, falling into step beside Jared. "Really, do you sit around writing these comebacks down? Is there a special Jared notebook just for them? Honestly, I think there should be."

"Bite me," Jared says again, because it's expected, and because he really can't think of anything better. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth when Jensen laughs, and he ignores it; he kicks his way through a puddle, sending water in Jensen's direction, and he feels a little better when Jensen gives him shit for it.

"See if I let you beat me at Halo now," Jensen says. Jared sticks his hands in his pockets, and Jensen hums, quiet, under his breath. Jared doesn't recognize the song, but it makes him feel a little better, too, just the same. And if he's honest, that's maybe exactly why he's freaking out.

He keeps his hands in his pockets, wrapped around his cell and a pack of gum, and doesn't reach for Jensen. He says, "Like you've ever had a choice in the matter."

Jensen pats him on the head, as if he's a kid, regardless that he has to reach up to do it. "That's the difference between you and me. You are a man of words. And I, my friend, am a man of actions."

He disappears inside his trailer, and five minutes later, with considerably less makeup and clothes that are actually theirs, they're leaving the set behind, being driven down a long stretch of winding road that's gonna take Jared home. Jensen sprawls out, head resting against the window and one leg up on the seat. He closes his eyes, mumbles something about napping and stupid hours.

Jared reaches across and punches him in the ribs. "You should pay attention," he says. When Jensen looks at him, he spreads his hands. "These, Jensen, are, you know, the moments." Jensen just raises his eyebrows, but Jared keeps talking. "The moments and the things we should be remembering."

"The moments and the things?" Jensen asks. "The moments and the things in this car?"

"It's a very fucking nice car," Jared says. "And that--that sign over there, is a very nice sign."

Jensen's mouth twitches, and he clearly thinks it's so self-evident that Jared's lost his mind that he doesn't even bother pointing it out. He keeps his eyes open, though, and they sit in silence as the car picks up speed. There's a stretch of trees for a while, and then an industrial complex, and then some more trees.

"This sucks," Jared says. He's maybe pouting, but Jensen's too busy pretending to look at scenery to notice.

Only maybe not, because he nudges Jared's hip with his knee. "In better light, and, you know, with less rain, I'm sure it would be very memorable."

"Shut up," Jared says. He glances over. In the darkness, it's mostly only angles and suggestions of Jensen he can see--the side of his jaw and the curve of his cheekbone--an easy geometry he knows by heart. He's the only person who's ever made Jared feel small, like the world's full of possibilities he might not reach, might get lost in if he did. He thinks losing the possibility of him might be worse, now, and it makes his chest tight. "Aren't you--" Jensen's watching him, like it's important, and Jared fidgets. "The networks' in trouble," he says. "And aren't you even--you're not a little freaked out?"

Jensen hums deep in his throat, as if he's really thinking about it. "Nope. Not even a little."

Jared swallows and looks for something to say that isn't stupid and babbly and full of things he won't be able to take back later, but Jensen sighs, like he's many kinds of put upon. "Dumbass," he says, low and affectionate and amused. He pushes himself up and slides closer to Jared, curls a hand in Jared's T-shirt. "For one," he says, "We'd find something else." Jensen's chest is pressed against Jared's arm, and when Jared turns towards him, Jensen moves in closer. He moves in with intent, like Jared's a line he's just figured out, like he's about to knock his scene out of the park. The watch Jared gave him says 3:45, could say 25:92 for all it has meaning to Jared, and Jared's forgotten how to breathe. "Even you could probably get a job doing something. For two, the network's been in trouble since I started working for them. Ten years ago, I think that was." Jared laughs, a little, and Jensen reaches out, touches a thumb to the corner of Jared's mouth. "And for three. You are a dumbass."

"You said that already," Jared says. It comes out kind of fast, kind of loud in the quiet.

"Yeah, I did. And that's 'cause you are." Jared gets one more look at Jensen's smile before it's pressed against his mouth, and Jensen's tongue is following up on all the things it promised. For a second, it's pretty much the most terrifying thing Jared's ever done, miraculously ahead of jumping out of planes and crashing his car in the desert, but Jensen kisses like he's certain, and Jared's always been sure of him. He leans in and holds on, his hand tight on Jensen's shoulder, his mouth opening for whatever Jensen wants.

Still, Jared's head is tilted a little funny, and Jensen tastes of the nineteen cups of coffee he drank today; it shouldn't be winning any prizes, as kisses go. Except Jensen's exploring Jared's mouth as if it's the way to somewhere he's always wanted to be, and when Jared drags his teeth over his bottom lip, just like he's thought about doing since--since too long ago to remember--Jensen makes this noise, all pleasure and need and want, and Jared's pretty much done with rational thought, maybe forever.

Until Jensen pulls back, just enough to let them breathe, and he's smiling like he's just done something spectacular, like save the world from nuclear attack, or reduce Jared to speechless stupidity. There are certain things Jared just can't let him away with.

"Well," he says. He mostly says it against Jensen's chin, stubble rough under his mouth. "All those girls who had to kiss you onscreen probably needed a little extra cash as reward, huh? Really, I think I'm gonna go back to looking at those awesome trees out there."

Jensen just tangles his fingers in Jared's hair, pulls a little and laughs. "For an actor, you're a fucking awful liar."

"Bite me," Jared says.

The car takes another corner, and Jensen laughs as he moves back in. "Whatever you want, Jay."

***

fic: Supernatural, Pi (Sam, Dean, G)

luzdeestrellas@insanejournal.com — Fri, 21 Mar 2008 15:31:42 GMT

So, officially, this was meant to be fic for Pi Day. But I am obviously a slacker, so, um, happy week anniversary of Pi day?

Title: Pi
Author: luzdeestrellas
Wordcount: 1,638
Rating: G
Summary: "They have a day to celebrate pie now?"

Notes: Thanks to merryish for the handholding. And thanks to musesfool for the beta; this is niether birthday nor Christmas fic, but this one's all yours.

***

Pi

The sharpie bounces off the back of Sam's head, falling to the carpet with a soft thud, barely audible over the sound of the rain against the windows. Sam lifts his arm to rub at the place it hit, but he thinks better of it, and turns to glare at Dean instead.

"I seriously will shoot you in the face," he says, and he's reasonably sure he means it.

In the warm glow of the overhead lights, Dean's grin is all teeth and no remorse. It's pretty irresistible, but Sam's had almost twenty-six years stifling his natural reaction to it, so he just shakes his head. "You remember the part where we're on a job, right?"

Dean nods, very seriously. "I do. And I am extremely grateful that the guy who took a half hour nap on our last stakeout is here to remind me of it."

Sam scratches at the side of his neck. "I was not napping. I was, like--"

"Yeah, yeah." Dean comes over to sit by him. He knocks his shoulder against Sam's, and he's smiling again when he says, "You were just lulling the demons into a false sense of security by doing a really good impression of it."

"Shut up." Sam knocks his elbow back into Dean's ribs, and Dean laughs as he pulls away. "Man, it's nearly two in the morning. You've been up for at least six years. What the hell are you so happy for?"

"Well," Dean says, "I don't know if you've noticed, but it's raining kind of hard out there, and where we are, is the opposite of out there."

Sam can't argue with that. The house is pretty sweet, thick carpets and couches better than half the beds Sam's slept in. It isn't exactly the normal Sam wants anymore, even if he could have it, but he likes visiting every now and then.

"And," Dean says, "I got me some garden variety, non-demonic evil to fight."

"Jesus, but you're a freak," Sam says, mostly because he thought the same thing earlier, and Dean doesn't ever have to know that.

Dean smiles as if he does, anyway. "And," he slings an arm around Sam's shoulder, warm and affectionate, even as he digs his fingers into Sam's bicep, "my baby brother's being a huge pain in my ass, so I figure the world's on track to keep spinning for at least another day. But most importantly," he says, making a show of checking his watch, "it's Pi Day."

"They have a day to celebrate pie now?" Sam supposes he shouldn't be surprised; they have days for everything else, and it's not like pie isn't worthy of being celebrated a lot, what with the pastry that kind of melts in your mouth, and the huge and endless variety of awesome fillings, and the ice cream you get to eat with it, but--still.

"Sure they do. And Square Root Day, too, but everyone knows Pi is the superior one."

Sam just stares at him, blueberries and apples forgotten. Then he laughs, and the tiredness is pushed back by it. "Oh my God," he says. "You freakish, gigantic dork. You're talking about pi."

All the times Dean's given Sam shit for hours spent willingly in the library and old books he had to have, and he doesn't even have the decency to look a little bit embarrassed now. "One fifty-nine, Sammy, on the fourteenth of March." He pauses for half a beat, and Sam's pleased to see he doesn't quite meet Sam's eyes when he says, "And twenty-six seconds, if you want to be precise."

"Which, God knows, you do." Sam smiles some more, remembers Dean's report cards, average grades in English and history, because he never made the effort; As and Bs in math and science. He probably didn't need to make the effort there, either, saw puzzles and answers in ways Sam didn't, but he did anyway. "So what exactly does the celebration of Pi involve?" It's not all for the mocking; he genuinely is a little curious.

Dean shrugs. "They have conferences and stuff. And, like, I dunno, some guy recited pi to fifteen hundred decimal places once. People wear t-shirts."

"Of course they do." Sam tips his head back and closes his eyes. He makes a mental note to look it up, maybe get Dean a t-shirt for next year.

"Sam," Dean says.

Sam doesn't open his eyes. "I'm not going to sleep." Dean would probably let him, and not just because he's still working them slowly, scared Sam might be lying when he says he's fine. It's just a little brother perk even approaching twenty-six hasn't lost him, and which Sam's never quite gotten good enough to refuse as often as he should. He will tonight, though. He listens to Dean breathing just inches away, and he smiles a little, even though he's hungry now, on top of everything else. He reaches out, smacks the back of Dean's head. "I really want pie," he says, and the whine in his voice is almost completely intentional.

"Yeah, well. Suck it up. We ain't going anywhere until Casper shows up."

"Aw, come on. He's probably not even dangerous," Sam says. "I mean, sure, if you want to get technical about it, coming at the guy with a chainsaw was a little risky, but, really, we all have our bad days. Maybe he was just, you know, hungry."

"He's probably not dangerous in the way that you're probably not annoying." Dean's barely paying Sam any attention, engrossed in checking the guns, or at least, pretending to be. Sam knows they're already primed, same way he knows Dean's got the cleansing ritual memorised, even if he's going to make Sam actually do it. "There's food in the fridge, if you really want."

"Whatever." Sam knows better than to admit that he doesn't want the salad or the tofu, or whatever it was they were told they could help themselves to. He yawns and stretches. "If he hasn't shown up in the next hour, you're on your own."

He hasn't shown up an hour later, or even the one after that. Sam dozes and Dean draws on his face. Dean paces, and Sam tries to trip him up whenever he gets close. It's not the worst way to spend a night. Or at least, it isn't until the ghost finally shows up.

"I fucking hate garden variety evil," Dean says, when they stumble out two hours later. He's got a hell of a bruise blossoming across his ribs, and Sam's left arm seems to be doing a lot of protesting about still being attached to his body.

"Me, too." Sam holds out his hand for the keys, and Dean doesn't even dignify that with a response. "Dude, at least I slept," Sam says.

"Exactly," Dean says. "Can't be in charge of anything." He slides in behind the wheel, wincing a little and pretending not to be.

"Bite me," Sam says, as they pull out onto the road. It's stopped raining, though there's a film of water still covering everything, like it plans to deny the sun that's just moving over the horizon. "Consider my naps as a little bit off your debt."

"Shut the fuck up," Dean says. He doesn't look at Sam, but Sam can see the way the smile tugs at his mouth, soft and happy around the corners, instead of smug and teasing. "You got three weeks in bed and your laundry done at the time," he says, like it's nothing.

And maybe it finally is. Sam's healed up, and Dean's not going anywhere, and right this second, they could be the only people in the world. It's quiet, everything standing still while Dean puts his foot to the floor.

"No, seriously," Sam says, utterly failing to keep the smile out of his voice, "There's, you know, a balance. An order. I nearly lost my soul to save yours. You have to do things now. And what I think is, I would like pie. So you should make that happen."

Dean rolls the window down, lets air that's too cold to be spring filter through the car. "If you're going to keep talking, I'm probably going to kill myself. Be a waste of all the hard work you did."

Sam laughs. He closes his eyes and doesn't sleep, lets the car carry him wherever Dean wants to take them. When they stop, it's only forty minutes after they started. He's expecting to see a motel--cheap and not very cheerful--but when he opens his eyes, they're in front of a diner. There's an American flag blowing in the breeze, and beside that, a poster that says, Homer Simpson for President. Beside that, like some kind of Christmas miracle, a hand-written sign, promising all day breakfast and pie for even longer.

"Dude," Sam says, looking from the sign to Dean, "how the hell did you even find this?"

Dean grins. "I am kind of awesome." He takes the keys out of the ignition, pats the steering wheel absently as he opens the door. "You don't really imagine they celebrate Pi day without pie, do you?"

He's almost out of the car when he looks back at Sam. "I'd ask you to take this into account when you're tallying, or whatever the hell, but--pie. It's a very important holiday. I wouldn't want to have missed it."

"Damn right," Sam says.

Sam gets out, still smiling, and watches Dean walking away, slow and relaxed. He needs a shower, and there's tired written in every inch of him, but when he glances over his shoulder at Sam, eyebrows raised in question, his eyes are clear and bright.

It wipes the tally clean.

Fic: Love's Eternal Fire (Jared/Jensen, PG)

luzdeestrellas@insanejournal.com — Sun, 16 Mar 2008 21:54:30 GMT

I am spamming, I know, and I linked to this yesterday, but well, if I don't archive now while I remember, I probably never will.

Also, please, stay tuned for the next installment in Jared and Jensen's beautiful story: Love's Eternal hope. *nod*

***

Title: Love's Eternal Fire
Author: luzdeestrellas
Pairing: Jared/Jensen

Summary: He does what they've both seen coming for months now.

Notes: Thanks to merryish for the beta and for titling so ~~hilariously~~ helpfully. All remaining mistakes are mine.

Love's Eternal Fire

"I'm just saying," Jared says, as he uncrosses his legs and stretches them out for miles, "it's not your fault you can't hold up like you used to." He raises his hand, stained green from the way he's been propping himself up on the grass with it, counts off on his fingers, just like Kripke does when he's outlining episodes for them. "For one, you're kind of old now. I mean, thirty isn't exactly dead, or anything, but it's getting there, right? And for two, you're a city boy. Wuss is built right in. And for three." He pauses to drink his beer, mouth coming away wet. He lets the pause stretch on, and then he says, exactly like Jensen knows he will, "And for three, you're a little on the shrimpy side."

Jensen kicks out lazily, smiling, bare foot only just connecting with Jared's leg. "If insulting me helps someone of your size adapt to the world, then I'm here for you, man." He doesn't take his foot away, feels Jared's muscles shift as he digs his toes into the grass.

It's the first decent day they've had since shooting started again, warmth clinging to Jensen's skin, and sun that's maybe a little too bright for Jensen to look at, given that last night, he drank his body weight in every form of alcohol Canada had to offer. He isn't really looking at it anyway. He's watching Jared instead.

Used to be, he got a little lost, a little stupid, when he looked too long. Used to be, the curve of Jared's mouth was distracting as all fuck, and the way he stretched out and the world got smaller made Jensen hard enough to pose a serious danger to himself. Now, it's just Jared, still kind of orange from all the tanning the makeup crew insisted on, an easy warmth in Jensen's gut when he smiles like he's daring anyone not to smile right back at him. It's something more--something deeper--when he watches the way, even when Jared's sprawled, boneless and content, he still talks at Jensen like it's the most important thing he can think to do, like it's a full body sport he'd better win at.

It should be more terrifying this way, and it is. Except that it's not, because Jared knows that the first song Jensen ever learned to play properly on the guitar was Leaving on a Jet Plane, that he still has to play it when he goes back home, and Jensen knows that Jared watches every goddamn cooking show he can find and still can't boil water without three counties having to evacuate first. Because it's Jared, and when Jensen's too drunk to remember how the whole standing up thing works, Jared's right there, saying stupid things like, I've got you, and if you throw up over the carpet, I'm gonna get Harley to eat you.

"And of course," Jared says, in the tone of someone who's been talking for hours, when he's been talking for, at most, thirty seconds, "then the Marshmallow Man ate all the children, and the world ended."

"Seriously?" Jensen asks, grinning. "The Marshmallow Man?"

"Dude, shut up. That movie was traumatising." He looks all serious, like he's talking about politics or maybe even football, only the effect is ruined by the way his hair needs washing and keeps flopping into his eyes. "Food isn't meant to be, like, possessed and shit." He sits up and leans into Jensen, personal space for other people, hands reaching for Jensen's face to tilt his head back. "You were miles away. Do you need to lie down? I have some lavender bath stuff and smelling salts if that would help. I know recovery is harder at your--"

"Jared," Jensen says, "I am thinking of beating you to death."

