Nom, nom, nom. Tasty morals.

All These Things That I've Done - Supernatural - Sam/Dean - PG-13

Fri, 11 Sep 2009 18:01:33 GMT

Title: All These Things That I've Done (1/1)
Author: deamsgirl
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13
Genre: One-shot, angst.
Warnings: Wincest, slight spoilers for 5.01 "Sympathy for the Devil"
Word Count: 250
Disclaimer: Supernatural and it's characters do not belong to me. No profit was made from this story; it was written for my own amusement.
Summary: Sam learns that actions have consequences, and sometimes apologies are never quite enough.
A/N: Written for dailyfics. Day 1, prompt: "colors"

( Sam presses soft kisses along the length of Dean's stomach... )

Speak Low, If You Speak Love (1/1)

Thu, 03 Sep 2009 05:23:59 GMT

Title: Speak Low, If You Speak Love (1/1)
Author: deamsgirl
Fandom: My Bloody Valentine / Friday the 13th
Characters/Pairings: Tom/Clay
Rating: R
Genre: One-shot, mute!Tom, angst, established relationship
Warnings: Mild sexual scenes,
Summary: Tom comes back from Harmony as a mute, and Clay is left to try to pick up the pieces.
Disclaimer: Neither My Bloody Valentine or Friday the 13th Part 12 belong to me. No profit was made from this story.
Word Count: 640~
A/N: Written for the Tom/Clay Fic Drive. Prompt: "mute!Tom." I wrote this in about fifteen minutes, so, um, don't rip my face off if it sucks, okay?

Tom comes back to Clay broken. He hasn't spoken a word since he showed up on the doorstep covered in blood, grime, and burns. His eyes have never looked as haunted as they do now, when they are wide and stricken as they stare up at Clay, mouth trembling as if he's dying to say something but can't.

It makes Clay cry into his pillow long after Tom's breathing evens into sleep. He misses the way Tom was before he went back to Harmony; a little broken but still so very beautiful. He wants Tom to kiss his hair and whisper endearments into Clay's ear like he did before. He wants to wake up in the morning to Tom's arms around him and Tom's gravelly-smooth voice singing him out of slumber.

He wakes up each morning to the shrill of his alarm clock and Tom's sad eyes watching over him, and still, he wants.

Clay doesn't tell Tom he had watched the news that weekend. He'd seen the reports of murders in Harmony, PA, ostensibly committed by the now-deceased Tom Hanniger. He doesn't see how any of it is worth mentioning when Tom is already so damaged.

Tom doesn't look like someone capable of murder, but Clay has seen the glint of something else in Tom's eyes every now and then. He doesn't doubt the news reports.

He doesn't care, either.

Clay misses the noises Tom used to make when Clay's cock first slid into him, the gentle demands for faster or harder when Clay started to rock into him, and the way Tom's mouth used to go wide around a shout of, “Clay!” as he came.

“Talk to me,” Clay pleads as he pushes into Tom. He rolls his hips gently, treats Tom like he's made of glass; ready to break at any moment. He wants to hear Tom whisper encouragement into his mouth as they share a kiss, he wants... shit, he wants so much.

“Say my name.” Clay has Tom's cock in his hand, the slow slip-slide of his fingers makes Tom keen and curl his toes into the sheets. Clay can tell Tom's close by the glazed look in his eyes, and Clay can feel the panic mounting within him in time with the quickening of Tom's breath. “Just say my name. That's all. Please say my name.”

Tom spills into Clay's hand with his mouth open on a silent scream. A few moments later, when Clay jerks and comes in Tom's ass, there are tears in his eyes.

Clay is terrified to let Tom out of his sight for even a moment. His cell phone is humming in his hand but he can't bear to tear his gaze from Tom's face long enough to answer it. Tom is giving him a fond smile that speaks volumes: go.

So Clay kisses Tom goodbye and sets his bike speeding off in the direction of Crystal Lake. He can feel Tom's eyes on him until he disappears down the road.

When Clay turns the knob to find it locked, he rests his forehead on the door and pounds his torn knuckles against it. It's only a few moments before the lock snicks and the door slips open, but it feels like a lifetime to Clay.

Tom looks mussy, tired, and worried when the swinging door reveals his face, and Clay wants to just cup it in his hands and kiss Tom until they are both breathless from it. Instead, he opens his mouth to murmur Tom's name and closes it uselessly when he realizes he can't.

Tom pulls him inside and presses a single finger to Clay's lips. Clay doesn't say a word as Tom runs his fingers across Clay's dirt-streaked face, because he knows it doesn't matter.

Tom understands.

A Name is a Name is a Name (1/1)

Thu, 03 Sep 2009 04:36:09 GMT

Title: A Name is a Name is a Name (1/1)
Author: deamsgirl
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Ten Inch Hero / Cry_Wolf
Pairing: Priestly/Tom
Genre: One-shot, PWP
Warnings: Boysex
Disclaimer: I do not own Ten Inch Hero or Cry_Wolf. This story is merely for my own amusement.
Summary: Priestly and Tom have some fun in the shower, but apparently, not even sex can keep them from bickering.
A/N: This is an old fic I found loitering on my external hard drive. It's unbeta'd, so if you notice any mistakes, feel free to let me know.

“Tom, hurry the hell up in there!” Priestly shouted, for what felt like the millionth time, as he pounded on the bathroom door. “I have to get ready for work.”

Tom pulled open the door, looking exasperated and much too tempting in his perfectly-fitted school uniform for Priestly's well-being. “Dude, I was in there less than twenty minutes.” He rolled his eyes.

Priestly shrugged and moved past Tom to step into the bathroom. It was still humid from Tom's shower and the mirror was thick with fog. “You're never on time for work anyway,” Tom continued, with a half-hearted snap to Priestly's ass with his towel.

“That's to make a point,” Priestly protested.

“And what point would that be?” Tom pulled Priestly to him and placed a gentle bite against his jaw.

“That I don't conform to rules.” Priestly's breath hitched as Tom sucked on the sensitive skin of his neck. “But you make me at least an hour late everyday. That's too much for even Trucker to put up with.”

Tom hummed in acknowledgement and stepped away from Priestly with a wicked smile. “Then you better get a move on.”

Priestly seemed to contemplate it for a moment. “Hell, one more day won't hurt.” He grabbed a hold of Tom's tie and yanked him in close, crushing their mouths together in a kiss that promised of dirty, dirty things to come. “I gotta take a shower,” Priestly panted when they broke apart. “Join me?”

“Then, I'll be late,” Tom whined.

Priestly laughed and leaned in for another kiss. “Brat,” he admonished, but his voice was full of fond amusement. “I guess I'll just have to find some other young, impressionable pain in the ass to blow in my shower.”

Tom groaned and toed off his shoes. “Fine, but if I fail World History, it is entirely your fault.”

Priestly chuckled and turned the water to the hottest setting he could stand. “C'mere.”

Peeling off the rest of his clothes, Tom stepped into the shower behind Priestly. He yelped as the spray hit his chest. “Jesus, man, are you trying to boil your skin off?”

“Don't be a pussy.” Priestly bit Tom's shoulder, leaving a red mark on the already inflamed skin. Tom's mouth fell open on a loud moan. His fingers held Priestly's biceps in a bruising grip as Priestly kissed down his chest, biting once at his nipple before continuing downward.

“Oh, god.” Tom let his head fall back against the tiled wall as Priestly licked the underside of his cock. He slid his fingers through the older man's hair, which was lying flat and returning to its normal blond color with the water washing away the gel and dyes.

Priestly sucked the head and tongued the slit until Tom was a pleading mess above him. With a smirk, he relaxed his throat and let Tom thrust lightly into his mouth. Tom groaned and yanked Priestly away. “Get up,” he said hoarsely. “Want to fuck you.”

Priestly let Tom pull him to his feet and press him hard against the wall. The water was starting to go cold, but he could hardly notice when two of Tom's fingers—slick with conditioner—slid inside him. He moaned loudly and thrust his hips back, rocking against Tom's hand as it fucked him open. “Fuck me,” he breathed. “Come on, Tom, I can't wait any longer.”

Tom withdrew his fingers and squeezed a liberal amount of conditioner onto his palm. He slicked his cock and pressed it against Priestly's ass. He gave a hard thrust and pushed until he was balls-deep inside of Priestly.

“Oh, fuck!” Priestly's hand flew to his cock, squeezing the base to stave off his orgasm. Tom buried his face in Priestly's neck and groaned. “Shit, you gotta move. Please move.”

Tom gave a quick jerk of his hips. “How do you stay so tight? No matter how many times I fuck you, it's still like sticking my dick in a goddamn vice.” He sped up his thrusts as Priestly dug his fingers into Tom's dripping hair and a gave a pitiful little keen in the back of his throat. “Shit, Boaz.”

“Come on, man,” Priestly protested mildly, his voice cracking as Tom found his prostate. “I expect that shit from Piper and Jen, but could you please not do that while we're fucking?”

Tom grinned and lightly nipped at Priestly's ear. “Do what?” he asked, all feigned innocence and mischievous undertone.

“Call me Boaz, you bastard.” Priestly gritted his teeth and pushed back to meet Tom's thrusts. “Especially when your dick is up my ass.”

“Am I allowed to call you Boaz when my dick's not up your ass?”

“No!” Priestly yelled. Tom's hand, which had snaked around his cock, gave it a sharp squeeze.

“Then you don't get to come,” Tom said matter-of-factly.

“What? How is that fair?” Priestly spluttered. “Are you slowing down? Don't you dare slow down, you little shit!”

