The Secret Garden

Happy 1000th!

anna.lazarus@gmail.com — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 14:16:06 GMT

Whoa, today is the 1000th issue of spnnewsletter. Congrats, guys! Thank you for being the glue that holds the fandom together.

Podfic for Over Yonder In A Minor Key

anna.lazarus@gmail.com — Wed, 26 Nov 2008 03:09:17 GMT

Hi all! I just wanted to let you all know that a) I'm not dead and b) I'm writing again and hope to have something posted, oh, let's say by the end of this week.

But mostly I want to pimp the podfic of Over Yonder In A Minor Key, read by ladyrhyanne.

She did such an amazing, amazing job reading the story that I actually got lost in it in a way I hadn't since I wrote it. Huge thanks to her and to twasadark for suggesting it as a podfic. Muchas gracias, ladies!

Reappearing for meme-age

anna.lazarus@gmail.com — Fri, 01 Aug 2008 01:48:55 GMT

Oh, I like this one:

Name any story I've written, and any character in it, canon or OC. I'll tell you three things about that character that I didn't put in the story.

(fic list here)

fic: work our way slow to the start

anna.lazarus@gmail.com — Thu, 17 Jul 2008 00:42:29 GMT

So, this is American Idol fic. I did not actually watch this season of AI. A month and a half ago, monkiedude reappeared online, all twitterpated by some dude named David Cook. I happened to be couchbound by a foot injury (don't drink and walk, people) and spent three days watching every performance, interview, and bit of backstage tomfoolery Monkie could find for me.

And then I wrote 9,000 words of David Cook/OFC. I...did not see that coming!

If you don't know who David Cook is, you can read this as original fiction. Or you can watch this for a (non-singing) primer.

Title: Work Our Way Slow To The Start
Pairing: David Cook/OFC
Rating: R
Summary: In which David Cook drinks beer, talks baseball, plays with children, worries, writes music, wins some karaoke contest, is kind of a jerk, makes a confession, kisses a girl, and sings.

Michelle is seconds away from slamming her guitar down when she remembers two things: she’s not mad at the guitar, and she’s not successful enough yet to go around smashing her instruments. She breathes out hard a couple of times, then carefully places the guitar in its case.

The good thing about being in a band with your sister, she thinks, is that it’s not like you can break up after a bad day in the studio. The bad thing? Only a sibling can stir up this sort of murderous rage.

The anger is still humming in her ears as she hears someone clearing their throat. She snaps her head up and frowns on principle at the throat-clearer, who turns out to be a generic-looking music dude: carefully tousled hair, three-days-worth of scruff, battered boots and jeans, suitably masculine jewelry.

“Hi,” he says, tentatively waving. “Is, uh, Hillary around?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” Michelle says. “I think she’s on the phone or something.”

“Oh. Okay.” The guy pauses, seeming lost. “I, uh, I really enjoy your music.”

Michelle forces a smile, but is genuine when she says, “Thank you! That’s always nice to hear. Especially after a day like today.” Plus, if she’s nice to him maybe she can get him to buy her a drink. She could really use a drink.

The guy steps closer, and Michelle notes that he’s a few inches taller than her, which is always a pleasant surprise in LA. Well, at her height it’s a pleasant surprise anywhere, really. “Creative differences?” he says with a smile that shows off his great cheekbones, and Michelle resists the urge to do something stupid like flip her hair over her shoulder.

“Yeah, something like that. Probably more like sibling rivalry. We don’t have a title for the song we’re recording right now, but it’ll probably end up being ‘fratricide.’” She pauses. “Or whatever the girl version of that is.”

The guy laughs, and Michelle decides she’s going for a drink with him even if she has to buy. “Yeah, I’ve got brothers. Never tried to play with them, though.”

Michelle opens her mouth to say, Don’t! when Hillary walks in, still talking on the phone.

“He took you to the emergency room? You have the bubblegum medicine now? Oh man, put your dad on the...” and that’s when Hillary, 35-year-old mother of three and badass rock chick, looks up and squeals. “Charlie, honey? Tell dad I’ll call him back,” she says hurriedly and clicks the phone off, grinning rather insanely at the generic musician guy.

Michelle glances over at him, trying to figure out if he’s someone she should know. Probably not. She refuses to believe she’s farther out of the cultural loop than her older sister.

“Oh, wow, you came! It is so great to meet you,” Hillary says, and Michelle wonders what the hell happened to the woman who told her ten minutes ago that she played guitar like she was wearing oven mitts.

The musician nods, blushes and says, “Thank you. I was so thrilled when they told me you’d called--I’m a huge fan of The MarySues. ”

“Oh, that is so nice! My daughter loves you.” Hillary is fiddling with her iPhone as she talks.

Michelle stares at the guy, who may not be a musician after all. Hillary’s daughter, Serena, is 13. If she likes him, it means he could be famous for any number of things Michelle has never seen or heard. Serena once tried to explain the Disney stable of starlets to Michelle, and left her head spinning. He looks a little old for the tween set, though.

He notices Michelle’s furrowed brow and holds out his hand. “Hi, I’m David,” he says, and it finally clicks. Serena has been bugging Michelle about this guy for what feels like months.

“Oh my god, you’re the American Idol guy!” Michelle says before she can stop herself.

He turns even redder and says, “Yes, well, one of them, anyway.”

Michelle cracks up until Hillary smacks her arm. “Don’t be an asshole,” she says. “He’s actually good.” Which, of course, sets Michelle off again.

When she finally collects herself, she looks at the guy--David--and says, perfectly seriously, “I’m so sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I love Kelly Clarkson.”

“Oh my god,” Hillary says. “Okay, now that my sister has shown you the family’s douchebag gene, would you mind taking a few pictures for my daughter?”

Michelle rolls her eyes and makes talky hands behind Hillary’s back as she speaks, and David chuckles. Hillary whips around and gives Michelle the stink eye. “You wanna get in the picture or what?” she says.

“Sure,” Michelle says. She walks over and presses her hip to his, draping her arm around his waist. She smiles and says, “You smell nice.” He does, but she has no doubt it’s just his hair product. This isn’t Michelle’s first time at the rodeo.

Faking the compliment is totally worth it for the look on Hillary’s face. Michelle is sure that if the iPhone wasn’t so damn expensive, Hils would have thrown it at her head by now. And, okay, hitting on this guy isn’t exactly awesome aunt behavior, but it is a pretty stellar little sister move.

Hillary snaps a couple of pictures of them then silently hands Michelle the phone. As she tucks her hair behind her ears, Hillary says, “Do they feed you or what?”

David looks startled. “They cater stuff for us, mostly. I dunno, meals just appear in our fridge usually.? I really haven’t thought about it much.”

“So I’m assuming you haven’t had a home-cooked meal since you’ve gotten to LA?”

Oh god, Michelle thinks. She’s such a mom.

“No, ma’am,” he replies with a smile.

“You should come over and we’ll cook for you. My husband makes the best steak tips in Southern California.”

“The smog really enhances the flavor,” Michelle chimes in, because David is blushing. She’s a little worried that her sister’s attempt to adopt yet another musician with baby-bird hair who can’t feed or clothe himself has freaked him out.

“I would...really love that,” he says, smiling again. “I probably can’t do it soon or often, but yeah, it’d be nice to get out of the pressure cooker a little bit when I can.”

After they’re through with the photos, Michelle cheerily announces, “I could kill Hillary for a beer. You free, Dave?”

He stammers for a half a minute before finally saying, “Sure, I guess, although I can’t be out too late, because we have, um, a curfew? But, yeah, a beer would be great. I love beer.”

Michelle grins. He’s cute, and she hasn’t flummoxed a guy like that since she moved to Los Angeles. She’s starting to see his appeal to the American voting public.

They hit the dive bar next door to the studio and Michelle orders a pitcher of PBR and a basket of fries. The fries are curly, because even dive bars in LA are froofy.

David is from Kansas City and Tulsa, two cities Michelle has only flown over, and he’s never been to the east coast. But when she mentions Boston he lights up and says, “The Red Sox!”

“Yeah,” Michelle grins, and they’re off and running. He’s a Royals fan, and they compare aspects of the Johnny Damon Experience--he was faster in KC, hairier in Boston, insane in both cities. Michelle tells David about Fenway Park and the joys and terrors of basically sitting in your neighbor’s lap for three hours, and David regales her with tales of selling peanuts to disgruntled KC fans during summers as a teen.

“God,” he says. “It is so nice to talk baseball with someone. I keep trying to ask people around here what they think of the Dodgers, and they look at me like I have three heads.”

“Jesus, seriously,” Michelle laughs. “At home, I can have an hour long conversation about the Sox and the weather with a perfect stranger. I still have no idea what people make small talk about in this city.”

“Brangelina, Lindsey Lohan, plastic surgery, and their hair,” David ticks off on his fingers. “That’s what Seacrest tells me, anyway.”

“Well, he’s a professional small talker; he should know. Speaking of, what is up with the hedgehog look you’re working there?” she asks, waving in the general direction of his head.

“Oh, yeah. It’s to distract from the fact that my forehead doesn’t end until the top of my head. And I see that you’ve gone platinum again.”

It’s still a little weird that strangers know random things about her hair, but Michelle doesn’t mention it because she’s sure he understands. Instead she says, “Well, I was trying to be Madonna there for awhile, but it turns out she doesn’t dye her hair in her own bathroom. I fucked it up so badly they had to cut most of it off, strip out all the color, and tell me to keep my hands off of it. It’s much better now, though,” she says shaking it forward onto her face.

David reaches out and tugs on a loose strand. “Suffering for your art, huh?” he says with a smirk.

“Says a man whose career currently rests in the hands of millions of thirteen-year-olds,” Michelle responds.

He raises his glass. “Amen, sister,” he says, eyes sparkling.

“So you got into music to impress teen girls?”

“Well, yeah, but I was fifteen at the time, so I think I get a pass,” he grins back. “Believe me, it was the only chance I had of getting their attention.”

“I started singing because my parents wanted me to get into a good private school and it was that or the violin.”

“Did it work?”

“Oh, yes. And my school a capella group even won a national contest. You’re impressed; I can tell.” She grins at him.

He shrugs. “Hey, I can’t mock; I went to college on a theater scholarship.”

“Awesome. So, do you ever feel like the fact that we’re now considered ‘cool’ is a gigantic fucking cosmic joke?”

“Every. Damn. Day.”

The pitcher is done, and the bartender hollers over to ask if they want another. Michelle looks at David and says, “So how does this curfew of yours work?”

He looks at the clock. “I’ve got an hour before I get a stern talking-to from a producer and the threat of Simon mocking my semi-baldness on national TV.”

“Bummer.”

Michelle’s phone rings. It’s Hillary. She sighs and answers.

“Hi. Are you still with David?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Can I talk to him?”

“No.”

“You are such a pain in the ass!”

“Yes, yes I am. Can I relay a message for you?”

Dave is grinning at her over his beer. He laughs out loud when Hillary sighs so loudly he can hear it from across the table.

“Can he come over on Saturday? My stalker daughter tells me this is probably the best day for him.”

Michelle puts her hand over the phone and says, “Dinner with the Snow-Simmons family on Saturday?”

He tilts his chin up in thought for a minute, then says, “Yeah. I’ll probably have to sneak out and back in, but what the hell. I’m gonna lose my shit if I don’t get a break occasionally.”

Michelle thinks about what her life would be like if she had to learn a new song every week and then perform it in front of a live audience, a panel of cranky-slash-insane judges, and the entire American viewing public. Frankly, Hillary’s bitchiness looks like a cakewalk in comparison.

Oh right, Hillary. “Hey, he can come. I’m coming too.”

“Obviously. You’ve never missed a free meal in your life.” Then again, sometimes Hillary makes Simon Cowell seem like a pussycat.

*

David’s hair is flatter and his beard scragglier when he comes over. He has dark circles under his eyes, and Hillary asks if he wants some lavender candles to help him sleep.

The kids behave themselves, mostly. Except for when Charlie tells David that Ryan Seacrest is retarded. Then Serena punches Charlie, and he pulls her hair, and all hell nearly breaks loose before Hillary threatens to withhold dessert.

When both kids shut right up, David looks at Michelle and whispers, “That must be one hell of a dessert.”

“Strawberry shortcake the size of your head,” Michelle whispers back.

He smiles, and it’s like a decade has dropped off his face. “I love strawberry shortcake.” Michelle resists the urge to pat him on the head.

He plays soccer with the kids after dinner, while wearing cowboy boots. Serena plays it cool, but little Hannah just wraps herself right around his leg. Charlie apologizes for calling Ryan Seacrest a retard after David tells him that Seacrest is an awesome goalie.

“It’s a standing invitation,” Hillary tells him as he leaves. He gives her what looks like a bone-crunching hug.

“Thank you,” he says, and Michelle is surprised to hear how choked up he sounds.

She’s equally surprised to hear her tough-as-nails sister say softly, “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

David shakes Michelle’s hand, looking down. Michelle impulsively leans forward and kisses his forehead, because it seems like the right thing to do.

*

Michelle watches her first ever episode of American Idol that week with Hillary’s family. She’s faintly mortified. It’s not that the contestants aren’t talented; it seems like quite a few of them are, but they only have about a minute to sing. It’s barely enough time to make an impression, and she doesn’t really understand what they’re being judged on.

She thinks David did well, and Serena is bouncing with glee, so that’s good. Michelle leans over to Hillary and whispers, “Do you actually enjoy this?”

“I like David’s voice,” Hillary replies. “And I’m always interested to see if this’ll be the week Paula finally faceplants into the judging table.” She shrugs. “Yeah, it’s a circus sideshow version of musicianship, but they’re all so nice, you know? The kids on this show. And it’s frankly a relief to be able to watch something with all three kids without worrying that this will be the week someone makes a blowjob joke and I have to explain it.”

Michelle shrugs. “Maybe it’ll grow on me?”

Hillary cocks an eyebrow and says, “What was your favorite band in the world when you were 12?”

Michelle smiles. “New Kids on the Block.”

“Right. So I suggest you approach this show from the point of view of the Michelle who had Joey McIntyre’s picture postered all over her wall.”

Michelle sighs happily. “He was dreamy. Wait, does that mean David is, like all over Tiger Beat? Does Tiger Beat even still exist?”

Hillary gives her a weary look, “No, I think David Archuleta is more the Tiger Beat one. Cook is, basically, the Donnie.”

Michelle nods in agreement. “Right. Destined for a small but non-embarrassing career, only in music, not acting like Donnie.”

Hillary gives her a funny look. “No, I just meant in terms of attracting an older demographic. I actually think David Cook could win the whole thing.”

Michelle snorts. “Yeah, okay.” She hopes he doesn’t, she realizes. She hasn’t met a lot of people in LA who weren’t transparently fake and she’d selfishly like to keep him around. If only to have someone to watch baseball with.

*

David drops by to give Michelle a copy of his album and laughs at her apartment’s ugly minimalist furniture.

“It has good acoustics,” Michelle explains, wandering into the mess of notebooks and sheet music she’d been sitting among. “Listen, I’ve tried, like, six chord progressions for this chorus, and I think they all suck. Do you want to help me try to dial down the suck? Do you have time?”

“Are you kidding? I will make time.” Michelle smiles at his enthusiasm. “What’s the song about?”

“Um, love and death? Like, you know, all of our songs.” She rubs her face. “God, it’s like pulling teeth sometimes.”

He reaches out and rubs his hands up and down her arms. “I know,” he says kindly. “Come on, let me see what you’ve got.”

Michelle hands David her guitar saying, “Don’t worry, it’s a lefty.”

He sits cross-legged on the floor. She spreads out the relevant pieces of paper and explains that she wants a really strong lead-in to the verse, and nothing’s doing it.

He plays a couple of the versions, then asks for a pen and starts humming to himself and making notes. She’s glad she asked him, if for no other reason than to see the tension that he seems to always carry fall away as he concentrates.

Michelle rests her chin in her hand and looks at his shoes. Without thinking, she says, “Jeez, how big are your feet?”

He looks up and gives her a wicked grin.

“Oh, shut up!” she says, feeling her ears go hot.

He looks back down and says, “Size 13. Here, how’s this?”

It’s good. Better than her efforts, anyway. She tells him so, and he shakes his head and says, “No, I just built on what you already had.”

She rolls her eyes and says, “Stop it. You’re good, and you know it, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”

He shakes his head and grins at her. “We’ll just be a mutual admiration society then, okay?”

She pokes his shoulder and smiles back. “Sounds good,” she says.

*

The next time David comes over to Hillary’s for dinner, he takes off his shoes, sits down on the couch and falls asleep mid-sentence. They eat in the backyard and wake him up right before he has to leave, giving him the leftovers on the way out.

Michelle throws things at the TV whenever Simon appears on the screen that week. “Aren’t there, like, labor laws?” she asks. “Isn’t one of those kids, like, twelve?” Hillary smacks her and tells her to shut up.

David calls Michelle a few days later and makes her talk to his brother who stammers that he has both of The MarySues’ albums and thinks she’s really talented. David takes the phone back and says, “And by ‘talented’ he means ‘busty.’”

“Funny!” she replies. “Tell him not to let your melon-sized head get any bigger or you won’t fit on the screen.”

“Ooh, clever! Tell Hils I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Bring your brother. He sounds cute.”

“He’s 20, you perv.”

“Good, he probably has more hair than you.”

“I’m hanging up on you now.”

*

He brings his brother and his mom, which is hilarious, because she and Hillary spend three quarters of their time talking about making sure David eats enough vegetables. Andrew and Michelle snicker uncontrollably until David is finally like, “I’m gonna go play with the kids.”

They find him having imaginary tea with Hannah. He looks at Michelle mournfully and says, “Serena told me it was lame to play tea, and now she’s going to vote for Jason Castro.”

Michelle sits down next to him, bumping her shoulder against his. “Yeah, well, Serena’s bedtime is earlier than mine, and I’m still voting for you.” She smiles at him and takes an imaginary biscuit from Hannah.

*

Michelle is up at 1AM a few weeks later, in one of her I’m a hack; maybe I should become a dental hygienist panics, when her phone rings. She’s not surprised to see that it’s David.

“I am completely fucked on this arrangement,” is the first thing he says to her.