But he doesn't. He does what they've both seen coming for months now. He wraps his fingers in Jared's t-shirt--the one Jared ripped while they were painting his living room and won't throw away--and tugs Jared closer. Jared's eyes go wide, and Jensen's close enough to feel the way he stops breathing. Jensen's heart stutters right along with it, because he didn't even think, just moved, and maybe he's fucked everything up. But then Jared lights up, dimples so deep, Jensen could fall into them. He gets a hand around the back of Jensen's head, fingers twitching once on the nape of his neck before they go still, steady and strong as he says, "I don't think beating means what you think it does."

Which is really unfair, because Jensen laughs, and Jared, the cheating bastard, smiles. Against Jensen's mouth, it feels as good as it looks, but then Jared takes advantage of his laughter, slips his tongue into his mouth.

Jensen has the beginnings of a really forceful argument about how the one who makes the first move should be the one to close the deal, but Jared's kissing him, all slow heat and lazy certainty. It's like he talks and like he smiles, putting everything he has in it, like he's learning Jensen's mouth the way he learns a scene: thorough and determined and so fucking interested. Only that's not right, because when he sweeps his tongue over Jensen's teeth, it's like he wants to stay. When he does some freakish fluttery thing over the roof of Jensen's mouth that he's obviously been waiting to show off,Jensen's pretty sure if Jared doesn't stay, he really will kill him.

Still, Jensen pulls away, just on principle. He doesn't care that he's smiling wide enough to hurt, because he's still got nothing on Jared in the dork department. He leans back when Jared tries to follow, smiles even more when Jared makes this lost little whimpering noise that's unquestionably the best thing Jensen's ever heard.

"You're a cheating bastard," Jensen says, "and I hate you."

Then he leans in as Jared leans forward again. Jared says, "I am too awesome for you to stand," and Jensen has no choice but to kiss all of that smart-ass out of him.

***

I stumbled around until you found me again

luzdeestrellas@insanejournal.com — Sun, 16 Mar 2008 21:39:32 GMT

Aw, guys, thank you so much for all the birthday wishes yesterday. You all totally rock, and you all made me really, really happy. Seriously, it genuinely did mean a lot.

I had a lovely day yesterday. I spent the evening with friends (friends who bake! This means cake for me, which is never, ever a bad.), and today I had an excellent dinner with my family. Possibly, there will be more cake later.

Also, there was fic, too. The fabulous dotfic wrote me what I very sincerely believe to be the best drabble ever, and when I work out how she did it, I am going to sell her secrets for a boatload of money. It's called Refusal, and you can--must--read it here. If you don't say oh, Dean and oh, Sam, I will probably have to conclude you aren't actually human.

the lovely merryish wrote Surrender Dorothy, in which there is near-death by weather, and more importantly, kissing and so much love and joy that it makes me giddy. Possibly, I am a little bit in love with it. But plese not to be telling her. It's Sam/Dean, for those of you who are not into that kind of thing.

And last but never, ever least, my girl musesfool wrote Somebody's Going to Emergency, Somebody's Going to Jail. There is shirtless sparring! And snuggling! And because obviously vic is talented, or something, there is also determined!Sam, and a whole lot of brotherly love and banter and Dean being so awesome it is barely legal.

*hugs all three of you* I am the luckiest girl in all the world, and don't go thinking I don't know it.

Oh, and also! Nichole, once again, keeps flailing all across the internet about how much she loves me. It's enough to make even a heart as cold as mine melt. *sniffle* It's okay, sweetheart. I understand that sometimes, you just have to let it out.

Fic: Supernatural, Plan for Nothing But Sunlight (Sam/Dean, PG)

luzdeestrellas@insanejournal.com — Thu, 28 Feb 2008 03:30:57 GMT

Title: Plan for Nothing But Sunlight
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Word count: 4,442
Summary: Sam's gotten pretty good at catching him these days.

Notes: Title from Joshua Ware. Beta thanks to musesfool, who also puts in more hand holding than can reasonably be quantified, and to merryish, who is awesome and still bravely crusading against the run on sentence.

***

Plan for Nothing But Sunlight

Dean comes back to the room when it's dark enough that even the maglight he keeps for emergencies has stopped being useful. He knows every line of his girl--well enough to put her together in no light at all, maybe, her pieces still slotting into place smooth as they ever did, no matter how wrong everything else is--but there's still the chance he'd do something stupid, end up taking off one of his own hands in something as mundane as a mechanical accident. Still, he sits for a long time with the hood up, occasionally fiddling with something, just to touch, and he only moves when the cold bite in the air gets to be too much to ignore.

It takes thirty seconds to get back to the motel, thirty more to unlock the door, because the key jams in the lock. Dean's preparing all the while for whatever Sam wants to throw at him, but by the time he convinces the key to do its stupid job and gets the door open, he's already talking, filling the silence before he can feel its weight.

"Good places give you those goddamn electronic keycards now," he says. "We should try that some time."

"I'll add it to the list," Sam says, fingers still flashing over the keyboard, as if that's exactly what he's doing. He's showered since Dean left, hair mussed and curling around his ears while he sits by the window with the laptop, not even bothering to look guilty for researching shit he probably shouldn't be. His t-shirt's still damp around the collar, and he's in sweatpants, which, God help him, are too fucking small. There's a pale strip of hairy ankle peeking through, and Dean focuses on it when Sam finally looks up, says his name, wrapping it up with purpose, the way only Sam has ever been able to.

"Seriously," Dean says, ignoring him, insofar as forces of nature can ever be ignored, "somewhere with lights that really work. And maybe better carpet." He grimaces at the orange and green crap on the floor, heads to the bathroom to wash the grease off his hands without giving Sam a chance to say anything. The door's barely on hinges at all, though, and Dean couldn't shut Sam out if he wanted to follow him. Sam doesn't, and Dean cuts him a grin as he comes out, feels it stretching across his face like a bruise.

"If that thing falls on my fucking head, I'm going to sue. What d'you think? Get us enough to set us up somewhere nice? Like a pension plan, huh?"

"Dean." Sam's standing now, too many feet of coiled tension, his arms crossed over his chest. In the weak light of the room, he looks exhausted, ragged as Dean feels. There's a hurt, unhappy line to the set of his mouth, and Dean wants to reach out and touch, rub it away like it's ketchup or syrup, nothing that could stand up to Dean's big brother skills. "You said you'd stop doing this."

Dean almost offers the denial, might be worth it to make Sam look pissed again instead of beaten, because he didn't say anything, not really. He did more, stopped shutting Sam out there and then, even with Gordon chasing them and fear for Sam outrunning everything, a promise all the louder for being sealed later, with the press of fingers against Sam's skin and the scent of motor oil in the air.

"Christ." He drops his jacket on the bed. The one nearest the door, just like always, just like for a little while longer, and goddammit, he'd maybe like it if every little thing didn't blindside him. He reaches for Sam. Just for a second, he curls his fingers around his shoulders, strong and solid, like Dean could stand on them and never fall.

He pushes Sam onto his own bed, and Sam is all protests, wants to talk and analyze, as if Dean slamming out the door with angry words might be some kind of essay question. He only stops when Dean sits down beside him, hip to arm and close enough that Sam can get his fingers in his shirt.

"I know you can't resist this luxury thread count, Sammy." Sam tries to sit up, and Dean presses his hand in the center of his chest, strength and muscle and heartbeat beneath his fingers. "Go to sleep," he says, glancing at the table beside the bed, "or I will beat you over the head with this freakishly ugly lamp."

Sam looks at where Dean's gaze is, and laughs a little. "You're gonna, too, right?"

"Beat you? Sure."

"Sleep, moron." Like he's five again, refusing to sleep until Dean went, too. Used to make Dean crazy, and Dad crazier.

"You've always been such a pain in my ass," Dean says, but Sam keeps staring at him, steady and stubborn. "Yes," he says. "Yes, I'm gonna sleep."

Sam tugs on his wrist, already yawning. "C'mon," he says. "I won't kick."

Dean's exhausted, and it's tempting: curl up with Sam like nothing's wrong, like the world outside doesn't exist, but he slides to the end of the bed, as if he doesn't want it at all. "For one of the most wanted people in America, you're a fucking awful liar," he says. "Lemme go."

It's not just that Dean's dreams aren't all puppies and sunshine anymore, though if Sam doesn't already know that, Dean's not about to prove it with an up close and personal display. And it's not just that he remembers what happened last time they tumbled into bed together: the taste of laughter and eggnog on his tongue no match for the taste of Sam, rocketing through him like he'd be drunk forever, always giddy because that's just what fucking happens when your brother decides to turn the world upside down. It's about both those things and neither of them, about holding on when he shouldn't, being so terrified to let go, it's like everything else has already been stripped away.

Sam looks like he might argue, but he sighs and drops his hand, brief stroke of his thumb over Dean's wrist before he does. Dean steps away, busies himself rooting through their bags, heading to the bathroom, pretending to follow the usual routine before bed. When he gets back, Sam's sleeping, breaths deep and even. Dean stands for a moment by his bed, watches the way he sprawls, helpless and easy, arms flung out and legs stretched everywhere, like there isn't a thing in the world that could hurt him, nothing but the light to touch him.

"Fuck, Sammy," he whispers, touches his fingers to Sam's hair, as if Sam's the one who needs comforting. Sam mumbles Dean's name, and Dean wants to laugh, because this is every horrific romantic cliché ever, but it lodges in his throat, like the poison apple in that stupid fairytale, and Dean's heading for the door before he's even made up his mind he's leaving.

He breaks the habit of months and lets the Colt lie on the nightstand, like some fucked up love letter, didn't go off and shoot myself. Still damned. He doesn't want the weight of it in his jeans, offering a solution that isn't one at all. He isn't completely stupid, though; he texts Sam with hands steady on the keypad, promises he's gonna play a little pool so they can get a room with keycards, and signs it with three smiley faces and a kiss for extra obnoxiousness. He doesn't pour whisky down his throat like he wants to, either. He owes Sam better, and can't take the questions or the hurt look he'll get if he comes back so trashed he can't remember his own name.

Forgetting's probably the last thing he should be aiming for, anyway. He settles for ordering a beer, and there's maybe a look in his eyes, the kind he's seen in a hundred bars, from a hundred people who aren't him, because the woman serving him says, "You look like you could use a friend more." She smiles like she means it, like she'd really listen if he wanted to. She reminds him of Ellen, though she's taller, red hair and softer eyes, but like her in all the ways that count, and he feels them, the words crowding his mouth like bugs, better spat out before they go back down.

"Thanks," he says, pulling the trigger on his best smile. "I'm just here for a drink." He glances at the pool table, takes in the three tough guys with ripped jeans and greasy hair. "Maybe a little pool."

"Knock yourself out," she says. "But they ain't the kind of boys you fuck around with, you get me?"

"Yes, ma'am," he says, grin slipping around the words, a little more genuine this time, because this game he knows, spent a life winning at it. It's in his blood more than the alcohol he hasn't drunk, and Sam calls it cocky, but Dean knows there's hardly anyone who can beat him on his best day. There's nothing easier than lining up the shot, spinning through the angles and aiming true. No trick he can't pull or corner he can't get out of.

As it is, tonight it's sweet and simple, like taking candy from a baby, if babies were four times stupider and more annoying. There's no victory in it at all, and even as showy as he ends up, signing his name all over the table in impossible shots and curve balls, there's nothing to take the edge off the terror, no thrill running through him like there normally is.

He takes five hundred dollars, slips it into his jeans and shoots a million watt grin at them, all teeth and fucked you over bullshit.

When they follow him out, he's okay, knows they've got size and the confidence of getting what they want, but he's got years of training and fighting nightmares they couldn't dream up.

He says, "Want me to beat you at something else?" though for a moment, he thinks of taking it, of letting the shit be kicked out of him just cause. He grins a little, imagining what Sam would say to that, psychology crap that doesn't change anything. But he's a Winchester, and if giving up was ever part of the deal, it was trained out of him long ago. The first punch lands right below his eye, meaty fist that's not exactly unimpressive, and by the time the second guy's laid one on his ribs, he's pissed enough to have stopped smiling. He's all business as he puts an elbow into one guy's kidneys and gets another with a kick to the kneecap. The last one he pins against the wall, arm across his throat.

"I will break your fucking neck," he says, and maybe it's the look on his face, or the looming presence that's turned up right at his back, like the miracle it always is, but the guy nods his head, all eager to please as a puppy.

"He would, too," Sam says, and distantly, an echo of a conversation he's been trying to forget, Dean wonders if Sam believes that.

Sam hauls one of the other guys up, and Dean says, "Get the fuck out of here," all bitten off rage, as if he isn't about to start shaking any minute.

Sam comes to stand by him, and Dean waits until they disappear before he slides to the ground, back against the wall, so fucking tired and worn out by trying to pretend he's not.

"Hey," Sam says, crouching in front of him, all concern. Dean just doesn't know what to do with that, because Sam should be mad, at him and not just the world, should want to lay into Dean for how badly he's fucked them over.

"Thought you were sleeping."

Sam's mouth quirks, tiny flicker of brightness that disappears in an instant. "Look who's talking." He reaches out, cups his hand around Dean's face, thumb rubbing gently under the eye that isn't already throbbing like a fucker. "Hey," he says again, as if it means something, and Dean feels like he's not even real, a picture someone's painted dissolving in the rain.

"Can we just--" he says. "Can we just get out of here?"

"I dunno," Sam says, his hand still there, like it could hold onto Dean when Dean can't hold onto anything. "There's a real nice ambiance in this alleyway."

"Punk," Dean says, and Sam pulls him up, pulls him in to him, as if he needs to, as if there's a chance in the world that's not right where Dean would go, no matter what his choices were. "I'm sorry," Dean says. He doesn't know where all his defenses went, only knows he's walking around full of bullet holes, spilling all of him out with nothing to soak it up.
Except there's Sam, who keeps staying, who stands open and ready for everything Dean'll give him. "Yeah, yeah," he says, still holding Dean like Dean'll fall over without him. "Less apologizing, more letting me drive." Dean rolls his eyes, and Sam smacks his shoulder with his fist. "Shut the fuck up. I waited out here for half an hour. In subzero temperatures. The least you can do is let me drive."

Dean doesn't ask why he didn't come in, just leans into him a little more, instead. "I think the responsible argument involves something about cops and driving under the influence," he says, and he makes himself pull away and toss Sam the keys.

"I think the responsible argument got tired of slamming into a brick wall," Sam says. The touch on Dean's back to turn him to the passenger side isn't a shove at all, more like all the heat in the night is trapped under Sam's spread hand. "Be nice to me or I'm not stopping for ice on the way."

Dean isn't. He half-heartedly bitches Sam out for cornering too sharp and driving too slow, but he can't make it funny. He can't think about Sam driving while he isn't there to ride shotgun, to demand to take over right the hell now because Sam doesn't appreciate his baby like he should (which isn't really true at all, or Dean really would have disowned him long ago).

"You totally don't deserve my awesomeness," Sam says when they're in the motel. Dean goes to take the ice from him, but Sam just pushes him into the bathroom, as if it had actually been designed for two grown men to maneuver around in easily.

"I think I've got it covered," Dean says. Sam just glares at him, tilting his face up into the light. He pushes Dean back against the counter while he pulls out the first aid kit, squeezing Dean's shoulder, louder than the apology he murmurs, when he wipes away the blood and Dean hisses in pain.

"You're such an idiot," Sam says, but the tone is warm, even under the irritation, so much affection scrawled through it in neon letters, it makes Dean's chest ache. He clenches his fists to try and hide the way they're shaking, is so busy doing that he doesn't react when Sam tugs on his shirt. "Arms, genius," Sam says, and Dean raises them automatically.

Sam touches his thumb to the already-spreading bruise on Dean's ribs, and Dean says, "It's fine. Nothing's broken."

Sam nods, curls his fingers on Dean's chest. They're still a little cold from carrying the ice, and Dean shivers as Sam cups his other hand under Dean's jaw. He's always touching these days, and Dean knows it's mostly about reassurance, has spent his life doing the same thing, the world only ever lined up right when Sam was in hand's easy reach. Knowing that doesn't make it any better, not when Dean's whole body sings with the contact, like it's been woken up by some dangerous magic only Sam could spin.

He still can't shake Sam off, doesn't want to, doesn't know how, and Sam doesn't appear to be going of his own accord.

He stays close, even as he says, "Okay, I think you'll--" live hangs in the air, and Dean says, "Yeah, but will I still be the prettiest girl in town?" casual as he can, even as Sam's face falls, and he's obviously decided the fun part of the evening's over.

"You can tell me," he says, as if it's not a tangent at all.

Dean's heart does this stupid thing, beating hard and fast, like it's suddenly decided to make up for all the time it won't be able to later, or like it's worried Dean's brain might forget without the warning that he can't tell him, can't not protect him from this. "Yes, Sam, I do wear women's underwear on occasion. What of it?"

Sam doesn't even blink. "Whatever works for you," he says. He moves his hand from Dean's face, fits it around the back of Dean's head, cradling it because he really is that fucking huge. "Now you can tell me the other thing."

Dean can't miss the way Sam's arm is rock steady when he turns his head, the way he's like a goddamn brick wall in front of him. He shouldn't be surprised that time's screwing with him now, not when it turned his baby brother into someone who could get himself killed, could tower over Dean and take everything from him. Now, the sand isn't so much trickling as staging an all-out escape. Dean might as well not be hanging on at all, the way it keeps pouring through his fingers.