Tom laughed. “Who is fucking who here? I can do whatever I want, baby.” He kept his thrusts slow and shallow, purposely missing Priestly's prostate each time.

“Tom, please,” Priestly pleaded. “I need to come.”

“Too bad,” Tom said, tightening his grip on the base of Priestly's dick. “You don't get to come until you give me what I want.” He gave a sharp twist to one of Priestly's nipples, earning a surprised gasp for his efforts.

“You're a fucking manipulative little asshole,” Priestly complained.

“You're just figuring that out now?” Tom asked with a laugh. He sped up his thrusts, pushing Priestly into the wall with the force of them. He kept one hand firmly around the older man's cock, while the other moved down to Priestly's hip for support.

Priestly was spewing nonsensical curses and endearments as he came closer and closer to his climax. When Priestly went completely rigid underneath Tom, and his dick jumped in Tom's hand as he rode out a dry orgasm, Tom couldn't help the wicked smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Priestly gave a pitiful little noise when the pressure in his balls kept building, so much worse now that he came. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

“Isn't that what we're doing already?” came Tom's cheeky reply. He managed to squeeze two fingers into Priestly's ass, the fit almost unbearable\y tight as they were pressed into his thrusting cock. He ran a fingernail across Priestly's prostate over and over, milking it until Priestly jerked against the wall, back bowing to a painful angle.

Priestly barely held back a scream as he came again, dick turning purple in Tom's death-grip. “I hate you.”

“You fucking love me,” Tom said easily. “You ready to give up yet?”

“Yes, fine, whatever. Fuck!” Priestly cursed, “Anything. You can call me anything you want, just let me come, you goddamn sadist.”

Tom loosened his grip on Priestly's cock and the flood of white cum against the tile was instantaneous. Tom managed three more thrusts before his own orgasm left him leaning against Priestly's back as his knees nearly gave out underneath him. “Shit, man.”

Priestly gave a shaky little laugh. “You can say that again.”

“So,” Tom began. “Worth being late for work, Boaz?”

“Absolutely, Thomas.”

Tom wrinkled his nose. “Thomas? You just sounded like my mother, dude.”

“Get used to it. If you get to call me Boaz, I get to call you Thomas.”

Tom smiled. “Sounds like a fair trade, I guess. But I could always make you stop with my amazing sexual powers.”

Priestly snorted and turned off the now-icy water. “But you won't.”

“But I could.”

“But you won't.”

The Memory Keepers (1/1)

Sat, 29 Aug 2009 05:00:44 GMT

Title: The Memory Keepers (1/1)
Author: deamsgirl
Rating: PG
Pairing: Tom/Clay (My Bloody Valentine/Friday the 13th [2009])
Genre: One-shot, angst
Disclaimer: I own neither My Bloody Valentine or Friday the 13th (2009). This story was written for my own amusement.
Summary: Tom and Clay cling to a past that neither want to remember.
Author's Notes: Written for the Tom/Clay Fic Drive. Prompt: "photos"

Tom keeps a photo hidden amongst his things. It's one that evokes both good and bad memories as he stares at it, fingers caressing the wrinkles around the worn corners. He thinks of happiness and love. He thinks of blood and death. He thinks of bright smiles and acceptance. He thinks of tears and rejection.

Sarah's face smiles up at him from the page, arms wrapped around Tom's neck as though it were just an ordinary night; as though pain and suffering wasn't about to rain down on them with the blunt tip of an ax.

Tom puts the photo back in the box under the bed.

Clay wouldn't understand.

Clay keeps a photo hidden amongst his things. It's one that evokes both good and bad memories as he stares at it, eyes filled with tears of grief and guilt. He thinks of family and home. He thinks of responsibilities and screaming matches. He thinks of scraped knees kissed better and bedtime stories. He thinks of masks and blood.

Whitney's face is close to his as she straddles the back of Clay's bike. He remembers his mother taking this picture a few months before his high school graduation, back when the world seemed like an adventure and men with machetes and torn clothes weren't in every nightmare he'll ever have.

Clay puts the photo back in the box on the top shelf.

Tom wouldn't understand.

Another Empty Space (2/6)

Fri, 10 Jul 2009 03:43:13 GMT

Title: Another Empty Space (2/6)
Author: deamsgirl
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Genre: AU, Fluff
Warnings: Wincest, Mature sexual content
Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters belong to Kripke and the CW. No profit was made from this story.
Summary: When John remarries and moves to Carmel, California, Dean isn't expecting much besides dullness. What he gets is a bedroom haunted by the ghost of a boy named Samuel who was murdered a hundred and fifty years ago, and an inexpicable connection that seems to defy all logic.
A/N: This is loosely based on the book series The Mediator. A big thanks to my beta katbcoll !

“I thought you were a 'hunter'?” Sam asks one morning, rolling the word “hunter” in his mouth like it's something foreign and exotic.

Dean—already fifteen minutes late for work—grunts out an “I am” as he pulls up the bedclothes to look under his bed for his wayward boot.

“Hunting has a uniform?” Dean doesn't even have to look from his place on the floor to know Sam has his “broody” face on.

“Of course not,” Dean says and drops the bed skirt with a disgruntled huff. “I'm working in a coffee shop. For now.”

“From hunting the unnatural to a coffee shop?” Sam laughs. “How does that happen?”

“Hunting's not a life you choose, Sammy,” Dean says. “Sometimes you just need a break.”

“It's Sam,” he protests. “And that's why you're here? You're taking a break?”

“I guess,” Dean says, crawling to the closet to rummage through its contents.

“Why did you start hunting?” Sam asks. “If it's not something you choose; there must have been something that forced you into it.”

Dean's spine turns into a rigid line under his shirt. “It's complicated,” he says quietly. He pulls his boot from the closet and says, “I'll see you later,” before he flees out the door. The “goodbye, Dean” that follows him is so quiet he barely hears it.

“Dean!” Anna yells; waves so hard she tilts precariously on her ladder. “Good morning!”

“What the hell are you doing up there?” Dean demands.

“Changing the prices on the board,” Anna says. “Cas said it's because of something called inflation, and also, the evil deeds of a demon named George W. Bush.”

Dean drops his jacket on the counter and pours himself a cup of coffee from the fresh pot. “Yeah, well, just don't fall and break your neck.”

Anna laughs. “Don't be silly. I'm a transcendent being! That wouldn't hurt me.” Dean mumbles in what she assumes is agreement. “How was your weekend?”

Dean shrugs and plops onto his stool. A small fan is blowing noisily on the counter, but Dean's glad for the extra air. In the heat of a California summer, not even the central cooling can change the fact that it's sweltering. “It was fine,” he says. “How was yours?”

“You're getting better at this small-talk business.” Anna beams. “And my weekend was superb. I watched Spice World ten times.”

Dean chokes on his coffee. “Spice World? Really?” he asks with an arched brow.

Anna nods. “I especially like Ginger Spice,” she says. “Cas thinks I would look just like her if I dyed my bangs white.”

“Please don't.” Dean grimaces.

“If you insist,” Anna says, sounding sad.

“Heya, Bobby,” Dean says and slips down the hallway. The kids are in their rooms and John and Ellen are out shopping, so Dean feels relatively safe having this phone call in the house.

“Hey, kid,” Bobby replies. “What can I do for ya?”

“What do you know about the house my dad bought?” Dean asks, after a cursory look to make sure he is indeed alone in the spacious living room.

There's a long pause on the other line before Bobby's sigh floats through Dean's phone. “Not much,” he admits. “Didn't see no reason to look into it. Why? There a problem?”

“No,” Dean says hastily. “Well... sort of.” He scratches the back of his neck. “There's kind of a ghost living in my bedroom.”

“What!”

“Don't freak,” Dean says quickly. “It's really not a big deal. The kid's harmless, trust me. He's more in danger of boring you to death than anything else.”

“Does your daddy know about this?” Bobby asks.

“Um,” Dean says and scuffs his boot along the pale green carpeting. “Not exactly?”

“Why the hell not?” Bobby demands. “He probably knows more about the history of the house than anyone. He could tell ya who to salt-and-burn faster than I could.”

“Well, that's kind of the problem, Bobby. I'm not going to salt-and-burn him.” Dean throws another look over his shoulder, but no one's in sight. “I just want to know who he is.”

“Are you out of your damn mind, boy?” Bobby asks.

“He's not hurting anything,” Dean insists. “He just sits around and reads all day. He can't even leave the room, Bobby. What's the point in burning him if he hasn't done anything to deserve it?”

“Look, your daddy ain't always right,” Bobby sighs. “But this is one time he is. Keeping a ghost trapped here? It's cruel.”

“Sam doesn't want to move on,” Dean lies. In truth, Dean's never asked Sam about it, and Sam's never mentioned any desire to be elsewhere. Dean's happy with the assumption that it means Sam's content where he is.

“Ghosts don't ever want to move on, you idjit,” Bobby scolds. “They're scared of what's on the other side. The unknown.”

“And they should be. We don't have any idea what happens to them after we burn the bones. We don't know where we send them, or if we sent them anywhere at all,” Dean says. “I'm not forcing Sam to move on unless I know he's going somewhere good. Now will you help me or not?”

“I'll help,” Bobby says grudgingly. “But I still think this is a bad idea.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean rolls his eyes. “I know, but I appreciate it.”

Bobby's huff tells Dean exactly how much that placates the older man. “What do you know about this Sam person? I'll need to narrow down the search.”

“Not much,” Dean admits. “Just that he died in my room a hundred and fifty years ago. He looks like he's in his early twenties. Nice clothes, so you know, he probably comes from a wealthy family. That's it.”