“You want advice?” she asks.

“I think I just want to talk about it with someone whose entire commentary doesn’t consist of ‘Cool, man.’”

“I’m your girl, then. Let’s go.”

Turns out the arrangement is fine; he just needs a pep talk. Michelle gives him the same one Hillary gave her six hours ago.

“You’re right, you’re right,” he says. Then, quietly, “What if I win?”

The question hangs between them. Michelle finally goes for the joke, “Then you ask out that loud blonde who thinks you’re cute,” she says.

He laughs, breaking the heavy mood. “You know what? I was thinking of doing that!”

“No way!” Michelle says. “Dude, she is, like, a sure thing.”

“Okay, I’ll tell you what. If I make it to the final, I’ll ask her out. That way, even if I lose, I’ll still have a date.”

Michelle is pleased to have distracted him from his actual fear of winning. Unfortunately, she’s pretty damn sure that, barring an asteroid hitting the earth, he’s going to the finale. And she actually really doesn’t like the loud blonde. Oh, well.

*

He stops by to say goodbye to Hillary before he flies to Missouri, and Michelle is there borrowing a pair of shoes for her date that night. David’s eyebrows go halfway up his forehead. “Date?” he says.

“Yeah,” Michelle says, sort of annoyed at his surprise. “A guy who lives in my building.” She doesn’t think it’s going to go anywhere, but it’s nice to have an excuse to get dressed up. She’s got on a red circle skirt and a white blouse with a sweetheart neckline. And a push-up bra, because, hey, you never know. “Do you think this outfit is too retro?” she asks Hillary.

“Nope,” Hillary replies. “Dave, do you think it’s too retro?” she teases.

David frowns. “It’s a little low-cut.”

Michelle laughs. “That’s the point, dude.”

“Well, okay, I guess. But be careful and everything,” he mutters.

Michelle feels herself blushing even as she pats his cheek and says, “Okay, Dad.”

*

They throw a little party the night of the finale, with cookies and baked brie and late bedtime for the kids. Michelle doesn’t eat anything. She’s so nervous that she’s nauseous. She’s given in: she wants him to win. It’s ridiculous that he’s going to get stuck with a record deal that the devil himself probably penned, but for a week and a half she’s been getting texts from him that consist entirely of, omigodomigodomigod, and she can’t find it in her heart to wish for this whole insane thing to end on a down note for him.

He seems cool as a cucumber, actually asking Kim out on air, the doofus. “I can’t believe he really did it,” Michelle mutters, and Hillary cocks an eyebrow.

“You knew he was going to ask her out?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Hillary opens her mouth, then shakes her head. “No reason.”

He wins. They all cry, including Hillary’s husband, who pretends it’s the onion dip.

David sings the dumb song. Michelle absently thinks that she may never see him again, and it feels like an ice pick to the chest.

*

She watches the entire media blitz, to the point where she texts him, Re: planning to audition. Next time, say ‘Totally, man. You couldn’t tell from my argyle sweater-vest that I was in it to win it?.’

He replies: Can’t. Next interview is Larry King. Confusion would kill him.

*

Michelle, Hillary, and Serena meet him for lunch when tour rehearsals start. Serena says, “Hey, I won ten bucks from my best friend because she thought Archie was going to win.”

“Awesome!” he says, high-fiving her. “Is she coming to the show with you?”

“Totally!” Serena replies. “You should tell that story and point to her.”

“Ooh, isn’t that a little mean to do to your best friend?”

“No way. She was a jerk about you.”

Michelle puts her hand over her mouth to stifle the giggles. She’s so glad to be past the age where you actually hate your best friend. David turns to her and grins widely, then envelops her in a huge hug.

“Hi!” she says, startled and pleased.

“Hi,” he says from her shoulder. “I missed you. No one has insulted my hairline in weeks.”

Michelle laughs. “I’ll tell Andrew to get on the stick.”

“Oh, hey,” David says. “That reminds me: it’s Andrew’s birthday on Thursday. I’m going to take him to, uh, this really hip club that I’ve totally forgotten the name of.” He grasps Michelle’s arms and says, “We got a VIP room. There is going to be Cristal.”

“You’re going to party like rock stars?” Michelle says.

“Oh. Yes,” he replies, oblivious to her skepticism. “You’ll come, right?”

“Yeah, if you ever remember the name of the club.”

He sends it to her the day of the party, and Michelle swears under her breath. Les Deux. Favorite of the Olsen twins and other twig-like starlets. “I’m gonna look like a house,” she tells Hillary.

Her sister shrugs. “You told him you’d go,” she says.

“Kim’s gonna be there,” Michelle replies, although she knows it doesn’t really follow.

“Is that a problem?” Hillary asks, cocking an eyebrow.

“No. It’s just ... I’m gonna look like a house.”

Hillary sighs. “Are you going or not?”

“I guess. Come on, help me pick an outfit.”

She goes with a loose, black, silk dress belted under her boobs with a wide, red patent leather belt borrowed from Hillary. “Red shoes or black?” she asks.

“Red,” Hillary replies. “You gotta stand out so you can wow some CW hottie and get swept off your feet.”

“Shut up,” Michelle says. But she puts on the red shoes.

She takes a cab and confidently struts past the line and the photographers, reminding herself that she is a tiny bit famous, after all. She should at least act the part. Still, she has to fight off hysterical laughter when she steps in front of the bouncer and announces, “I’m on the list.”

He stares at her boobs and asks for her name. She wants to punch him, even when he immediately opens the velvet rope when she tells him.

Michelle tells herself it’s the pounding baseline that’s making her knees shake. She straightens her spine as she walks to the private areas at the back of the club. She needs a drink, like, yesterday.

After what feels like six hours, but is probably only five minutes, she’s waved over by Dave’s friend Andy, who she’s only met once. She’s grateful he remembers her.

“Hey!” he says, waving her past the bouncers in front of their tables. “It’s awesome you made it!”

She grins at him, her impression of him quickly going from goober to decent guy. He introduces her to his girlfriend, a little hipster girl with an ironic mullet who looks as out of place as Michelle feels and who also smiles brightly at her.

They find Michelle a drink and Andrew in that order, and she hugs the birthday boy and gives him a card. I didn’t have time to buy you a gift, so I gave Dave money to buy you a lapdance at the strip club where you two inevitably end up, she’s written in it.

He laughs and nods over to the corner of the section, where Dave’s got an arm around blonde, blonde Kim. “I don’t think that’s happening tonight, sadly,” he says.

Michelle catches David’s eye and waves. He misses it. Michelle shrugs at Andrew, a little embarrassed. “I assume the plan is to rack up as big a tab as possible?” she says.

“Hell, yes,” he replies.

An hour later, Michelle’s had three shots of really good tequila and is feeling no pain. She still hasn’t talked to David and figures she should go do it while she can still walk in her heels. She’s pretty proud that she doesn’t even weave on her way over to him.

“Hey,” she says, hugging him. “Awesome party. I guess you’re an official rock star now.”

He nods. “Yeah, I guess. Are you here by yourself?”

“Um, yes?” Uh oh. He’s standing about a foot farther away from her than usual. Michelle has seen this behavior from her guy friends before.

Sure enough, Kim appears and attaches herself to David’s side, big, fake smile stretching across her features. She holds out her hand. “Hi, are you one of Andrew’s friends?”

Michelle pastes the same damn smile on her face and says, “Dave and Andrew, yes. I’m Michelle.”

Kim does just about the worst impression of confused that Michelle’s ever seen, then goes, “Oh! Right. The singer. Wow, you’re much ... taller than I thought you’d be.”

Michelle bites her lip to keep from laughing, because seriously, she hasn’t been in high school in a decade. That sort of shit doesn’t work on her anymore. “Oh, and you’re much blonder!” she replies brightly. David’s looking anywhere but at her, the asshole.

Suddenly her head hurts and her shoes feel too tight. Just to be a jackass, she leans over and kisses David on the cheek, feeling a vicious sort of satisfaction when he starts back from her.

“Good to see you,” she says, looking just at him. “Good luck with everything.”

She walks back to Andy and his girlfriend and pours herself another shot. She downs it, and Andy taps her wrist, makes the universal hand signal for, You want a cigarette?

She nods, and they find the special In California, smokers are pariahs exit. He hands her a Marlboro red, and she realizes she must be drunk when it doesn’t make her grimace on the first drag.

They smoke in silence for awhile, until Andy says, “If it makes you feel any better, we don’t like her either.”

Michelle laughs and coughs. “Hey, as long as she’s nice to him.” She’s just going to keep repeating that to herself until she feels less like punching the entire world.

Andy gives her an odd look. “He talks about you all the time, you know.”

Michelle takes a long drag. “Hillary and I helped him out some before all y’all got to come to LA,” she replies lightly.

Andy shakes his head. “Are you going to be an idiot about this too?”

Michelle feels the tears prickling behind her eyes, and Jesus, that is exactly how she needs to end this fucking evening. She drops her cigarette and carefully stamps it out. “Yeah,” she says. “I am.”

She kisses Andy on the cheek and says, “Tell Andrew I said bye,” then walks over to the taxi stand.

*

Hillary calls at 8 AM the next morning, and Michelle answers by saying, “Joke’s on you, bitch! I’m not hungover.”

“Whatever, I’ve been up since six,” Hillary replies. “Why aren’t you hungover?”

Michelle smiles, because Hillary actually sounds concerned. “It was kind of lame,” she says.

“I figured,” Hillary says. “Did his friends or the club suck?”

Michelle debates glossing over it, but Hillary will get it out of her eventually anyway, so she finally says, “Neither. David sucked.”

“For real?” Hillary says. “He still seemed pretty grounded when we had lunch with him.”

Michelle sits up and props her pillows against the headboard. “It wasn’t a fame thing, it was a girlfriend thing. You know, new girlfriend hates all females in the vicinity? Guy forgets he knows you?”

There’s a long pause. “I don’t think he’d do that to you,” Hillary says eventually.

“He did, Hils. I was there.” Michelle doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. “Listen, I gotta go. I’ll see you at the studio later, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Hillary sighs. “I’m sorry, sis.”

“Me too,” Michelle replies. She hangs up and clicks her phone to ‘off.’

She doesn’t turn it on again until that evening. Three messages, all from David, all saying, “Call me.”

She sighs and does, figuring she’ll tell him she left because she felt sick. She hopes Andy at least tried to cover for her, but she’s not holding her breath.

“Hey!” David says loudly. “Jesus, I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all day. I freaking just called Hillary to make sure you were all right.”

“I’m fine. I just got a little dizzy last night is all,” she replies evenly.

“Well, that’s what happens when you put away half a bottle of tequila.”

He sounds pissed. Michelle’s torn between shocked and annoyed that he might actually be mad at her. “I didn’t...who told you that?” She’s got a pretty good idea who told him, and it isn’t Andy.

“Who cares? You’re the one who came to my party, drank my booze, and took off without saying goodbye. Classy.”

“Hey!” she responds. “First of all, I spent more time with your guests than you did. Second of all, I’m shocked that you even noticed I was gone! You were so busy playing the rockstar over by the damn bar that I figured you’d forgotten all about everyone else. Also? It does fucking matter who told you I was drunk, because I had all of three drinks.”

There’s a long pause, then, “God, Michelle, I thought you of all people would be happy for me.”

She’s suddenly so angry she’s shaking. “You think I’m jealous? Of what, your ability to get into the douchiest clubs and pick up skanky chicks? ”

“You’re not really doing anything to change my impression, here.”

“Fuck you,” she says, and hangs up.

She doesn’t feel bad about it, either. Jesus. Half an hour of fame and he turns into a fucking diva. She cleans her whole apartment, including the refrigerator, in a fit of righteous rage.

She tells Hillary about his shitfit, at high volume, the next morning.

Hillary blinks at her thoughtfully a few times, then says, “There is nothing I can say that will not piss you off.”

Michelle sighs. “Let’s get it over with, then.”

“You scared the hell out of him when you disappeared. That’s why he was upset. He was ready to start calling hospitals if I hadn’t heard from you.”

“Andy knew I left,” she protests, but even as she says it she realizes that it’s entirely possible that Andy went back in, had six more shots before talking to Dave, and forgot she’d even been there. She sighs. “Dave was still a total douche to me that night.”

Hillary flattens her lips. “Yeah, he was, but it doesn’t sound like you exactly explained that to him.”

“What was I supposed to say? ‘By the way, your girlfriend is a huge bitch’?”

“Michelle,” Hillary says frustratedly, “I have been to parties with you where we spent the whole evening sitting in the corner mocking everyone else there. You’re telling me you couldn’t have sucked it up and sipped your drink for another couple of hours before air kissing those bastards goodbye? You really had to go the drama queen route?”

“You’re right; I’m pissed. I cannot believe you are making me out to be the bad guy here.”

“I’m not, you dumbass! I’m just saying that flouncing off, then yelling, then flouncing off again is not going to get him to apologize to you. Jesus. You’re being an idiot about this whole damn thing. Can we just play some music now?”

“Please!”

And that’s the end of that conversation.

*

She doesn’t call him. She doesn’t want to call him. Not to tell him that she and Hillary finished the album without killing each other, or to mention a book she thinks he’d like, or to ask if he thinks the new Death Cab single is creepy, or to warn him that he’s starting to look like Mr. T with all the necklaces.

And if she watches the days ticking down to the start of the tour, well, it’s just because she’s hoping he’ll fall off the stage on opening night.

*

She’s up late again for no reason, too lazy to go to bed, watching VH1 when the new New Kids on the Block video comes on. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” she mutters, but can’t bring herself to change the channel.

She realizes she never told David that he’s The Donnie and stares at her phone, debating. She decides to go to bed instead, because it’s ass-o’clock, and she thinks the tour leaves in the morning. Plus, they’re not talking.

Michelle brushes her teeth and gets into her pajama bottoms before her phone rings. She picks it up without looking, which is stupid, because of course it’s him.

“Hi,” David says. “So. I’m at your apartment. Can I come up?”

“What would you do if I said no?” she asks, peeking out of her curtains. He’s standing at the foot of the stairs, hat pulled down and shoulders hunched.

“Feel like a fucking stalker. Come on, don’t make me break out the boom box.”

She snorts and says, “Yeah, okay. Gimme a second.” She zips on the hoodie sitting on her couch and unlocks the door.

He gives her a little wave from the doorway and says, “I came over because I didn’t want to call and wake you up, so I checked to make sure your light was on,” as though that totally explains everything.

“Oh,” she says, baffled. “Did you want to come inside?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

She steps back, he steps forward, and they stare at each other until she says, “Could you close the door?”

He does, turns back, and it’s like he’s suddenly remembered how to talk, but all at once, very quickly. “Okay, look, I’m not under any impression that this is, like, romantic or anything. I realize that it’s completely self-indulgent and crappy to show up on your doorstep at 3 AM when I’m leaving town in the morning. And I’ve actually been sitting in your parking lot for an hour trying to convince myself to leave.”

“That’s creepy,” Michelle says, but her heart is racing from something other than fear.

“Yeah. I know,” he says, pulling off his baseball cap and running a hand through his hair. “So here’s the thing: It’s been pointed out to me by,” he pauses. “By everyone I know, actually, that even though I think of you as a sister? It’s kind of less like an actual sibling and more like a former step-sister, like Alicia Silverstone in Clueless.”

Michelle feels the blush rising on her cheeks and laughs despite herself.

David smiles hesitantly and steps closer, reaching out to rest his hand lightly on her hip. “I didn’t want to leave and come back and find out you’re with someone else because I was the idiot who had to impress his friends and date the hot chick. Wait. Not that you’re not hot.” He puts a hand over his face. “‘I’m an idiot’ was the important part of that sentence, obviously.”

Michelle opens her mouth to apologize for everything she said about the birthday party, but he cuts her off. “Hang on, I have to finish before I forget. Okay, point being, I like you in a more than friendly way, but I’m on a bus to Arizona in,” he checks his watch, “six hours. And I don’t want you to feel put on the spot or pressured, so I’m gonna go now, and we can talk some more when we swing through Cali next week. Okay?”

Michelle gapes for a minute before gathering herself enough to say, “You really...you thought you could come over here, tell me all that, and then just leave? Did you...have you hit your head recently?”

He looks down, then straight into her eyes. “I don’t want to hear it in person,” he says. “You know, it’s easier to take ‘I think we should just be friends’ over the phone.”

“You are such a fucking moron,” she says, leaning forward and kissing him.

It’s not a good kiss by any stretch of the imagination. She gets mostly beard and immediately starts laughing. But it’s enough encouragement for David to tuck his hand into her hair and kiss her again, for real this time.

If she’d thought about it, which she really, honestly hadn’t, she would have said, kissing David Cook would be like kissing my brother: a little weird, and not hot in any way. She is stunned at how very, very wrong this assumption was.

His lips move softly against hers, and she wants more. She wants to taste him, wants his hands all over her, and the realization that, yes, she wants him sends a shudder down her spine.

He pulls back a little, sliding his hand down to the middle of her back. “You okay?” he asks.

She swallows and nods. “Yeah. Yeah.” She hooks two fingers into his belt loop. “Come on.”

He kisses her again, then says, “What?”

She smiles at his distraction, noses along under his chin, licking at the edge of his beard. “I want you to stay here tonight,” she whispers in his ear. “You’ve got what, six hours?” Michelle pulls back to look him in the eye. “That’s plenty of time.”

David just stares at her for a moment. “I really thought I was going to get the ‘let’s be friends’ speech,” he finally says.

Michelle cracks up. “Look,” she says, “We can still talk and stuff. I just want to do it in my bedroom. Possibly naked.”

David grins widely and presses his forehead to hers. “Yes,” he says. “That sounds like a reasonable plan.”

When they get to the bedroom, David pulls his shirt over his head and flops out on the bed. Michelle’s sheets are navy blue, and he’s so pale against them he almost glows. They kiss lazily, David’s fingers curling in Michelle’s hair, pulling until she tilts her face up. He presses his mouth to her neck, hot and sweet, and she hums happily.

She rolls them until she’s straddling his hips, lightly touches each of his tattoos. He rests his fingertips against her wrist, says, “I’ve never seen yours.”