"Tell you what?" His voice isn't steady, and he doesn't care. Sam has enough to deal with, doesn't need to know there's worse than being left alone, than Dean spending eternity in torment and fire, whatever the hell else Sam's spent his nights reading about until he can probably recite it, word perfect like the exorcisms they spent their days learning in the car.

"Whatever it is," Sam says, his fingers so gentle while they rub Dean's neck, it hurts, "that's got you all fucked up again."

Dean is surprised into genuine laughter, watches as the strands of Sam's hair flutter in its wake. "There has to be more?"

Sam doesn't smile. "With you, there almost always is." He draws Dean in tighter, And Dean's hand just ends up trapped between them, soaking up the heat of Sam's skin, when he tries to push Sam away. "I'll tell you if you want. Ruby sold her soul; Ruby's a demon. I was never as good at math as you, but I can do that one."

Dean shakes his head against Sam's palm. "Bullshit," he says. "She was a witch. Probably into all kinds of black magic freakiness. It doesn't mean a thing."

Sam leans his forehead against Dean's, and his breath is warm on Deans face when he says, "Dean, it's okay. You can tell me."

"I can't," Dean says, break in his voice he doesn't even try to hide. "I can't--" Sam squeezes his neck, and Dean says, "You gotta stop doing this."

Sam goes right on ignoring him, his hands and his voice digging too deep, as if they can afford that when the only solid ground Dean's got is bullshit and misdirection. He already feels it crumbling, wants to yell and scream at the sky the way he did when he lost Sam. He closes his eyes against the panic, the flood of it in his chest, and when Sam says, "I've got you. It's okay," he falls into Sam, because that's where he always goes.

Sam's gotten pretty good at catching him. "Dean," he says, a little broken, too, and Dean's breath hitches, fingers curling in Sam's shirt while Sam kisses him on the exhale--or maybe Dean kisses him, instead. Dean can't really tell. He can't tell much of anything, because this still feels exactly like falling apart, like casting all his pieces into the wind. But Sam kisses back, as ruthlessly as he does everything else these days, like there's no part of Dean he won't take, won't hold up to the light and examine until he knows exactly where it goes and how it fits.

He's walking Dean backwards as he does it, the fucking multi-tasking freak, in between murmuring right into Dean's mouth, "It's okay," Dean's name over and over, like it's the only word his mouth knows how to hold, was ever made for.

He pushes Dean onto the bed, crawls over him, fingers reaching for every inch of him, like Dean's skin is the answer Sam's spent all this time looking for. When Dean looks at him, he's all wonder and wide-eyed awe, like the world's just opened up for him, all the good in it falling into his hands.

Dean wants to say no, says, "Sam, I don't--it's gonna be hard enough." He should have more than that, words like brother and save, the ones that are still the most important thing in his life, but Sam crowds almost everything out, fear and grief pushed aside by the hitch of his breath in Dean's ear, the way he catches the corner of Dean's mouth with his own.

Sam sprawls out on top of him, hard angles that shouldn't fit and do. "Unless you don't want this," he says, his chin digging into Dean's shoulder, designed to hurt because Sam's fucking bones just do, a weapon he's been using since Dean was stupid enough to let it show, "then shut up."

Dean should keep talking, but hell's a nightmare he won't ever get away from, and Sam's right there, all the horizon Dean's ever run for. When Sam says, "I'm right here," proves it with his hands and his stupidly talented mouth, the one that's been pulling and prodding at all Dean's secrets in one way or another for as long as Dean's been keeping any, Dean's own fingers have to touch, have to know everything before it's all gone.

"Come here," Sam says afterwards, already moving towards him, and Dean's too wrung out to refuse. Sam wraps him up, arms and legs around him, like Sam could protect him. The most fucked up thing is that Dean would let him now, would cling to it if there were a way.

As if he can read his mind, Sam says, "Let me look," his mouth moving against Dean's hair. Dean snorts, and Sam splays his fingers out on his back, five points of a promise Dean wants to believe. "Fine. Stop making me hide that I'm looking. Stop making it more fucking difficult than it has to be."

"No weaseling out of it, remember? I think one of us with already certain death hanging over us is enough," Dean says. It's maybe a little ironic that he spent so much time telling Sam he couldn't become a monster, and now, he's the one with his destiny all sewn up. He thinks about telling Sam that, too, killing off any trust he might have in Ruby, a search for answers that won't ever yield any. The words won't come, and he doesn't know if it's because he doesn't believe them, or because if Sam doesn't, then Dean can still let Sam build a different truth, held together by faith and the kind of determination Sam could move the world with. "Oh, and you remember the part where the crossroads demon told you it was unbreakable, right?"

Sam's unstoppable as a fucking freight train, anyway. "And of course, she'd tell us if there happened to be a way." He kicks Dean on the back of the knee, his hand soft over Dean's hip. His voice, though, is all steel and certainty. "If I can't stop you going in," he says. "I'll fucking pull you back out."

"Sammy," Dean says. He presses his face in against Sam's neck, like if he presses the words into Sam's skin, they'll do a better job of getting into his head. "Don't, okay? I appreciate the sentiment, but--"

"You really think if they have you, I'm not gonna come after you?" He tugs on Dean's hair until Dean has to look at him, though he can't see much of anything--the shadow of Sam's jaw, set and defiant, the flash of his eyes, daring the world to contradict him. "You'll go for me, but I won't for you? That's what you think?"

Dean knows he's part being played, a trick to keep him talking Sam learned at little brother school, but there's a tremor running through his voice, fine as a tripwire and detectable only to Dean, so Dean doesn't smartass him.

"You know it's not. What I did was just more in the realm of possibility."

Dean can feel Sam's smile when Sam ducks his head and presses his mouth to dean's. "And now we don't deal with the impossible. I missed a memo in the last couple of days, huh?" He's all Sam-smug now, the certainty of getting what he wants running through him the way it always has, sure he can get Dean out of hell the way he used to talk him out of the last cookie. "Guess you're not really Batman after all, either. Kind of disappointing for me."

Dean opens his mouth to object, but Sam kisses him quiet, soft and easy, like he plans to do it forever. "Dean," he says, "Shut up. I'm gonna find a way, and right now, you're gonna go to sleep."

"You're not the boss of me," Dean mumbles, half-heartedly pushing Sam's hands away when they tug him down to his shoulder.

"You're not gonna be saying that when I save your ass." He's got Dean wrapped so close and so tight it almost hurts, and it's still the easiest Dean's breathed in days. "You're gonna be all, 'Sam, can I get you more coffee?' and 'Sam, whatever you want to listen to is fine with me.'"

"I hate you so much," Dean says.

But Sam's hope is just like Sam: huge and unshakeable and the one thing Dean has no resistance to. It's stupid and dangerous, and tomorrow, Dean'll push it away, but now, he lets himself be lulled. He breathes Sam in, falls asleep while Sam talks about the ways he'll make Dean pay and pay, the things they'll do in a life Sam will save for him.

***

Feedback is adored.

luzdeestrellas@insanejournal.com — Sat, 23 Feb 2008 12:37:06 GMT

I sort of hesitated to make this post, but, well, no, I still love my show. I still love it a lot.

Up front, I am incredibly sad Henricksen is dead. I loved how competent and professional he was from the start, and how, once he got on board with the demons, he just took it in stride. I think he could've been a useful ally and a friend on top of that, and I loved the potential for him to be an awesome hunter, not because he had terrible trauma forcing him into it, but because he couldn't ignore what he knew, and because saving people was the thing he wanted to do. And, yes, I think their record on black men is--unintentionally, I think--shitty, and I would be really happy if they could see about fixing that.

I can also see why, in this particular instance, they did it, but it still sucks, and I will be pretending he is not dead.

But...I still loved it. I loved competent Dean and the airline announcement exorcism. I loved (hated) that Dean and Sam just got back on track, and suddenly, there is this potentially bigger rift between them. I want to see that play out--um, not, you know, for a long time, because I am a horrible sap and I don't like it when they really fight--and to see how far Sam will go for Dean, and how Dean manages to pull him back in. I love, "But you did not shoot the deputy," and matching tattoos and latinating Sam, and Dean kicking ass and taking names. And Dean's smile of cuteness when Henricksen said he had no one but his little brother to go home to. Shut up.

I also, in general, love what they're doing with the arc this season. I am excited that they've finally introduced the new big bad, and, yes, that she's a woman. I think they have made Ruby incredibly interesting, and I love that we have no idea what's going on with her. (She was going to kill herself to buy them victory? Oh, really? Really? But she wouldn't stay to help them win?)I like the new mythology, and while I think the writing in individual eps has at times been spotty, right now, I like where it could go.

Also, I like that their love is still epic. You know, I like it a little bit.

So, um, yeah. That's kind of where I'm at, and where I mostly hope to stay.

luzdeestrellas@insanejournal.com — Mon, 18 Feb 2008 14:59:16 GMT

I forgot to do this last night, but if by now, you haven't, you should absolutely go read North of Wednesday by merryish. I don't really like her all that much, but she writes good fic, and even just thinking about this one makes me all achy in the chestal area. The writing is beautiful, and there is so much Sam and Dean love you could drown in it. Spoilery for 3x11, in case you hadn't guessed, and it's Sam/Dean.

Seriously, there are parts of this story I probably know from memory now. I want to live in it for, like, three million years.

Sigh. Oh, boys.

***

And speaking of boys, how cute is Jensen wearing the watch Jared gave him on TV? Cute beyond description, I believe, is the answer.

OMG, so tired. Wah!

*The part about not liking her might be a lie, but you totally can't prove it.

This is actually the more coherent version of me

luzdeestrellas@insanejournal.com — Fri, 15 Feb 2008 15:57:11 GMT

I have to go and do--I don't know, things with people and, no, I don't even know anymore--but I. I. I. I.

*flails*

OUR SHOW LOVES US SO MUCH. AND I LOVE OUR SHOW SO MUCH! I DO NOT KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH THIS MUCH AWESOME. OMG!

I thought maybe I was too excited, but, no. That was not even a possibility. OMG. Did you see? Sam? Dean? Did you see that? did you see how much they love each other?

OMG!

I might maybe one day string some more sentences together, but right now, I can only say, oh, Sam! Oh, Dean! Oh, god, boys.

How did their love turn out to be even more epic than I thought. What?

luzdeestrellas@insanejournal.com — Sat, 09 Feb 2008 16:15:45 GMT

Guys, I love my show! If you do not love my show...I am going to try and find it in me to forgive you.

I don't care what any of you say, that scene between Dean and not!Dean was one of the best things this show has ever done. Ever. I have seen Jensen act well, but I--I didn't know he could do that. I was kind of stunned for about five minutes after, because he just knocked it out of the park. He knocked it out of that park and into some other park, in some other galaxy.

And I also love that it was anvilicious, because that was totally the point. *we* know all this stuff, and *Sam* got to see it in Skin, but Dean never really has, or at least not that he remembers. and I love the smartness of the writing. All the things they've fought, all the terrifying prospects in their future, and Dean's worst nightmare is still Dean. Even demon!Dean came after Dean's worst fears about himself. Seriously, of all the ways they could have made Dean want to live, I am thrilled beyond the telling that this is the way they picked.

And when he told Sam! And Sam's face! He can do this, because Dean is with him now, and all that despair from the beginning of the ep goes just like that. If they're together, there's nothing they cant do. God, boys.

And Dean's, "Okay, good," so trusting, just the way Sam's always trusted him. My heart grew, like, 300 times bigger. Man.

Also, Bobby awesomeness! Bobby loves Dean, and knows exactly what Dean is worth, and Dean loves Bobby. It's so cute. I love that phonecall, the one where they yell at each other (is there a better Dean than cranky, over-caffinated Dean? No, there is not.), and you can see why he's like a father, because Dean would never have yelled at John like that. And John would never have taken it the way Bobby did--just yelling back, and not making him feel like he'd failed for not having an answer or being stronger.

John, for the record, my dislike of you is still strong. Please to be coming back so Bobby can menace you with a shotgun some more.

Also, Sam killed a dude with his brain. AWESOMESAUCE! It may be a sign of impending powers and blah blah blah, but I am still stuck on the way he killed that guy and didn't blink. and nobody else seems to care either. You fuck with one of them, and Samm will kill you. With his brain.

Also, Dean was smart (except when he drank the beer, but then he was hot), and it was just very excellent. There might have been some future plotting and some such going on, but I have no idea.

DEEAN!

I expect to die from excitement in the next week, because if next Thursday's ep is not fantasticly awesome, I will cry forever.

I think selfless is how I'd best describe myself

luzdeestrellas@insanejournal.com — Mon, 14 Jan 2008 00:58:59 GMT

There are other things I keep meaning to post about, but I think we can all agree this is the most important.

In honour of the excellently momentous Giants victory (which I am completely responsible for, btw), I am here to tell you that Victoria's list of awesome fic has been updated.

You can thank me any time you like, darlin'. *beams*

luzdeestrellas@insanejournal.com — Mon, 31 Dec 2007 16:33:46 GMT

Okay, I have writing to do, and maybe at some point an end of year fic round up thing (I suspect that might be done next year, but whatever), but first, the begging part of this post.

These are not for me, but if you have any of them and you wouldn't mind sharing, my friend, who is currently somewhere drunk, I imagine, in australia, would be very happy, and I would love you a lot:
John Butler Trio - Better Than
Maroon 5 - Wake Up Call
Babyshambles - Delivery
Palladium - High 5
Anthony and the Johnsons - Hope There's Someone

***

And now the awesome part of my post. My spn_holidays story went up yesterday, and apparently, somebody somewhere likes me, because it's really very excellent, and if you're a Sam/Dean fan, I think you'll love it, too. It's Punxsutawney by astolat. It's got a very cool set up, and a Dean voice I completely adore, and a Sam/Dean relationship that utterly melted me. Really, it's everything and more I could've wanted when I signed up, sweet and occasionally hurty, and full of so much Sam and Dean love I can't textually render it. I keep rereading parts of it and being delighted all over again.

And also, because astolat is obviously awesome, when you're done with that, you should totally go read Winter, which is an absolutely lovely and sweet Sam/Dean first time story, with snow and a cabin, and again with the superb Dean voice. Sigh.

***

Now, maybe I will finish my own story, and fit getting ready to go out in there as well. Or maybe I'll go find the cake I know is around here somewhere, instead.

Happy new year, guys.

He likes to sing along

luzdeestrellas@insanejournal.com — Wed, 26 Dec 2007 17:42:46 GMT

Seriously, where has The Lies of Locke Lamora been all my life? I am completely enthralled, but I'm going to put it down any minute now. I can feel it.

However, despite it's goodness, and believe me when I tell you it's good, that is not the point of this post. No, the point is... I MIGHT GO SEE BRUCE IN MAY! Excuse me while I take some time to flail about this. We were in the pub the other night, and S was like, "Oh, yeah, I would maybe quite like to see him. I nearly phoned you to tell you, but I thought you already knew." To which, naturally, I spluttered indignatntly, because, really, if I'd known, like we wouldn't already have tickets. Anyway, now C's coming to, and maybe we'll go to Manchester or Cardiff. Or Barcelona, if I can convince them of the awesomeness of that plan.

OMG, BRUCE!

Fic: Supernatural, The Wake Up Call (Sam/Dean, PG)

luzdeestrellas@insanejournal.com — Wed, 12 Dec 2007 15:23:40 GMT

Title: The Wake Up Call
Author: luzdeestrellas
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 5,578
Summary: it doesn't make it any less weird when he wakes, from the kind of sleep that's more like a coma, and finds Sam sliding into bed with him.

Notes:Written, slightly ~~very~~ belatedly for The Supernatural-West wing title Challenge. Beta thanks to merryish who is awesome, even factoring in her weird aversion to run on sentences, and to musesfool, who made this a much better story than it was, and who put up with a lot more whining than anyone only mortal should ever have to, and who is generally delightful and delicious.

***

The Wake Up Call

It happens somewhere between Tennessee and South Carolina, which is about right. As far as Dean can figure it, South Carolina has only ever given him the worst case of food poisoning he's ever had, and a run in with a witch that he still tries not to think about (when Sam asks about the scar, he lies, says he got caught on a fence. It's not the best lie he's ever told, but it's better than admitting he was almost disembowelled to save some old woman's cat.). Now, Tennessee is finding out Sam's been working with Ruby all along, and spilling secrets of his own he was kind of hoping to take to hell with him. It would take a lot to be worth noticing in among all that, but Sam losing his mind is pretty much the definition of a lot.

It's not like Dean doesn't get it; Sam died and Dean's on a ticking clock and there's a demon war and maybe the electric chair waiting for them if they ever slip up, but it doesn't make it any weirder when he wakes, from the kind of sleep that's more like a coma, and finds Sam sliding into bed with him.

"We stopped this when you were eight," Dean says, the words coming out like they've been soaked in glue and are making a valiant attempt to stay stuck to his tongue.

"For a couple of years back there, I was allowed to listen to music made after 1985, too." Sam fluffs his pillow, like there's actually something there to be fluffed, and like it's not just some paper-thin motel crap. "Things change, so move the fuck over." It's the most they've said to each other in days, wires of anger stretched dangerous between them, waiting for the smallest pressure to snap them.