“I'll see what I can do,” is all Bobby says before hanging up.

Sam's fascinated by any news of the modern world. He can sit there for hours and listen to Dean talk about the most inane things like it's the most exciting shit he's ever heard. Dean guesses a hundred and fifty years in the same room would do that to a guy. Still, there are no words to express the geeky delight that crosses Sam's face as Dean explains the Internet to him.

“That's amazing!” Sam breathes. He eyes Dean's laptop with unrestrained fascination. “It's such a small contraption. Can you really use it to communicate with people across the world?”

Dean nods. “Among other things.”

Sam's fingers are twitching with the effort it takes to keep himself from reaching out and touching it. “You can play on it for a while if you want,” Dean laughs. “I have to go to work anyway. Just don't be surfing porn while I'm gone. I'd hate to think I corrupted your lily-white virtue.”

Sam's too engrossed in Dean's laptop to even pay attention. Dean rolls his eyes and mutters, “What a geek.”

“Where's Cas?” Dean asks as he enters the coffee shop.

“He had smiting to do,” Anna says very seriously.

“Oh, of course,” Dean says obligingly. He had gotten over the fact that Anna and Castiel were obviously a few fries short of a Happy Meal after about a week. “Angel business, how could I have forgotten?”

“Do you think it would be all right if I took off for a couple of days?” he asks. “I've got a hunt lined up in Wyoming.”

“Absolutely,” Anna says. “Saving lives always takes precedence.”

“Well, all right, then,” Dean says, and pours himself a cup of coffee.

“So, you're leaving?”

Dean tries to ignore the decidedly hang-dog look on Sam's face. “Just for a few days. I found reports of a string of mysterious deaths in Wyoming. Looks like a simple salt-and-burn case. Not to worry, Sammy.”

“It's Sam,” the ghost replies immediately. “What if you get hurt? Or it's not a simple... 'salt-and-burn'? You should take your father with you.”

“I don't need my dad's help,” Dean protests. “This isn't my first solo hunt and it definitely isn't the first vengeful spirit I've ganked.” Sam opens his mouth to protest and Dean shuts him up with a stern look. “Relax, would you? I'll be fine.”

“Just promise you'll come back,” Sam whispers.

Dean grins. “Aw, you're not getting rid of me that easy, Sammy.”

“Promise,” Sam insists.

“I promise.”

Halfway through his drive to Wyoming, his cell goes off. “Yeah?”

“I got the info on your boy,” Bobby says gruffly.

Dean really wants to address the “your boy” comment, but his curiosity outweighs his indignation and he prods Bobby on. “His name was Samuel Moore,” Bobby tells him. “He came from a wealthy ranching family out west.”

“What was he doing in my house, then?” Dean asks.

“Used to be an old boarding house,” Bobby says. “From what I've found, he was on his way to get married when he was murdered in your room. He was eighteen at the time.”

“Who did it?” Dean demanded.

“Don't know for sure,” Bobby says. “There was never enough proof to tie anyone to the murder, but the family always suspected the fiancée, Jessica. It was an arranged marriage, and neither one was particularly happy about it. Sam wanted to go to university and Jessica was in love with a fella named Gordon Walker. They got married two days after Sam's death.”

Dean clenches his phone so hard his knuckles turn white. “How'd they do it?”

Bobby's voice is grim when he says, “They tied him to the bed and burned him alive.”

Link to part one.

Another Empty Space (1/6)

Sat, 27 Jun 2009 22:59:56 GMT

Title: Another Empty Space (1/6)
Author: deamsgirl
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Genre: AU, Fluff
Warnings: Wincest, mature sexual content
Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters belong to Kripke and the CW. No profit was made from this story.
Summary: When John remarries and moves to Carmel, California, Dean isn't expecting much besides dullness. What he gets is a bedroom haunted by the ghost of a boy named Samuel who was murdered a hundred and fifty years ago, and an inexplicable connection that seems to defy all logic.
A/N: This is very loosely based on the book series The Mediator. A big thanks to my beta katbcoll!

Dean's pretty sure he has the wrong house. He has to, because there is no fucking way John Winchester would ever agree to live in a place like this, new wife or otherwise. He's about to turn the Impala around and go back down the ridiculously long driveway when the door bangs open and Ellen Harvelle comes bounding down the steps with John in tow. “You're late, young man,” she says, but she's smiling big and wide.

Dean shuts off the engine and opens his door with a loud creak. “Yeah, sorry,” he says awkwardly. “I kinda got lost a few towns back.”

“Well, you're here now.” John steps forward and places a hand on Dean's shoulder. “How was the hunt?”

Dean shrugs and looks at him feet. “The shape shifter gave me the slip a couple times, but I got it eventually.”

“I see,” is all John says. Dean knows without having to look that his smile has been replaced by a disapproving frown.

“John, why don't we show Dean the house?” Ellen interjects, effectively changing the subject. John looks pleased again and Dean feels some of the tension leave his body. “We've been remodeling all month,” Ellen tells him as they walk up the porch steps. “We haven't gotten around to finishing your room yet, Dean, I'm sorry.”

“Don't worry about it,” Dean says immediately. “I'm sure it's fine just the way it is.”

Ellen smiles warmly at him. “This is your home too now. We want you to be comfortable.”

Dean tries to return her smile, but it comes off as a grimace. Ellen deflates a little at the sight, but she covers it by dragging him around the house and animatedly talking about its history. It's an old, huge Victorian, and Dean grudgingly admits to himself that it's actually quite beautiful. John tells him it used to be a boarding house, and he shows him a bullet hole in the wall of the living room that they framed. Dean secretly thinks it's a tad morbid, even for John.

They head upstairs and Ellen starts pointing out the bedrooms: first Jo's, then Andy's, then Jake's, and finally the master bedroom. Dean's is at the end of the hall, and Ellen reminds him that they plan to remodel it as soon as possible before she opens the door.

He can immediately see why they knew he wouldn't like it. It's really fucking girlie, with a big four-poster bed (and a canopy,) a dressing table with a large mirror, and pale pink walls. Dean's never been overly-worried about the rooms he sleeps in, so he thanks John and Ellen and tells them it's just fine.

“We'll bring your bags up and let you get unpacked,” John says. He puts an arm around Ellen and guides her towards the door. Dean wants to tell them he's not a girl and he's perfectly capable of getting his own damn bags, thank you very much, but they're already gone.

He sighs and watches the canopy flutter in the breeze from the open window. He's about to close it when he sees a boy sitting on the window-seat. “Jesus Christ!” he yelps, startled.

The boy looks at him with wide eyes. “You can-you can see me?” he asks, voice cracking with disuse.

Then Dean notices the guy isn't completely opaque and groans. “You have got to be kidding me,” he says, throwing his hands in the air.

“Um,” the boy says. “Could we possibly go back to the part where you can see me?”

Dean ignores him. “You're a ghost,” he says and starts to pace back and forth. “This is just great. There is a ghost living in my house.” He chuckles, but it is far from amused. “That's priceless. Only John Winchester would pick a haunted house to settle down in.”

“Are you a psychic or something?” the boy asks. “Is that why you can see me?”

“Do I look like a psychic to you, ghost-boy?” Dean plops into the chair in front of the dressing table and buries his face in his hands.

“Well, do psychics look any different from anyone else?” The ghost smiles wryly. “And my name is Sam, not... ghost-boy.”

“Well, Sam, nice to meet you. Now get the hell out,” Dean says, dropping his hands to shoot Sam a piercing look.

Sam looks startled. “What?”

“You heard me,” Dean says. “Get lost. I'm not about to be roomies with a ghost, and besides, haunting a house full of hunters? Not the best idea ever.”

Dean is sure the expression on Sam's face can be classified as a pout. “I was here first,” Sam says. “I've been here for a hundred and fifty years.”

“All the more reason to leave,” Dean says easily. “Take a vacation. Go rattle some chains and make whooshing noises somewhere else. You can't stay here.”

“I can't leave!” Sam says stubbornly.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Look, Sam, you seem like a nice... spook, so I'm not going to do the whole salt-and-burn routine on your ass. But you can't stay here. Believe me; I'm doing you a favor. If my dad finds out about you, it'll be much worse.”

“You're not listening to me,” Sam huffs. “I can't leave. I cannot physically leave this room. Every time I try, I end up right back where I started.”

“Are you serious? You're telling me that you're a hundred and fifty years old, and you can't even work up the juice to leave the place you died in?” Dean asks incredulously. “Dude, you are the worse ghost ever.”

Sam shoots him a glare. “Sorry, dying wasn't exactly a top priority of mine. Excuse me for not embracing it.”

“Whatever, man,” Dean waves him off. “Just stay out of my way and I'll stay out of yours. And for god's sake, keep under the radar. No ghost-y business of any kind. If my dad finds you, you're a goner, dude.” Dean hears the front door open below, and makes shooing gestures with his hands. “My dad's coming back. You have to... I don't know, hide?”

Sam gives him a look that clearly says “I'm dead, you idiot,” and vanishes.

Dean blinks. “Fucking ghosts.”

Dean has plenty of time to ponder the direction his life is taking while on the way to work the next day. Somehow, his father has remarried and given up hunting (as a full-time occupation, anyway,) moved to Carmel, California, of all places (they don't even have streetlights, for Christ's sake!) and Dean is now hiding a ghost in his bedroom. What. The. Fuck.

Still, Sam's just... well; Dean doesn't even know what Sam is. Harmless comes to mind, what with the puppy-dog eyes and the floppy hair and the dimpled smile. Dean is blaming this whole disaster on the dimples. It is most definitely their fault. Whatever.