“Yes, you have,” she says softly. “You’ve seen the one on my back a million times.” He’d pressed his fingers to it one day and asked her what it meant. She’d explained that when she got it, all the girls were getting butterflies and flowers and she wanted something different. So she got a flaming sword, the symbol of her namesake, Michael the Archangel.

He shakes his head with a smile. “The other ones.”

Michelle sighs exaggeratedly and tosses her hair back. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” she says primly.

Another thing Michelle never considered: David’s arm muscles? Not just for show. He flips her onto her back without any apparent effort, then tucks his fingers into the waistband of her pajamas and says, “I’m going to be at least 600 miles away from you for the next three months.” He can’t really be trying to discourage her though, because he follows the statement up with a wicked kiss, all teeth and tongue.

“I know,” she breathes, shifting her hips against his. “Also? We’re both musicians. This will inevitably end badly, and we’ll both fill albums with break-up songs.”

“Okay,” he responds, leaning up, “Just so we’re clear.” He tugs her pants down just far enough to reveal the tattoos on each of her hips, an intricate snowflake and the stark lines of an Old English rune.

He presses in and kisses each, saying, “You know your sister says the rune looks like a kite doing a leg kick?”

“Yes,” Michelle laughs. “Now do me a favor and don’t mention my sister, okay?”

“Okay,” he agrees, and pulls her pajamas the rest of the way down. He kisses up her thighs, spreads her open, and all Michelle can think about is that given how he sings, how he plays guitar -- why didn’t she consider that he’d be just as single-minded, just as intense at this?

She feels him gasp against her, then move away with a last bite to her hipbone. She opens her eyes to find him struggling with his belt buckle.

Michelle kneels up with effort and drapes herself over him, mouthing at his shoulder as she reaches for his fly. He’s whimpering into her neck by the time she gets a hand into his pants, and it is so stupidly hot to have him at her mercy like this that she can’t even think of what to do next.

He fists his hands in her top as she strokes him and breathes, “Off,” while tugging at the fabric.

She raises one of his hands to the sweatshirt’s zipper and helps him pull it open, then tugs the sleeves off herself as he shoves his pants down.

Michelle moans as he pushes her back against the pillows, the feel of his body against hers leaving her breathless. It’s been embarrassingly long since she’s had a naked boy in her bed, and she opens her mouth to tell him so, but he’s got his hand between her legs again, and she forgets how to speak entirely as he slides two fingers into her.

“Fuck,” she whispers.

“Oh, totally,” he replies. “I wanna see you come first though, okay?” He kisses her neck, says, “Tell me how?”

She does, mostly by way of, “Oh, god, there.” He’s got good instincts. By the time he drapes himself over her, hard cock pressed against her hip and three fingers curling inside her, she can barely breathe.

Michelle holds his shoulders hard as she comes, shuddering and gasping. David watches her intently the whole time, giving her a small smile when she’s caught her breath. “I didn’t think...” he starts, then says, “So do you have condoms?”

“Oh,” she says, trying to get her brain back online for a minute. “Yeah. In that drawer behind you. Um, check the expiration date, okay?”

He laughs breathlessly as he reaches over. “I refuse to believe that,” he says. “What happened to that hot date with your neighbor?”

“He wouldn’t let me make fun of his hair,” she says with a smile then a squeal as he tickles her.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, rolling her on top of him.

“Oh, lazy,” Michelle teases as she rises to her knees and takes ahold of his cock, sliding down onto him and rolling her hips just to watch his mouth go slack and his eyes fall closed.

“Mmm,” he responds. “Keep doing that.”

She does, gets his arm up and bites at the tattoo on his bicep, breathing in his smell of drugstore deodorant and heavy salt sweat. He puts his other hand on the small of her back, presses down as he shoves up with his hips, faster and faster until she turns her face just in time to watch him moan short and sharp, hips stuttering against hers as he comes.

Michelle glances at the clock as David gets rid of the condom. “Huh,” she says. “We’ve still got five hours and change. You got anything else you want to do?”

“Yes,” he says with a yawn, settling back into bed and arranging the covers so that he and Michelle are cocooned together in the middle. “I want to kiss you goodnight, go to sleep, kiss you good morning, have coffee, kiss you, possibly drag you into the shower with me, followed by more kissing, et cetera, then finally kiss you goodbye.”

“I like everything about that plan except the last part,” Michelle announces, resting her hand over his heart.

“Well,” he says, grasping her hand, “I’ll be back next week, and we can do it again then. And then again in September. What do you think?”

“Mmm,” she says, nuzzling into his neck. “Just in time for the playoffs.”

He snorts. “Or for the Royals to finish at .500 and go home.”

“Good,” Michelle yawns. “Then you can root for the Red Sox with me.”

“What if I want to root for the Yankees?” he asks tugging on a strand of her hair.

“First of all, they’re not making the playoffs this year. Second of all, don’t even joke about that.”

He laughs, and she presses against his side to feel the way his body shakes with it. “This is weird pillow talk.”

“No it’s not. Baseball is sexy.”

“Michelle?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up and go to sleep.”

*

She wakes as the sun is beginning to lighten the horizon and starts when she opens her eyes and sees David watching her. He smiles and quietly says, “Hi.”

“Did you sleep?” She asks, reaching out to slide two fingers under the necklace he hadn’t taken off the night before.

“Little bit. I’ll sleep on the bus. C’mere.” He reaches out and rubs a hand over her hip.

“I have morning breath,” she laughs.

“Don’t care,” he mutters, biting at her neck, and that’s the last coherent thing either of them say for awhile.

*

They have to skip the shared shower and hurry the coffee, because they keep forgetting what they’re supposed to be doing in favor of making out like teenagers.

Michelle figures it’s kind of useless to play it cool at this point, so she offers to follow Dave back to his place and give him a ride to the buses just to have ten more minutes with him. His huge smile is totally worth her embarrassment.

He clears his throat as they’re driving and says, “You have a camera on your computer, right?”

“Yes,” she says. “No cybersex.”

He cracks up and says, “I hadn’t thought of that, but hey...”

“No!” She laughs.

“I just mean we’ll still be able to see each other, sort of, while I’m away.” She can hear the nervousness in his voice.

Michelle glances over and puts her hand to his cheek. “Hey, don’t worry. I’ve had relationships survive tours before. It’s not actually that bad.”

He smiles. “I guess you’d know better than me.”

“Totally. And I know you’ll behave, because I’m pretty sure all I’d have to do to get Michael Johns to rat you out is buy him a Fosters.”

“True.” He pauses then says, “I wouldn’t...”

“I know,” she says as she pulls in next to the busses.

She helps him with his stuff then leans against the trunk of her car and says, “So.”

“So,” he replies, stepping up so that his knees bump hers. “I’ll call.”

“Me too.”

“And email.” He leans forward and Michelle wraps her arms around his waist.

“Me too.”

“And send carrier pigeons.”

“Sorry, I draw the line at pigeons.” She kisses him and says, “I’ll see you next week.”

“Oh, right. Well, screw the carrier pigeons, then. I’ll just email you.”

“You better.”

She waves until the busses are out of sight.

*

She checks her email when she gets home. There’s a message waiting for her. She clicks on the video link and gets a screen-full of David’s shoulder, then his side, then finally him sitting with his guitar. “Okay,” he says. “I hope I can figure out how to send this.”

Then he smiles and begins to sing to her.

Fic: Over Yonder in a Minor Key

anna.lazarus@gmail.com — Thu, 19 Jun 2008 18:16:07 GMT

Well, I didn't say I was going to stop writing...

Title: Over Yonder In A Minor Key
Pairing: Sam/Dean/OFC, Wincest
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 7,000
Summary: Sam and Dean lay low in Montana. Sam gets a girl. Dean gets a fryolater. The walls are thin and the power goes out a lot.
Notes: Set mid-S2, no spoilers. Title from the Billy Bragg & Wilco song "Way Over Younder In A Minor Key." Thanks to oxoniensis for looking at the early stages of this, to monkiedude for an awesome beta, and to sanyin for beta and cheerleading while this story went through the gestational period of an elephant.

Dean wakes Sam up when they’re twenty miles out from Big Timber. When Sam asks where they are, Dean cheerily replies, “Middle of fucking nowhere, Montana.”

“You think that’s far enough?” Sam asks, rubbing at his face.

“I dunno, Sam. I never blew up half a state before. We may have to drive to Alaska before we’ve got plausible deniability.”

“It wasn’t half the state,” Sam grumbles. “It was just some fields that couldn’t have been that important anyway.”

“I’m pretty sure it was, like, half of Nebraska’s corn harvest,” Dean responds with a grin.

“Whatever,” Sam huffs. “It’s November; it had all been harvested already.” He taps his fingers against the dash for a minute, then says, “So what do you think the FBI will call it? Terrorism?”

“Against corn?” Dean says. “Nah. I’m sure they’ve got a category for really, really big destruction of property, like for explosions at fireworks factories and stuff. We’ll probably get that.”

Dean pulls off onto a dirt road marked by nothing but a faded sign of a black bear with two cubs and hopes this is still Ken Schwartz’s ranch. Otherwise they might really have to start considering Alaska.

“Oh,” Sam breathes as they pull up to the house, and Dean’s surprised it’s taken him this long to recognize his surroundings. But then again, the last time he was here, he was filled with teen angst and not paying much attention to anything other than himself.

It’s still Ken’s ranch, and the man himself comes out yelling, “I have already accepted Jesus Christ as my personal lord and savior, but I hear there are some godless heathens about two hours west of here.” Then he gets a good look at Sam, Dean, and the car and says, “Well, hell. The hell are you two doing here?”

Six years earlier, John Winchester had gotten a call from Caleb about some sheep corpses missing their heads and feet up in Sweet Grass County. By the time the Winchesters had driven halfway across the country, the sheep had stopped dying, but there was an ad in the Big Timber paper asking residents to pray for Ann Marie Schwartz. Locals said Ann Marie had taken sick, and her family thought she was in too bad a state to move. But no one knew anything beyond that.

They staked out the house, heard something like a pack of dogs howling and screams in a language they didn’t know. They knocked on the front door in the morning, and after they convinced Ken Schwartz to put down his shotgun, they spent two days exorcising Ann Marie.

Sam didn’t really participate, even though his Latin was better than Dean’s. He sat out in the living room with the family, keeping Ken from barging in every time he heard Ann Marie crying for her daddy and holding the other Schwartz girl’s hand. Their mother was dead, or gone, Dean didn't remember, but he knew it had been just the three of them for a long time, and the panicking of the non-possessed two gave them almost as much trouble as Ann Marie until Sam became their unofficial guardian.

“Anything you need,” Ken had said when Ann Marie was safely human again, up eating soup and reading Teen People. “Anything you need. Anytime.”

*************************

Ken drives them into Big Timber and along the way they explain their little run-in with the law, and their desire to lay low. He tells them he understands completely, then introduces them to the first person they run into as, "Sam and Dean Winchester."

Despite the fact that Sam looks like he just stepped in dog crap, the lady still takes his hand and says, "Bless you."

Dean gives Ken the eyebrow and gets a shrug in return. "Do you have a different definition of 'lay low' than we do?" Dean asks when the woman has left, after wishing them a good stay.

"You'll have a better time of it if people know who you are, trust me," is all Ken says.

Which turns out to be true. Ken's brother insists on renting them the apartment over his garage for next to nothing, and Suzy at the Roadkill Bar & Café says, "You're hired," as soon as she reads Dean’s name on the (otherwise completely false) application he's just filled out.

Sam goes to work in the local lumberyard, where the crew greets him like an old friend. No one ever says anything specific, but Dean finally figures that the whole town knows at least something about what happened to Ann Marie. He's hoping not all the details because, shit, how much would it suck for her to have to walk down the street and hear people whisper that you're the girl who was possessed by the devil? But they know that Sam and Dean saved Ann Marie's life and don’t seem much inclined to talk about it past that, so Dean stops worrying about it.

Sam, on the other hand, is—shocker—a gigantic pain in the ass about it. Every night for the first two weeks they're there, he tries to convince Dean that someone's going to turn them in to the Feds, until Dean finally declares if he hears the letters "F," "B" and/or "I" out of Sam's mouth again, he'll duct tape Sam's mouth shut. "No one's gonna turn us in Sam," he says. "We're fucking Big Timber folk heroes, in case you hadn't noticed. And anyway, you can't spit around here without the whole town hearing about it. If someone narc'd on us, we'd hear about it long before the Feds got here."

Sam still pisses and moans, but not nearly as much after they find out that the younger Schwartz girl, Tess, works at the local general store, where Sam and Dean get their gas, beer, winter jackets, and take-out sandwiches. She works in a good place; tells them all the best hunting spots. She doesn’t give any outward sign of knowing them, but Dean notices that they always seem to end up with more food than they’ve ordered when she’s behind the deli counter.

Her hair always seems unbrushed, her face falls in a natural frown, and she's got a glint in her eye that makes Dean nervous, so of course Sam likes her. She doesn't look a thing like Ken, who's stocky with a round, red face and blond hair shot through with white. Tess has tanned skin, sharp features, and thick dark hair. Dean wonders if her mother was part Indian.

She and Sam, predictably, hit it off for the second time. Dean remembers now that Tess’s mom died suddenly when she was young, and maybe she and Sam bonded over that or something, because after only a few weeks, she becomes a shadowy presence in the apartment, on the couch or in the kitchen.

“Hey,” he finally says to her the third morning he finds her in the kitchen making herself tea. Dean has no idea where the tea bags came from. Maybe she brought them over. She's wearing sweatpants and a long sleeve t-shirt, and she must have brought those over too. She’s a regular girl scout.

“Hey,” she replies. “I hear you love the new fryolator at the Roadkill.” She's scratching her scalp unselfconsciously, making a grumpy morning-face.

Dean grins. He’s been threatening to deep-fry everything on the menu since his second day on the job. “Well, I don’t know that I’d go with anything as serious as ‘love,’ but I am definitely deeply infatuated with it.”

That gets a little bit of a smile out of her. “I’m trying to get Sam to take me there, but he says he doesn’t trust anything made by you.”

“Probably wise,” Dean grunts, reaching for the coffee. “Hey, how’s your sister?”

Tess nods a little behind her mug as she says, “She’s good,” as though she’s convincing herself of the statement’s truth. “She’s in Colorado working at a resort. Her boyfriend’s a ski instructor. How clichéd is that?”

Dean laughs, says without thinking, “It’s so normal.”

Tess’s face twists a little and Dean realizes he has offended yet another one of Sam’s girlfriends. He’s not even trying at this point; it’s just second nature.

Sam comes in at that moment, takes one look at Tess and Dean’s faces, and sighs his most put-upon sigh, the one Dean usually only hears after he orders baked beans and onion rings for dinner.

Dean ignores it and says, “Tess here says you two are coming to the diner sometime soon,” then grins bright and fake.

Sam looks at Dean like he’s crazy, and Dean shouldn’t be half as fond of that look as he is. Tess is smiling again too though, which is good.

“Maybe,” is all Sam replies. Then, “You better have made enough coffee for me too, bitch.”

*************************

Dean never sees them cuddle or kiss or, in fact, show any affection at all, but the walls in the apartment are thin and he hears them having sex every time.

He considers giving Sam his privacy for about thirty seconds. Then he goes through every appalling thing he can say to him about it, finally deciding on, “Really, Sammy, you shouldn’t have to beg to get her to suck you off.”

Of course, he says it right as Sam’s taking a drink of orange juice. Sam turns a fascinating shade of purple-red, then doesn’t talk to Dean for two days. It’s totally worth it.

Except on the morning of day three, Sam says, “She likes when I beg for it,” and it’s Dean’s turn to choke on his OJ.

The next morning, Sam sits down as Tess leaves the apartment, rubs his marked-up biceps and says, “She likes to scratch too.”

It was stupid to tease him about it, Dean realizes after two more days of unasked-for revelations. Because he still hears them having sex, and Sam knows he hears them, and now he has way too much information about his little brother’s bedroom habits.

He can’t even really look at Tess, even though it’s gotten so cold that he never sees her without at least three layers of clothing on. It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference; she could wear a burka and he’d still know what she sounds like when she comes, the way she drops her voice to say, “Give it to me,” how she moans like she’s dying when Sam fucks her so hard the bed sounds near collapse.

It gets so bad he can’t even blink when he hears the noise in the bedroom start up without picturing her, skin flushed and damp, biting her lip as…it’s usually there that Dean jerks his eyes back open, but sometimes he’s almost asleep when they fuck, and he can’t wake himself up enough before he imagines his brother’s long fingers teasing at her cunt, Sam’s tongue licking over and around her nipples.

Dean’s always prided himself on being able to imagine pretty much any reasonably attractive woman naked and begging for it, but it’s usually him they’re begging. Not Sam. That shit’s not right, and Dean tries to tell his libido that. It sort of works, but he feels guilty jerking off thinking about Sammy’s girl sucking his cock. Like, Sam’s been through enough romance-wise; he deserves better than to have Dean perving on the first girl Sam’s liked in two years who hasn’t had anything to do with the forces of evil.

He just needs to get laid, but he works nights, and by the time he gets off shift, it’s last call and he smells deep fried anyway. He could probably pick someone up even with that handicap, but he’s not sure he’d want to sleep with a girl who found Eau de Greaseball attractive.

Plus, it’s a small town. Becky Long hits on him all the time, would probably even come over for a nooner if he called her, but she’s 19, her dad’s built like a brick shithouse, and not even Dean’s that dumb. So he just sticks her in the spank bank and acts extra grumpy around Sam.

It’ll all be fine, he tells himself. They'll get back on the road when winter breaks and things will go back to normal: Dean getting action, Sam being a monk, and Dean never, ever thinking about his brother naked.

*************************

Sam splits the shoulder seams on two of his flannel shirts and doesn't do anything about it for a week. Dean finally cracks and says, "Just give me the damn shirts, ya fucking slob," and sews them up, muttering, "Didn't think it was even possible for you to get any bigger, Sasquatch. Jesus. You're gonna have to adopt a fucking blue ox if this keeps up."

He looks up to see Sam smiling at him, a weird look in his eye.

"Whatever it is, I don't want to hear it," Dean declares.

Sam snorts and says, "Did you learn to sew clothes or wounds first?"