Sam attempts to push Dean farther across the bed, and thing is, Dean really wants to knock his elbow back and send Sam sprawling, but there's a tight quality to his voice, gunshot sharp, a lost little brother-ness in the way he crowds Dean that Dean's never forgotten. He's spent a lifetime trying to keep Sam safe from his nightmares, the literal and the figurative, and stopping now isn't written anywhere in his programming, no matter all the reasons this is a bad idea.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he says, and gives in to the pressure at the small of his back. Sam yawns and settles down, catches Dean in the thigh with his knee, hard enough to bruise, and apparently some things don't change at all. "You're gonna be doing my laundry until I say different." Behind him, Sam mumbles something that might be agreement, but is more likely some variation of fuck off and die--except probably not, because Sam's stopped finding those jokes funny these days.

His breathing steadies soon enough, until it's deep and even, the rhythm of it as familiar as Dean's own, and Dean falls asleep with his hand curled a little looser around his knife, and Sam's hand not quite curled in the back of his t-shirt, the fear that's been gnawing at his gut quieted for the first time in days.

Hours later, he wakes with a crick in his neck, and he's so hard it's like he's wielding a deadly weapon, but he tells himself there's nothing new about that. It doesn't help that he has to spend five minutes wriggling out from under the Sam-sized blanket he's acquired, and he'd kick Sam onto the floor just on principle, but he looks kind of peaceful for once, flopping right over into Dean's vacated space. Dean starts up the shower, content that his brotherly duty has been taken care of. He doesn't think about dodged bullets as he jerks himself off, tries to forget the sleepy, clean smell of Sam, comfort and want distilled straight into his bloodstream.

When he gets out, Sam's rummaging around for clothes, some local talk show on in the background, and all he says is, "There's a woman having a baby with her boyfriend's father while she's sleeping with his aunt. Or...something. I'm starting to feel all warm and fuzzy about the supernatural," like the fights over Sam's anger, or putting their lot in with a demon, never happened.

"All that book learnin' done gone made you uppity," Dean says, his best southern drawl, and Sam laughs, happiness that spreads through Dean, too. When he ducks past Dean, already stripping off his shirt, Dean's too drawn by his smile to jerk away from the hit Sam aims at his shoulder.

"I want pancakes," Sam says, still smiling, and Dean has a stupid, crazy moment when he thinks everything's going to be fine.

But after that, it's like Sam figures it's on the list of things they do: kill monsters, eat all the fried food Dean can find, and now, sleep together.

It's not like it happens all at once--they're in New Mexico by the time it happens again, a week later, and Sam's head is damp with sweat, his breath a helpless hitch right in Dean's ear when Dean jerks out of sleep.

"For fuck's sake," he says, but he lifts the covers anyway, curls a hand over the top of Sam's shoulder before turning his back.

Sam's eyes are still shadowed in the morning, his hands on Dean every chance he gets, like he's afraid Dean might disappear unless he keeps holding on to him. Dean gets it, drove out of Wyoming making excuse after excuse to keep Sam under his fingers, only Sam's hands are huge, sure and impossible to ignore, and every touch feels like a plea, a question Dean can't answer.

"Stop fucking doing that," he finally says, shaking Sam's hand off his arm, and it's not what he means at all. It's just that Sam's everything, like water and oxygen and gas in the Impala, and he still won't be enough to keep him in the world when the time comes. Sometimes, Dean's not sure which part scares him most.

"Right. NO PDA. I forgot that," he says, smiling and shoving his hands in his pockets, as if Dean didn't hurt him at all. "I'll go track us down a case while you regain your masculinity."

Sam can lie to the whole world, could probably lie to whatever god he believes in and take him in in a heartbeat, but Dean spent years trying to keep Sam out of trouble with Dad, and he's learned better perception by necessity. "Sam, you can't--"

Sam cuts him off before he can explain one more time about the whole Sam dying if he keeps trying to save him (and maybe that's not true, because whoever the hell's holding the contract isn't exactly being forthcoming, as Sam keeps pointing out), smacks him on the head as he goes by. Dean feels as if he's unspooling like a tape, Sam's fingers wrapped around his hope and his fear and everything he needs to keep locked down. He won't be able to reel himself back in if Sam keeps going, and he can't explain to Sam that one day he might need a pencil because Dean lost his grip a while back.

He fucks and he hunts, fills the hours while Sam researches and pretends not to, sure if he fakes okay long enough, it'll eventually be true.

Illinois blows it all apart. It's partly Dean's fault this time, the voice of an old woman, thin as silk, still echoing in Dean's head days later with promises of hellfire and torture he can't forget. He's never seen Sam so angry, felt the fury like an air current he was wrapped up in; he's pretty sure Sam would have shot her, if the colt hadn't been safely tucked in the back of Dean's jeans.

He keeps looking at Sam all the way back to the motel, questions he's too afraid to ask bubbling up anyway. "You, uh," he says, finally, not even sure where he's going with it, and Sam cuts him off.

"Don't," he says, and glances at him, and Dean's chest goes painful and tight, in a way he associates with rawheads and electric shocks. Sam looks broken open, like someone took a crowbar and let his insides spill out, left him bruised and beaten and bloody. In his life, Dean's never, ever wanted to be the reason Sam looks like that, and for a moment, he can't even remember how to breathe.

It's all the opportunity Sam needs to roll over him, words that sound like they burn Sam's throat and fall on Dean like acid. "It's not going darkside, or coming back wrong, or whatever the fuck. It's just." He drops his head to the window, and Dean drives. They both lie awake all night, until Dean bridges the gap and climbs in to bed behind him.

"I was fucking sleeping," Sam says.

"Liar." Dean touches his fingers to the skin of Sam's wrist, feels the pulse beating there, the staccato rhythm of everything he's done right. In the dark, he says, "I'm sorry."

Sam doesn't say anything for a long time, and Dean doesn't push, just lies and breathes him in. "I won't be able to bring you back," Sam says finally, his voice all tied up with the little kid who used to freak out when Dean left for school without him. "When you're gone, that's it, and I won't be able to bring you back."

"Yeah," Dean says. "Fuck, Sammy." They don't say anything more, and in the morning, they pretend there's nothing to talk about, but Dean falls asleep, his fingers still wrapped around Sam's wrist, like Sam's pulse can be enough for both of them.

After that, it's pretty much whenever Sam wants, which, apparently, is a lot of the time. Dean remembers when they were kids, and it was a fight just to get him to share a room, but now whenever Dean protests, Sam is all logic and matter-of-fact, like of course this is what they should be doing. It's cold, he says, which is true, because October's sneaking up on them, like they're the ones being hunted this time. I sleep better--also true, and, though he'll never admit it, Dean does, too, like his brain's only ever been waiting for the confirmation that Sam's right there.

"It's fucking weird, is what it is," he says, as Sam takes a hundred years wriggling around to find a position that's comfortable, which is hardly unreasonable, no matter how much Dean bitches: the beds aren't big enough for Sam's freakass size at the best of times, never mind when Dean's there, too. It makes it a whole lot harder for Dean to pretend they're still kids, or that his skin isn't stretched too tight with wanting all the goddamn time. He's woken up more mornings than he can count since this started, hard and needing, his mouth full of his brother's name, just waiting there to tumble out and fuck him up for real.

"Yes, of course." Sam digs an elbow into Dean's kidneys, and Dean honestly can't be sure if that's intentional or not. "I'm so sorry I introduced the element of strange into our lives."

"I used to beg Dad to beat you more as a kid." This time, the elbow is definitely deliberate, and the breath of laughter Sam huffs against his neck makes Dean shiver. Dean keeps talking, trying to cover, listening for Sam's smile. "Seriously, just, like, once a week, you know? Even offered to do it myself."

"I could totally have taken you." He's finally stopped moving, stretched out behind Dean, so close that Dean can feel every inch of him, is almost touching him everywhere, and Dean keeps being surprised by it, somehow--that Sam isn't a kid, is tall and strong and capable. Big enough to hold Dean's world up, if Dean would let him.

"Yeah, well," he says, same way he does every night. "Just don't forget the many ways I'll kill you if you come any closer."

"Your aversion to physical contact is a manifestation of your other major issues, you know," Sam says, or at least, Dean thinks that's what he's aiming at; Sam's reached the point in the proceedings where wrapping his mouth around distinguishable sounds is more effort than he's willing to put in.

"Shut the fuck up."

Sam drops his hand to Dean's hip, worries his thumb over the bone for a second, because even if words are too much, pissing Dean off never is. Dean feels a little ragged, like Sam's tattooing all the codes to unlock him right on his skin, but he lies perfectly still, can't pull away and let Sam win, and maybe doesn't want to as much as he should.

Mostly, he can live with it. Sam doesn't touch him, not deliberately, anyway, though Dean'll probably die happy if he never wakes up again with Sam's stupid pointy knees and elbows digging into the most painful places Sam can find. But sometimes--when they've bypassed exhausted and moved straight into nearly dead territory, or when Bobby calls and Sam's eyes light with hope, only for the spark to die out a few hours later--he forgets, curls against Dean, his head against his shoulder, and his arm draped over his chest, breathing warm and deep against his skin.

"We could buy you a teddy bear," Dean says, the first time he does it, but it's half-hearted. Since Gordon, Sam's stayed close, taken comfort like he used to when he was a kid, and hugs and hair ruffles were all he needed to make things better. Dean likes that pretense, can't offer Sam anything else, and the part of him that would have made the deal for no time at all would do a lot more to take the haunted look from Sam's eyes. The part of him that knows a year will never be enough just wants, wants Sam near and everything he'll give, a nameless ache under every inch of his skin.

"I used to chew on the one I had," Sam says, and Dean really doesn't need to think about that, can't even mock properly, either, not when Sam's sprawling right into his space like he gets it, too. "I'm not gonna let them have you," he says, and then, "Ruby knows a way," and Dean's hands are tight on his shoulders before he's even part way through.

"Don't you even," he says, shake in his voice he can feel all through him. "Don't you even."

"You would."

Dean likes it better when Sam's pissed, when he's mad like he should be, because the desperation is too familiar for Dean to ignore. "I'm an idiot, remember?"

Sam doesn't say anything, just burrows in, his face pushed hard against Dean's neck, and Dean rests his chin on his head, his hand in his hair, only because it's the most convenient place there is for it.

"I have a whole lot more of those fairy tales I know you like," Dean says. "Goldie Cocks and the Three Whores. Don't tell me you haven't heard that," and Sam almost laughs, says, "Pervert," thick and mumbled into Dean's skin. If he touches Dean more than usual, like he's claiming him, Dean pretends not to notice.

It's still better than the mornings when Dean wakes up wrapped around Sam, his hand pressed firmly to Sam's back, pulling him close like safety is measured in the points of vertebrae he can feel beneath his fingers, and the in-out rhythm of Sam's breath against his neck. Even on waking, he can tell how tight he's been holding, his comfort and desperation mixed up with sleep and need, and Sam doesn't pull away, tucks against him like they have nothing to fear and nowhere to be. Dean always jerks out of reach like Sam's some sort of freak offspring of Phyllis Diller and Howard Stern, heart beating too fast, the hard line of his cock the one secret he still has to keep, and sometimes he can feel Sam's grin following him all the way to the shower, a spreading patch of light between his shoulders.

"I'm so glad you've finally decided to cuddle, Dean," Sam says the morning after the hunt with the crazy undertaker, when Dean hasn't been quick enough to get to the bathroom before Sam can latch onto him, and Dean would really like to know when the hell Sam really did develop octopus arms. He's sleepy and shivering, motel carpet filthy and scratchy beneath his bare feet, and Sam's instantly right behind him, flopping all over him, face pushed right against his neck. "Doctor Phil would be so proud." His laughter tickles Dean's skin, bubbling inside him like it's his own. It's almost okay that it's November, this payment for each month Dean has left, and it's a little like being drunk when Sam's like this, warm happiness and something else--something he won't let himself name, like the feeling when he's laughed too long, off balance and untethered, helpless and giddy.

"I will feed your balls to Bobby's dogs if you don't get the hell off me," he says, flailing his arms back. Sam just squeezes him once more, his gargantuan hands spread out all over his chest, and then he ducks past Dean to beat him to the bathroom, humming some song Dean doesn't recognize under his breath, and Dean can almost taste the shape of it in his mouth.

He goes out for coffee, doesn't think about things he'll never have and shouldn't want, and they go on like they always have, holding on because it's all they know how to do, like it might make a difference when it never has before.

***

It's mostly just that they're so tired they can hardly speak, Sam frustrated he hasn't somehow gotten one over on time, hasn't found answers that don't exist. And tonight, there's a dead werewolf, an angry cut down Sam's stomach, and Dean just--sometimes it's happiness and easy smiles, and sometimes it's this, like the world is rooted in Sam, and Dean's carrying it around in his chest, a desperate, squeezing fit, and he can't breathe past it, can't do anything but open himself up and let it power through him. He wraps his hands around Sam's wrists, can't even shake him, and Sam says, "Jesus, I know, all right?" as if Dean's chewing him out instead of having some kind of nervous collapse by the side of a deserted road.

He flips his wrists to get free, and Dean's off balance for a second before Sam's fingers are on his shoulders, and then Sam's kissing him, like he slipped, like the world tilted and their mouths aligned because there was nowhere else for them to end up. It's a bright flash of heat, like the click of Dean's lighter sparking flame in the night, and Dean's caught, Sam's hands anchoring him, the shimmering warmth of his body wherever it touches him. It's only a second before he pulls away, but he feels it everywhere, like the curlicues of Sam's name have made their way into his blood, multiplying there, more vital than the cells he used to have.

"How much fucking blood did you lose, anyway?" he says, because it's all he can think to.

"A lot. I guess," Sam says, his words more like grinding metal than anything Dean wants to hear.

Dean stitches him up later, thirteen of them while Sam grits his teeth and gives Dean a detailed description of all the many ways he can fuck himself, and Dean doesn't think about the heat of Sam's skin beneath his hand, the way his muscles stretch as Sam breathes. He doesn't measure every inch of Sam--it used to be enough that he was tall, built for fighting even if he never wanted to, but now it's a reminder the kid Dean half raised is gone, though the power to make Dean stupid and lost hasn't. What's left is dangerous and terrifying.

"Dean, man," Sam says, eyes already closed, pills and pain knocking him for a loop.

"Go to sleep, Sammy," Dean tells him, and Sam does, just like that.

Dean doesn't for a long time, lies under the covers of his own bed, feeling like one of those puzzle pieces Sam used to love, the ones he could do in five minutes flat.

They don't talk about it the next day, and it's all business as usual--Sam does research Dean wishes he wouldn't, and Dean looks for demonic patterns, and Dean bets Sam driving privileges the Bears will kick the Giants' asses. When they don't, Sam cackles, an honest to God cackle, and Dean says, "Aw, come on, I don't have many driving chances left."

He thinks he's gone too far, still lets his mouth run because it's the only thing that can, but Sam just grins. "Shoulda thought of that, jackass. Keys."

Dean's on the verge of refusing; it's expected, but they're in his jeans and Sam'll fight him for them, and Dean's more than a little terrified--more than a little desperate--to have his hands all over Sam again, to have Sam's all over him. He throws the keys and Sam catches without looking, eyebrows raised, and it's all perfectly normal, except now Dean knows things he shouldn't, the curl of Sam's tongue and the way he breathes against Dean's mouth, and it's more dangerous than all the other things he was never supposed to know.

He wants to drink until there's nothing in his body but alcohol, fuck himself stupid and get lost in the kind of women he loves, long hair and pretty smiles, tits and pussy his mouth was made for, until the taste of whiskey and tequila and sex is all he knows, drowning out the feel of his brother's tongue against his. If he's really lucky, he'll fall over and smash his head open, forget he ever knew what it felt like to feel Sam tremble and know it was because of him.

"Don't go," Sam says, while Dean shrugs his jacket on and feels in his jeans for his wallet.

"I checked the closet and under the bed. There's nothing there."

"Bite me." Sam kicks his feet up on the desk, and Dean focuses on the hole in the heel of his sock--or Dean's sock, actually, because he's pretty sure it's his. "I'm sorry about last night."

Dean should've known better. Sam never forgets anything, never does the smart thing and skirts around the issue if he can talk it to death, instead. He waves a hand, his other already brushing the door handle. "Forget it. It's been a rough--week, year, whatever." Sam's got that earnest look, eyebrows drawing together and mouth turned down. "Seriously, Sammy. On the list of weird shit that's happened to us, it doesn't even make the top hundred."

"Yeah?" Sam says, kind of non-committal. Dean nods, and Sam grins. "Then you should stay. 'S'not like I got many more opportunities to ask you, right?"

It's long past time he had that turned around on him, but for a second, he's too surprised to even remember what a comeback is. "You're such a little fucker," he says eventually, and by then, Sam's already shutting the laptop, and Dean can't pass that up, won't put that hopeless look back in Sam's eyes any sooner than he has to, no matter how badly he's fucked up everything else. Still doesn't mean he's going to stay in, Sam only feet away, his voice creeping under Dean's skin like water.

"Come with," he says, and when Sam just looks at him, he shrugs. "You can pick where we go."

Sam grins and snatches the keys off the desk. "Driver picks the music."