Dean's hunted enough spirits to last him ten lifetimes, and he's come across a few good ones. While John doesn't differentiate between “supernatural” and “evil,” Dean doesn't see the point in killing something if it's not harming anything. He knows John would disapprove, but he's killed enough without needlessly adding to the list. So, he's going to let Sam stay in his room, as long as he stays out of Dean's way as promised. Dean's not going to say anything about it because John would probably want an exorcism done or something. Dean would rather avoid that; the sage smells like ass, and the stench of it lingers for weeks.

He's pulled from his thoughts—which is probably for the best, he was starting to feel a little hysterical—when he parks in front of the coffee shop John managed to get him a job at. Why John didn't get him a job at an auto shop or something Dean would actually be good at is still a mystery, but Dean's not about to turn up his nose at the possibility of free coffee.

A pretty redhead is sitting behind the counter, and she waves happily to him as he approaches. “Hi, there! I'm Anna! What can I get for you?” She slaps a hand on the counter before Dean can even open his mouth to respond. “Oh, wait, you must be Dean! Cas! Get your ass out here!”

A rumpled looking man stalks out of the back room with a scowl. He looks more like a tax accountant than coffee shop worker, so Dean assumes he's the owner. “This is Dean,” Anna says excitedly. “John's son.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Dean,” he says solemnly. “My name is Castiel.”

Dean quirks a brow. “Yeah, you too.” He turns to Anna. “How is it you know my dad?”

“Oh, we've helped him on a few of his hunts over the years,” Anna says with a dismissive wave.

“So, you guys are hunters?” Dean can't help the skepticism in his voice.

“Of course not!” Anna laughs. “We're angels, silly!”

“And I'm Ted Nugent,” Dean says sarcastically.

“Really?” Castiel asks, perplexed. “Then I shall call you by your proper title. Anna, please teach Ted how to use the Cappuccino machine. I have urgent matters to deal with in my office.”

Anna looks vaguely concerned. “Another demon horde?”

“No, much worse,” Castiel replies. “Tax season.”

“Let's hope we don't get audited again,” Anna says. “That little bald man was not nice at all.”

Dean starts to wonder if he maybe pissed off some divine force in a past life, and if apologizing profusely could possibly end his current suffering.

It didn't.

When Dean gets home, Sam is curled up in the window-seat with one of Dean's books in his lap. He looks sheepishly at Dean for a moment and clears his throat. “Sorry,” Sam says with a blush. “I shouldn't touch your things, but it was lying out and I... I've always liked to read, so...”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Don't worry about it,” he says. “My Uncle Bobby's constantly sending me books. Thinks I need to read more or something. You might as well use them, 'cause I sure as hell won't.”

Sam gives Dean a shy smile. “Thanks. It gets a bit dull sometimes.”

“A bit?” Dean laughs. “Sam, you've been here for a hundred and fifty years, what the hell do you do all day?”

Sam shrugs. “It depends,” he says thoughtfully. “If someone is living in the house, I can entertain myself fairly easily by borrowing their books or things. When the house is empty, I normally just... think.”

“What do you think about?” Dean asks, surprised that he genuinely wants to know.

“Life, I guess,” Sam answers. “Death, the universe. Anything.”

“So you brood,” Dean smirks.

“What? No!” Sam says indignantly. “I ponder the meaning of life.”

Dean bursts out laughing. “You so brood!”

Sam still looks mildly offended, but the corners of his mouth are twitching into a smile. “How do you spend your time?” Sam asks in turn.

“I help people,” Dean says.

Sam smiles at that. “How so?”

“I...” Dean trails off, thinking it's probably not the best idea to tell a spirit that his job is to get rid of the unnatural.

“Tell me,” Sam pleads. He hugs his knees to his chest and watches Dean in rapt attention.

“I hunt things,” Dean says after a while. “Supernatural things... creatures, I guess.”

“Like ghosts?” Sam asks quietly.

“Sometimes,” Dean says honestly. “When they're hurting someone.” The smile he receives for that is blinding.

“I've never hurt anyone, you know,” Sam says.

“Good.”

I am the light that will pull you from the darkness of your soul (1/1)

Thu, 21 May 2009 15:38:02 GMT

Title: I am the light that will pull you from the darkness of your soul (1/1)
Author: deamsgirl
Rating: R
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Genre: One-Shot, H/C, Angst
Warning(s): Wincest
Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters belong to Kripke and the CW. No profit was made from this story.
Notes: Just a short little piece I wrote at the beginning of season 4 and forgot all about. I found it on my hard drive the other day and decided to share it.

Dean is the night. He is the shadows that cling to the corners of the world, retreating from light and goodness and humanity. He is broken, blemished, by forty years of sulfur and pain, bone and blood.

He is the man with an angel's hand on his arm, skin marred as if the purity of Castiel's touch was repulsed by the feel of Dean. He is wrong, twisted, dangerous. He is hollow and burned-out with eyes that flash black ever so often because the last thread of humanity in him grows more brittle with each day.

He is hopeless and helpless, except when he is Sam's. When Sam is inside him, thrusting and caressing and biting like Dean's body is sanctified. Like Dean is something good. When Sam kisses him and whispers his name over and over, toes curling and mouth blown wide open around a slur of DeanDeanDeanDean as he comes. When Sam holds him close and drifts to sleep, chasing away every dark thing in Dean's soul.

And when they wake up and separate from that haven of skin and love and come, the darkness trickles back into Dean's pores. Stays there until the next time Sam runs his hands or mouth or cock along Dean's skin.

Dean is the night. He is wrong, twisted, dangerous. But mostly, he is Sam's.

Anemones (1/1)

Fri, 08 May 2009 02:52:20 GMT

Title: Anemones (1/1)
Author: deamsgirl
Rating: R
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Genre: AU, H/C, Angst, Fluff
Warning(s): Wincest, sex, swearing, tissues may be needed!
Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters belong to Kripke and the CW. No profit was made from this story.
Summary: 2.01 "In My Time of Dying" AU. Every year, Sam visits Dean at his grave.
Beta: The lovely katbcoll beta'd this for me. Thanks sweetie!
Notes: Anemone flowers are used quite frequently throughout the story. To read a little bit about their lore, go here. This was written as a birthday present for ticklemepanic. Happy birthday, Jess! :D

Dean waits for Sam in the patch of anemones, tall grass tickling his knee where his jeans have long been torn. The sun is at its peak in the sky, wisps of clouds clinging to the surrounding blue. He hears the rustle of footsteps behind him, the tell-tale hitch of breath, and thinks SamSamSam.

Dean doesn't turn around when Sam's arms slide around his waist. He just leans his weight against his brother's solid chest and lets his eyes drift closed. Sam whispers a slur of words into Dean's hair, a jumbled mess of Dean and need you and missed you.

Dean hums low in his throat, face tilted towards the sky. Like he's trying to suck the sunlight into his skin—like he's trying bleed out the darkness and the let it seep into the soil. Then Sam twirls him around and presses his lips to the corner of Dean's mouth. “Mine,” Sam whispers. Sam's. He's Sam's. Not even the sunlight can touch him under the blanket of Sam's shadow.

Sam's.

Sam's already in the field when Dean arrives. His brother is lying in the grass, head crowned by the old wooden cross jutting up from the ground. Sam is curled up on his side, hand splayed flat against the earth as if he's trying to touch Dean through the six feet of soil separating them.

Dean stands a few feet away, watching his brother stroke the ground in silent worship. Dean feels his heart clench in his chest at the sight, but he can't look away. “Sammy,” he breathes.

“Lay with me,” is all Sam says. Dean hesitantly makes his way across the tall grass, mindful of the clumps of flowers under his heavy boots. He lies in front of Sam so they're face to face. The hand that had been caressing the earth moments before rests on Dean's chest instead, right above his heart. “It's beating.” Sam sounds breathless with his surprise.

Dean knows. He can feel feel it pounding in his chest, a slow tha-thump against his rib cage. “No, it's not.” Sam gives him a wry smile and doesn't argue the point.

The sun is already bleeding into the ground, and Dean twists his fingers in Sam's jacket like he's desperate to keep Sam here. And he is. So fucking desperate for Sam that he clings to the younger man as if it would make a difference. “I almost thought you weren't going to come,” Sam whispers.

Dean pillows his head on Sam's bicep. “I'll always come, Sammy.”

The sun disappears behind the mountains and takes Sam with it.

Sam looks worn out and so very old. There is a dusting of stubble hugging his chin and black, crinkling lines under his eyes. He's still the most beautiful thing Dean has ever seen. Dean scuffs his boots along the yellowing weeds and smiles sadly. “Jesus, Sammy. When was the last time you slept?”

Sam blinks, stopped at the foot of the grave site. “It's been a while,” Sam says with a slow grin.

“Gotta take better care of yourself, baby boy.”

Sam shrugs, looks at his feet. “Nothing I haven't already heard from Bobby or dad.”

Dean feels himself flinch back. “Dad... is he...?” he clears his throat.

“He's been better. He misses you,” Sam says. “We all do.”

Dean stretches his hand out and Sam hesitantly steps forward to take it. “I'm right here.”

Sam's lips on his bare skin burn, as if Sam had held them over an open fire until they were searing hot. “Please,” he breathes. Sam's hands are on his ass, spreading him open, and Dean feels a finger probing the puckered skin there. “Please, Sam.”

“Not enough time,” Sam whispers. There is a thread of sadness beneath the heavy desperation and anticipation. “There's never enough time.”

“I know,” Dean says, and on those words, Sam slides into him. They melt together with frantic movements, their words murmured into the air like their last rites.