Dean, not really anxious to hear the sixtieth verse of, Wow, Our Childhood Was Fucked Up, mutters, "Don't remember," as he ties off the thread.

"You always sewed my clothes," Sam says softly. "Even after I knew how to do it."

Dean presses his lips together, just as unenthusiastic about a rare round of nostalgia for their upbringing. It was what it was, and he tries not to think about it. Not about Dad, because it still hurts, and not about Sam, because the Sam he knew then is as good as dead too. The past is useless like that.

"And you did nothing but bitch about it," he grunts. "Except when I left it to you, you went around lookin' like a hobo."

Sam's smile grows wider. "I think you like sewing," he declares. "Sewing, and having a closet to hang your clothes in, and not having to figure out a new coffeemaker every morning."

Dean suddenly gets that this whole conversation has been a set-up. "We're not buying any fucking curtains, Sam," he says. "We're leaving after we get through the winter. That's it."

Sam surprises him by saying, "I know.” He lets that hang for a minute before adding, “It wouldn't fucking kill you to admit that this isn't a terrible way for us to live, though."

Except it might. So Dean's not going to take the chance.

*************************

Everything turns white. The prairies, mountains and sky bleed together until it makes Dean dizzy and unsure which way is down. He’s not used to this much space. Sam laughs at him for taking the car two blocks to the drugstore, but Dean can’t get used to walking, or, more specifically, to chatting with everyone he passes. They all want to know the same damn thing: How is he; how’s the job; how’s Sam. Dean considers just getting the answers printed on a t-shirt.

Sam mocks him for being antisocial, but Dean notices that for all his lectures about blending into the community, Sam never goes out drinking with his coworkers. When Dean asks him why, Sam shrugs and says, “They all think hunting is way cooler than cuttin’ wood. I hate to burst their bubble.” Hunting, of course, is way cooler than cutting wood, but Dean doesn’t want to have that argument. Plus he thinks Sam really just hates being the center of attention.

Dean’s job gets boring, which is kind of novel. He takes to trying to invent new dinner entrees to pass the time. He's surprisingly pleased when Suzy likes his variation on the chicken fried steak batter enough to add it to the menu.

When it's windy or snowy, which is about once a week, the power goes out for the night. There's a wood stove in the living room, so when it happens Sam and Dean fumble in the dark, gather their blankets, and close the bedroom doors.

They sleep head to foot on the living room floor. Dean hates getting kicked and thinks Sam is going to get pneumonia from thinking that it’s more important for his feet to be warm than his head, but Sam insists on the arrangement.

Tess somehow finds out about it, even though Sam swears he didn't tell her. Everyone knows everything round here, but somehow Tess seems to know more everything. Not only does she know who does what, where, and when; she also knows Sweet Grass County inside and out. Dean’s seen her hike off into landscapes with no trails and no landmarks and come back with a smile and two rabbits for dinner. He thinks maybe that's what seemed off about her at first: that such a small girl could be so sure of a place that seems built to swallow her.

She doesn’t actually say anything about their sleeping on the floor, just shows up with two hurricane lamps, thermal sleeping bags, and camping blankets. "It's on the tab," she says when Dean asks how much they owe her. He's not really surprised when he checks at the store the next week and finds they don't have a tab.

*************************

They come into the diner one night right before closing. Tess, eyes alcohol-bright, declares she wants a deep-fried cupcake. Suzy rolls her eyes, but hands Dean the key and tells him he can close up. They grab a bottle of whiskey and squash into the kitchen, Sam wrapping his arms around Tess to keep her from drunkenly knocking into anything.

Dean finds a Devil Dog and asks if that'll work as a cupcake substitute, but by that point Tess has moved on to wanting to deep fry a banana. And a piece of apple pie.

They batter-up and fry all three. The Devil Dog is okay and the banana is disgusting. But the pie (which was in the kitchen because it'd gone stale and Dean was going to eat it rather than throw it out) is deep-fried heaven. Dean is definitely going to suggest adding it to the menu.

Sam goes to piss, and Dean brings the plates over to the sink to rinse. He isn't too surprised when Tess gets up and follows him, but is a little when she wraps an arm around Dean's neck and rests her head on his shoulder. "Hey," he says, bemused.

"Hey," she replies, looking up at him. "Sam really loves you."

Oh, crap, Dean thinks. Feelings.

Tess rolls right on. "I know you two don't do much about it, except going out and getting shot and stabbed and whatever for each other, but come on, that doesn't count."

"Yes it does!" Dean protests. Who is she to judge, anyway?

"Shouldn't," she says, yawning wide, right in Dean's face. "Oughta be another way than bleeding all over each other."

"There isn't," Dean says softly. "Not for us." He's not even sure what he means.

Tess sighs and throws her other arm around Dean's neck. "I don't think I can stand up anymore," she says.

Sam comes back, sees Tess hanging off Dean and laughs. "She’s clingy when she drinks," he says.

"I noticed. Can we go home now?" Dean is suddenly exhausted.

Sam sits in the back seat with Tess cradled across his lap. She's out cold, and Sam plays with her hair; kisses all over her face. Dean watches them in the rear view mirror and feels annoyed. Jesus. This is not the TMI taxi.

"Sam," he says, and Sam's eyes snap up immediately to meet his in the mirror.

"Yeah?" he says, and Dean feels gutpunched to realize he's never heard that tone from his brother without a bedroom wall between them.

"You, uh, you can't wait until we get home?"

"Doesn't matter much, does it? You're just going to listen in anyway," Sam replies. Tess blinks her eyes open and Sam kisses her full on the mouth, eyes still locked with Dean's in the mirror.

Dean presses his lips into a thin line and thinks about kicking every pot and pan in the house at 6am to get back at Sam for this...whatever this is. It's pissing Dean off.

*************************

Tess is at the kitchen table in the morning, poking unhappily at her cereal.

"Good morning!" Dean declares. He's in a great mood. He has the day off, and he didn't get drunk and act like a fucking weirdo last night.

"Sure," she says with a wan smile. "Although I'm thinking that deep-fried banana might have been a really bad idea."

Dean grins. "What the hell were you two drinking?"

"Whiskey. Shots," she says. "It was...one of those nights."

Dean has no idea what she's talking about and isn't sure he wants to know.

"I know you guys are leaving in a couple months," she sighs. "Do me a favor and promise me..." She pauses, and Dean's ready for it, to hear from one more person that it's up to him to take care of Sam, protect him, save him. Instead she says, "Just promise to listen to him, you know? If he wants to talk. Even though, whatever, he's as stubborn as you, and I honestly don't know how you two ever have conversations about anything." She rolls her eyes.

Dean's completely lost. "Tess, are you still drunk?"

She laughs sharply and says, "No, just kind of sick of hearing all the things Sam should be saying to you."

Dean's speechless, so pissed off that he doesn't even know where to start. It's not that he doesn't know that Sam keeps things from him, but for some reason, the idea of Sam telling his secrets to someone else, some girl he barely knows, makes Dean want to punch things. And then for her to say that it's Dean's fault that Sam's an emo pain in the ass? Who the fuck does she think she is? Except, apparently, someone Sam trusts more than he trusts Dean. Fuck.

Then Sam comes out looking even greener around the gills than Tess, and the conversation is blessedly over.

*************************

They get a blizzard the last week of April, as Dean's putting together a mental list of the stuff they can fit in the Impala's trunk when they leave.

Sam knows what Dean's thinking, has seen the we're leaving look on both Dad and Dean's faces often enough to recognize it. He's quiet, but not sullen, doesn't bitch at all, and Dean's annoyed to realize that he misses the kid's damn whining.

Dean’s alone most of the time now, with Sam spending almost all of his free time helping Ken and Tess ready the ranch for Spring. Dean hates how useless he feels every night as he washes just one plate.

And he will never, ever admit this to anyone, but he misses hearing them through the wall. Not the sex so much as the warm sounds of their voices as they chat themselves to sleep, the lilt of Tess's laughter and Sam's answering chuckle. He has trouble sleeping in the silence.

The snow comes on quick in the afternoon, a surprise even though they knew the storm was on its way. Suzy closes the diner and sends Dean home. He buys a case of beer and a frozen pizza on the way back and prepares for a long, dark evening.

He's shocked to find Sam and Tess at the apartment, sitting in front of an already roaring fire. They look like they got caught in the first wave of hard snow and have been warming up since, their hair wet and cheeks red. Sam's in a white t-shirt, flannel pajama bottoms, and slippers that resemble gigantic potatoes. Tess is swimming in one of Sam's sweatshirts and has on red long-johns. She looks like an off-duty Christmas elf.

There are three bags of groceries on the kitchen counter. Dean smothers a smile and says, "What the hell is this?"

"Sam keeps bitching that it's warmer here in a storm than in my extremely well-insulated bedroom," Tess says. "So I decided to call his bluff."

"Huh," Dean says, peering into the shopping bags. Hot dogs, chips, graham crackers, chocolate, marshmallows, and tequila. This was gonna be his kind of party. "I got beer."

"Cool," Sam says. "I have cards."

They spend a couple of hours eating junk and cheating like hell at all the games they play, until the power goes out.

Tess lights the hurricane lamps, and Sam stokes the fire while Dean lays out the sleeping bags to warm up. The three of them end up sprawled out across the nest of blankets and bags, basking in the glow of the fire.

Dean's lazily finishing his warm beer when Sam says, "We could play a drinking game with the tequila."

"Or we could just drink the tequila," Tess responds. Dean knew he liked her.

The bottle is half gone and Dean's lying on his back, letting the fire's heat wash over his face and feeling at peace with the world when Tess decides to take off her shirt. It takes her a minute, because, seriously, it's huge on her. Dean feels like he's watching it happen in slow-motion.

Her bra is black lace, old and stretched at the edges. Her chest is peppered with freckles. She sits up on her knees and turns towards the stove. Dean sees, for the first time, the tattoo that covers her back. It's the Virgin Mary, arms outstretched, stepping on the head of the serpent. Dean leans closer, sees a pentacle and other protective symbols inked like embroidery on Mary's robes.

Tess looks over her shoulder and smiles. "It's a work in progress," she says. "Go ahead, look."

She kneels back, and Dean is inches from her, so close he can feel the heat of her skin on his lips; can smell her, salt and cinnamon. He licks his lips and breathes out involuntarily, hears her gasp in kind.

Dean looks up, sees her looking down at him, eyes bright and dark, lips parted. Sam's directly to his left, and Dean can feel him staring, but doesn't look over before leaning forward that last inch and licking up Tess's tattoo from Mary's bare feet to her crown of stars. By the time he gets to the flesh at the nape of Tess's neck, he can feel her heavy breaths. And when he catches her skin between his teeth, her shudder rolls right into him.

He stays there, licking and breathing her in. It feels like years, decades, since he's had this, and he's so desperate for it he feels tears pricking at the edges of his eyes. But.

Dean turns, meets Sam's eyes, ready for the worst. Sam's expression is tight, but not with anger. It takes Dean a moment to register that Sam's look is want, need, something he's never seen in his brother, except maybe once in a rear view mirror.

"Touch her," Sam says, evenly but barely above a whisper. "Please."

Dean turns to Tess, to ask her if it's all right, but she's unhooked her bra, and Dean's mind goes blank at the sight of her tight, brown nipples. He grabs her hips, pulls her until she's laid out before him and yanks off her panties and ridiculous long underwear with shaking hands.

She hitches up on her elbows and looks right at him as she lets her legs fall open. Dean's dizzy, mouth watering and cock straining. He pulls his shirt off, then rocks forward and presses his face to her breast, bites and sucks and licks until she's moaning and clutching at him with both hands.

He undoes his pants as he mouths his way down her body but otherwise ignores his aching dick. He wants to taste her pussy so badly that he doesn't even fucking care about his cock right now.

Dean shoves Tess's legs open as wide as they'll go. When he reaches her cunt, he just breathes on her, wet and heavy, and spreads her open with both hands. Her moans are muffled, and Dean doesn't look up, can't deal with seeing Sam's fingers or tongue or cock in her mouth. Instead he circles her opening with two fingers, gathers the wetness there and spreads it over the thin skin of her cunt until it's shining. He licks his lips, tentatively brushes his thumb over her clit.

Tess shudders and Dean can't resist any more, reaches out and touches the tip of his tongue to her pussy. He tastes her, light flicks of his tongue, and when she tries to roll her hips, Dean pins her to the floor and really goes to work, flattening his tongue and licking every bit of her slick flesh.

She's making noise again, and Dean risks a glance up, sees Sam's long fingers rolling her nipples, and groans right up against her. Dean presses his face as close as he can, slides and curls his tongue into her. Without stopping, he crawls to his knees and pulls her up until she's got her knees hooked over his shoulders and he's tongue-fucking her as deep as he can.

He takes his hands off her hips and runs them all over her sides and stomach before moving them in, replacing his tongue with two fingers and sucking the swollen flesh around her clit between his lips, flicking his tongue against her until she shudders, bucks and keens, raking her nails down his arm. He ignores the pain and keeps going, curls his fingers in her and wrings another orgasm out of her before finally coming up for air.

He keeps his eyes shut tight, doesn't want to look at Tess or at Sam. He feels her slide off him, and by the time he's caught his breath, she's back, her tongue on his neck, licking him clean of her.

He finally opens his eyes when she kisses his lips, gentle and sweet. She looks at him and whispers, "Tell him to come here." And Dean finally forces himself to look at his brother, who's still kneeling where he was when all of this started. Sam's shirt is gone but he's still in his pants, huge hand cupped loosely in his lap, hiding his erection. He looks wrecked, desperate and unsure, and he can't meet Dean's gaze.

"C'mere," Dean croaks as Tess reaches back and takes Sam's hand in hers. She tugs and he jerks forward, shuffles, still looking down, until his chest is pressed to Tess's back. She looks over her shoulder and kisses him, deep and needy.

Dean watches Sam's tongue slide between her lips and feels his dick jerk against Tess's belly. She leans into Dean, and Sam leans with her until Dean has to take hold of her waist to keep from tipping over. His fingers brush Sam's belly, and his cock jerks again at the sound of Sam’s moan.

Then, even as Sam sucks on Tess's mouth, Dean feels his brother's hands on him, stroking his sides, fingers slipping into the loose waistband of his jeans.

Oh god, this is so fucked up, but he's so hard it hurts, and he needs. He can't say it, can barely even think it, but he needs. "Tess," he whispers, because this is so unfair to her. He has to tell her.

Except she knows. She knew. And now she's moving, biting along his collar bone and slipping out from between them, leaving Dean cold and defenseless. Sam's hands are back at his waist, dipping into the front of his jeans, stopping at the elastic of his briefs. Sam's still not looking at him, and Dean doesn't know what to do. He turns to Tess, trying not to look as panicked as he feels. He can't do this. He can't.

"Yeah, I know," she breathes, pushing her hair off of her face. "Here," she leans forward and pokes at Sam's hands until he moves them. "Let's try this."

She wrestles Dean out of his jeans, pushing him onto his back and straddling him. Tess looks at Dean with a mix of fondness and the glint in her eye he remembers from the first day he saw her. "Stay. Calm," she says.

Then she twists to the side, puts her hands on Sam's hips and begins whispering in his ear. He presses his face into her neck and doesn't fight as she pushes his pajamas down.

Dean doesn't look away, keeping it together only because he really doesn't want to be the one to freak out. Sam is...Sam is huge, which, in all honesty, is maybe the least surprising thing about this evening. His dick is rosy and gleaming at the tip, and all sorts of words that Dean should in no way be associating with his brother.

Tess keeps one hand on Sam's side and splays the other across Dean's chest. "Sit up, okay?" she says.

He realizes that Tess is giving them an out, telling them what to do like this. In the morning he can say, "That's some fucked up shit your girl's into, Sammy," punch Sam on the shoulder, and go on with his life. If he wants to.

Then Sam touches him, hot, soft skin pressing against his back until Dean can feel the fluttering of Sam's stomach muscles and the pounding of his heart. He's vaguely aware that Tess is kissing and licking at his stomach, but he's way more focused on Sam's breath on his temple, Sam's hands at his sides.

He groans and jerks when Tess's mouth closes over his cock. He watches like it’s happening to someone else as Sam's hands drift down to keep his hips from fucking up into Tess's mouth.

"Jesus," he whispers at the same time Sam finally finds his voice and says, "Dean," all hesitant, like there's any way Dean's forgotten he's there, rubbing his dick urgently against the small of Dean's back

Dean doesn't care what else Sam has to say, just turns and catches Sam's lower lip between his teeth, licking and sucking the moans right out of his brother's mouth.

Sam’s kisses are smothering. Dean doesn't mind, really doesn't mind when he feels Tess pull one of Sam's hands down to wrap around Dean's dick. He arches, gasps as Sam's calloused hand strokes him, sends sparks shooting through Dean's body.

“Yeah,” Sam mutters darkly into Dean’s neck. “Like that.”

"Fuck," he grunts. "Sam, fuck."

He feels more than hears Sam’s laugh. "Is that a request or what?" he drawls, shoving Dean down and flipping him onto his back.

Dean's eyes fly open to see Sam looming over him, eyes dark and brow furrowed, hesitation gone. He stamps one hand down right next to Dean's head and grins ferally. In his other hand, he holds his thick, red cock, pumping it until it leaks.

Dean watches Sam smear the head of his cock with the liquid, his own dick twitching hard against his stomach. "Sam," he groans, "Please."

"Mmmm," Sam replies, staring Dean in the eye as he angles his dick down and runs the slick head up the underside of Dean's cock. Dean gasps, arches up as Sam pushes down, and loses his breath at Sam’s weight on him. Sam grabs Dean’s hips, shoving and rutting. The shocking pleasure of Sam’s dick sliding along his own has Dean coming in moments, gasping with each pulse that smears between their bodies and slicks Sam's cock fucking against his.

Sam's whimpering, noises that sound like pain, and Dean instinctively wraps his arms around Sam's back, whispers in his ear. "Come on, come on," he murmurs. "Come on. Me, Sam. Come on me."

Sam buries his face his Dean's neck, comes with a sharp cry, shaking like he’s going to fall apart. He stays on top of Dean, breathing hard as he comes down.