He threatens Dean with Coldplay, but even Sam's musical taste isn't that bad, and in the end, it's Pearl Jam he slips into the tape deck. Dean hasn't ever hated them as much as he tells Sam, and Sam knows it, so when Rearviewmirror comes on, Dean just grins as he turns the radio up. He rolls the window down, and Sam bitches about the cold, but it's good, Sam singing along and forgetting every other word, some weird genetic thing because Dad used to do it, too, no matter how many rituals and obscure facts he could pull out of his head like flipping a switch. Sam's got his foot right against the floor, making his baby fly, even though they're in no hurry, just because that's how she feels best: outrunning every stoplight and every evil thing, the world rushing up to meet them and opening out before them.

"You got a plan, Bullitt?" He doesn't really care, is content to do this, like when they were kids and Dean would take them driving. He likes pretending they've got as much time as road, the only thing stopping them going forever the amount of gas in the tank.

Sam just grins, and it's another half hour before he pulls in to an all-night convenience store. When he comes out, he tosses a bag at Dean. Inside, there's a whole lot of beer, Cheetos and M&Ms for Dean, about a gazillion Gummi sweets for Sam, and--

"Dude," Dean says, looking over at him.

"There's a place not far from here perfect for making s'mores," he says, and Dean just stares at him.

"Uh, I don't know if you've noticed, but it's not actually the time of year for that--not when it's fifty below."

Sam clears his throat and looks away. "If it's too cold for you..."

"Fucking drive." He reaches out, slides his palm across Sam's neck for a second before they're moving again.

Sam's perfect place is pretty much just a huge field, woods close enough to get fuel, and not close enough that they're gonna burn anything important down. It smells like winter, and fuck if Dean doesn't want that not to be true, but the air's cold in his lungs, crisp and clean; he's always loved it, the way it isn't promising anything, isn't full of endings, just cold snap of happiness that never faded, even after Mom.

Sam lights the fire, and the smoke spirals into the air, and Dean sits by him, shoulders touching for warmth as he holds his marshmallow over the flames.

"You're probably breaking the law, Sammy. City ordinances and bylaws and whatever else."

"Yeah." Sam burns his mouth and downs half of Dean's beer instead of his own. "That's what they're gonna remember us for when they catch us." Dean opens his mouth, an argument that's already old about getting the Feds off their backs--off Sam's--and Sam pokes him in the leg. "Don't wanna hear it." He's warm through two layers of denim, his hand curled tight around his bottle. He balances it on Dean's leg, his thumb moving along Dean's jeans as he scratches at the label, just like he always does.

Dean clears his throat, feeling every breath Sam takes like they're his own. "It'd just be sad, is all, if that's how they caught us. 'Cause you can't make s'mores for shit."

The tension leaves Sam, and he grins. "I'm not the one--"

"You're really not still talking about this, are you?"

"--who set fire to Dad's leather jacket."

"Firstly, I did not do that. It was only, like, a little bit. And secondly, it was all your fault." He unscrews his flask while they talk--full of good whiskey, because Dean isn't about to spend his last year drinking the cheap shit he normally fills it with--shoves a couple handfuls of Sam's sweets into his mouth and washes them down, flipping Sam off when he makes a disgusted sound. "Gummi liqueur, man. Very high class."

Sam throws Cheetos at his head, because the little geek has never appreciated the finer things in life, but he takes the flask when Dean offers, sits back against Dean's side, easy and companionable like there's nothing between them but the cold. Dean measures out time in their dwindling supply of alcohol, in the rise and fall of Sam's words, the way he's always turning in towards Dean, eyes wide and bright, hands constantly reaching for him.

"I think there's a very real possibility I'm at the beginning of an awesome winning streak," Sam says, pulling his last beer from the pack. Dean glances over, eyebrows raised, and Sam dumps strips of beer wrapper on his jeans. "I called Bobby today."

"Aw, shut the fuck up. I do not need to hear this."

"No, seriously, I'm pretty sure he wasn't alone." The light of the fire catches in the corners of his smile, like it's finding secret places to hide, and his voice fills up the night. "There was all kinds of, you know, rustling and...furtiveness."

"Maybe it was his dogs, you freak."

"Nope. You're gonna have to pay up that two hundred dollars--" he pauses for a second, all mock serious. "And admit that he only stopped wearing that cap to make Ellen happy. I mean, seriously, he wasn't gonna wear it during--"

"I will jump in that fire if you don't stop talking. I think I might do it anyway, because there's an image that just won't die."

Sam laughs, loud and warm, and Dean stretches up to touch him, just to smack his head, or whatever, instinct and what he's spent his life doing, but Sam leans forward to get more marshmallows at the same time, and he's so close, Sam's laughter might as well be Dean's. Dean can smell the cheap motel shampoo Sam used that morning, even over the smoke, remembers how the world tilted before, only now it's like being pitched overboard. He thinks about reaching out, holding onto Sam and letting all the consequences go to hell right along with him. He can already taste Sam, sticky sweet, smoky warmth on his tongue, sliding down his throat.

"Dean?" Sam says, kind of breathes it out as if it's all the air in his lungs, and Dean shakes his head.

"Still think you're delusional, Sammy, and I ain't paying up until you have proof."

He makes to move, stands with nowhere to go, knows he could never leave, anyway. "Gotta--the fire--" And then Sam's hands are in his shirt, whiskey on his breath, and Dean thinks of haunted motels and promises, and how Sam's never learned not to take what he wants.

Dean breathes him in, feels his heart beat against his side. Then he uncurls Sam's hands from his shirt, but Sam steps right in. He reaches out, fits his hands over Dean's hips like he'd hold a gun, sure and steady and deadly. "Just once," he says. "'Cause I'm drunk and you're dying, and because you're chickenshit."

When he kisses him, Dean meets him, instinctive as grabbing on for help when he's drowning, and all he can think is that it's not once; it's twice, and twice makes a fucking pattern, the kind of thing they hunt down and burn the hell out of. Sam slides his tongue past Dean's lips, whiskey sharp and fierce, one hand pressed flat and warm against Dean's back. Dean knows he should pull away, but Sam holds fast, turns Dean inside out, and Dean is too tired to do what he knows he should.

By the time he's got himself under control, he's shaking, like he's been running for miles, and Sam won't take his hands off his face, keeps running his thumbs over his cheekbones, the curve of his mouth, like he can make this okay.

"It's not," Dean says, though he'd let Sam convince him of anything--has. Snuck out of windows to take him to debate camp, of all things. Stole comics. Took him to the bus station when every instinct told him to make Sam stay.

"It's totally okay," Sam says, and the curl of his voice sounds like victory. "Christ, Dean," He laughs, like daylight rushing in. "You gotta stop fighting me all the damn time."

"This isn't ever what I'm supposed to do to you," he says, and he doesn't think he'll ever work Sam out from under his skin, ever untangle them enough.

Sam bites his lip, and Dean looks away, and then Sam's pushing the keys into his hand.

"You should drive," he says, and Dean's never been so glad to have the wheel to wrap his fingers around.

He's not exactly under the limit, but he's never crashed her, and he never will. He gets them back safely, and in the motel room, Sam moves around too quietly, like Dean'll spook if he isn't careful around him.

Before he gets into bed, he glances over at Dean and says, "In your life, have you ever been able to do anything to me I didn't want?"

Dean goes into the bathroom, his heart hammering in his chest, and he brushes his teeth again and again, like some fucked up version of that Macbeth chick. It's so ridiculous and emo he makes himself laugh, nearly chokes on a mouthful of foamy toothpaste.

He comes back out, looks at the gargantuan expanse of Sam, pretending to be asleep, and Dean knows he's not, because Dean knows everything about him, always has, learned it like an art form and like breathing, because Sam always ran too deep for him to do anything else.

"Move the fuck over," and it feels like everything's changed and nothing has.

Sam turns to look at him, lights from the parking lot picking out the hope on his face. "I meant what I said. You've never--"

"Sam, shut up," and then he pushes him across the mattress, catches the side of his mouth, sloppy and messy until Sam turns his head, and Dean curls his hands in his hair, holding on and almost more scared than he's ever been in his life.

"Are you gonna want to talk about this?" Sam asks, in a stupid voice that sounds nothing like Dean's, and the laughter spills out of Dean. Sam smiles back, and everything else--fires and death and gravesides, long stretches of road and bitter promises, all the definitions of his life--none of it ever means anything, not set against that.

"Your impression sucks," he says, and then he kisses him again.

***

***

Feedback is treasured.

If I could have your attention, please

luzdeestrellas@insanejournal.com — Mon, 22 Oct 2007 02:09:31 GMT

I have an announcement. It's a very serious one.

Ahem.

merryish is always right. I was very, very wrong to doubt her, even for a second, and I will never do so again as long as I live.

Thank you.

luzdeestrellas@insanejournal.com — Sun, 21 Oct 2007 16:12:58 GMT

Man, FNL is still awesome. It really, really is. This ep didn't exactly make me happy, but it almost universally worked for me.

Okay, I have read some reactions, and I can see where a lot of them are coming from--I think Coach being away is stupid. I always did, and I think, given how they've handled it, having him stay and live with doing that might've been more interesting. But I also think it's realistic that he left. They thought they were strong enough to make it work, and their closeness is exactly why it doesn't.

I hate and also love that everyone is so screwed right now, and the team is an awesome mirror of that. It's not just football holding everything together, it's Coach. Take him out, and everything just goes to hell. And I think that's why I loved this ep, because even while it all fell apart, there was hope. You knew, the moment he watched that game, he was coming back, and this makes me unbelievably happy.

Matt fighting Smash on the field didn't feel incredibly OOC, to me. A little bit, given that I don't think there's been enough of the team or that conflict, but he's taken crap from absolutely every area of his life, and the people he'd normally talk to about any of it (Smash might well have numbered among them) aren't there anymore. He's a teenager, too. At some point, if he just kept on being cute and adorable, I'd start not to believe that. Also, dude, was Matt apologising to Coach for the break up the cutest thing anyone has ever seen? I think it might've been.

Julie is still a bitch, but still, imo, believably so. It's been eight months from the end of the last and the start of this season. Her father's away; there's a new kid; and, dude, she's sixteen. I liked last season's Julie a lot more, and I hope she'll go back to that, but I can understand why she's different, atm. And God, Tami at the end. Wah! She has been rocking these last few eps, and I love that this time, she cried and he was there.

I like Carlotta much more than I thought I would when I heard they were introducing a love interest for Matt, because I was worried it was just more of the whole soap drama thing they seemed to be heading for, but she fits in well, I think. Is it adding conflict? A little bit, yeah, but it's not like the idea wasn't floated last year, or like Matt struggling to cope hasn't been a central story point for a long time. And no matter what, whether it was someone at school, or them just drifting apart naturally, Matt and Julie weren't going to continue as cute and happy as they were. It wouldn't have made particularly good TV, not the way that Tami and Eric as a happily married couple does, and I also wouldn't have bought it. They're sixteen. It's already been almost a year, and for sixteen-yos, that's a lifetime. I am not OTP enough about Matt and Julie, not at this stage in their lives anyway, to be upset if they get together with other people.

I agree The singing at the end was a little stereotypical, but I haven't been aware of them playing her like that for the rest of the time, so I'm hopeful they'll make her a fully drawn character, and the way she grew up is obviously going to be part of that.

I only have three major quibbles--the Tyra/Landry is still ridiculous. I really do want to forward through it every time they're on screen together, which is sad, because their scenes are still played really well and are mostly sweet. It's just that nothing happening now couldn't still have happened without the murder, and the murder overshadows the cuteness and the sweetness. Sigh. It bothers me especially because without it, I would watch the eps with almost the same enjoyment as last season.

Well, except for number 2, which is the sudden and inexplicable (unless I missed something) disappearance of Waverley. Please to be explaining that soon.

And number 3, which is still the new coach. I still feel like I did at the beginning, that they could have made him less oMG evil! I understand why they did that--they need to bring Coach back, and they can't do that if they've already got a good coach, but it does make it all seem a little contrived, and their ability to draw unlikeable characters with layers seems to have disappeared.

I dunno. I am the last person in the world who should say this, because I understand completely freaking out and panicking, but I think waiting it out is the only way to go. They're working under a lot of expectation, and--kind of like SPN--they're also starting almost from a clean slate. They won State, so....now what? I am willing to give them a couple more eps to find their feet, you know?

I am so shocked to be dealing with this like a reasonable person.

Also, did I mention? Coach is coming back! I am very excited for next week.

***

Stardust was pretty awesome. I didn't love it like I did the book, and I don't think it's as good as The Princess Bride, but it was still funny and enjoyable and sweet. I actually now see where some of the gender complaints were coming from, though I am pleased to see that most of what bothered me were changes from the book.

Yvaine felt a lot more passive to me than she is in the book, and that thing at the end, where she can save them because he loves her blah blah blah always rubs me wrong. Um, hello? Let's give her some power of her own, yeah? Some of it's also time, I'm sure, but she wasn't nearly as angry or sarcastic or unaccepting of Tristran as she was in the book, which really makes no sense, given that he enslaved her. And Triston's mother was less interesting (in the book she goes on to rule, right? I'm not making that up?). Why Una couldn't have helped Tristran during the fight at the end I still don't know. And perhaps, you know, as a thought, if Yvaine had been taught to fight when Tristran had, she wouldn't have been so vulnerable and in need of rescue.

I also really didn't like Victoria. In the book she still seems bitchy at the beginning, but by the end, her motivations are revealed and that mostly changes. She's actually honourable, because she's willing to keep her promise. Um, not in the movie. I think I loathed her by the end.

The witches, oddly maybe, don't bother me as much as everyone else. I'd rather they'd stressed the power rather than the beauty (or, you know, at all), but I don't entirely have a problem with her not being fussed her sister's were dead. It's not like sibling loyalty is something valued by the others we see, you know?

Anyway, I think it's still enjoyable as a movie, but it did take some of the shine off.

How is that good?

luzdeestrellas@insanejournal.com — Sat, 20 Oct 2007 13:47:00 GMT

I have only very brief thoughts on SPN 3.03. Mostly, they could be summarised like this: OMG MY SHOW! OMG, I LOVE MY SHOW!!!11!

Or Alternatively: 1. Can ben write every episode ever? please?

2. I lost my shoe! I lost my shoe! His little Sam face! And his little tragic voice! And Dean's reaction. I keep thinking about it and laughing. Sam was so adorable all through this. Oh, and I love that he told Dean straight away about Ruby.

3. Nothing Dean did was not made of win. "I'm Batman!" "My gun don't jam!" His whole bullshit I can read people. He was so hot. And such an awesome big brother. "Don't turn off the light. Don't turn on the light. Don't even scratch your nose." Sigh.

4. All that togetherness! They were such brothers, and so hilarious and so perfectly slotted back into little brother and big brother roles.

5. Our show is back! For real.

***

Possibly, I will see Stardust tonight. In the meantime, I have FNL to watch, and Dirty Sexy Money. Not a third viewing of SPN. That would just be unnecessary.

Apparently, this has not been my week

luzdeestrellas@insanejournal.com — Thu, 18 Oct 2007 23:34:37 GMT

*dies* So I resubmitted my Yuletide form, and I'm kind of tired and was maybe in a bit of a hurry. I've just received the email. Dude, I have written requests like a crazy person.

The requests themselves are fine (or at least, I hope they are), but the writing, um, is not. I look like I have still to discover the concepts of sentence structure and...sense.

Sorry, magical secret santa, if you end up reading this. I'm normally only this stupid every third day or so.

***

Also, it's Thursday. I am ~~nervous~~ excited.

***

Now, I'm going to preview this entry, which hopefully means I'll only need to edit it three times.

Scattered thoughts and promises

luzdeestrellas@insanejournal.com — Wed, 17 Oct 2007 18:33:44 GMT

Insta!rec

20 Hours in America "> by [Bad username: musesfool"]
Sam/Dean. An hour at a time, for each hour Dean has left.

This is Dean's last day before the deal comes due, and I can't praise it highly enough. It's overflowing with Sam and Dean love, all these absolutely lovely, brotherly moments, and it's so incredibly sad, and yet peaceful, too. I've read it three or four times now, and it's still making me sniffly. Without a doubt, one of the best stories dealing with this period of time I've read.

He's got an electronic copy of the owner's manual (found during some late night Googling he's pretty sure Sam knows about, but probably thinks was for porn) on a flash drive he'll attach to the key ring when he's finally ready to hand the keys over to Sam for good. Bobby will do what he can to keep her running, since Sam's always been indifferent at best to the ins and outs of engines, and Dean knows he's leaving her in the safest possible hands that aren't his. It still stings, though.

"Sam'll take care of you, baby," he whispers, wiping moisture off the mirror with his shirt. "He knows I'll haunt his ass if he doesn't."

***

And I was always going to rec this, but now it's even more important. When you're done with the last story, you should move right ahead to read Flesh for Stone, also by musesfool, which is a really excellent take on the tamlane story for SPN. It's not a sequel to 20 Hours in America at all; it stands completely on its own, but it makes me feel better now. The ending is a thing of awesomeness. Seriously. And as everyone knows, determined, would do anything for Dean!Sam, is my happy place.

***

fic: Supernatural, Here Today (Sam/Dean, PG)

luzdeestrellas@insanejournal.com — Wed, 17 Oct 2007 03:42:10 GMT

Title: Here Today
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Word count: 1,736
Summary: "You were doing what when you ended up with your ass in jail?"