When they come with a shout of each other's name, Sam holds Dean to his chest as the sunset paints the sky in a mural of vibrant pinks and purples. They are sharing a last kiss when the ground opens up and swallows Dean back down.

“Sam!”

Sam falls against the grass, the red stain on the front of his shirt spreading steadily. “Nonononono,” Dean says, running to Sam. He cradles his brother's head in hands as he carefully peels away the cotton from Sam's abdomen. Three vertical claw marks run along the length of Sam's stomach, a stream of blood seeping out with each labored breath that hitches in Sam's chest. “Goddamn it, Sam. You should be in a hospital.”

Sam grabs Dean's hand and clutches it tightly. “Couldn't,” he slurs. “'S our day. Couldn't miss our day, we only get one.” He gives a weak cough. “We only get one.”

“There's next year.” One of Dean's tears splatters across Sam's cheek. “There's always another day next year.”

“I want to spend every day with you.” Sam's eyes start to droop. “Let me?”

“You can't,” Dean says fiercely, but Sam doesn't listen. He goes slack in Dean's arms and Dean can do nothing but watch the light fade in Sam's eyes.

Dean holds Sam until the moon rips him from Dean's arms.

Sam's sitting on his own grave when Dean feels the pull of sunlight. There are no anemones planted around Sam's cross, but there is a small patch of wild roses. Sam's running a tentative hand along the petals when Dean steals up behind him. “Idiot,” Dean says quietly. His voice is hoarse like he spent the whole year crying. And maybe he had.

Sam chuckles. “Am not. I'm the brains of this outfit, remember?”

Dean cracks a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “I remember.”

Sam leans his head against Dean's leg and whispers “Missed you.” Dean threads his fingers through Sam's dark hair and whispers back, “Missed you too, Sammy.”

“Does this mean we have more than a day?” Sam asks, voice cracking with fragile hope.

“I think this means we have forever,” Dean replies.

That night, when the earth took Dean back, it took Sam too.

When Misha is the Center of the Sandwich (7/?)

Fri, 27 Mar 2009 18:24:08 GMT

Title: When Misha is the Center of the Sandwich (7/?)
Author: deamsgirl
Rating: R
Pairing(s): Jensen/Jared, Jensen/Jared/Misha
Genre: Drabble, Humor, RPS
Warnings: Slash
Summary: Jensen and Jared meet the latest addition to the Supernatural cast... the gorgeous Misha Collins.
Author's Note: Here is yet another one-shot that I have decided to extend, after many pleading comments (you guys are killing me XD.) I have decided to make it a drabble series (since it started out as a drabble and I am sort of OCD about symmetry.)

Jensen couldn't quite remember how they had gotten from the living room to the bedroom. One minute he was gently, teasingly exploring Misha's mouth with his tongue, and the next minute Jared was pressing him against the bed with a hungry gleam in his eye.

Jensen wasn't sure if the shiver that raced down his spine was due to unease or excitement. As he felt his dick harden against the rough material of his jeans at the sight of Misha catching Jared's earlobe between his teeth, he thought to himself: either way, it was going to be a damn good night.

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven</lj>

When Misha is the Center of the Sandwich (6/?)

Fri, 27 Mar 2009 17:39:20 GMT

Title: When Misha is the Center of the Sandwich (6/?)
Author: deamsgirl
Pairing(s): Jensen/Jared, Jensen/Jared/Misha
Genre: Drabble, Humor, RPS
Warnings: Slash
Summary: Jensen and Jared meet the latest addition to the Supernatural cast... the gorgeous Misha Collins.
Author's Note: Here is yet another one-shot that I have decided to extend, after many pleading comments (you guys are killing me XD.) I have decided to make it a drabble series (since it started out as a drabble and I am sort of OCD about symmetry.)

When Jensen walked into the living room, Misha was sitting on the couch with a beer in his hand. He thought of all the ways this could go wrong; how it could mess up the show, or even his and Jared's relationship.

He was terrified and excited and more than a little turned on when Misha ended up standing in front him, smiling like he knew a big secret Jensen was not yet privy to. “Stop worrying, Jensen,” he whispered. “This won't change anything.” And then he leaned up and pressed his lips to Jensen's.

Jensen stopped worrying after that.

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven

When Misha is the Center of the Sandwich (5/?)

Fri, 27 Mar 2009 17:33:11 GMT

Title: When Misha is the Center of the Sandwich (5/?)
Author: deamsgirl
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Jensen/Jared, Jensen/Jared/Misha
Genre: Drabble, Humor, RPS
Warnings: Slash
Summary: Jensen and Jared meet the latest addition to the Supernatural cast... the gorgeous Misha Collins.
Author's Note: Here is yet another one-shot that I have decided to extend, after many pleading comments (you guys are killing me XD.) I have decided to make it a drabble series (since it started out as a drabble and I am sort of OCD about symmetry.)

Jensen was not freaking out, despite Jared's vehement disagreement. He fucking wasn't. Just because he got a little drunk and locked himself in the bathroom did not mean he was having a nervous breakdown or anything.

He hoped.

“Jensen,” Jared's calm voice drifted through the door. “Are you ever coming out of there?”

“Probably not,” Jensen wanted to say. Instead, he called, “I'll only be a few more minutes.”

“Well, hurry up, you freak. Misha is already here,” Jared said with a huff.

God, Jensen was so screwed. But the thing that scared him most?

He didn't seem to care.

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven

The Time When Karma Looked Suspiciously Similar to a Sugar-Free Lollipop (1/1)

Tue, 10 Mar 2009 03:11:03 GMT

Title: The Time When Karma Looked Suspiciously Similar to a Sugar-Free Lollipop
Author: deamsgirl
Rating: R
Pairing(s): Sam/Dean
Genre: Humor, Fluff, One-Shot
Warning(s): Wincest, Cavity-inducing fluffiness, Flagrant maltreatment of lollipops.
Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters belong to Kripke and the CW. This story was merely for my own amusement and no profit was made from it.
Summary: Dean is forced to endure a trip to the dentist's office, a gloating Sam, and the somewhat-smiting of a sarcastic angel. However, it is nothing that can't be cured with a little pie. Spoilers for: 4.07 "It's the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester"
Author's Notes: This is so fluffy it's bordering on crack and I should probably be banned from my stash of Skittles and Moutain Dew for writing it. A huge thanks to katbcoll for beta'ing this for me and giving my typos a quick and merciful death. The first person to identify my random movie reference gets a cookie. :D

“Dean, quit sulking,” Sam said. He didn't need to look up from his magazine to know that his brother was pouting in the chair next to him.

“But it's not fair,” Dean groused, as he sank into his chair and crossed his arms. Sam decided not to tell him he looked and sounded like a petulant five-year-old.

“Maybe not,” Sam relented. “But it's your own damn fault.”

“Fuck you,” Dean shot back.

“If you behave,” Sam said, not the least bit fazed. He continued to idly flip through the pages of the magazine, stopping to half-read anything that looked remotely interesting.

Dean seemed to perk up at that, as expected. Promises of sex were one of the few methods of bribery that actually worked on Dean. So, by default, Sam's life had become much easier since he and Dean started their beyond-fraternal relationship. After all, a quick blowjob was definitely a simpler solution to dealing with Dean's antics than driving around Bum-Fuck, Michigan, at three in the morning in search of pie.

Still, even the anticipation of orgasms in the near-future couldn't keep Dean quiet for long. “This sucks out loud,” he said.

Sam hummed in slight acknowledgment. “Karma, Dean,” he tsked.

“The fuck, Sammy?” was Dean's indignant response. “What have I ever done to deserve this?”

Sam closed the magazine and laid it back on the corner table before turning to Dean with a patronizing expression. “Perhaps refusing to give a poor little kid a single piece of candy,” Sam said. “And eating it all yourself, even though we both know the last thing you need is sugar.”

Dean gave a 'psh!' and waved Sam off. “Whatever,” he said. “That kid could use a break from the sweets. I did him a favor.”

“Yes,” Sam said sarcastically. “And, as you can see, the universe is repaying you handsomely for your good deed.”

“You're such a cocksucker,” Dean whined, cupping the side of his face with a pained look. “I hate the dentist's office. It's hell.” At Sam's unsympathetic guffaw, he added, “No, really, I'm serious. This one demon was a dentist in his human life. Gave souls fucking root canals every day.”

Sam gave him a look that clearly said he thought Dean was full of shit. “I can't believe you're being such a baby about this,” Sam said, ducking out range when Dean gave a half-hearted attempt to punch him in the head. “You get shot, stabbed, and thrown into walls on a fairly regular basis and you're worried about a filling?”

“Yeah, but that's for the job, y'know?” Dean shrugged. “This is, like... like...” he waved his arms around, momentarily at a loss for words. “Willingly letting someone torture you. I mean, come on, I'm paying this guy for excruciating pain.”

“Willingly?” Sam asked incredulously. “Dean, I had to drag you from the motel room and threaten to drive the Impala off a cliff just to get you here.” As an afterthought, “And you are not paying for anything. Thomas Hanniger, who's Visa you're carrying around, is footing the bill.”

Dean opened his mouth to reply when an attractive nurse entered the waiting area and told him, “Dr. Miller is ready to see you now.” The morose look on Dean's face was almost enough to make Sam feel sorry for him. Almost.

“Cheer up,” Sam said. “I bet you get a lollipop when you're done.” If Dean's face turned a little green at the word candy, Sam didn't mention it.

Sam drove back to the motel, given his still-sulking brother had claimed to be in too much pain to do anything besides whine and throw whatever objects were on hand at Sam's head. Including the green, sugar-free lollipop the nurse had handed him on his way out.