Dean turns his head away, heart pounding. He needs...space. Mentally and physically; fuckin' A, Sam's crushing him.

Delicate fingers wave into Dean's line of sight followed by Tess's face, smiling tentatively. “He’s asleep,” she whispers. “It happens sometimes,” she continues quickly when Dean gapes. “When he’s been drinking or it’s particularly...intense.”

“I knocked him out?” Dean says disbelievingly.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Tess replies as she picks up a blanket and drapes it over Sam, begins gently pushing him off of Dean. “It’s not all that unusual in guys.”

“No, but it is embarrassing,” Dean says, sliding in the other direction from the way Tess is moving Sam and thinking that even if they never speak of this again, he’ll find a way to mock the hell out of Sam for passing out on him.

They get Sam situated without waking him up. Tess hops up and sprints to the bathroom. Dean watches her ass bounce, vaguely wondering what she’s doing. She returns with a wet cloth and slaps Dean in the belly with it.

Dean laughs and takes the hint, wiping the stickiness off of his stomach and thighs.

Dean can’t take his eyes off of Sam, even when Tess nuzzles against him and wraps them in a blanket. He feels a little better when he manages a glance over and sees that Tess is staring at Sam just as intently.

It’s not that he didn’t know that his brother is stupidly attractive, it’s just that this is the first time he’s ever let himself think about it. Sam’s lips are soft and slightly parted. He's still sweaty and flushed, bits of too-long hair stuck to his forehead, but he looks as peaceful as Dean’s ever seen him.

Dean doesn’t know if it’s the booze, the fire, or the post-orgasmic high, but he feels okay. Like, he feels pretty much the same way he’s always felt about Sam, not that that’s ever exactly been a model of normality. And he doesn’t want to jump out a window or anything, even though he kind of feels like he should.

“You look confused,” Tess says.

“This is so fucked up,” he replies. “How...don’t you think this is fucked up?”

The corner of Tess’s mouth curves up. “Hey man, I once watched some thing in my sister’s body shoot my dog. Inappropriate sex gets pushed down the list after something like that, you know?”

Yeah, okay. Dean figures she’s got a point.

Sam snuffles in his sleep and rubs his face, but doesn’t wake up. “You think he’s gonna want to talk about this?” Dean says without thinking, and is a little surprised when Tess laughs again.

“I don’t know what you think, but Sam’s as big an idiot as you,” she says. “I’d lay real money that you two do nothing but grunt and avoid eye contact for the next three days.”

“I’m okay with that,” Dean yawns. “Sleep?”

“Yeah,” Tess says, yawning too. “Which side do you want?”

Dean’s confused about what she means until Tess takes the blanket wrapped around the two of them and begins to drape it over Sam. Oh, hell no. No cuddling. No way.

But Tess has wrapped herself around Sam from the back, one hand under her head and the other resting on his hip, looking already most of the way asleep, and Dean realizes he’s going to freeze his ass off with no blankets to keep off the chill.

He sighs and edges towards Sam, pulling at the edges of the blankets. Sam scrunches his face and opens his eyes. “Mmurr,” he says.

“Lemme in,” Dean mutters, blushing like he hasn’t already had sex with Sam, for god’s sake.

Sam sighs loudly but holds up the blankets and straightens out his legs to give Dean more room to settle. They end up with their knees and feet touching, and Dean can feel the heat radiating off of Sam, but it totally isn’t cuddling. Not cuddling is Dean’s last coherent thought as Sam’s even breathing lulls him to sleep.

*************************

They don’t spend three days grunting and avoiding eye contact; they spend five. But Dean doesn’t flinch when Sam puts his hand on Dean’s hip while reaching around him for the coffee, nor does he grumble when Sam gets him in a headlock and pulls him over to Sam’s side of the couch. But he yanks Sam’s hair to get him back for it and can’t deny that Sam’s yelp hits him square in the gut.

They leave the sleeping bags and blankets on the floor, curling up together each night and usually just sleeping. Dean has to admit it’s nicer to wake up to Sam’s morning breath than Sam’s feet in his face. The weirdest thing for Dean about the times when they don’t sleep is how slowly Sam insists on going. Sam calls it foreplay; Dean calls it being a pain in the ass, which usually pisses Sam off and gets things going faster, so that’s all right.

Tess helps them pack, taking most of their stuff. There’s a minor crisis when Dean realizes he won’t be able to fit the coffee maker in the car and nearly begins hyperventilating. He regains his equilibrium when Sam points out that it’s the coffee maker or the knives.

She stays with them the last few nights, and per her orders, Dean pretends not to see her crying each evening. She and Sam stay in his bedroom and Dean in his, but there’s 100% more talking through the wall when Tess and Sam fuck, and they even get her to laugh a few times, which makes Dean smile into his pillow.

It’s cold but clear on the day they leave, and Tess hands Dean a small package wrapped in brown paper. “It’ll fit under the seat, Sam checked,” she says as Dean unwraps the portable coffee maker. “You can charge it with the car’s lighter, too.”

Dean presses his lips together, because, really, she’s done enough crying for the three of them, and gives her a rib-crunching hug.

He and Sam don’t talk for a few hours after hitting the road. When Dean finally decides to break the silence, the only thing he can think to say is, “You gonna miss her?” which, wow, stupid question.

“Yeah,” Sam sighs, stretching and sprawling until he’s got a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “But I think I’d miss this more.”

Dean smiles and drives a little faster.

Jared/Jensen/Sandy domestic schmoop (PG)

anna.lazarus@gmail.com — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 15:30:26 GMT

I'm probably going to be posting a lot of silliness over the next few days as I try to get back in the fiction-writing habit.

This is for destina, who asked for more when I said I am currently imagining Jensen and Sandy are eating popcorn, watching a Tivo'd marathon of America's Best Dance Crew and mocking JC's wardrobe, while Jared reads Noam Chomsky.

Um, it might not make any sense if you're not familiar with the cheesy wonder that is Randy Jackson Presents America's Best Dance Crew. Here is the website, but all you really need to know is that it involves dance teams with funny names, AC Slater is the host, and JC Chasez is the mean judge and he wears a lot of bow ties (no, REALLY.)

650 words. Unbeta'd. Lots of snarkiness. No porn! Go figure.

"I am so exhausted," Sandy says, stretching up on tip toes to reach the big popcorn bowl.

Jensen comes up behind her, puts a hand on the bowl to steady it, and says, "It feels like a ten hour audition, doesn't it?"

"Yeah. Although it was better than I expected. I thought I'd get the in-law questions. So, what makes you think you're good enough for our Jared?" Sandy laughs and grabs the salt and sugar shakers. The boys hate it when she sugars the popcorn, so she always does it. It's the only way she ends up with more than a handful.

Jensen snorts. "No, those are the questions I get."

"That's horse shit," Jared calls from the living room. "They're all there to see your ass face." He pitches his voice three octaves higher than usual and says, "Ooooh, Jensen, why aren't you the most famous man alive? You're sooooo talented. And you smell wonderful!"

Jensen laughs, but blushes to his roots. Sandy grins and pokes him in the side on her way out of the kitchen. She keeps a tight grip on the popcorn bowl all the way to the living room, with Harley bumping her legs the whole way. "You don't like popcorn," she says. "It gets stuck in your teeth and makes you fart."

"C'mon Sandy," Jared says, not looking up from his book, "It does the same thing to Jensen, and we still let him eat it."

"I hate you," Jensen says as he fiddles with the Tivo. "What're you reading?"

"A book."

"Yup, still hate you."

Sandy settles herself on the couch between her two boys and feels a surge of ridiculous domestic bliss as they bicker over her head. Jared's rereading Good Omens because it makes him less anxious about the whole playing-the-antichrist thing, and Jensen has found the last episode of America's Best Dance Crew that they saw and is fast-forwarding through the intro.

"Blah, blah, AC Slater," he mutters. "Get to the dancing."

"I can't decide if it's awesome or horrible that all the Saved By the Bell kids are still known by their character names," Jared says.

"Awesome," Sandy says.

"For everyone but Screech," Jensen adds. "But he's a douche, so whatever."

They watch Fysh & Chicks and Breakskate get eliminated, Jared and Jensen make fun of JC Chasez's outfits, and Sandy nods off as Jared is saying, "Dude, if Sam goes evil, do you think Kripke would let me have a big, evil dog as a sidekick?"

Her nap is shortlived, ending when Jensen yells, "Dude, what the fuck?"

She's a little worried, but Jared is snickering, so it can't be that bad. Jensen looks pissed though. "What?" she says.

"Kaba Modern got eliminated! That's total bullshit."

"Wait, so it's the Jabbawockeez and Status Quo in the final two?" That is kind of bullshit.

Jared is still giggling. "You're just pissed 'cause you have a crush on one of the Kaba Modern girls. You totally wanted to writer her a letter congratulating her on their win." Jared goes back into his fangirl-falsetto "Dear Kaba Modern Girl Number Three, You're really talented! I love you. Come live with me in Vancouver and be my private dancer."

"I hate you," Jensen says, blushing a particularly entertaining shade of strawberry.

"I thought I was your private dancer!" Sandy says, fake-wounded.

Jensen opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

"Shit, we broke him," Jared says. "I hope he's still under warranty."

"Why do I hang out with you people?" Jensen says.

"Because we feed you and have sex with you, duh," Sandy says.

"And we won't tell the world that cheesy dance shows make you hot," Jared adds.

Sandy snuggles closer to Jensen, and Jared snuggles closer to her until they're all practically in each other's laps. Jensen sighs. "Let's watch the finale, then you can feed me and have sex with me. OK?"

"Sure!" Jared says, and for about the thousandth time that day, Sandy reflects that life is good.

Dean/OFC fic: Rope on Fire, NC-17

anna.lazarus@gmail.com — Mon, 04 Feb 2008 19:55:18 GMT

Title: Rope on Fire
Author: annalazarus
Pairing: Dean/OFC
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None
Summary: Dean is 19 and thinks he knows everything there is to know about sex. He's wrong.
Notes: for cunnilingusfic, based on onelittlesleep's prompt: A girl touching at Dean's mouth and talking dirty. Telling him she wants that. But Dean's never. DONE THAT. Awkward, desperate refusal. And then slow convincing on the girl's behalf until Dean breaks and tentatively tries it.
Betas by the lovely and talented missyjack and oxoniensis. Title stolen from Morphine.

She worked in the karaoke bar next to the convenience store where Dean was making money to keep Sam in clothes that at least sort-of fit and stealing beer as a bonus. She came in three nights a week to buy cigarettes, always wearing one of five slightly-different black dresses.

Sometimes she bought a scratch ticket and made conversation while she tried her luck. She had a Northeastern accent—Dean wasn't sure if it was Boston or Maine or whatever—and she laughed like it was the funniest joke she'd ever heard when Dean told her he was 24. He was 19.

It didn't stop him from hitting on her every time she came in though. He threw her every line he'd ever heard, and she gave him a thumbs up or thumbs down depending on how much it sucked. When he tried "What can I buy you for breakfast?" she rolled her eyes and said, "Please. Like I'd let you stay until breakfast."

One evening he let her smoke in the store, and she spent her break at the counter, balancing on one foot then the other as she rolled her ankles to relieve the tension from wearing high heels on an eight hour shift. She told him how the guys who always ended up with a girl at the end of the night did it. "Generally, the bigger the hair the better your chances," she said. Her hair was blond with black streaks and fell sleekly to her shoulders. "That's if you’re going quantity over quality, of course."

Dean shrugged and said, "I work in a 7-11. I pretty much take what I can get."

"Yeah," she said. "You quit using those shit lines and you could raise your standards. You know, beyond 'over 18 and willing.'"

Dean didn't think 'over 18 and willing' was a low standard. He thought it was quite gentlemanly, actually. He also thought the backseat of his car was the best place on Earth to have sex, and he wasn’t gonna let her talk him out of that either.

She had blue eyes and wore too much eyeliner. Her arms and legs were bony. Dean liked to make her smile because it made her look young. He actually had no idea how old she was.

The night she won a hundred bucks on a Whole Lotta Luck scratcher, she grinned and said to Dean, "Do me a favor and tell me you're legal."

"I'm legal," Dean said. "What was that you said about standards besides 'over 18 and willing'?"

She peered at Dean skeptically and said, "Don't sell yourself short. Meet me next door at midnight, 'kay?"

He didn't have the Impala, which was a shame because, seriously, the backseat was awesome, but no way was he leaving his baby in the parking lot of a convenience store in a fucking one-horse town. That was just asking for trouble. She drove an itty bitty Nissan that appeared to be held together by duct tape, so Dean was going to suggest the alley behind the bar, but before he could get the words out, she'd wrapped her arms around his neck and pushed him against the car, her mouth hot on his.

With the heels, she was nearly as tall as him, and it was kind of mind-melting how perfect her body felt pressed to his. It was, he realized, the first time he'd ever touched her without three feet of formica counter between them. Yeah, the alley wasn't going to cut it.

She drove him back to her apartment, on the second floor of a creaky triple-decker. He put his hand on her back in the narrow stairwell, and she turned and kissed him, nearly knocking him down the stairs with the force of her body. At the top of the stairs, he kissed the back of her neck, where she tasted of soap and cigarette smoke, while she opened the door. She got a hand under his shirt and a leg around his waist in the dark hallway, and he wanted to fuck her right there, but she muttered, "Wait, wait," and pulled him to the bedroom at the end of the hall.

Dean felt a little dazed. He usually had to talk his way into a girl's bedroom. He wasn't entirely sure what to do next. Then she pulled her dress over her head, and Dean decided he was just going to thank god and do whatever the hell she wanted.

"Sit," she said, pointing to the bed. He did, and she straddled his lap, pressing his lips open with hers and sucking on his tongue. Dean groaned as she began to rock against him, grabbed her ass and shoved her against his cock.

She broke away from his mouth and laughed. "You're in a hurry," she said. "We're not gonna go quick, though," she whispered conspiratorially, licking at the corner of his mouth.

"Why not?" he growled, threading his fingers into her hair and turning her head to lick at her neck.

She melted against him for a moment, then pulled back. "Because," she said, then stopped to catch her breath. Dean took the opportunity to run his hands along her hips and belly. "Because I've been thinking about your mouth for months," she continued, touching her fingers to his lips. "Been getting myself off imagining your tongue on me."

Jesus, why hadn't he realized she'd be like this? For all their flirting, she'd always seemed kind of distant. Dean considered that maybe she'd been restraining herself from jumping over the counter and tearing his clothes off. "I can do that, baby," he murmured. "I'll lick you all over."

She huffed a warm breath against his neck and pulled back to look at him. She gave him a sharp grin and took his hand, pressed his fingers below the edge of her underwear. "Here," she whispered against his mouth. "I want you to lick me here."

Dean sucked in a breath. He wasn't so sure about this plan. He hadn't ever done that to a girl. Not that he was going to tell her. They didn't…they never asked, and anyway, he could get girls off with his hand, so why did he need to go spelunking down there anyway?

She was mouthing along his jawline and rubbing over his chest when he said, "I don't. I don't do that."

She leaned back and he could see her nipples, hard against the lace of her bra. "What," she started. "Oh. Right. You sure you're legal? I'm not gonna have to register as a sex offender or anything?"

Dean felt himself go red. "Look, do you want to have sex or not?" he said roughly. He didn't have to take this; he had...no, he had no other options. He'd have to talk her out of it. Shit.

"Yeah, definitely," she replied, reaching for the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. "I'm pretty sure your tongue in my pussy counts as sex, though."

"I don't want…" Dean tried to object, but it was a little hard with her eating at his mouth.

"I can show you how," she murmured, wriggling out of her underwear and leaning back, and that...that was dirty pool, was what it was. He could see how wet she was. And okay, that was a view he never got in the backseat.

She caught his chin and made him look back up at her face. "It's a little like kissing," she said. "I like it like this to start." She licked lightly and rhythmically against his lower lip, and Dean felt his cock pulse in time. She hummed and slid off his lap, up to the headboard, then said, "Come on, Dean. Doesn't it turn you on that I fuck myself thinking about you eating me out?" She reached down and began rubbing her cunt with three fingers. Dean blinked, dizzy from the sudden rush of blood away from his head. She let her eyes drift closed, her breath growing ragged as she slid her fingers up and down.

Dean stood shakily and stripped off the last of his clothes. She watched him with bright eyes and climbed back into his lap as soon as he sat back down.

She rocked in his arms, still touching herself, and he could hardly hear her quick murmurs. "Please. Put your mouth on me. I wanna feel you. So bad. I need you to make me come." Dean could feel her pussy hot and wet against his thigh, and he wanted it—on his fingers, his mouth, his cock, anywhere he could get it. He had a suspicion he was being taken advantage of, but he really didn't care.

"I can make you come with my fingers," he whispered, but he wasn't objecting anymore, just trying to tell her that he wasn't totally clueless.

"That's good," she whispered back. "I think. Do the same things? But with your mouth?"

"Yeah," Dean breathed, head swimming.

He grabbed her hips and flipped her onto her back, kissed all around her belly button, then moved up to suck on her nipples when he got nervous, which was stupid, because he'd killed fucking werewolves; a girl's cunt definitely shouldn't have scared him.

So when he felt her hands, gentle on the top of his head, but definitely guiding him down, he reached for her cunt and spread her open, rubbed with his fingertips, then shifted down until his shoulders rested between her bent knees.

He kissed along her inner leg, breathing quickly. Her scent was overwhelming, salty and strong. It reminded him of the first girl he'd slept with, how her parents went away for a weekend and they fucked on her bed so many times that they had to wash the sheets twice to get the sex-smell out.

Dean turned, licked along the crease of her leg, and felt his cock jump when she gasped. She grabbed his hair, and he went for it, licking her straight up and down a couple of times to get a feel for it. It wasn't exactly his new favorite thing, but her whimpered, "Oh, god," sure was.

He experimented: licked around her pussy, stroked her with the tip of his tongue, repeated the things that made her moan. She was so hot, blood so close to her skin. He wanted to fuck her. He wanted to lick her all night. He wanted to ask if he was doing it right. Instead, he ran his lips over her clit.

She gasped and said, "Harder." He burrowed in a little closer, pushed his tongue against her and alternated between licking and rubbing at her clit with his mouth.