Notes: Written for the Supernatural-West Wing Title Challenge. Thanks to musesfool for the beta.

***

Here Today

"You were what?" Sam was pretty sure he could hear the vein in Dean's forehead throbbing over the phone, and under that, like a frequency only people specially attuned to Dean could hear, the thready note of panic behind his words. "No, really, Sam, you were doing what when you ended up with your ass in jail?"

Sam bit his tongue. No good ever came from staying in wherever the fuck in the middle of backwater central. It was like the law, or something. "Look, man, can we not do this now? I just... Come get me?" He didn't even have to work to sound pitiful, and wouldn't have needed to, to get Dean's attention, anyway. Sam tried not to think about him, alone, pacing in the motel room, worry tightening his mouth, the fear he'd never want Sam to see obvious in the way he played with his ring, making him restless like too much coffee. It made Sam feel even worse than he already did, amped the pain in his head up a couple hundred notches. On the other end of the line, he heard what sounded like the ceiling falling in. "If that was my duffel you just tipped out," he said, "I will kill you."

"Fuck you. Be thankful I'm not giving it away to the first homeless dude I see." There were only twenty seconds left, and Sam gripped the phone a little tighter. Dean sighed. "Yeah, Sammy. I'll be there soon."

Sam almost laughed. It wasn't like he'd doubted for even a second, but hearing Dean say it, in his big brother voice, made him feel better, anyway. "I'll be right here," he said, and then the call cut out before Dean could tell him how stupidly not funny he was.

He was led back to his cell after that, and maybe the universe didn't hate them after all, because this was the kind of town where Barney Fife came down later to do fingerprinting, and where no one seemed to even know there was such a thing as the outside world, but Sam couldn't relax, low-level alarm just waiting to spark into terror at the slightest provocation.

He had a cell to himself, because there was only one other prisoner, who was passed out and snoring in his own cell, and Sam still hated it, hated being enclosed and on display. He wondered how many times Dean had been in jail on his own, whether Dad had always been around to bail him out, and he wondered how many mosquito bites he could get before he went crazy just on principle. He thought about making a list before that happened, carving it into the walls like people in books did, but right now it only had two things--don't end up in jail again, and don't end up in jail without Dean to watch my back.

He'd been there for an hour and a half, or maybe a few years, when he heard the jangle of keys. He looked up to see the guy who'd arrested him--pleasant enough, and the kind of guy Sam wouldn't normally want to beat to death--coming towards him.

"Well, well, well," he said, opening the door. He leant against the wall, eyes assessing Sam. "Looks like you're wanted for more than hanging around the bedrooms of pretty girls." Sam's stomach threatened to do something probably in defiance of all biology and actually leave his body without any kind of invasive surgery, but the cop didn't seem to notice. "Come on."

He gestured impatiently, and Sam held out his hands, allowed himself to be cuffed, and then led along the corridor back to the front office. "Not every day we get the feds in here. And this guy seems pretty keen to get his hands on you."

Sam didn't say anything, forced himself to breathe, even though the low level panic seemed to think it had received quite enough provocation. They passed under lazy spinning fans that didn't actually move any air at all, as far as Sam could tell, and rounded the corner.

"Thank you, Officer Edwards." Sam was too relieved even to smile. Dean stepped forward, in a suit Sam didn't think he recognised, new FBI ID in his hand. "I can take it from here."

Edwards still looked dubious. "I should call--"

Dean sighed, the sigh of a man who didn't like being questioned, and who might possibly ruin your life for doing it. He pulled out his phone, and spoke rapidly before handing it over. "Be my guest," he said.

Edwards took the phone the way Dean handled rats and Sam handled Dean's laundry. Not for the first time, Sam remembered to be thankful that Dean did menacing so well--well enough to prevent small-town cops pointing out that talking to someone on the end of a cellphone didn't prove anything. "Uh, hello. I have an agent--agent Jones--here, says he has authority to take a Mr. Costello from here."

Sam didn't look at Dean as he heard Bobby's voice, sharp as Dad's had ever been, barking over the phone. Edwards nodded, apologised, nodded some more, and hung up. "All yours," he said. "Sorry."

Dean smiled condescendingly. "Just doing your job, I guess. Such as it is." He wrapped his fingers around Sam's wrist, and yanked him forward. "A lot of people are gonna be real happy to see you finally, buddy," he said.

He dragged Sam from the office and didn't look back.

They didn't stop driving for three hundred miles, motel after motel ignored, exits driven by like they weren't even there. Sam couldn't lose the feeling that he was still at the top of some cliff he might fall off of. Dean hadn't spoken, and all the miles of road, all the Zeppelin--as loud as Sam could reasonably take--had done nothing to ease the tension in his shoulders. A muscle jumped in his jaw every time he looked over at Sam, and he hadn't developed the knack of tapping along with the beat again yet.

They finally had to break for gas, and Sam went to take a piss and buy water while Dean filled the car. When he got back, he saw Dean's face crumpled, his hands braced on the car like he might fly apart without the support. Sam felt a little sick. The part of him that didn't know when to back off wanted to go to him, but there were rules, and Sam had spent his life learning them.

He went back inside, bought three packs of M&Ms, and read the first few pages of some trashy magazine. By the time he made it out, Dean was behind the wheel again, game face firmly in place.

"I got you these," Sam said, holding out the candy.

"Damn right you bought me food," Dean said, but his mouth quirked up a little, and when Sam fitted his hand around the back of his neck, he didn't shrug him off. "You're a fucking moron," he said, but he switched out Zeppelin for The Stones, and actually sang along, only occasionally off-key.

***

They stopped in a motel that might have been decorated by a group of over-enthusiastic four-year-olds, and they ate fries and cheeseburgers, greasy and just this side of cooked, exactly the way Dean liked. He knocked their knees together in the space between the beds, grinned at Sam with ketchup on his chin and, somehow, salt in his eyebrows.

"Freak," Sam said, but his chest was tight, and he had to bite his tongue to stop sorry tumbling off it repeatedly.

"If you're brooding," Dean said, "I'm gonna take a shower and hope that you snap out of it or I drown."

Sam didn't have to work much to find the grin, and when Dean emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later, dripping wet and hair sticking up in every possible direction, Sam reached for him, buried his face against Dean's shoulder and breathed him in, the way he was never actually allowed to.

"Oh, Jesus," Dean said, "please, shoot me now." He dropped his chin to the top of Sam's head, though, and Sam smiled against the warm, bare skin of his shoulder.

"Shut the fuck up." Sam held on tighter, grabbed Dean's face so he could pour apologies and thank yous into his mouth, make Dean forget that Sam had ever done anything to freak him out, that he kept doing it, even when it was the last thing he wanted to do. Dean tangled his fingers in Sam's hair, kissed him back, and they fell on the bed in a tangle of limbs and overturned duffles and greasy food wrappers.

"See," Dean said, smacking Sam's head, "this is the bed for storing stuff on, not the bed for violating me on." He pulled a pen from under his back and pointed it at Sam. "You, Sam, completely, completely suck today."

Sam attempted to glare, but it got lost somewhere in Dean's laugh. "Seriously, man, explain to me again how you got arrested."

"Look, I got the wrong number. I thought she was--I thought she was the old man, controlling the spirits. It wasn't like I was trying to see her naked."

Dean pulled him to the other bed, sprawled out and yanked Sam on top of him. "I've never been so proud, Sammy. You are a testament to the advantages of a college education." Sam hit him. "And this?" Dean touched the bruise on Sam's head, squeezing his shoulder when Sam winced. "How'd you get that?"

Sam ducked his head. "Rnngwy," he said. He thought about kissing Dean to distract him, but Dean angled his face away.

"Nope. Didn't catch that. You were what?"

"I. Was. Running. Away." He dropped his head to Dean's shoulder again. "I would've made it, too, except for the part where I sort of maybe tripped over a wall."

Dean's laughter shook them both, joyful in the dimly lit room. "Like I said. You completely suck."

Sam nodded, and didn't look at Dean as he said, "I didn't mean to--"

This time it was Dean's turn to kiss him, his mouth warm and hard against Sam's. "You can make it up to me," he said.

"I might," Sam said, and he kissed the answering smile from Dean's mouth.

***

Feedback is very much loved.

***

Money is the root of all evil

luzdeestrellas@insanejournal.com — Tue, 09 Oct 2007 20:14:53 GMT

I have watched the first two eps of Dirty Sexy Money, and it is pretty awesome. I had my doubts, but I am really glad I gave it a shot. Wierdly, it reminds me a little of Veronica Mars.

I didn't know anything going into this at all, except that Peter Krause worked for a rich family, and I only checked it out because I like Peter Krause, and people said good things. I kind of figured I wouldn't care enough, because rich people--their lives are hard, blah blah blah, and I still feel a little bit like that, but it's funny and engaging and I like Nick a lot. I'm really happy they introduced the murder plot, because halfway through the pilot, I still couldn't figure why he'd stay, and I'm glad he reached that conclusion, too. I'm also pleased that he admitted taking the journal, and that that's out in the open. I mean, I don't think it shuts down that particular line, but I thought there would be a lot more going in circles and hiding before anything was revealed.

They are all oddly compelling, even if many of them need to be slapped about the head. I think Tripp is very cool, and I like Juliet's story a lot--it's nice that she wants to try being independent, but I love that she's actually not doing that at all, and, so far, doesn't want to see that.

I am excited for the next ep, and after two eps of shows that I love left me a little meh, it's nice to be watching something I have no expectations of and no real investment in. Please for it not to be canceled soon.

***

Also, in things that are awesome, Cloud Atlas really is. It was recommended to me years ago--the41st_knight, I think--and I, as is my habit, promptly bought it and left it on the shelf for ages. But I'm reading it now, and loving it. I'm not sure exactly where it's going, but I'm fascinated. It's complex and funny and a nice change from almost anything I've read before. The writing is sharp; I love that each story really does have a different voice, and the way they link is wonderful.

Also, also, because I haven't mentioned it, the new Bruce is fabulous. You have no idea how happy I am to have old school him back. There are guitars! And drums! And sax solos! Gone is the high pitched voice of doom. Um. Yes, I like it. A lot.

What would Tim Riggins do?

luzdeestrellas@insanejournal.com — Sun, 07 Oct 2007 23:23:16 GMT

I have signed up for Yuletide. I'm sort of scared of it, because it produces so many awesome stories. musesfool is entirely to blame, and you should all tell her that when I crash and burn. I don't think I offered anything I'd really regret if I had to write it, but then again, maybe I only think that because I haven't seen what I'll have to write.

I think I'll sign up for spn_holidays, too, and hopefully that should be everything between now and Christmas. I thought about something for Firefly. I haven't written anything for it in a long time, but I haven't seen anything for it, and I figure I'll take that as a sign.

***

In other news, and in things I have been thinking about since Thursday, TV!

First, the SPN premiere.

There were things in The Magnificent Seven I loved--the family that slays together stays together, and Sam's completely matter-of-fact acceptance of it, so certain, and while Dean wasn't even there to hear it; the conversation at the end; and Bobby being awesome. There were also things about it that completely underwhelmed me. Ruby's entrance was pretty much everything I expected it to be, and I get that the fighting with unbound, flowing hair is just what TV does to girls, but it is no less irritating for knowing it. Is she an awesome, competent hunter, or is she not, you know? However--I'll be saying this a lot--it was the first ep. I'm not about to base my entire opinion of her on just that short scene.

The number of people in the ep did take away from the Sam Dean feeling of it, but they had to show that other hunters were involved in this war, and that there's mistrust and blame of Sam and Dean. It was also not as impressive a plot as I think the seven sins could've been; it makes it all the more baffling that it was such a short ep, but there were again some interesting moments--they set up the knife thing, and Sam's powers, and they introduced Ruby. It wasn't great, but it was, in many respects, kind of a pilot episode, so I'm not planning to judge the season on it.

I also, yes, I hope that's as obvious as Dean's whole, "I have a year to live; watch me live it!" thing gets, and I understand that not everyone liked it, or thought it was even in character, but I think 1. Kripke wrote it. Kripke writes some awesome stuff when he's good, but sometimes, he kind of sucks. He sucks especially at dialogue and subtlety, which, you know, is what was needed here. And 2. Dean is an idiot. He didn't want Sam to know why he couldn't look for a way out, and he doesn't fully understand yet how much Sam needs him, and he thinks if he can make Sam believe he's okay, maybe Sam won't go killing himself, literally and metaphorically, chasing down an answer. It's tactless and insensitive; of course it is. But, um, it's Dean. Sometimes he is completely tactless and insensitive.

And just as importantly, he's scared, and the master of denial. For the first four eps of last season, he was angry and hurt and falling apart and pretending not to be. Now, he's just fronting in a different way. He'll freak out eventually, but it's only been five days, and he's got Sam alive and safe, and no demon on his ass. Like everything else, I think they're putting things in motion for later, is all.

I think it was an ep with four months' and two seasons' worth of expectations resting on it,and it was always going to be hard to meet that. Yes, it wasn't as awesome as I would've liked, but it's not fair to compare it to IMToD, imo, because IMToD had answers to give and a resolution to offer. This ep is all setup, so I am okay with it not being the best thing to ever happen on TV.

I do still worry a little that there's going to be less Sam and Dean, with two new characters and even Bobby getting so much more time, but I am also completely spoiled, and some of what's coming up has potential to be absolutely awesome.

***

And then there was FNL.

Um. I knew what I was getting going into this, and I didn't think I was as invested as I apparently am, but I hate the One Tree Hill plot twist. It is illogical and not at all organic, and so obviously a ratings grab. Nothing about it makes sense. In the version I saw, Landry hit the guy while he was attacking Tyra, which made dumping the body stupid, and in the version that went out, he hits the guy as he's walking away, which makes hitting him at all inexplicable, and, imo, utterly out of character for Landry. It doesn't belong in this show, which is about every day life, and how it's the small things that make and break it (Jason aside, but at least that twist was a believable , if horrible, consequence, and it also served the narrative purpose of the story, because so much of this show is about how football affects their lives, both positively and negatively). I just. And the attack itself in Mud Bowl isn't less horrible, but I remember being completely shocked and horrified, and now every time I see it, I will know this happened, and my viewing of it is always going to be impacted by that. It was just so awful when it was this random, senseless act, and now there's all this unnecessary drama of him coming back to stalk her, and, you know, killing him.

This show could have done an awesome job of dealing with Tyra's response to the attack. It does emotional hurt so well, and I would have loved to have that be Tyra's arc, and to see her and Landry come together gradually, and I feel like all of that has just been thrown away.

ANYWAY.

Coach and Mrs. Coach! So awesome, and so hurty. Tami crying, and completely unable to speak broke me, and I feel so bad for Coach, who is in this horrible position, where he loses something whichever way he goes. I think it was a decision that was never going to end well, but I like that they're handling it with this level of subtlety. I don't see any major twist, where there are affairs and blah blah blah blah, because they are Coach and Mrs. Coach. It'll be the smaller things that break them, and even then, I don't think they'll shatter.

I loved Coach and Julie so much. I loved him yelling at her (um, it was maybe kind of hot), and then supporting her and being such an excellent father. I could watch the scene with them in the car all day.

I'll tell you what I do not get. I do not get the people who think Julie was wildly ooc, or a bitch, or any of the other things I've seen written about her. I've seen teenagers done so that they're OTT and irritating as fuck, and they should probably be, I dunno, drowned in a nearby ocean, but Julie felt completely believable to me. I don't know the teenager that hasn't been terrified of becoming their parents, and she's going out with The Saracen. It's much harder to be happy when there's so much pressure on her to be happy.

Matt was cute and adorable, and ditto for Landry, before it all went a bit wrong. More Mama Smash would rock, and I'd like it a little more if new coach wasn't so obviously inferior to Eric in every single way, but they have time to work with that. They made Matt's dad sympathetic--kind of--so it's entirely possible.

I have my doubts about Lyla's story. The bit with Timn was hilarious, but the prayer felt kind of easy, and nothing I haven't seen before on any number of shows where a character gets religion, but again, opening ep. Could still be awesome.

***

In conclusion, it is mostly too early to say yet on both of them. I will continue to try to be hopeful, because I don't much like the alternative.

What do you think my job is?

luzdeestrellas@insanejournal.com — Mon, 01 Oct 2007 18:10:32 GMT

A meme! Those of you playing along at home know this means I'm meant to be writing. Um.

Last seen on merryish's journal, the top 106 books marked as unread by LibraryThing users.

Bold = read it
Italics = started and didn't finish
Numbers after title = number of users who tagged the book "unread"

Clearly, it takes a special level of hate for me not to finish a book. And I have read a lot more Austin than I thought.

Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (149)
Anna Karenina (132)
Crime and Punishment (121)
Catch-22 (117)
One hundred years of solitude (115)
Wuthering Heights (110)--read and hated
The Silmarillion (104)
Life of Pi : A Novel (94)
The Name of the Rose (91)
Don Quixote (91)
Moby Dick (86)
Ulysses (84)
Madame Bovary (83)
The Odyssey (83)
Pride and Prejudice (83)
Jane Eyre (80)--also hated
A tale of two cities (80)
The Brothers Karamazov (80)
Guns, Germs, and Steel: The Fates of Human Societies (79)
War and Peace (78)
Vanity Fair (74)
The Time Traveler’s Wife (73)
The Iliad (73)
Emma (73)
The Blind Assassin (73)
The Kite Runner (71)
Mrs. Dalloway (70)
Great Expectations (70)
American Gods (68)
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius (67)
Atlas Shrugged (67)
Reading Lolita in Tehran : A Memoir in Books (66)
Memoirs of a Geisha (66)
Middlesex (66)
Quicksilver (66)
Wicked : The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West (65)
The Canterbury Tales (64)
The Historian : A Novel (63)
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (63)
Love in the Time of Cholera (62)
Brave New World (61)
The Fountainhead (61)
Foucault’s Pendulum (61)
Middlemarch (61)
Frankenstein (59)
The Count of Monte Cristo (59)
Dracula (59)
A Clockwork Orange (59)
Anansi Boys (58)
The Once and Future King (57)
The Grapes of Wrath (57)
The Poisonwood Bible : A Novel (57)
1984 (57)
Angels & Demons (56)
The Inferno (56)
The satanic verses (55)
Sense and Sensibility (55)
The Picture of Dorian Gray (55)
Mansfield Park (55)--the horror!
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (54) To the Lighthouse (54)
Tess of the D’Urbervilles (54)
Oliver Twist (54)
Gulliver’s travels (53)
Les Misérables (53)
The Corrections (53)
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay (52)
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time (52)
Dune (51)
The Prince (51)
The Sound and the Fury (51)
Angela’s Ashes : A Memoir (51)
The God of Small Things (51)
A People’s History of the United States : 1492-Present (51)
Cryptonomicon (50)
Neverwhere (50)
A Confederacy of Dunces (50)
A Short History of Nearly Everything (50)
Dubliners (50)
The Unbearable Lightness of Being (49)
Beloved (49)
Slaughterhouse-Five (49)
The Scarlet Letter (48)
Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation (48)
The Mists of Avalon (47)
Oryx and Crake : A Novel (47)
Collapse : How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed (47)
Cloud Atlas (47)--only because I haven't finished it yet, but I will. It's kind of awesome
The Confusion (46)
Lolita (46)
Persuasion (46)
Northanger Abbey (46)
The Catcher in the Rye (46)
On the Road (46)
The Hunchback of Notre Dame (45)
Freakonomics : A Rogue Economist Explores the Hidden Side of Everything (45)
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry into Values (45)
The Aeneid (45)
Watership Down (44)
Gravity’s Rainbow (44)
The Hobbit (44)
In Cold Blood : A True Account of a Multiple Murder and Its Consequences (44)
White Teeth (44)
Treasure Island (44)
David Copperfield (44)
The Three Musketeers (44)

***

So there's this thing happening on thursday; I don't know if any of you know about it. I want to prepare you all in advance. I will be flailing from here on in. Boys! On my TV again! Even my anxiety has to take a backseat to my glee. Because seriously, boys!

"You're my big brother. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you." It's going to be so awesome. It just is.

fic: Supernatural, Unless Continents Collide (Sam/Dean, PG)

luzdeestrellas@insanejournal.com — Sun, 30 Sep 2007 19:46:58 GMT

Man, I am insanely behind on fb, and if anyone has commented and not received an answer, I will get on that this week. I really do appreciate all the lovely comments you guys have left on the last couple of stories.

Anyway, more fic.

Title: Unless Continents Collide
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Wordcount: 1,433
Summary: Sam knows he didn't choose this life, and he knows he wouldn't give it up, either.

Notes: Written for spn_gleeweek. Thanks to musesfool for the beta. Title from Del Amitri.

***

Unless Continents Collide

When it comes down to it, Dean still thinks Sam deserves better, that Sam still wants better. He doesn't say it, except sometimes, when he's hurt or he's drunk, half-words whispered into the curve of Sam's neck, but Sam knows, has learned to read every smile and exhalation of air, the way he's learned every scar and smattering of freckles on Dean's body, can interpret every head tilt and touch of Dean's fingers, like he knows how his hand fits around Dean's hip, how the wide sweep of his ribs tastes under his tongue. It all means the same thing and something completely different, all of it Dean and more than Sam ever expected to have, ever expected to need.

"You're an idiot," he says, when he catches Dean looking at college kids with book bags and easy grins, the world at their fingertips, promises laid out in lines in a book and words in a classroom. Sam still feels it sometimes, the loss of the life he almost had wrapped up in the smell of Jess's hair and the sound of her laugh, but he's had his promises made in blood, and he's felt the curve of the road winding out beneath him and known what it's like to come home.

Dean raises his eyebrows, like there's really a chance Sam doesn't know what he's thinking, and Sam smacks his head. "In fact, idiot's too good. Fucking brain dead, is more like it." Dean opens his mouth to retort, his hand already connecting with Sam's shoulder, and Sam leans forward, even though Dean still doesn’t do this in public, and presses his mouth against Dean's, and tells him that he's here and he's staying and he's okay with it.

***

Sam kissed him the first time, kind of accidental, except in all the ways that kissing your brother couldn't ever be accidental. He doesn't know why then exactly. If he'd been going to kiss Dean before, there had been opportunities numbering like stars, when adrenaline ran so hard in his blood he couldn't catch his breath--Dean bleeding; Sam almost dying; Dean with a bullet wound in his shoulder and Sam's fist marks still on his face, still smiling, dangerous and determined as the night, promising Sam everything; Dean saying, I've got a year, Sammy, the words lifted high on a current of, I'm not sorry, and so fucking glad you're still here. Sam hadn't kissed him then, even when the want of it had hurt like drowning, but he did in a diner some place in Illinois. He can't remember the town, can't remember where they were headed or what they were leaving behind, but he remembers how the corn muffin crumbled in Dean's hands, how there was butter smeared on his mouth, how the diner smelled of cheeseburgers and fries. Dean tasted like all of it, and like the air before a storm, clean and electric and full of waiting. Sam kissed the tail end of his smile, flash of joy he stole for himself, and Dean kissed back, easy friction and need like this was everything there ever was, before he pulled away.

"You're a fucking lunatic," Dean said, defiance and anger in his voice, taste of him still clear and bright at the back of Sam's throat.

"But I'm your fucking lunatic, right?" Sam said, delight bubbling up inside him, stupid and more powerful than the fear, all the more terrifying because of that, and he could only laugh.

It didn't matter that Dean shook his head, said, "We can't do this, Sammy," walked out the door and ran from it for three months, over fourteen states and twelve thousand miles, multiple motel rooms and four identity changes, because at the heart of it, Sam felt it, Dean and Sam, a note of power and strength, singing in his head above all the evil and all the fear he'd ever known, and Dean hadn't said, don't want to.

Sam held onto that and pushed, opening Dean up, increment by increment, like little bits of the future wrapping around his fingers, and Dean said, "I'm your brother, Sammy," and Sam said, "No one better," and in Arizona, Sam took him apart.

He drew out every secret with his hands and his mouth, gave up his own in return, like sacrifices he should have made years ago, his body pouring over Dean in the only blessing he could give, Dean's name mouthed over and over against Dean's skin, holy and right and strong, the only truth Sam had ever really been sure of.

"You and me," he'd said later, before he drifted to sleep, before Dean could freak out and pull everything back in, away from Sam. "You and me, Dean, swear to God."

In the morning, they got in the car and drove, a stretch of highway and a wide open sky, Sam reading the op-eds and wondering if there was a way to make his vote count, and underneath it all, thrumming in his blood like the vibration of the engine around him, the knowledge of how Dean tasted, and of the future telegraphed out before them, in the angles and lines of how they fit together.

***

This is what Sam still knows, knowledge he clings to when everything else is fucked to hell.

He knows he didn't choose this life, and he knows he wouldn't give it up, either. He knows that if he asked, Dean would probably try to stop hunting for him, even if it ripped him apart. He knows that Dean is the most infuriating person he's ever met, all smirks and innuendo, able to get under Sam's skin until Sam wants to beat him to death, and on days like today, Sam thinks about doing it, or maybe pushing as far as he can--hey, Dean, you wanna settle down somewhere, leave this hunting gig to someone else?--just to even the playing field. He doesn't, because he knows he can't give up hunting anymore than Dean can, that bullets and silver and words of strength and protection are as much their father's legacy as the people they've saved and the fights they've won, and that it cost too much, but the reward is enough.

He's still got plans for a house somewhere, a safe place they can go to rest up and call home now that Hendrickson's started to add the right parts up. They'll head back there every few months, touch base and sleep in until Sam offers to make breakfast and Dean gets up, just because if he's going to live in the damn house, he's not having Sam set fire to it trying to make some goddamn toast.

It's a working plan, and he's got Bobby making calls, and soon, maybe when Dean's fucked out or maybe just bone-tired, Sam will tell him all about it, coax him into it with puppy eyes and little brother pleading and the kind of slow, sleepy kisses Dean pretends to hate, and he'll let Dean think he believes any of it was really necessary. For now, he throws a napkin at Dean's head, threatens to scrawl, I hate Dean Winchester on the Impala's paintwork. Dean brings Sam back hot water instead of coffee, and Sam bitches about Dean's music and accidentally cuts the ribbon on his AC/DC tape. They fight and snap all the way to the next motel, anger edging everything, because not even a saint could spend two days on the road without going a little crazy, and neither of them is even close to that.

Dean falls asleep, half a mile away from Sam on the bed, and Sam uses his toothbrush to clean caked on ectoplasm from his knife. He keeps the light on to read while the laptop plays everything in his library Sam loves and Dean hates. Dean, who can wake, knife in hand and feet on the floor, at the slightest provocation, stays oblivious, breathing deep and even, interrupted only when he mumbles about cheese. But eventually, he rolls towards Sam, big, freakish sleep-snuggler that he is, presses his face against Sam's hip, and winds his arm over Sam's stomach. His hair's still damp, and there's a bruise the size of Alaska creeping over his shoulder, and Sam's thumb skims the edge of it when he drops his hand to Dean's neck. Beneath it, Dean's pulse beats, slow and steady, and Sam flicks the light off and flips the laptop shut.

"I still hate you," he says, as he slides down into the warmth of Dean's orbit. "I hope your toothbrush kills you."

Against his shoulder now, Dean makes a contented noise, the one that lets Sam know they're both right where they're meant to be, and Sam smiles.

***

Fic, Supernatural, Small Conspiracies (gen, PG)

luzdeestrellas@insanejournal.com — Wed, 26 Sep 2007 02:44:08 GMT

Title: Small Conspiracies
Author: luzdeestrellas
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 4,928
Summary: For a second, everything they need is right there, in curled fingers and tiny brushes of skin.

***

Small Conspiracies

Dean gets hurt in Texas, fucks the tendons in his right arm up, and he won't let Sam take him to the hospital, bitches non-stop while they drive a hundred and thirty miles to get out of dodge, looking for nothing more than a cheap motel room and maybe water pressure that's more than nearly non-existent. It would be funny; it's like they're incapable of having four functioning arms between them these days, except nothing's all that funny at the moment.

They still aren't talking. It's all half silences and trivialities, which isn't exactly new--they can go days discussing nothing but a case or which exit to take, whether Sam wants mayo or ketchup on his burger (it's sometimes both, thank you very much)--but in between times, there's normally conversation they slip into, as easy and comforting as sleep or breathing. There's movies and music, people watching and sports, sometimes even politics, because Dean can't spend as much time as he does trawling newspapers without forming an opinion. Sam doesn't love music like Dean does, doesn't know it like he does, but sometimes Dean goes off on tangents, Zeppelin and Bruce and Johnny Cash and U2, The Clash and Nirvana and Pearl Jam, pointing out links and shifts and patterns Sam has never really thought about, and which make a weird kind of sense when he does. Or Sam tells him what he's reading, words filling up the miles like an atlas of who and what they are, and Dean listens and nods.

"It's like," he says, "like string theory." And for an endless stretch of road they talk about alternate realities and the nature of time, and none of it means anything, and it feels a lot like safety.

Now, though, now, it's different. It's like the air is too heavy, all Dean's words wrapped up in a promise, or maybe a goodbye that Sam didn't even give him before taking off again, and Sam doesn't know how to untangle them, is a little afraid of what might happen if he does.

He keeps poking at it, subtle and direct and every possible way he can think of, because he's never, ever learned when to back off, and if he tries hard enough, maybe Dean will just break under the assault, give Sam what they both need.

"You think the moon landing really is a fake?" he asks, when they've been on the road half an hour, and Dean's run out of insults for Texas.

On a good day, Sam totally thinks it happened. He likes to believe in it, that they did something almost impossible. On the bad days, he likes to think Dean might believe it for him, but all Dean says is, "The fuck does it matter?" even though this is exactly the kind of crap he's normally all over--he has elaborate theories about JFK, only half of which involve the supernatural, and, though he denies it, his own set of notes on Area 51.

Sam lets it go, because he doesn't know how much farther he's got to push, and Dean falls asleep, cheek mashed against the glass, out like he hasn't been in a while, painkillers and exhaustion a double hit he doesn't have the energy to fight. Sam reaches around into the back (a move Dean would kill him for if he were awake to see him diverting his attention from his baby), and grabs Dean's jacket to throw it over him. His hurt arm is held protectively in his lap, but he doesn't twitch when Sam changes the radio station, or when Sam runs a thumb along the bruise that's barely healed below his right eye. He looks awkward and all of six years old, young like Sam doesn't remember him being; he was always bigger and brighter and faster, a point in the distance Sam was forever shooting towards.

At the moment, his hair's sticking up crazily, except where it's pushed flat against the window, and his skin's too pale, but the furrow between his eyebrows is gone, and the tightness has eased some around his mouth. Sam doesn't take his hand away, caught by his warmth, his familiarity, even though, if Dean were awake, he'd be jerking miles out of Sam's grip, all their casual touching lost along with their conversation. He's been restless under Dean's gaze for days, fear and doubt falling heavy over every inch of him, but now he feels the absence of it like a slow throbbing wound, all persistent ache and goddamn everywhere.

"Hamsters eat your shoes," Dean mumbles, when Sam eventually breaks the contact, sleepy-thick, drawled out, syllables lengthened and wrapped around each other so it's almost one word, and only years of living with Dean lets Sam understand it at all. He goes right on sleeping, snuffle of his breathing audible over the local college station Sam gets for a while, and then it's just that and the engine, when the music fades to static, and there's nothing but talk radio or some easy listening crap he won't pollute the Impala with, even to piss Dean off.

"It's all your own goddamn fault," he says into the rumble of the engine. He reaches his hand out again, curls his fingers just above Dean's shoulder and doesn't touch this time, unwilling to press his luck. "You're the one who was all, 'let's cut off our dicks before we admit anything's wrong.' You're like, I dunno, the guy who gets his leg eaten by a bear and insists he can still walk. Hell, you are that guy, too. And I'd totally have to carry your ass when that turned out to be a world of bullshit." The pattern of Dean's breathing doesn't change, but he shifts against the window, moves towards Sam, drawn like the Impala to the road, and Sam angles his shoulder, slumps right just a little bit so Dean can settle there, isn't just hanging in midair like some freakshow puppet. Dean comes to rest against him, and it's an arsenal of ammunition in Sam's pockets, and that's not even mostly why he smiles. It feels almost unfamiliar on his face, but contentment settles warm and heavy in his gut, like it hasn't since a whole town vanished and Sam added immunity to demonic viruses to his list of freakish qualities. Since then, every road has only taken them farther into downright fucked. He's not sure they know the way out, but Dean is a line of promise and strength against his side, even now, the strongest defence Sam has, and Sam thinks, if he had to outrun destiny and the world and everything in between, this is how he'd do it.

Doesn't mean he won't store it up for mocking later, when Dean shifts closer, sighs contentedly, his breath damp through Sam's t-shirt, and his hair tickling against the side of Sam's neck.

When Dean wakes, even with pills in his system and an hour and a half of deep sleep, it's still instant, alertness snapping through him so sharp, Sam almost feels it zinging in the air across the hairs on his arms. All his focus is immediately on Sam, and Sam almost does it--Are you checking I'm still here, or that I'm still me?--but he hasn't done it any of the other times it's happened, and he doesn't now.

"You're so cute when you snuggle," he says, instead. "And so adorable when you're seconds away from suffocating on your own drool."

Dean rubs his good hand over the stubble that's pretty much becoming beard on his face, wincing when he forgets and tries to flip Sam off with his other hand. "You're always mute in my dreams." Grumpy and cranky, heading back to drowsy now that Sam's what and where he's meant to be.

Sam grins. A drowsy Dean is easier to deal with than almost any other version of him, compliant and , all his sharp edges smoothed and softened.

"No naptime until you've wrapped that arm," he says, and Dean only nods.

They walk into the motel room together, wince in unison at the cracks in the ceiling and the carved wooden--"What the fuck is that? Are those goats?"--on the walls, and Dean is still and almost yielding under Sam's touch. He doesn't push away when Sam wraps his arm, and if he isn't bitching about Sam's medical skills, Sam can pretend it's just because he's too tired to make the effort. Sam curls his fingers around Dean's elbow for a second when they're done, part apology and part just holding on. If Dean notices, he doesn't respond.

He flops on the bed as soon as Sam lets him go, face down, miles of him sprawled everywhere, and Sam smacks his boot as he walks past to get to the door.