Castiel was sitting patiently on the edge of Sam's bed when they walked through the door. “Cas?” Dean asked, surprised. Though, with all the cottonpads in his mouth and his tongue still half-numb from the Novocaine, it sounded more like, “Caff?”

Castiel tilted his head and smiled. “I can see you've had a very nice day, Dean,” he said, and Dean was starting to think he had a negative influence on Castiel, because angels generally weren't supposed to be sarcastic.

“Whaffa 'uck?” Dean slurred unhappily.

Castiel stood and placed a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder. “Next time, share with the trick-or-treaters.”

Dean blinked once, twice, then power-flopped on his bed with a groan. He threw a pillow in his brother's general direction when he heard Sam's loud, out-of-control laughter.

Castiel was gone when he finally bothered to open his eyes, and Sam was hovering over him with a fond, if not smugly amused, grin. “I promise I won't say 'I told you so,'” Sam said.

“Go 'way.”

“Don't be like that,” Sam said, sitting down on the bed and pulling Dean's head into his lap. He carded his fingers through Dean's hair and rubbed a soothing hand along Dean's stomach, which was likely still unsettled from him throwing up eight bags of candy that morning.

“Dickthead,” Dean muttered around the cotton, and Sam had to bite down on a giggle. “'M in pain an' you are lafthing a' me.”

“I'm sorry,” Sam said with one, last chuckle. “Will you ever forgive me?”

Later, after Sam made it up to him with a blowjob and a slice of pie, Dean said, “Fine, fine. I forgive you. Bitch.”

Five times Dean didn't remember (and one time he did)

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 19:58:58 GMT

Title: Five times Dean didn't remember (and one time he did)
Author: deamsgirl
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Genre: Angst, Drabble
Warnings: Wincest, Mature sexual content
Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters belong to Kripke and the CW. This story was merely for my own amusement.
Summary: Sam never meant to take advantage of his brother, but sometimes he just can't stop himself. Dean is not nearly as oblivious as he lets on.
Author's Notes: I wrote this forever and a day ago, and I just now decided to share it.

1.

Sam was stitching up Dean as carefully as he could. The spirit had thrown his brother through a window, and Sam silently thanked whatever deity had made sure the older Winchester hadn't cut any major veins.

Sighing in his dreamy, drug-induced stupor, Dean pulled Sam down for a kiss. Sam felt sick when he saw the glazed look in his brother's eyes, but that didn't stop him from kissing back. Lips led to tongues led to hands led to cocks, and Sam came all over Dean's stomach.

He cleaned them both up and promised to never do it again.

2.

Dean was drunk again.

He stumbled into the motel room and roused Sam from sleep with a litany of jumbled, filthy words. Sam knew he shouldn't, but he bucked into the hand that found its way into his boxers. It was perfect and horrible at the same time, and Sam bit his tongue and came with his brother's name on his lips regardless.

Dean licked his hand clean and slipped into his own bed, passing out almost instantly. Sam locked himself in the bathroom and dry heaved for close to an hour.

He fell asleep against the cool tiles, crying.

3.

Sam was starting to wonder if he should take Dean to the hospital. Head injuries were a tricky business and Dean had fallen pretty hard.

Dean was hovering in the limbo between sleep and wakefulness, and if his whimpers were any indication, the dream he was having wasn't entirely unpleasant. Sam told himself no, but the temptation proved too much. He had his lips wrapped around a half-aware Dean and within minutes, he had his brother's come flowing down his throat.

He pulled away and tried to ignore the fact that Dean came with Cassie's name on his lips.

4.

Dean didn't come out of his delirium until well into the morning. With his temperature safely down to a 98.4, he could finally prop himself up in his bed and order Sam to get some damn sleep.

Only half-protesting against it, Sam slipped under the covers and sighed. Dean bit his lip and hesitantly called out his name. Thoughts of bare flesh and hot come was imprinted on his brain and he couldn't think straight. Sam was staring at him expectantly, so he finally mumbled a “nevermind.”

It was the fever playing tricks on him... it had to be.

5.

Sam told himself not to do it, but Dean's pitiful whimpers were starting to break down his defenses. “Please, Sammy,” Dean sobbed. “I need to come.”

Sam traced a finger along the broken skin of Dean's neck. The bite mark was supplying Dean's body with a steady stream of the incubus' poison, and Sam rationalized that he had to. It was for Dean and the job, and he could get away with it just this once.

He wrapped a hand around both their cocks and roughly jacked them.

In the morning, Dean languidly stretched and didn't remember a thing.

1.

“This has to stop,” Dean said quietly, pulling Sam's hand away from his groin, clearly not as inebriated as Sam originally thought.

Sam felt his blood run cold. He tried to stammer an apology, an explanation, anything, but he couldn't form words past the lump in his throat. So he just stayed quiet and waited for Dean to punch him or leave or both.

Dean kissed him instead. Just a tentative brush of lips, delivered with the gentlest care as Dean cupped Sam's face. It was over far too soon, and Dean whispered, smiling, “You could have just asked, Sammy.”

In the Silhouette of a Dying World (1/1)

Sun, 01 Mar 2009 19:01:09 GMT

Title: In the Silhouette of a Dying World (1/1)
Author: deamsgirl
Rating: NC-17
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Bobby, Castiel
Genre: One-shot, angst, apocalypse!fic, dark fic,
Warnings: Wincest, mature sexual content, dark fic
Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters are property of Kripke and the CW. This story was merely for my own amusement.
Summary: Things get complicated when Dean is turned into a vampire, but in the end, Sam will do whatever it takes to be with him.
Author Notes: Many thanks to gestaltrose for betaing this for me! You were wonderful, hun!

“Kill me,” Dean pleads, fingers twisting into Sam's shirt as the younger man tries to flee the sound of Dean's voice. “Please, Sammy.”

Sam doesn't even try to stop the tears that are streaming down his face. “Don't you ever ask that of me, Dean,” he says. “Don't you fucking do it.”

Dean lets his hands drop to his sides. There is a pained noise trying to escape the confines of his throat, but he pushes it down. “I can't do this.”

“You have to.” Sam says firmly.

They don't talk for the rest of the night, and Sam pointedly pretends to be asleep when Dean slips out the door a few hours before sunrise.

Sam has gotten used to hunting without Dean. He did it for months while Dean was in hell; learned to deal with the fact that there was no one covering his back. But living without Dean? Sam doesn't think he will ever get used to that.

“Why are you doing this?”

“It's for the best.”

“Don't go.”

“You take care of yourself, Sammy.”

“Don't you fucking leave me!”

“I'm sorry, Sam, but I can't do this. I don't love you anymore. I don't love anything.”

Sam wonders when his brother turned into such a fucking liar.

“I wish I could see you in the sunlight,” Sam whispers, trailing his fingers through Dean's short hair. “Just one more time. You always looked good with a tan.”

Sam is expecting Dean to make a smart ass comment about always looking good. Instead, Dean flinches and looks away. “Sorry.”

“For what?” Sam's hand stills.

“I can't be what you need,” it's mournful, like Dean has known it all along, but never fully acknowledged it before.

Sam places featherlight kisses along his brother's jaw. “Dean, you are everything I will ever need.”

“Have you found anything?” Sam asks into the phone, his answer coming in the form of a resigned silence long before Bobby replies.

“No,” the word echoes around Sam's head like a taunt. “But I'll keep looking.”

“Thanks, Bobby,” Sam sighs.

“Sam? Just be careful,” Bobby warns. “You ain't the only one looking for him.”

Sam's hand clenches around the phone. He doesn't need to look behind him to see the corpse of the dead hunter. The blood caked beneath Sam's fingernails serves as a testament of its presence. “I know.”

“Look at me!” Dean screams, hands and face smeared into a disquieting shade of crimson. “I'm a monster!”

Sam cups Dean's face, eyes open and honest and full of love. “I am looking, Dean,” he whispers. “I only see my brother.”

Sam searches everywhere for Dean, feels like he should be able to find him, no matter what. Like the bond of blood and need and love should be enough to guide him to his wayward brother, but Sam's never had to search far for Dean before. He's always been able to count on Dean being right there for whatever Sam needs.

Dean doesn't want to be found this time. Sam keeps looking anyway.

“You have to eat, Dean,” Sam says, so low it's barely a whisper. “You're starving to death.”

“I can't die,” Dean shoots back.

“Dean, please...”

“I'm not going to kill somebody, Sam!” Dean shouts. “Too many people have died to keep me alive. I won't let anyone else.”

“I don't want to lose you,” Sam says, rubbing his thumb across Dean's cheek. Too pale, too thin, too fragile.

“You won't,” Dean promises, but it sounds hollow even to his own ears.

Sam wants to believe him. He wants to think there is still some hope left for them, but Sam isn't naive enough to think their story can possibly have a happy ending. They began in a pit of blood and darkness and pain, and that is where they will finish.

Sam goes out after that, comes back a few hours later. He holds out the container of pig's blood to Dean, the movement both a plea and a promise. Dean looks trapped and hollow and ready to collapse, but he gives a slight nod in answer.

Sam sits with him as he chokes the whole thing down. There is something like shame in Dean's eyes when he looks at Sam. His mouth is stained red and his eyes are blown black. He moves to duck his head, but Sam grabs his chin.

He presses his lips to Dean's, kisses him hard and hungrily until he thinks he can draw that look from Dean's eyes. He wants to create a vacuum with his lips and his love that pulls out every broken piece of Dean; wants to swallow all that pain and put it back together, in the shape of something as pure and beautiful as his brother. “I don't want to lose you,” he repeats.