She was moaning steadily now, but Dean wasn't sure he could get her off like this. So he pressed a finger into her and nearly got his nose broken when she unexpectedly bucked up. "Sorry, sorry," he said, looking up and taking a deep breath for the first time in what seemed like hours.

"No. Good," she panted. "That. Good. You're a natural. Do it again."

Dean grinned and ducked his head, messily kissing her swollen cunt. He played at her opening with his tongue and fingertips. She pushed her hips down hard, and he slowly slid two fingers into her, tongued her steadily, patiently, until her thighs began to shake.

Dean moaned, dizzy with her smell all around him. Her wetness was all over his face and neck. He fucked her harder with his fingers, licked at her roughly until her body shook and jerked wildly. He kept at it until her litany of yesyesyesyes quieted. Then he moved up her body, rubbing his suddenly sore mouth all along her belly and breasts.

She hummed and rubbed her hands through his hair. She looked sleepy, and Dean hoped to god she wasn't about to pass out on him. He silently swore to himself that he'd never, ever do that to a girl again before getting her off. Then she opened her eyes and gave him a little smile.

"Not bad, for a first time," she said, reaching down and wrapping her slim hand around Dean's cock. "But you know," she sighed. "That's not all there is to it. There are all sorts of tricks that it might take you years to learn."

"You trying to discourage me?" he murmured, kind of liking how scratchy his voice sounded.

"Nope," she said, pushing his shoulder until he rolled onto his back. "Just that, you know, someone, might already know those tricks."

"Someone in this bed?" Dean said, smiling and palming her hips as she straddled him and rolled the condom on.

"Mmmm," she said, rubbing the head of his cock with her thumb. "I might be willing to give you a crash course."

"Might?" Dean replied, ending the word on a gasp as she sank onto his cock. He watched as a small shiver ran through her body.

"Definitely," she moaned, rolling her hips obscenely. "Definitely willing." She leaned forward until her hands rested on Dean's chest and began fucking him in earnest.

Dean figured that after all his hard work he was allowed to just lie back and enjoy himself. He closed his eyes and rocked up into her until he felt too hot all over. His mind flashed to her cunt pulsing against his tongue and he lost his breath as he came, his hips jerking hard against hers.

She rolled them onto their sides as Dean was still catching his breath, took care of the condom, and Dean hoped he'd remember to thank her for that. Then she was back, her mouth on his,kissing with her whole body. He could feel her everywhere. She touched his cheek and he mirrored the light touch on her hip. They went on like that, lips and fingertips exploring until Dean fell asleep.

She woke him up before sunrise and said, "Don't you take care of your brother?"

"Fuck," Dean muttered.

"I have coffee," she said. "No food though."

"Do I get breakfast at some point?" Dean said, smiling into the pillow.

He felt her lips at the nape of his neck. "Sure," she said. "If you're buying."

Happy Friday, kids

anna.lazarus@gmail.com — Fri, 09 Nov 2007 03:07:56 GMT

I wrote this in my head on the way home from work, and I know I'm never going to actually write the full story, so you guys get the snippet, unbeta'd and messy:

(it's Gen, featuring Dean & Kathleen, about a year and a half after Common As A Winter Cold)

She's got the baby on her hip and a pistol in her free hand, pointed right between Dean's eyes.

Dean puts his hands up. "Hi honey, I'm home?" he tries.

Kathleen cocks the pistol. "Did you bring on the apocalypse?"

"Nooo," Dean says. "No, no. Probably not. Maybe. I have no idea, really. But I do that shooting me is most likely not going to stop it. Whatever it ends up being."

Kath sighs, lowers the gun, and shifts Grace higher up on her hip. "Jimmy said he'd send the women & children over here, seeing as how I have diapers and all."

Great. Dean's gonna have himself, Kath, and, like, 1000 screaming kids running around while he tries to fight off what may or may not be the assembled forces of chaos. This should be no problem.

Grace clings to her mother's leg as Kathleen pounds iron nails into a cross above her door, slices her fingertip open and draws protective runes on the windows in her own blood. Dean, meanwhile, leads the confused and frightened town ladies into the basement, learns Jimmy told them it was some sort of power plant accident. Dean sort of wonders why the locals don't question the fact that the Murphys have the only three safe houses, but he figures that deep down they know it was no accident that made the sun flicker and wink out an hour ago.

"So," he says conversationally to Kath as they're laying down salt lines around the foundation of the house. "Sam didn't exactly get through the translation before Pandora's Box or what-the-fuck-ever opened, but he got "darkness" and something that was either 'three days,' or." Dean pauses, makes sure he's got the corner covered, before sighing, "Eternity."

"Couldn't you ask the fucking archeologist who discovered the fucking thing?" Kathleen yells as the howling that sounds-like-wind-but-isn't picks up.

"He kinda got eaten," Dean yells back as they run for the front door.

"Kinda?" Kath says as they get inside.

"You really wanna know?" Dean asks.

Kathleen's mother is feeding Grace, making the spoon swoop and dive. Grace is clapping and laughing like it isn't maybe the end of the world, and Dean looks at her and feels hollowed out and filled with fire at the same time. He glances over at Kathleen, whose face has gone still and hard, and Dean figures maybe taking on the forces of chaos with a house full of mothers isn't such a bad deal after all.

Fully Retractable, Dean/OFC/OFC, NC-17

anna.lazarus@gmail.com — Tue, 16 Oct 2007 03:07:22 GMT

When I get stuck in boring meetings at work, I work out spectacularly pornographic scenarios in my head to keep from falling asleep. I've had a lot of boring meetings lately. This is the end result.

Beta by the lovely oxoniensis, who is always very patient with me.

Spoilers for AHBL2. Set just after that; featuring Happy Hedonist Dean. Title from a song by Soul Coughing, for no reason other than it's late and I just want to title this sucker and go to bed.

Fully Retractable
It wasn't like Dean had a list before. He figured he wasn't gonna get a fucking farewell tour, so why keep track? But now. Now he had a list.

Item One: get elbow-deep in pussy.

Okay, actually that was Items One through Five. But whatever.

Item Six was twins, but Dean had decided at the bar tonight that roommates worked too. Especially giggly, nice-smelling roommates in low-cut tops who asked him back to their room. Totally an acceptable substitute for twins.

Sam had turned up his nose and said, "Do you even remember their names?"

Stupid Sam. Of course Dean remembered their names. Rachel and Amanda. Granted, right now he wasn't entirely sure whether it was Amanda on his lap and Rachel behind him or vice versa, but he figured it a was forgivable lapse, what with all the hot sexin' and everything.

Amanda. It was Amanda on his lap, riding two of his fingers as she bit her lip and held onto Dean's shoulders for dear life. Rachel was licking kisses along his hairline, her arms wrapped around his waist, warm breasts pressed to his back.

Dean turned his head and met Rachel's mouth, sucking and biting at her lips, chasing her lingering taste of raspberry lipgloss and bitter beer.

"Lie down," Amanda said in his ear, rolling forward so that her breasts brushed tantalizingly against his chest, but Dean had other ideas, and he figured since he was the only person on the bed who had a year to live, he got to be the pushy one. He put his hands on her hips and tipped her back onto the mattress.

He twisted around to face Rachel and said, "Just be patient, okay?" She looked startled, like this wasn't part of the plan, and Dean grinned at her. "Oh, honey, I want you too," he murmured, curving his hands around her breasts, rolling his fingertips over her nipples. "I just want to give you both lots of attention, okay?" He licked at her mouth until she gave a small moan and gasped, "Yeah, okay."

He turned back to Amanda, who was panting lightly, her hand working between her spread legs. "Hey," Dean said with a laugh, taking her wrist in his hand. "Hang on. I'll do that for you."

He shifted down, laying kisses across her stomach as he moved. He felt Rachel move beside him, and when he looked up, she was lying next to Amanda, kissing her and smoothing her hands over Amanda's breasts. And that was...yeah. Always a bonus. He took a moment to rub his dick against the bedspread at the sight of Rachel's tongue pressing in and out of Amanda's mouth, then remembered he was a man on a mission and refocused on Amanda's cunt, slick and swollen below his mouth.

He tilted his head, breathed out hotly against her, then licked, light and quick, all over her soft flesh. She moaned above him, hooked a leg over his shoulder, and he guessed he was on the right track. He circled her clit with the tip of his tongue, barely touching, mouthed at her softly until she was twisting her hips and grabbing his hair.

She tasted like cheap soap and sour cherries, made his mouth water as he licked her. She hadn't shaved in a few days, and the hair on her legs caught at the stubble on Dean's cheek. It was stupidly, improbably hot, and Dean pulled his face up quick, burned her leg then mouthed the pain away as she whimpered.

He grabbed the underside of her thighs, soap-soft and overheated, pulled her open even further and turned his face up, stroking her pussy with the flat of his tongue. She arched up and all he could smell was her: dark musk and salt. He focused in, licking her fast and hard, sucking lightly. When he slid three fingers into her, quick and easy, she was gone, crying brokenly as her legs shook against his shoulders.

Dean kissed her thighs all over, because he knew that anything worth doing was worth doing well, then looked up to see Amanda nuzzling into Rachel's neck as Rachel watched him with intent.

"My turn?" Rachel asked.

"Oh yes," Dean replied, motioning her to him with a crooked finger.

She moved down the bed, hitching her legs open as she came. "I like it rough," she said. "With lots of," but Dean missed the last bit because he'd already spread her cunt open and shoved his tongue into her. He used his hands more this time, thumb rubbing down hard on her clit, fucking up into her with two fingers. He licked in alongside his fingers, stroked and sucked her until she screamed, came wet and sweet against his tongue.

Dean groaned, licked her until she panted, "Stop."

He closed his eyes, felt the girls' hands on him, turning and pushing him down. He sighed, relaxed, and let them kiss, lick, suck, and tease the hell out of him. Everywhere their lips and fingers touched, he felt a crackling heat that moved along his skin, sank in and warmed him for the first time in weeks.

The girls tongued his nipples in tandem, and he sex-stupidly wondered if they might agree to change their trip itinerary so they could do this to him every night. Eventually he felt gentle fingertips against his cheek and opened his eyes. Amanda was looking at him speculatively. "No offense, sweetheart, but guys are usually begging for it by now. You okay?"

Wasn't that the million dollar question. "Right now? Yeah, great," he whispered. And, really, he was great. If he could stay in this bed for the next 350 days or so with someone bringing him bacon double cheeseburgers for every meal, he'd continue to be great. Maybe he could get a fast food place to sponsor him or something.

Amanda was still staring at him, and he realized he needed to say something else. "I just," he fumbled for a lie, "I kind of want to try something." He'd used that line for the dozen or so other times he'd done it too, but Dean knew enough about girls always ask nicely.

She raised an eyebrow, clearly wondering, but Dean just pushed his face between her breasts, licked a hot line up and down her sternum. He reached between her legs, wet his fingers on her cunt and raised his hand to her tits, rubbing over, around, between, until her mouth went slack with pleasure.

"Oh," she gasped. "Yeah, okay. Fuck."

She pressed her breasts together, splayed her fingers so that her nipples pushed up between them, red and obscene. Dean pushed his cock into the crease she'd created, felt her tits hold him, soft and yielding. He groaned and snapped his hips watching his cockhead rub against her collarbone with each hard thrust.

She moaned and writhed beneath him, which Dean thought was hot, but a little over the top, until he realized Rachel was behind him and twisted around to see her intently licking Amanda's pussy.

"Goddamn," he groaned. He looked down at Amanda, who had her eyes closed and seemed to have forgotten he was there. "You keep, uh, yeah. I'm gonna." Dean stopped talking and grabbed a condom off the night table.

He stood on shaky legs, shuffled over behind Rachel and bit the edge of her shoulder blade to let her know he was there. She spread her legs and pushed her ass up, and Dean seriously fell a little in love with her as he thrust into her, grabbing her hips and riding her hard.

Her shrieks muffled against Amanda's cunt spurred him on, made him push at her lower back until he was hitting someplace inside her that had her begging him not to stop. He held back, breathed deep, until she went silent, breath caught in her throat and cunt clenching around him. Then he came with a shout, bent over to catch himself on the bed's edge as his legs gave out.

There was more moaning, and more bed shaking, but Dean was too busy trying to remember how to lift his head off the bedspread to figure out what it was all about. He was on the mattress from his hips up, legs and feet splayed out over the edge. He reached down, pulled off and tied the condom, cheek still firmly planted on the garish polyester spread.

The bed shook again, but the girls weren't moaning (and thank god for that, because if they'd been going at it again, Dean would have had to make sure they weren't succubi.). They were laughing.

One of them flopped over Dean's back and said, "Are you okay? Did we break you?"

"No," Dean replied. He wiggled his butt to get her off of him. "Believe me, it'd take the both of you a few more nights before that happened."

"Oh yeah?" Amanda said looking at Dean upside down. "We're gonna be at the Grand Canyon next week. You and your brother want to meet us there?"

Hmm, Dean thought. Item Seven.

Sam/Dean drabble, R

anna.lazarus@gmail.com — Mon, 24 Sep 2007 13:29:42 GMT

Comment porn written for Ginger. Forgive the probably shitty punctuation and run-on sentences; I wrote it while drinking, watching the So You Think You Can Dance marathon, and discussing with my husband the likelihood that the apocalypse will happen in the next three years.

Dean’s ready for it when Sam throws him down, ready when Sam grabs his hands and pushes his arms over his head, totally prepared to feel Sam’s fingers shoving his wrists into the wall, bones grinding and skin bruising.

“Fuck, yeah,” Dean mutters as Sam rolls his hips, the low sounds Sam makes in his throat vibrating straight down to Dean’s cock. “Come on, Sammy. Give it to me.”

And Sam moves, but not like Dean was ready for, not pushing Dean’s knees up or flipping Dean onto his stomach. Before Dean can react, struggle, even make a noise, the heel of Sam’s hand is pressed into his mouth, and Sam is growling against his chest.

“Wanna,” Sam gasps, moves, and bites right at the juncture of Dean’s chest and arm.

Dean fucking squeaks, feels like he’s on fire. And Sam does it again, on the other side, sharp teeth bearing down even harder, breaking skin. Dean loses his breath, comes, shocked and sticky against his brother.

Sam buries his face in Dean’s armpit, licks, ruts against Dean’s hip until he comes with a sigh, turning his head to kiss and nip at the edge of Dean’s chest a few more times before rolling off of him.

Dean wants to say, “What the fuck was that?” but Sam’s breathing deep and even, close to sleep, and the words get stuck in Dean’s throat. He knows he’s going to feel it for days, every time he hoists a shotgun onto his shoulder or makes a sharp turn while driving; Sam saying I’m here in the Winchesters' own deeply fucked-up way.

Dean lifts his hand, rubs at Sam’s lips until they part, let his fingers in. Dean falls asleep to Sam’s teeth pressing gentle, insistent, against his fingertips.

RPF: Girls Gone Wild, adult

anna.lazarus@gmail.com — Thu, 21 Jun 2007 21:36:28 GMT

So! This started with a comment from onelittlesleep that made me laugh and made me squirm. She kindly told me I could steal the idea, and here's the end result. ♥ Heidi!

Betas by the wonderful monkiedude and sanyin. Sanyin also gets props for encouraging me to greater heights of ridiculousness over IM as I was writing.

Title: Girls Gone Wild
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Danneel/Jensen/OFC

It's simple: when Jensen's in LA, he crashes with Steve. When Danneel's in LA, she crashes with Cat. When they're both in town? Basically: he lost the coin toss.

Not that he doesn't like Cat. He does. She's...tall. And pretty. And cooks for him. But she and Danneel. Well. The two of them together are sort of like Voltron: more powerful (and more frightening) than the sum of their parts.

Jensen is doing the crossword and Danneel's watching the rerun of Best Week Ever when Cat pads heavily into the living room, running her hands through her dark hair.

"'Sup?" Danneel says. "Hey, did you bring someone home last night?"

"Yeah," Cat grunts. "Jesus, what a waste of a fake orgasm."

Jensen presses his lips together and thinks really hard about four letter words for "luxuriant." It would probably be easier if he knew what "luxuriant" meant.

"That bad?" Danneel prompts, and Jensen resists the urge to throw the newspaper at her. She might notice that he's doing the Monday crossword on Sunday and make fun of him. It's not his fault Sunday's crossword is written in Greek or something.

"Fuck yeah," Cat says, flopping down on the couch and scratching her belly. Jensen averts his eyes from her long, brown legs. "He was all...slobbery. And he clearly thought he was God's gift to fucking. He kept wanting to do these really complicated positions, and I was just like, Jesus! Just throw my legs over your shoulders and get on with it!"

Jensen clears his throat, but he thinks maybe it's drowned out by Danneel's laughter. "Oh man," she says when she's done giggling. "Was he at least well-hung?"

Jensen slowly shrinks down into his chair, thinking maybe if he doesn’t make any sudden moves, they won’t notice him. . He really doesn't want to have to give his opinion on guy parts.

Cat shrugs. "Average."

"I don't date average-sized guys anymore," Danneel says, and Jensen's torn between pride and utter mortification. "I mean, I'm not going to get any better looking than I am now, and I ought to treat myself while I can, you know?"

"I hear you," Cat says.

When Danneel visits Jensen in Vancouver, she gets him a glass of water
whenever she gets herself one. She does the dishes after dinner and makes his bed when they get up. She hangs the clothes in her suitcase in his closet.

So he knows she can live like a functioning adult. It's just that at Cat's, she doesn't. She drinks from the milk carton. She takes off her bra under her shirt and leaves it sitting on the couch until Jensen finally brings it to the bedroom. She belches. Loudly. Without excusing herself.

Cat's even worse. She leaves her shoes everywhere. Every coffee mug in the apartment is in her bedroom. She pulls shirts out of the laundry basket, smells them, and puts them on. Jensen thinks it's possible that Danneel might feel like she looks good in comparison.

Cat doesn’t believe in getting dressed on weekends. She wanders around the apartment in white t-shirts, tank tops, and those panties that look like shortened boxer briefs. She wears a battered pair of wire-rimmed glasses that she’s always pushing up on her nose and tells Jensen stories about growing up with Danneel.