"You need any help there?"

Dean doesn't even lift his head. "Fuck off."

Sam leaves him there, eyes closing again. When he gets back, Dean and his clothes have obviously waged war, and Sam isn't sure Dean won. His boots are haphazardly stranded around his bed, his shirt thrown beside them, buttons only half undone, and inside-out, like there was a struggle getting it off at all. He's burrowed under the blankets against the cold of the motel room, his t-shirt still on, and from the part of Dean's leg Sam can see sticking out, he gave up when it came to his jeans, too. He isn't asleep, head propped up on his left fist like he's forcing himself to stay awake. He mumbles something about waiting to do salt lines, but his head is back on the pillow by the time Sam's got the door closed behind him, and he's fast asleep before Sam's even got the salt on the window. His back's to Sam's bed, and Sam gives some very serious thought to smothering him with his pillow.

He contents himself with walking all over Dean's shirt and snagging the Reese's Pieces he knows Dean's got hidden in the side pocket of his duffle, falls asleep with chocolate on his tongue and the certainty that tomorrow, they'll catch a break, and Dean's smile won't be full of accusation and open wounds, and Sam won't wake up and wonder if Dad would've killed him, if Dean ever will.

As it turns out, Dean spends the morning, most of the next two days, too pissed off to even pretend not to be. Sam offers to help, but even though Dean did everything but feed Sam for the first week after he broke his hand, he refuses, spends at least half a century in the bathroom that first morning doing God knows what, and Sam's pretty sure maybe he's brained himself on the sink, until he comes out with toilet paper stuck to one side of his face and yesterday's beard still pretty much in tact.

"Don't even," he says, when he catches Sam's look, and Sam doesn't. He doesn't say anything, either, when it looks like Dean's honest to god about to attempt to tie his laces with one hand and his teeth; he just bats Dean's hand aside, crouches down in front of him and ignores Dean's grumbling above him. Dean steps away the moment Sam releases him, tense and unhappy.

"Did you take your painkillers?" Sam says, as he stands up again, moving closer to Dean, near enough to breathe him in, warmth thrumming in his pulse.

"Am I five?"

It's not like this isn't familiar: Dean irritable and annoying as all fuck just because the pills haven't kicked in and because he hates being helpless, never allowed himself to be, no matter how different the rules were for Sam--even for Dad--like the whole goddamn world would be eaten by zombies if he admitted he had the flu. But it has an edge now, a desperate quality that's sharp even in Sam's bloodstream, probably tastes dangerous and metallic, like tequila and bitter promises. Everything Sam knows for dealing with him like this feels inadequate, like he's attempting blessings in pig Latin instead of the real thing.

"My psych professors would have a field day with you, swear to God," he says, which just gets him an eyeroll, an annoyed huff of breath that conveys Dean's general disgust with the world in general and Sam in particular. There's no smack to the shoulder, though, and Sam wants to shake him until all Dean's locked down pieces come loose. "Give me the keys."

Dean hesitates, and Sam glares. "Not even you," he says, "not even you on your stupidest day would argue about this."

Dean totally would, looks like he still might, but he hands them over, and makes a show of trying to put his jacket on as if to prove how competent he really is. Sam pretends not to see the way he screws his face up in pain, though he reaches out, anyway.

"I'm fine," Dean says, bite like winter in his voice. He leaves the jacket on his bed and yanks the door open before Sam's even picked up his.

"Right. Of course. You just find a thousand below bracing." He doesn't push it, though, keeps his mouth shut while they go for breakfast and Dean doesn't even bother to cut his sausages, eats them right off the fork. Sam does the Sudoku in the paper just to piss Dean off, smirks when Dean sighs like Sam's announced he thinks cars are for pussies and finally breaks the silence.

"Dude, you have two sixes there."

Sam deliberately adds an extra nine in the row below where Dean is pointing. "And you’re a stubborn fucker, and you look like ass."

"I got nothing on you," Dean says, which is pretty much the biggest lie ever.

"Uh huh. My mistake." Dean is every bit as stubborn as Sam; he just seems like he isn't, which is all the more infuriating. Sam at least has always telegraphed, mostly with ordered lists and a few pages of notes, and Dad's was obvious for anyone to see, complete with increasingly ridiculous orders and thunder in his voice. Dean, though, picks his battles--acts amenable, until he suddenly isn't; he digs his heels in quietly, and if you're lucky, you catch what he's doing before he obliterates you. "Must have been my imagination that you've been shutting me down for the last two weeks."

Dean pulls the lid off one of those stupid containers of creamer, and half of it sprays up on his face. He wipes it away absently. "I meant you looked a lot more like ass than me, Sammy. If you're not eating that, then gimme."

It's over just like that, a conversation never begun, and they go on like before, more irritable because they've got nowhere to go and nothing to hunt. It doesn't help that they're shut up together. Dean can't drive, can't play pool, and if he's thought about going to get shitfaced somewhere, he hasn't acted on it. Sam tries not to think too hard about the reasons for that.

Dean reads car magazines and watches bad TV, over and over, while he catalogues their ammo supplies and writes in a left-handed scrawl Sam doubts he can understand. Sam cleans up his music collection, emails Ash about FTP and encrypting their emails differently, learns more than he ever wanted to about Ash's horrific taste in porn. The silence itches right under his skin, layered right over the panic that's been coiling in his blood since the cabin turned from safety to nightmare, and the beep of hospital monitors made it real.

They go to bed, and even in the darkness, Sam can feel Dean watching. He rolls over, and opens his mouth before he even knows what he's going to say. "I didn't mean to--" Leave, except Sam did, at least at the time, and he wouldn't do it again, listened to the voicemail and maybe finally gets what it does to Dean every time he walks out, but he won't lie and say he didn't feel that stupid teenage satisfaction as he drove away. Make you promise that, except he meant that, too, trusts in Dean's promises like he always has, holding him together like Dean's hands used to after nightmares when he was little. "Make things so hard. I don't mean to, Dean."

He sounds like a kid, and he can't stop it, but Dean just sighs, rolls onto his side. "Night, Sam."

***

"You found us a hunt?" Dean, sleepy-eyed and with ridiculous bed hair even for him, has his razor in his hand, and he's yawning wide enough that Sam's jaw aches in sympathy.

Sam's been reading Simpsons quotes for the last half hour, which he thinks still counts as intellectual, since he got there from a page on global warming. He didn't even know Dean was awake, and his voice, rough and spun of sunlight, makes him jump. "Uh, no," he says, covering. "Figure we wouldn't hunt until you healed up some." And got some sleep, which is the one advantage of the painkillers.

"Huh." Dean stands by the bathroom door, and the pause probably isn't inviting anything, probably isn't an accusation, either, but Sam fills it all the same.

"What? You aren't seriously telling me you can hunt right now?"

Dean holds his hand up, all feigned casualness. "Dude, I just thought you'd want to get back to it. With your whole--you know, whatever the hell. Saving the world thing."

Sam isn't sure he deserves that, though he'd like to think he doesn't, and it makes him angry either way. "Yeah. I'd risk that. Yeah. You're a real fucker sometimes, you know that."

Dean grins, still sleepy at the corners. "You've mentioned it now and then." There's something softer in his tone, warmth twisting through the pauses between the words, and Sam hopes he isn't imagining it.

"Yeah, well," he says. "I won't be sorry if you cut yourself and bleed to death."

Dean flips him off before closing the bathroom door behind him, razor dangling stupidly in his remaining fingers, and a few seconds later, Sam hears him cursing so profanely that even Dad might have blushed. Sam listens for five minutes, torn between impressed and horrified, before he gives up.

The door isn't locked. It's not like Sam couldn't have gotten through it if he'd needed to, not like they haven't on occasion, when one or other of them passed out from blood loss or just pure exhaustion, but he still figures it's got to be a good sign that Dean didn't even bother trying to keep him out.

"Management called," he says, leaning against the door. "You're frightening the truckers."

"Oh, fuck you." The razor has been abandoned by the sink, and Dean's got his toothbrush in his hand, frowning at it like it's personally responsible for every bad thing that's ever happened to anyone ever. "Beards fucking itch like hell."

Sam grins. "You can shoot a gun and throw a knife with that hand, but you can't shave?"

Dean shrugs, holds his toothbrush in his mouth while he squeezes toothpaste onto it. "Different skill set," he mumbles around it.

"Uh huh. Nothing to do with the fact that you're neurotically worried about screwing up your face."

Dean ignores him while he brushes, and then spits and rinses his mouth. "Gotta preserve our assets, Sammy. What do you want anyway? You're not pissing while I'm in here."

"Uh." Sam chews his lip for a second, scratches his right arm, even though it's not itchy at all. "I could help." He could make it an order, the way Dean did--We don't have all day, Sammy, so move your fucking ass or let me do it.--but when it's Sam providing, Dean's never responded well to orders or help. Dean looks over, and it's Sam's turn to shrug, self-conscious, heart hammering with something that might be hope. "If you want, I mean."

Dean narrows his eyes, and shakes his head. "The fuck you're bringing a razor anywhere near me," he says. Sam shoves his hands in his pockets, and drags in a breath that doesn't ease the pressure in his chest at all. He's tried everything else, and now it's just pissing him off.

"Look, I get it. Jesus, I do. But I'm not about to, you know, whatever, take off, and I'm pretty sure if I'm going to turn evil, it's not gonna be right here in this bathroom." He pauses, ready to stare Dean down until he cracks. "Why the fuck are you smiling?"

Because Dean is, smudge of toothpaste narrowing as his mouth curves into that familiar, punchable grin, mostly translating to Sam's a dork, but fond and happy and goddamn shining.

"I was gonna say, Sammy, not before you've had coffee. But I feel a lot better now." He stretches his left arm out towards Sam. "Let's hug it out."

"I hope your arm falls off, man." But Dean's still smiling, and Sam's almost forgotten how it feels to see that, settling everything crazy inside him, at least for a while.

"Aw, come on. You're ruining the moment."

"And then you're eaten by a bunch of rats."

Dean picks the razor from the counter and tosses it to Sam. "I should've left your ass in Indiana," he says, pulling the toilet seat down and settling himself on it. "I hate razor burn, and I like having my skin intact."

Even with the door closed so Sam can get in front of Dean, Sam feels freer than he has in weeks; he doesn't know when this became the only kind of normal he needs, but right now, it's enough just to be able to breathe again. "Yeah, yeah. You will sit there and shut up, and if you're very lucky, I won't make you pay for being such an asshole."

He rolls up his sleeves, pulls Dean forward so he can wet his face again, rubbing away the smudge of toothpaste as he does. The shoulder beneath Sam's hand is still tense, knots of muscle that have probably been there since Dean came looking for Sam all those months ago, and Sam knows it's only been piling on since then. He doesn't take his hand away, even when it's no longer necessary. "I meant what I said last night," he says, squeezing a little.

"Oh, God. If you're gonna keep talking, could you skip ahead to the throat slitting part?"

Sam huffs out a breath, part annoyance and part relief, because for all he bitches, if Dean ever decides he really wants Sam to talk about how scared he is, Sam's afraid he's gonna bleed out all over him, even more than he already has, and Dean will kill himself trying to patch him back up. "Fine," he says. "I didn't mean it at all." He uncaps the shaving cream, and Dean holds out his hand for it. Sam bats it away. "I promise not to tell anyone," he says, before squeezing it into his own hand and tilting Dean's face up.

Dean grunts something that's mostly lost against Sam's palm, and Sam kicks him anyway, because he has no doubt it deserved it. His skin is soft even beneath the beard, and Sam lathers the cream, fingertips rubbing firm and sure over his jaw, trailing over his cheeks. It should be weird, and it is a little, but Sam's known every expression Dean's ever worn, sewn stitches into his forehead, iced his black eyes and caused more than a few of them, and this makes up for weeks of being shrugged off and kept too far away.

"If you're done touching me."

"Oh, Dean," he says, in a breathless high falsetto, "but your skin is just so silky smooth." He swirls his fingers slowly, and Dean grins, a curve of happiness curling out underneath Sam's fingers, even though Dean's pretending not to be amused.

"Hold still," he says, unnecessarily, as he reaches behind him for the razor. He expects more threats from Dean, all the many and terrifying ways he's going to kick Sam's ass if Sam screws up; he even waits for a second, standing over Dean with the razor inches from his face, but Dean just raises his eyebrows.

"I know you know how to use that thing, college boy, and I kinda want to eat in the next three months."

Sam touches the razor to his skin, Dean flinching a little at the cold. "Uh huh. Piss off the guy with the razor." He's done this for himself since he was fourteen and Dean came home and threw a package at his head--use my razor, Sammy, and I'll know.--and it might as well be comparing shaving to playing baseball. The razor glides through the foam, the sound of it scraping over Dean's skin mingling with Sam's own breathing, like some weird, hypnotic music he could get lost in. The angles are different than Sam's used to, the razor mapping the harder line of his jaw, the arch of his cheek more pronounced, and the skin he reveals is lighter, freckles appearing like trail markers in the path he's creating. His hands are steady, and he's close enough to smell the mint on Dean's breath, to feel each exhalation on his own skin. Sam skates the razor gentle and slow, over the tiny scar no one but Sam probably ever sees anymore, ever knows to look for, the one he got from the car door, and then he continues on, round to the one Dean got when he was fourteen, the first time he ever got hurt, or at least, that Sam remembers. Sam had watched, terrified, as Dad sewed him up, and Dad had looked right at them both when he said, "If someone's got your back, boys, you don't need to look behind you for trouble."

He follows the razor with his thumb, a moment's caress deliberate over the scar, but all he says is, "You want a goatee? It looked so good on you when you were sixteen."

"Anna Stravinsky certainly thought so," Dean says, but his voice is slow and lazy, like sleepy days and water cool over Sam's skin, and when Sam glances up, his eyes are closed. Sam pauses, just for a second, watching Dean, vulnerable and content, and Dean opens his eyes. They're clear, green like a promise, like one freely given, and he doesn't look away. Sam grins at him, and Dean returns it, water collecting in the hollow of his throat, and foam trapped in the lines of his smile. Sam wipes it away, and Dean leans in to the touch when Sam lifts his chin, cups it and tilts it to get a better look.

"All done," Sam says, and pulls him close again, rinses the foam off, fingers smoothing over every clean inch of his face until he's satisfied.

"You're hands are freakishly huge, man," Dean says. Sam steps away, reaches for a towel, but Dean's fingers close over his wrist, strong and warm. "Hey," he says.

Sam turns back, drawn by the tone of his voice, not the grip on his arm. "You can thank me by doing the laundry later." Dean smiles, but he doesn't let go, fingers still pressing there, like they'll put the words into Sam's skin, form a rhythm as important as the pulse he can feel beating against Dean's fingers.

"You been making things hard for me my whole life, Sammy," he says finally. "It's how I knew I was doing something right."

Sam doesn't know what to say to that, and it's probably nothing Dean wants to hear, so he reaches out, curves his own hand around Dean's neck, and for a second, everything they need is right there, in curled fingers and tiny brushes of skin.

"Okay, move your ass. I'm about to eat you."

"Now who's ruining the moment?" Sam says, but he's already opening the door, and Dean's already moving past him into the room, and his voice reaches Sam, muffled from inside his duffle.

"The moon landing, you gigantic moron, of course happened. If you want a conspiracy, you gotta try harder than that. John Lennon. Totally the CIA." He pauses for a moment, re-emerging with a clean t-shirt in his hand, probably, if Sam's not being all that fussy about the meaning of clean. "Or Elvis, depending on who you believe." And Sam doesn't know what he's laughing more at, Dean's bullshit theories, or the way he's tangled up in his own shirt.

Sam crosses the room and frees his arms, yanking the shirt down over his head, and Dean flips him off as he snags his jeans from where he dropped them on the floor last night. "You better have thought of something for us to do today," he says. "God knows, I'm not staying around here with your mopey ass."

Sam throws his shoe at him. "Come up with something yourself, genius."

And Dean throws it back. "I'm the oldest. You gotta do what I tell you."

Sam doesn't even bother responding, just ducks his head to hide how wide he's grinning. Their lives are still fucked in more ways than Sam ever thought it was possible to be, and they both know it, but Dean's smiling, and fucked up doesn't stand much of a chance against that.

***

We can use all the help we can

luzdeestrellas@insanejournal.com — Sun, 23 Sep 2007 17:21:27 GMT

I am a moron. A serious, serious moron. I booked Tom McRae tickets, and I was meant to get them for the 9th, except I had it in my head it was for the tenth.

Will Ticketmaster let me change? No. Of course not. Minions of Satan, as I may have mentioned before. People who have seen this before, sorry, but come on, they are so fucking annoying.

Also, the tickets were £12 each. This should be £24. Maybe a little more with booking fees and whatever. If you buy them from Ticketmaster? £32. Because it's important to charge £2.25 delivery for each ticket. Never mind that £2.23 for normal delivery is excessive, anyway. I swear, if I hadn't been so full of rage, I might have noticed I was being an idiot. I mean, probably not, but I like to blame them for everything, so.

***

Also, Laura was watching some of the second Highschool Musical when I got there last night. Dude, what? Do I have to be ten to get it, because I am sort of baffled by it. Seriously, it was just...so sanatised, and generic, and sort of...maybe badly made. Confusing.

***

Is it October yet?