“You won't,” Dean promises again. This time there is the smallest waver of truth in his voice, and Sam smiles. He feels like he's been given something to hold on to.

“I'm going to burn this world to the ground,” Sam says, watching the angel with angry, yellow eyes. “I will rip apart everything until he has nothing left to hide behind.”

“I know,” Castiel replies, head down as he kneels at Sam's feet. It's a move of submission not lost on Sam, and he threads a hand through Castiel's hair in acknowledgment.

“Then why are you here?” he asks, voice softer now.

Castiel places a hand on Sam's calf, ignoring the younger man's pained hiss. “He needs you. Find him quickly.”

Sam kneels until he is level with the angel. “Look at me,” he commands, and Castiel answers it without hesitation. Sam looks him in the eyes as he rips the grace from Castiel's chest. “You'll die like the rest of them.”

Human, vulnerable, Castiel clings to Sam's shoulders. When Sam sends him to Hell, he hasn't decided if it is a gift or a punishment. Perhaps it is both.

Dean is lying pale and limp on the cool concrete of the alley floor and Sam lets out a half-pained, half-relieved cry of, “Dean!”

Dean is cold and clammy under his hands, and he whispers, “please don't die” like a mantra. Dean's pulse is a soft, fluttering thing when he presses a finger to it, and it reassures him only slightly. Sam notices the streak of red against Dean's lips, flaking and faint, but he can't bring himself to think of what it means.

Dean's pulse is fading with every moment that passes and Sam is crying and pawing at him and whispering endearments against his skin. There is nothing but silence under Sam's fingers and he presses a kiss to Dean's lips, tastes the blood there, and lets it fill him with hope.

Dean's eyes flutter open, even as Sam feels no heartbeat in his chest. “Dean,” he rasps. “Dean, oh god, I thought—I thought I—“

“Sam?” Dean's voice is cracking, barely coherent. “I didn't want to swallow. Sam, I—“

Sam shushes him. “It's okay,” he says. “It's okay, baby. I've got you. We'll figure this out.”

Some nights, Sam thinks it will kill him; the power of the unknown.

Dean is somewhere out there, alone in the world and constantly on the run. Hiding from hunters, hiding from demons, hiding from Sam.

Sam knows he's not dead. He would feel it in his bones if anything ever happened to his brother. He has Dean in his heart, mind, soul, blood, and flesh. Dean surrounds everything in him, takes up so much space inside of Sam that there is no room left for anything else. Feeling Dean comes as easily to Sam as breathing.

No, Dean is alive. Hiding behind some pillar constructed from desperation and loss, just biding his time until the day comes when everyone stops looking for him.

Sam idly wonders who Dean is running from more: the people that want to kill him, or the people that want to love him.

Dean is rocking into Sam, slow and sweet and perfect. Sam is moaning his encouragements and pushing himself down to meet Dean's thrusts.

There is nothing but them in this moment. Two bodies connecting, two souls gliding over each other like waves in the ocean. Nothing exists outside of this perfect bubble of nowgodyes and Sam wants to feel like this everyday of his life.

Sam is teetering on the edge of release. He throws his head back, the tan column of his throat exposed as his climax rips through him. Dean makes a sound that is pure anguish as he involuntarily mouths Sam's pulse point.

“Do it, Dean,” Sam groans, fisting his hand in Dean's hair. Some small, distant part of his mind recognizes the offer for what it is: a death sentence. But this was Dean and Sam trusted him with every fiber of his being. “Come on, baby. I want you to.”

Dean is still thrusting into Sam, some small need unfulfilled that is keeping him from coming. He hesitates only a few seconds before he slips his fangs into Sam's neck, easy and painless as if his skin were made of butter. There is a primal howl that reverberates in his chest as the first drops of Sam's blood hit his tongue and his hips still as he pumps sticky come into Sam's inviting heat.

Sam writhes underneath him. His dick jumps as he comes again, harder and longer than than the last. Every nerve is tingling and pulsing, set afire with a pleasure so raw that Sam's sure it's going to kill him.

Dean's fingers are clenching against Sam's biceps, tightening and loosening like he can't decide what to do with them. The air is filled with the of the smell of blood, sex and desperation. Dean's lapping at Sam's neck greedily, lost in the texture and taste of all that is Sam. He doesn't ever want to pull away, knows Sam wouldn't ask him to. When he finally does, Sam's pale and unconscious.

He breaks every speed limit from the motel to the hospital.

That is the last time he lets himself make love to Sam.

Dean is standing at the edge of the world, watching the plumes of smoke devour the sky. Everything is a haze of red and orange and black, and the last embers of life are swirling around Dean in a storm of dying agony. Sam thinks he's never looked more beautiful.

“Dean,” he breathes. It's a small noise, barely audible over the cacophony of a bleeding world, but Dean turns towards it nonetheless. It's a sound of pain and supplication, spoken like the most wonderful secret ever told. A holy word, one Sam couldn't bear to hear anyone else utter after his brother left him.

“You found me,” Dean says, unneeded.

“I told you I would,” Sam replies.

Dean makes a choked noise in the back of his throat. “You've killed everything, Sam,” he says sadly. “You've bled the Earth dry of life and love.”

“No,” Sam whispers. “As long as there is you and me, there will always be love.”

“I missed you,” Dean murmurs, reaching out to touch Sam's cheek. It's good to feel Sam beneath his fingertips, like home and love and happier times. “I wanted to come back to you so many times, but I...” He drops his hand.

Sam smiles, tilting his head up. The sun is a silhouette behind the smoke and ash, creating an orange ring that can be seen through the layers of destruction, but sheds no light on the world below. “You can come back to me now,” Sam says. “I gave us what we needed.”

Dean makes an inquisitive sound.

Sam cups Dean's face in his sooty, calloused hands and kisses him. Fifty years hadn't changed the feel of his lips on Dean's. Sam is sure no amount of time apart could dampen the rush of warmth and love that pools in his soul, springing forth like a tangible force to settle between their joined mouths. “Hope,” he answers, when they break apart. He gestures to the outline of the sun—the very thing that tried to tear them apart after Dean's turning. “I gave us hope.”

“Those clouds won't last forever, Sammy,” Dean says, leaning into Sam's touch with a needy desperation. “Sooner or later, there will be nothing left to keep the flames going.”

“Then we'll build the world back up,” Sam replies. “And burn it down all over again.”

Freckles (1/1)

Fri, 20 Feb 2009 16:39:58 GMT

Title: Freckles (1/1)
Author: deamsgirl
Rating: NC-17
Paring(s): Sam/Dean
Genre: PWP, Established relationship, Romance
Warning(s): Wincest, Mature sexual content.
Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters belong to Kripke and the CW. This story was merely for my own amusement.
Summary: If Sam could worship Dean's body for eternity, he would. Prompted from: "freckles" for the Brothers on a Motel Bed pornathon meme.

( There was a spattering of freckles against Sam's cheek and he couldn't resist the urge to flick out his tongue and taste every single one of them... )

The Salt on His Hands (1/1)

Fri, 20 Feb 2009 16:30:24 GMT

Title: The Salt on His Hands (1/1)
Author: deamsgirl
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Sam/Dean
Genre: PWP, Established relationship, Romance
Warning(s): Wincest, Mature sexual content
Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters belong to Kripke and the CW. This story was merely for my own amusement.
Summary: Prompted from: "salt" for the Brothers on a Motel Bed pornathon meme.

( Dean's hands smelled of the salt he had just laid across the windows and doorway. They cradled Sam's face as Dean leaned in for a kiss... )

When Misha is the Center of the Sandwich (4/?)

Thu, 12 Feb 2009 07:15:03 GMT

Title: When Misha is the Center of the Sandwich (4/?)
Author: deamsgirl
Rating: R
Pairing(s): Jensen/Jared, Jensen/Jared/Misha
Genre: Drabble, Humor, RPS
Warnings: Slash
Summary: Jensen and Jared meet the latest addition to the Supernatural cast... the gorgeous Misha Collins.
Author's Note: Here is yet another one-shot that I have decided to extend, after many pleading comments (you guys are killing me XD.) I have decided to make it a drabble series (since it started out as a drabble and I am sort of OCD about symmetry.)

“How was your day?” Jared asked with a knowing smirk.

Jensen didn't dignify that particular comment with a response, aside from flipping Jared the bird. The younger man just laughed.

“Misha called,” Jared said with feigned nonchalance. “He's stopping by around eight.”

Jensen shivered. “Jay, are you sure you're--”

“I'm fine with it,” Jared interrupted. “Besides, if I indulge your kink, you have to indulge mine,” he added with a smirk.

“Not happening, dude. How many times do I have to say it? No farm animals!” Jensen replied cheekily.

Jared scowled and gave his boyfriend's retreating ass a slap.

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven

When Misha is the Center of the Sandwich (3/?)

Sun, 08 Feb 2009 22:07:14 GMT

Title: When Misha is the Center of the Sandwich (3/?)
Author: deamsgirl
Rating: R
Pairing(s): Jensen/Jared, Jensen/Jared/Misha
Genre: Drabble, Humor, RPS
Warnings: Slash
Summary: Jensen and Jared meet the latest addition to the Supernatural cast... the gorgeous Misha Collins.
Author's Note: Here is yet another one-shot that I have decided to extend, after many pleading comments (you guys are killing me XD.) I have decided to make it a drabble series (since it started out as a drabble and I am sort of OCD about symmetry.)

They were filming In the Beginning and Jared had gone home for the day, having already filmed his portion of the episode... and gotten his routine morning fuck in the trailer.