“We took gymnastics together,” she says. “But I was five-nine by the time I was 13, so I went and did dance instead.” She pauses. “Our gymnastics instructor was thrilled. She didn’t like me much.”

“Why not?” Jensen asks with a smile.

“Because I was even more of a loudmouth back then than I am now.” She laughs. ”I think my mother signed me up for all these activities so she could enjoy an hour of silence twice a week.” Cat talks to her mother every Saturday afternoon, switching back and forth between rapid-fire Spanish and bemused English. Her mother doesn’t understand why Cat’s not married yet, but she also reminds Cat every week that all of the men she meets in bars and on the internet are probably serial killers

Cat continues, “I think the reason Danneel and I became friends was because we both spent most of our childhood feeling like we wanted to jump out of our skins, and dancing and acting and gymnastics gave us something to focus on besides the fact that we were stuck in Buttfuck, Nowhere, Louisiana.”

“Yeah,” Jensen says. “It’s nice to be able to just go, and do your job, and not think, right?”

“Yup,” Cat says, stretching out on the couch and yawning. “It’s like a break from yourself.”

Jensen smiles.

Cat works for a PR firm. Jensen doesn't know exactly what she does, but she told him once that a lot of it consists of finding new and creative ways to deny that Lindsey Lohan OD'd over the weekend. So she's torn between pissed and professionally proud when Maxim names La Lohan its hottest woman.

"Whatfuckingever," Danneel replies gleefully. "Look at this. I'm four spots higher than Joanna Krupa! Jensen, I'm officially the hottest girl you've ever dated. Ha."

They Google Joanna.

"She's very. Shiny," Danneel says.

"Good hair," Cat says.

"Great legs."

"I think I own that bra."

"That is one hell of a bikini wax. Jensen, did she keep it like that all the time?"

Jensen tries to think of a reply. As far as he knows, Joanna was born completely hairless from her eyebrows down. Somehow he knows this is not the answer Danneel is looking for.

"It's airbrushed," Cat says, her nose two inches from the screen. "No one is exactly the same color from top to bottom. Unless she tans naked. With her legs spread."

Okay, Jensen's sure Joanna didn't do that. She always had the pale outline of a bikini bottom running across the top of her thighs, down between her legs. It was like Cliff Notes on where to lick her.

"Oh my GOD," Danneel shrieks, yanking Jensen out of his reverie. "Listen to this: 'every time I have an orgasm with him it's amazing.' Jensen! What the hell were you doing giving orgasms to girls before me?"

"I…uh…what?" Jensen replies, guessing it's the right answer when Danneel and Cat both crack up. He sighs. "Can we start drinking now?" Things with Cat and Danneel usually make more sense when he's a drunk.

Which gets him in trouble a few weeks later, when the girls get into an argument about whose tolerance is highest. They end up doing shots. And Jensen wins, thank god, because if Danneel told Jared she outdrank him, he'd never live it down.

He doesn’t even think he’s that drunk, really. But he passes out on the couch watching the girls rolling around on the floor, laughing at nothing.

He comes back to consciousness slowly, at first aware only of the vicious crick in his neck. He rubs his chest and realizes he's shirtless. He stands to stretch, wondering if maybe they played strip poker or something.

Then he catches sight of himself in the window. He's not wearing the jeans he fell asleep in. These are...acid washed. And he's wearing...a cowboy hat. The realization hits at the same time as the hangover, and Jensen clutches his stomach as he shuffles over to the computer, clinging to the slim hope that they'd been too drunk to remember where the camera was.

They remembered. They also apparently remembered how to make a slideshow for their screensaver. Jensen watches with dawning horror as the images go from silly to borderline pornographic to career ending.

Danneel wanders into the living room wearing the shirt he fell asleep in and straddles Jensen's lap as he's wondering where to hide the bodies.

"Hey baby," she says. "Cat made sausages and that hash you like. You hungry?"

Jensen stares. She doesn't sound like someone who'd get him drunk in order to re-enact the most embarrassing photos of him ever taken: now with even more gay porno overtones! He tries to look around her at the computer, but she wraps her arms around him for a hug. "Come on. We'll get you some orange juice. Boy, you sure drank us under the table!"

She takes Jensen's hand and all but drags him to the kitchen. Breakfast is really good. Cat and Danneel talk shit about how the Saints have a better record than the Cowboys, and he replies, “We’ll see what happens come playoff time,” on autopilot as he shovels French toast into his mouth.

Later, Danneel steps into the shower with him and gives him a rib-crunching hug. “We were gonna send those pictures to everyone you know, but we passed out,” she says.

“Huh. Thanks?” Jensen hazards.

“Yeah, well,” she says, sliding to her knees and palming his dick, “Don’t piss me off and you should be fine.”

Jensen made the mistake of going out with the two of them once. When they climbed onto the table and started gyrating, he had to go to the bar and pretend he didn't know them. Somehow, Danneel pointing out that they'd collected enough singles to cover his tab didn't make him any less mortified.

Now Danneel and Cat go dancing without him.

He falls asleep with his glasses on and is awakened at three a.m. to, "Shhh! It won't work if he wakes up!"

"Fuck off! I totally know that! Jesus, can you believe Kim Kardashian puked on my shoes? They're totally ruined."

"Focus, Danneel!"

"Right, right. Okay. Count of three."

"One. Two."

There's a burst of giggles from the other side of the door. Jensen carefully puts his glasses on the nightstand.

"Stop it! One. Two. Three!"

Thank Christ he was expecting them, because they're too drunk to carry their own weight and fall on him like a ton of bricks. They smell like old booze, sweat, and too-sweet perfume. They're laughing and squirming. Jensen curls his hands into fists so he doesn't accidentally grab something inappropriate.

They settle on either side of him, limbs still sprawled all over. "Baby!" Danneel says. "I got accosted. This total dick kept, like, dancing up behind me and pressing his junk against my ass. It was totally gross."

"I sucked face with a guy who was shorter than me," Cat adds, like it follows. "He had gum in his mouth. Also totally gross."

"But Cat and I made out, so the night didn't totally suck," Danneel says cheerily, reaching down to grab Jensen's crotch.

He grabs her hand, blushing furiously, because Cat is right there. He plans to tell Danneel that it's awesome that she wants him and all, but they need to have some boundaries. But he's going to say it nicely, so Danneel doesn't get offended or anything. Except when he opens his mouth, she kisses him with way too much tongue, presses her face into his neck, and passes out.

Cat has curled up against him and is humming softly in her sleep. Jensen sighs, adjusts his erection, and closes his eyes.

He wakes up to find that he's turned onto his side during the night and is all tangled up with Cat: his lips against her hair and his morning hard-on pressing against her hip. He tries to move away slowly, but she just rolls with him, the denim of her pants pulling on his pajama bottoms, and fuck that feels good. He's so hard and so embarrassed that he's amazed there's any blood left anywhere besides his face and his dick.

Then Danneel stretches behind him, her breasts brushing against his shoulder blades. She reaches around and grabs Jensen's cock, murmurs, "Come on. Let's go take care of this," and they slide out of bed without waking Cat.

Cat's big by LA standards--joking that she gets the best deals because size eights always end up on the sale rack--and Jensen finds himself staring at her belly, her boobs, her ass more than is probably strictly healthy. It's just because he's not used to seeing that much flesh on women anymore, he tells himself. It's not weird or sexual or anything. Because obviously he's in love with Danneel and totally not perving on her best friend.

Danneel comes up to visit him in February, and he's thrilled to see her. He's exhausted, but she's full of energy, ready to start work on OTH again. She talks constantly. "So Chad and Kenzie set a date, and it sounds like it's gonna be another big wedding, so I need to start thinking about what to wear and what to get them. I'm considering a How To Raise Your Teenager manual. Fuck, you know, you get a year to give a couple a gift. I'm waiting eleven months and three weeks. I'm still bitter that the Douchebag and Sophia didn't return the fondue set I gave them."

Then she remembers it's Jensen’s birthday in three weeks. His 30th birthday. He spends three hours repeating, "I don't want a party," before she finally smiles and says, "Well if you don't want a party, what do you want?" Only she makes it sound so dirty that his mind goes blank and he just stares at her.

"Oh!" she says. "I know! You want what all men want: a threesome."

"I, uh. I hadn't really thought about that?" he starts, but she talks over him.

"You totally do. So me and…who? Do you have someone in mind? Oh!" She hits his shoulder. Hard. "I know. Cat!"

Jensen stares at her in horror. "I. No! No, nuh-uh, no really, thanks for the offer, but that's okay, really." Cat. Jesus. She's scary enough mostly-clothed. "I'm good."

Danneel doesn't pout. She just tilts her head and says, "Okay. I guess. So, what, you just want to go drinking with your boys?"

"Well, and you, yeah," Jensen says, unsure why he's suddenly so nervous.

"We can do that," she says. "You sure you don't want a party?"

He doesn't. And it turns out Danneel needs to be in North Carolina on March 1, Jared has a family thing in Texas, and Steve’s in Nashville doing session work. So Jensen just goes drinking with Chris, who unfortunately spends the evening acting like a retard. He's all jumpy, constantly asking Jensen if he wants to head home.

"You piss off someone important?" Jensen finally asks. "Got a gambling debt? Date a girl who turned out to be married to an Ultimate Fighting Champion?"

"Nah, man, nah!" Chris says, signaling the waitress for another round. "I just want you to have a good time on your birthday is all."

Jensen gives him the stink eye. "You looking to come home with me?"

"What?" Chris laughs.

Jensen shrugs. Stranger things have happened to him.

"You ain't my type," Chris continues. "Your ass's too flat."

It's an early night. The bar gets crowded, and Chris complains about the low-quality T&A on display. Jensen doesn’t really have a T&A rating scale, but he agrees to leave anyway. He figures he can sort of kick around by himself and try to decide if thirty feels any different.

Chris drops him off with a hard slap to his back and a, “Good luck, man. Really.” He chuckles, and Jensen wonders if he’s making fun of Jensen’s age. Which would be ridiculous, because Chris is older than him. Jensen's pretty drunk when he gets to Steve's door, but not so much that he fumbles his keys or anything.

Which is why he's surprised to find himself flat on his back two steps into the hallway. It's dark, and he can't see a thing, but he can smell Danneel's shampoo. Then there's giggling, and Danneel kissing him, which is fine, it's wonderful. Except. Danneel's got her hands on his face, and there's another pair of hands undoing his belt.

"Shit," he mumbles into Danneel's mouth as he feels cool air hit his stomach. "Baby…" he thinks he wants to say stop, but he's not really sure he's allowed.

Danneel wraps her arms around his head, fucks his mouth with her tongue as her hair tickles his face. Then there's another tongue, this one on his stomach, and he knows who it is, and it's embarrassing how fast he gets hard.

And then Danneel's gone. He gasps for air and looks down, to where Danneel's got a hand in Cat's hair and is suckling at her lips. Jensen hears himself groan. The girls break apart, completely ignoring him, and Danneel gathers Cat's hair into a loose pony tail, holds it at the base of Cat's neck and says, "Come on. Do it."

Cat grins crookedly, leans over with Danneel's hands still on the back of her neck, and sucks Jensen's cock into her mouth. Jensen jerks up, then falls back, hitting his head on the floor. He wonders if he should be worried that it doesn't hurt. He decides that's not what he should be most worried about.

Then he looks up and forgets that he's supposed to be worried at all. Cat's still between his legs, sliding her lips up and down the underside of his cock. Danneel's topless, her pants undone and one hand down between her legs. It's the dirtiest thing Jensen's ever seen in real life, and he has to close his eyes again to keep from coming all over Cat's face as she licks the head of his cock.

"Take a turn," Cat says, and then it's Danneel's familiar mouth on him, her hands pushing his legs farther apart so she can rub behind his balls. Jensen closes his eyes, moans. He wants to say something, but he really has no idea what.

“Yeah, girl. That’s it,” Cat says as Danneel sucks him down. Jensen opens his eyes, finds himself focusing on Cat’s hands as she pushes off her jeans, hooks her fingers into her panties and slides them down her legs. Then her hands are on his face. “Hey,” she murmurs, stroking over his cheeks, his lips. “Hey, hey. Bedroom, yeah?”

Jensen takes a deep breath. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay.” Because if this is gonna happen, it might as well happen somewhere comfortable.

They wrap around him, warm skin everywhere, legs, arms, mouths in constant motion. He could do this all night, just lie here and be kissed, teased, pampered. But after god knows how long, Cat rolls up onto her knees, slides a leg across Jensen’s hips and says, “Danneel. Get on him.”

Danneel moans, croons, “Jensen, baby, come on. Lick me while she fucks you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he gasps as he feels Cat’s slick warmth around his dick.

Danneel straddles him, and he’s overwhelmed by the heat of her thighs, her taste on his lips. She wiggles around, does most of the work for him. He can distantly hear her and Cat laughing around their moans.

Danneel moves back, sort of tips over onto her side, and she and Cat full-on crack up. “This is much more logistically difficult than I imagined it would be,” Cat says, stretching and letting Jensen slip out of her.

He covers his face and groans. First they ambush him, then they can’t get coordinated. He hates them. But he doesn’t think that’s the right thing to say while lying naked and hard with both of them on top of him.

Danneel moves, then Cat moves, then Jensen sort of flails his arms until they get settled: Danneel beneath him and Cat tracing patterns onto his back with her fingertips. He pushes into Danneel, and it’s good, it’s the first thing that’s made sense tonight. She turns her head, letting him nuzzle against her neck the way she knows he likes, and he thinks he’s never loved her more, crazy best friend and total lack of boundaries and everything.

Then Cat’s licking down his spine, and Jensen feels himself shaking, like he has no control over his body. Cat spreads him open, licks lower, and…Jesus. He fucks into Danneel so hard he’s afraid he might hurt her, but she just moans and hikes herself up onto her elbows, reaches down to rub at her clit. It’s too much sensation, and when Danneel’s pussy clenches around him, Jensen’s orgasm hits him like a depth charge, overwhelming and brain-meltingly powerful.

He lays his head on the pillow, realizes he’s covered in sweat, only some if it his own. The girls are laughing again, and in the morning he’s seriously going to have to ask them what’s so funny. Danneel taps his shoulder and hands him a cool towel. He wipes off his face, then takes the pajama bottoms Cat’s offering. They’re not his.

“For your birthday,” she says with a smile.

They both crawl into bed with him, and Danneel says, “Is this okay?”

Jensen laughs, because now she gets around to asking?

“Yeah,” he says. “And breakfast is on you tomorrow.”

They shift and get settled, Danneel stretched out along his chest, Cat’s shoulder bumping his back. Then there’s silence, and Jensen can’t quite believe they’re really just going to go to sleep.

Then Cat speaks. “So,” she says. “My birthday’s in June.”

Fic: "Darkness Between the Fireflies," Dean/OFC, adult

anna.lazarus@gmail.com — Wed, 06 Jun 2007 22:31:19 GMT

This afternoon at work was slow, so I wrote some porn. Or, as I like to call it, "pulled a Nan."

"Darkness Between the Fireflies"
Dean/OFC (Kathleen from Common as a Winter Cold)
Notes: Takes place, eh, let's say post-series and before Common as a Winter Cold. Title stolen from Mason Jennings. Unbetaed because I am laaaazy.

They met up with Kathleen and her brothers in Southern Utah. Some dumbass teenagers in their Goth phase had managed to raise a whole mess of zombies, and it took the Murphys and Winchesters a solid weekend of sharp-shooting to re-kill them all.

Dean wanted to get going again as soon as possible, was itching to put the pedal to the floor and drive until he forgot the fucking undead stench, but Kathleen hooked a finger in his belt loop and said, "We're going camping at Zion for the rest of the week, and we've got an extra tent. Come along?" and Dean was powerless to resist. Times like these, he secretly suspected she might be a witch.

He looked to Sam for help, but Sam was already saying to Jimmy, "Can we get beef jerky?" and Dean just rolled his eyes and gave up.

They drove over to Kolob Canyon, stopping for a backcountry camping permit (because aside from the small arsenal in their basement, the Murphys were totally law-abiding citizens) and to buy extra food and water for Sam & Dean. Their campsite was full of red rocks and multi-colored sand, surrounded by dry brush, with a creek about a half a mile off. Dean kind of hated it. He longed for a lumpy motel bed and a goddamn toilet.

Of course, Sam freakin' loved it. He and Jimmy took off on a hike before they'd even finished putting up the tents. Dean was left to unpack the food, unroll the sleeping bags, and think about what a shitty idea this was. Sure, he and Kathleen were sharing a tent, but hello, the tents weren't exactly soundproof, and Dean really wanted to end at least one encounter with the Murphy boys without them threatening to kill him.

Kath kicked his ankle and said, "Cheer up, emo kid. We'll take a walk after dinner."

Well, it turned out that the Murphys had one other little area where they conveniently ignored the law: Pat's backpack was filled with Coors. So they drank and told tall tales about their own adventures, embellished their most recent exploit until they'd taken on an army of zombies with nothing but a box of rubber bands and a rusty paperclip.

Sam and Dean tried to figure out why Pat and Jimmy had Boston accents when they'd grown up in Arizona, and Kathleen tried to locate the Winchester's wandering Southern accent, finally settling on, "South Carotexasee." They roasted marshmallows over the little camping stove, and Sam was roundly mocked when he was the first to head to bed.

"Whatever. I killed more zombies than all y'all," he said with a yawn, which made them all start yawning. So as soon as Sam was snoring, they cleaned up and Jimmy and Pat turned in.

Kath slipped her hand into Dean's, smiled with just her lips and said, "If you're too tired, we can…"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Dean replied.

She smiled full then, teeth gleaming in the moonlight. It was cold, so she rolled up one of the sleeping bags to sling across her back and tossed a blanket at Dean to carry. They walked down to the creek; Kath surefooted with the flashlight, Dean stumbling and swearing behind her.

She led them straight to a large, flat boulder that cut into the bank of the stream. "Been out here before, huh?" Dean murmured.

"Nah," she said. "I wish. We used to come out here in the summer with whoever we were dating, but this was Jimmy's spot." She pulled a pistol out of the back of her jeans and laid it on the ground, then started untying her shoes. "He used to bring a shotgun along with him and tell us it wasn't his fault if we snuck up on him and he mistook us for a coyote."