There was no Jared. No Jared anywhere on set. Just Jensen. And Misha fucking Collins.

Holy shit.

Jensen had more self-control than this. He was not going to tear off Misha's clothes and fuck him over that park bench in front of the entire cast and crew. He was not.

And he was sure that if he kept telling himself that, he might actually start to believe it.

~TBC

THIS IS JENSEN'S UNCOMFORTABLE, MISHA-INDUCED-BONER FACE.

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven

When Misha is the Center of the Sanwich (2/?)

Sun, 08 Feb 2009 06:33:01 GMT

Title: When Misha is the Center of the Sandwich (2/?)
Author: deamsgirl </lj>
Rating: R
Pairing(s): Jensen/Jared, Jensen/Jared/Misha
Genre: Drabble, Humor, RPS
Warning: Slash
Summary: Jensen and Jared meet the latest addition to the Supernatural cast... the gorgeous Misha Collins.
Author's Note: Here is yet another one-shot that I have decided to extend, after many pleading comments (you guys are killing me XD.) I have decided to make it a drabble series (since it started out as a drabble and I am sort of OCD about symmetry.)

It was a lot easier to proposition Misha than Jensen thought it would be. Of course, he left that part of the plan to Jared, who had triumphantly pressed Jensen against the door of his trailer and fucked him while whispering promises of all the dirty, dirty things to come.

Jensen moaned and writhed against Jared, whining, “Come on, Jay, faster!”

Jared laughed, slowing down. “You sure about that? Wouldn't want to wear you out before tonight's big event,” he teased.

“Jared, you fucking stop and I will make sure you die a eunuch,” Jensen growled.

Jared did not stop.

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven

The Definition of "Too Much Information" (1/1)

Thu, 29 Jan 2009 02:22:38 GMT

Title: The Definition of "Too Much Information"
Author: deamsgirl
Rating: PG
Fandom: Ten Inch Hero / Cry_Wolf
Pairing: Tom/Priestly
Genre: Humor, Fluff, Established Relationship
Disclaimer: I own neither Ten Inch Hero or Cry_Wolf. This story was merely for my own amusement.
Summary: The girls at the grill ponder Priestly's strange new behavior and get quite the shock.
Author's Notes: I am now completely obsessed with this pairing, having watched Cry_Wolf and TIH back-to-back this weekend. You will probably be seeing this pairing quite often from now on.

It was a Wednesday when Piper leaned against the counter and finally voiced the thought that was plaguing everyone. "Is it just me," she wondered. "Or has Priestly been acting really strange lately?" Said cook was nowhere in sight, having decided to carry on his tradition of being late for work every day of his life, so she felt safe bringing it up.

"As opposed to how strange he acts under normal circumstances?" Tish asked with a bemused look.

"I don't know," Jen said. "He has been a little... perky, recently."

Trucker laughed. "Yes, ladies. It's called being in love," he said. "I'm glad he's finally found someone that makes him happy." He sighed in his yuppie, embrace-the-love sort of way and went back to the paperwork piled in front of him.

Tish snorted. "Wait a second," she said. "This is Priestly we're talking about. He couldn't get a date to save his life."

"And if he did have a girlfriend, why would he hide it?" Piper asked.

"Yeah," Jen agreed. "We're friends. He would tell is if there was a woman in his life, right?"

"True," Trucker said just as the door chimed. A prep school student, who had frequented the grill enough times for them to know his name was Tom, walked in and took his usual seat near the counter. His hair was a tousled mess, his cheeks were flushed, his clothes were rumpled, and his lips were swollen. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that he had just been laid. "But maybe he hasn't said anything because it's not a woman."

All three employees gave a "pfft" at the suggestion and quickly dismissed it. "Priestly's not gay," Tish said with a quirked brow.

The door chimed again as Priestly entered the sub shop. His green mohawk was standing at an odd angle, his cheeks were flushed, his clothes were rumpled, and his lips were swollen. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that he had just been laid. "Sorry I'm late," he said in a tone that suggested he was anything but. "Well, later than usual, that is." As he made his way toward the back of the counter, his eyes briefly met Tom's and he gave the teen the sweetest smile any of them had ever seen grace his features.

Tish, Jen and Piper looked on with dropped jaws, while Trucker just laughed. One day, they would learn to listen to him.

-Fin.

When Dean is Left to His Own Devices (3/?)

Thu, 29 Jan 2009 01:37:48 GMT

Title: When Dean is Left to His Own Devices (3/?)
Author: deamsgirl
Rating: G
Characters: Sam, Dean, Bobby
Genre: Drabble, Humor
Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters belong to Eric Kripke and the CW. This story was merely for my own amusement.
Summary: Dean should never be left unsupervised for too long.
Author's Note: This is part three in a series of drabbles dedicated to Dean's, *ahem*, quirkier moments.

It was because of the simple fact that Bobby had known the Winchester boys for years that he didn't question his sanity that particular morning.

… Much.

He called his voicemail for the sixth time in the last hour, and listened to Dean slurring happily into the receiver—obviously drunk—before deciding to sing along with the jukebox. In falsetto. Sam was giggling madly in the background—also obviously drunk—but thankfully did not join his brother in belting out I Feel Like a Woman.

Bobby hung up the phone and made a mental note to change his number. Soon.

Part One Part Two

When Dean is Left to His Own Devices (2/?)

Fri, 23 Jan 2009 20:06:45 GMT

Title: When Dean is Left to His Own Devices (2/?)
Author: deamsgirl
Rating: G
Characters: Sam, Dean
Genre: Drabble, Humor
Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters belong to Eric Kripke and the CW. This story was merely for my own amusement.
Summary: Dean should never be left unsupervised for too long.
Author Notes: This is the second installment in a drabble series dedicated to Dean's, *ahem*, quirkier moments.

It was Sam’s turn to do laundry. Though, why they even bothered with the pretense of taking turns was beyond Sam. He always got stuck with the chore, regardless. Normally it annoyed Sam to death, but now…

He briefly considered the consequences of his actions before he pulled out his phone and dialed his brother’s number.

“H’llo?” Dean mumbled sleepily after two rings, and Sam snorted. It figured he was taking a nap while he left Sam to do all the work.

“Dean,” Sam began, vainly trying to stifle a giggle. “Why do you have Buffy the Vampire Slayer boxers?”

Part One Part Three

When Dean is Left to His Own Devices (1/?)

Mon, 19 Jan 2009 10:07:32 GMT

Title: When Dean is Left to His Own Devices (1/?)
Author: deamsgirl
Rating: PG
Pairing/Characters: Sam, Dean, John
Genre: Drabble, Humor, Gen
Spoilers: None.
Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters belong to Eric Kripke and the CW. This story was merely for my own amusement.
Summary: Dean should never be left unsupervised for too long.
Author's Note: This is the first installment in a series of drabbles dedicated to Dean's, *ahem*, quirkier moments.

“Well?” John asked when his boys got back from an exorcism. They looked no worse for wear; though Dean was humming what sounded like How Soon is Now? under his breath and Sam looked like he wanted to beat his brother unconscious with the nearest blunt object. Nothing new there, then, John mused lightly.

“Don’t worry, we vanquished the demon,” Dean said, moving past his father to the bathroom.

“Vanquished the…” John blinked, and then stared accusingly at Sam. “You’ve been letting him watch Charmed again, haven’t you?”

Sam just nodded, sighed, and went to hide the remote control. Again.

Part Two Part Three

No one messes with a man's man (drabble)

Mon, 19 Jan 2009 09:16:21 GMT

Title: No one messes with a man's man (1/1)
Author: deamsgirl
Rating: G
Parings/Characters: Draco/Harry
Genre: Drabble, Humor, Fluff, Established Relationship
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and its characters belong to the talented J.K. Rowling. This story was merely for my own amusement.
Summary: Harry has control of the television, as per usual. (Companion piece to: A shoulder for you to lean upon but they can be read as stand alones.)

“I love him, but not in the way I love you.”

Harry makes a sound in the back of his throat that is pure rage. “Someone please shoot her!”

Draco walks into the room just in time to see Harry throwing pillows at the television. “Gwen being a slag again?”

Harry nods and juts his lip in a pout. He curls against Draco’s side when the blond settles in beside him. “No one steals Ianto’s man!”

Draco slides an arm around Harry’s shoulders and secretly vows to never again buy a Torchwood box-set. Even if it was for Harry’s birthday.

A shoulder for you to cry upon (drabble)

Mon, 19 Jan 2009 08:47:12 GMT

Title: A shoulder for you to cry upon (1/1)
Author: deamsgirl
Rating: G
Pairing/Characters: Draco/Harry, Ron, Hermione (or Ron/Hermione, if you choose to view it that way)
Genre: Drabble, Humor, Established Relationship
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, Harry Potter and its characters belong to the talented J.K. Rowling. This story was merely for my own amusement.
Summary: It's Harry's turn to pick the movie and it's no surprise that he chose that one again.
Author Notes: When this particular plot bunny started hopping around, I knew I wouldn't be able to resist. :D

“I do not understand why you insist on making me watch this muggle drivel,” Draco said snappishly, as his boyfriend all but snotted on his highly-expensive silk shirt.

“Shh!” Harry scolded. “It’s getting to the good part!”

“Oh, Jack,” Ennis’ voice drifted from the television. Harry let out a particularly pained sob just as the fireplace exploded with green flames.

“Blimey, Harry,” Ron said, eying his friend’s distressed face. “What’s the matter?”

Draco rolled his eyes and the fireplace roared back to life as Hermione stepped into the flat. She looked at Harry and sighed. “Let me guess… Brokeback Mountain?”