Dean grinned and reached into his boot to toss his knife next to Kath's gun. "So where'd you go?"

Kathleen had her back to him, spreading out the blanket and sleeping bag. "Didn't usually have a boyfriend, actually," she said. She hopped onto the rock and pulled off her three layers of shirts. "Most of the boys were scared of me for some reason." She gave him a wolfish grin.

"Can't imagine why," Dean said, toeing off his boots and climbing up after her. He kissed her hard, because he knew her. He didn't have to start off nice.

She clamored into his lap, bit at his mouth, and for a minute it was more like wrestling than foreplay, ending with her on her belly, Dean breathing hot against her neck. "I hate you," she said breathlessly.

"I'm not afraid of you," Dean replied, biting behind her ear and feeling a shiver race through her body. He shifted his weight until he could unhook her bra and began licking his way across her back. She melted beneath him, breathed deep and uneven as he ran his teeth along her backbone, traced his tongue around her shoulder blades, sucked and kissed at the juncture of her neck and shoulders until she started shoving against him.

She found a rhythm, undulating so that her ass pressed and rubbed against his dick, and that just wasn't fair. So he flipped her over, realizing too late that the only thing more distracting than half-naked, writhing Kath on her belly was half-naked, writhing Kath on her back.

"God," he whispered as she reached for her zipper, brushing his hard-on, but too much of a tease to help him out.

He sat up on his knees, scrabbled at his fly. By the time he had his jeans undone, she was kissing him, pushing his shirt up, saying, "Jesus Christ, I forget how fucking hot you are. One of these days." She paused to push him back and begin mouthing down his chest, her tongue light and teasing, and Dean had totally forgotten she'd been talking when she finally continued, "One of these days, I'm going to tie you to my bed and climb all over you." Her lips closed over his cock and she sucked him down, pulling up excruciatingly slowly and tonguing at him before adding, "Won't stop until you beg me for a break."

He growled, grabbed her hair and threw her backwards, felt his dick pulse when he heard the breath rush from her lungs as her back hit the rock. He grabbed her thighs, shoving them apart as she reached up to clutch at his neck.

He fucked into her as she smashed her mouth to his, and there was no finesse or thought to it, just the pounding in his ears and the snap of his hips against hers, and Kathleen pressing at his stomach until he leaned up a little. Then there was Kath arching and panting yesyesyes, and coming so hard and loud he thought maybe she'd hurt herself. And then she was hot and pliant and shivering beneath him, and he wrapped her legs around him, and his arms around her, pressed his face hard into her neck and came.

Their harsh breathing echoed through the shallow canyon that held the creek. Kathleen was still shivering, so he pulled up the blanket and wrapped them in it. He kissed her, soft this time, because she didn't really seem to be all the way with him yet.

He looked up at the stars as she caught her breath and thought maybe camping wasn't so bad after all.

For Nan, who is having a bad day, some het porn

anna.lazarus@gmail.com — Fri, 11 May 2007 19:58:33 GMT

So. The pairing here is Jensen/Sera. And in my head, there is a whole story, with plot and everything, about how they end up together. Someday, I will finish that story, and you'll be able to read it. But estrella30 is having a shitty day, so I thought maybe some porn would cheer her up. Thanks to monkiedude for the speedy beta.

Title: Hiatus
Pairing: Jensen/Sera
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: So completely made up. Very, very untrue. Absolute fiction. Did I mention that none of this story is real?

She told him there was beer and leftover Thai food in the fridge if he wanted it, and she was going to go "refocus" her "damn chi," which apparently meant "do yoga." So Jensen's standing in the kitchen eating yellow curry out of the takeout box and watching Sera get into tree pose.

Well, try to get into tree pose. He's seen a lot of girls do yoga--it pays to be bendy in this town--but he's never seen anyone quite as bad at it as Sera. She tips over every time she has to balance on one leg, unconsciously bounces on the balls of her feet when she's supposed to be finding her inner calm, and turns purple because she forgets to exhale.

Jensen likes that she's not performing for his benefit. He repeats this to himself like a mantra every time she falls because otherwise he'll laugh, and that would be rude.

She's okay at the basic stuff, though, and she's working up a pretty good sweat. By the time she gets to her last downward facing dog, Jensen's glad he didn't laugh, because damn. Sera, from near the floor, says, "I can actually feel you staring at my ass."

"S'a nice ass," Jensen replies. "How's your chi?"

"Still crappy." She stands. "You got any ideas?"

Jensen grins slowly.

Sera shakes her head. "Shoulda thought of that before I fucking sprained everything."

"Then isn't it handy for you that I give really good massages?" Jensen says, walking towards her.

"I have to shower," she says as he gets his arms around her.

"No, you don't."

There's a near disaster trying to get her sports bra off, but once they're naked, everything falls into place nicely. Jensen gathers the pillows at the headboard so Sera can sort of sit up, and settles himself between her legs. He starts with her mouth, kisses gently down until he gets to her breasts, and she sighs happily. He smiles against her and begins licking patterns onto her skin, occasionally biting her nipples, hard, the way she likes it.

She's carding her hands through his hair, and he's glad he didn't put any gel in it today, because the way her fingers roam easily over his scalp is getting him harder than her taste on his tongue. Sera's trying to cut off her little moans as he begins to suck and lick more roughly at her breasts, her stomach. It's his mission, as always, to make her forget that she thinks she sounds stupid and make her fucking shriek.

He nudges down to the lower curve of her stomach, where her skin is the softest, and just breathes for a minute, both because he knows she's especially sensitive right there and to take in her scent, sweet and soapy beneath the sweat.

She keeps touching his hair when he goes down on her, her fingertips tapping erratically against his head. He shuts his eyes and listens to the noises she makes, hears when she finally stops biting her lips shut, and slips two fingers into her, rubbing her right where he knows she wants it. He'd know when she came even if he couldn't hear her wailing above him. He can feel her release rolling through her, shivering along in waves through her stomach, her legs, her cunt around his fingers.

He kisses her stomach until her breathing evens out and she nudges him with her foot, then he slides up her body to kiss her. She puts one hand on his jaw and the other on his cock, rubbing him hard and sure against the wetness between her legs.

Jensen hums way back in his throat, does his best to wrap all of her limbs around him, and slides right into her. Sometimes one or both of them is too desperate, and they get right to fucking, but he likes it best when he makes her come first, makes it so she's hot and pliant beneath and around him, writhing in his arms when he thrusts just right.

She comes again, gentler this time, and he focuses on the flush on her cheeks, on her eyelids and lips, as he fucks her harder, comes as she mouths at his neck.

They catch their breath, and he gets up to get them glasses of water. "How's your chi?" he asks when he gets back to the bedroom.

"My what?" she says, yawning.

"I guess that's a good sign." He smiles and climbs back into bed with her.

Fic: "A hard man is good to find." (Dean/Tara, adult)

anna.lazarus@gmail.com — Sun, 29 Apr 2007 23:10:46 GMT

So, yeah, I've had this story done for days, but I've been all emocakes and haven't wanted to post it. Happily, I got over myself, and now you get porn!

Hollywood Babylon missing scene. Dean/Tara. Adult. Beta by the lovely oxoniensis. Enjoy!

Dean never actually planned on banging Tara Benchley. Sure, he'd fantasized about it. A lot. Like, to the point where the image of her on her knees, spread out and moaning, was just background noise to everything he did on set.

But when he went to her trailer, it was really just to say goodbye. She was a famous actress. He was a guy with no home address. He wasn't ever gonna admit it to anyone, but there actually was a class of girls who were out of his league, and Tara was class president.

So he was halfway through his …it's been great, but we're on a road trip, and my brother wants to get moving spiel before he noticed the way Tara was biting on her bottom lip. Which was weird, because he usually only saw girls do that when he told them he wasn't in town for long, and they were trying to decide whether to shake his hand and say goodbye or blow him in the backseat of the Impala.

Then she hooked her thumbs into the back of her jeans, sighed, and cocked a hip. Dean knew an invitation when he saw it, but figured he was just reading her wrong. Maybe actresses were just more demonstrative than normal girls. Maybe her version of polite involved sticking her breasts out. He realized his mouth was hanging open and hurriedly cleared his throat.

When Tara murmured, "So. When, exactly, do you have to go?" with a pout, he told his upstairs brain to shove it and was on her in two strides.

Her bathrobe was ratty, but her underwear was probably more expensive than anything Dean had any right to have his hands on: silky, smooth, and body hot. He wanted time to do this right, to run his hands over the slippery fabric until she pushed against him and begged. But Sam was looking for him, and Dean had maybe fifteen minutes. So he had her naked and thrown down on the trailer's narrow bed in thirty seconds flat. He kissed her once, to be polite, but she was already shoving him down, and he grinned and nipped her collarbone, thinking, my kinda girl.

Her skin freakin' glowed. Dean wanted to bite her all over, but knew he didn't have time, so he went straight to licking and sucking hard at her nipples, running his fingers lightly over the curves of her breasts. She was caught between giggling and gasping, and the sound made Dean's cock shove against his zipper until he reached down and undid his fly.

He slid down to his knees to suck on the delicate skin near her hipbones, mouth watering at the bitter tang of her body lotion. He tongued the freckles on her stomach, which Dean had never seen in any of her Maxim spreads. He guessed they'd been airbrushed out. He instantly knew that whenever anyone asked him what Tara Benchley was really like, the first words out of his mouth would always be, "She has freckles on her belly," and the thought made him smile against her inner thigh.

She squirmed under his hands and he refocused, pushing her thighs apart and pressing his tongue against her pussy without warning, and it was a damn good thing he had a grip on her, because otherwise her flailing knees might have knocked him unconscious.

He moved a little slower after that, gently spreading her open with his fingertips and delicately licking her up and down, mapping her cunt with his tongue. He worked her until he was dizzy with her sharp scent, willed himself to be patient, because he wanted her to remember him for something other than sneaking her donuts from craft services. His cock ached, but he waited to press his fingers into her until she was slippery against his lips and chin. He felt her blood pulsing beneath delicate skin, felt her heartbeat in his lips. She cried out and he didn't stop, kept touching until she was shaking and pulling at his hair.

"Jesus," she said, struggling to shove his pants down and get him laid out on the cot. "You really go above and beyond the call of duty, you know?"

"I aim to please," he gasped as she straddled him, teasing with slow rolls of her hips, slicking his cock with her wetness before slowly lowering herself onto him, moaning all the while.

Dean closed his eyes and tried to empty his mind, because if the thought Tara Benchley is fucking me right now so much as made it to his consciousness, this was gonna be over way too quick. Instead he reached down, found her hips, and curved his hands around until he could grasp her perfect ass. She was moving way too slowly for his liking, her eyes fluttering as she fingered her clit. So he hiked himself up onto his elbows, drove up into her until she matched his pace, and Jesus, why hadn't they done this ten minutes after he'd met her? He could've fucked her at least five or six times in the time they'd been on set, not even counting blowjobs between scenes.

He was getting close, could feel the heat low in his belly, and looked down, watching his cock disappearing into her each time he thrust. He groaned, felt the trailer moving, and came hard when he realized that anyone who'd seen him walk in knew exactly what was happening right now.

By the time Dean was ready to focus on something other than breathing, Tara had zipped him up and tied on her bathrobe. "...totally call me the next time you're in town," she was saying as she tucked a card into his hand. Dean looked down and furrowed his brow. The card read, Martin Gold.

"My agent," she said. "He always knows how to reach me."

Dean gave her a crooked grin, not sure whether he should be flattered or insulted. Tara laughed at his look, gave him a kiss full of tongue, and said, "Most guys get a random number."

Dean grinned wider. Yeah, totally his kind of girl.

216 words of Sam/Dean

anna.lazarus@gmail.com — Fri, 13 Apr 2007 21:56:09 GMT

Because I haven't posted any fic in awhile, here's a little snippet I just wrote for joosetta:

Dean loves Sam's hair. He's never going to tell Sam that, of course. Dean doesn't even say shit like that to girls; he’s certainly not going to say it to his own brother.

It's pretty awesome hair though: long enough to get his hands right into, but not so long it accidentally gets into his mouth or anything. He likes licking at the curls by Sam's temples, twisting his fingers into the strands at the base of Sam's neck so he can tilt Sam's head back and bite at the underside of his jaw.

But his favorite thing of all is when he's got Sam pinned, fucking him slow and deep from behind, and he can bury his face in the back of Sam's head; smell, see, taste nothing but Sam. It drives him wild, makes him thrash against Sam's back, thrust harder and dig his nails into Sam’s hips.

Dean likes to tell himself that Sam doesn’t know what’s up, because it’s easier not to have to worry about his brother someday using his kinky fetishes against him. But when they’re settling in to sleep, sweaty and fucked out, and Sam turns his head so that his damp hair falls against Dean’s lips? He knows Sam’s got him nailed.

Why do you think the 'net was born?

anna.lazarus@gmail.com — Sat, 03 Mar 2007 21:45:02 GMT

Well, Thursday was Jensen's birthday, and if that isn't an excuse for PWP, I don't know what is.
Beta by the wonderful buffyspazz.

Untitled
Rating: Adult
Pairing: Jsquared + Chris Kane

"Happy Birthday," Chris said, his words muffled against Jensen's neck.

It took Jensen a second to reply, because he was so drunk that he kept tilting his head up, expecting to find Jared's mouth and getting nothing but air. Chris didn't seem to care though, busy slowly sucking bruises all along the line of Jensen's jaw.

"Thanks," Jensen finally managed, twisting his head down to bite hard at the side of Chris's mouth. "I think Jared's gonna kill me." After all, Jared had been nice enough to throw Jensen a birthday party and give Jensen lots of alcohol, and had even promised Jen a blowjob later, and now here Jen was with Chris's hand down his pants. In Jared's bedroom.

"Not really, no," Jared said from behind them, and Chris laughed, dark and wicked.

Jen looked over and saw Jared on the bed, already naked, legs spread and leaning on a pile of pillows, his big hand wrapped around his cock. "Hey," Jensen said, breaking away from Chris and crawling onto the bed. "S'm'birthday. So I get you both?"

"Yeah," Jared breathed, going to work on Jensen's pants. "You get whatever you want. We're gonna take good care of you, baby."

Jensen flat out purred as he felt Chris's hands on his back, helping to pull his jeans off. He wrapped his arms around Jared's shoulders and went slack with pleasure as Jared and Chris touched him all over with lips and hands.

Eventually, Jared rolled Jensen over, settled him between his legs and began dragging his fingertips up and down Jensen's chest, sometimes reaching down to stroke teasingly over the head of Jensen's cock or bringing his hand up to press and pull at Jen's lips.

Chris stood in front of them, now naked as well, pulling lazily at his cock and staring straight at Jen. His eyes flickered up to Jared, and he said, "Pull his legs up,"

"Oh god," Jensen whispered against Jared's jaw.

Jared just chuckled, the vibration through his chest making Jensen shiver, and took hold of Jensen's knees, arranging him until Jen was open, immobile, leaning hard against Jared and completely at Chris's mercy.

Jared cradled the back of Jensen's head in one hand, turned Jen's head to kiss him, sloppy, hard, and all tongue. Jensen was so lost in Jared's mouth that he almost didn't notice Chris's hands on his inner thighs until Chris gripped tightly and leaned in to breathe hot and hard against the base of Jensen's cock, making Jen gasp and writhe.

Jared chuckled, ran his hand down Jensen's chest again, far, far too slowly as Chris began licking roughly at Jensen's balls, then lower, teasing Jensen's hole with licks and flicks of his tongue until Jensen was shaking and moaning, desperate and undone.

Then he was moving, being carefully turned onto his side, and Chris's tongue was replaced with Jared's fingers stroking and pressing, and Chris was in front of him, pressing his cheek to Jensen's and saying, "Tell me what you want, Jen."

"Kiss me," Jensen replied, drunk and stupid and losing his fucking mind as Jared pressed two fingers into him.

Chris didn't even laugh at him, just grabbed the back of Jensen's head and smashed their mouths together. Jensen thought maybe he was about to pass out as Chris's tongue fucked his mouth and Jared's cock pressed into him slowly, Jared moaning and Chris growling.

He tried to move, get some sort of leverage, but Chris and Jared just pressed against him harder. He couldn't do anything but feel, and when Jared's hand slid around his hip to grip his cock, he arched against both of their bodies and came so hard he saw lights behind his eyes.

Jensen was vaguely aware of Chris grunting and humping against him, vaguely conscious of Jared still pounding into him. He sort of hoped maybe they could just keep going like this, fucking until they just fell apart. But Chris was grabbing his arms and gasping against his lips, Jared was groaning low and long and pulsing inside Jensen, and Jensen was stupidly disappointed for a moment.

But then Chris got up and came back with warm towels, and Jared whispered stupid endearments into Jensen's ear as he pulled out. Chris and Jared laughed and kissed and murmured to each other as they cleaned Jensen off. And just before he drifted off to sleep, still cradled between two of his best friends, Jensen thought he heard Jared say, "So, your birthday next, or mine?"

New fic: Sam/Dean schmoop

anna.lazarus@gmail.com — Fri, 16 Feb 2007 00:09:15 GMT

A belated-Valentine's story for the lovely Ginger, who gave this prompt: Sam gets injured during a hunt, and is laid up in bed for a few weeks afterwards. He's grumpy and petulant (read: bitchface!) and despite Dean's worry, he kinda comes close to wanting to put a pillow over Sam's head. When Sam's well on the road to recovery, he realises what a tool he's been and is absurdly grateful for Dean looking after him... again. Schmoopy buttfucking ensues.

I, uh, kinda totally cheated on the "injured" part, but I'm pretty sure the buttfucking makes up for it.

Title: The nighttime, sniffling, sneezing, aching, coughing, stuffy-head, fever, so you can rest medicine
Rating: adult

“I’m dying.”

Dean pressed his lips together in annoyance. All the times Sam had actually been in danger of dying, and now he'd decided to start announcing it.

“You’re not dying,” Dean muttered, continuing to flip through the TV channels, looking for a talk show, maybe something with one of those “Which redneck is the daddy?” episodes. That’d shut Sam up, or at least get him ranting about the downfall of Western Civilization rather than his delicate constitution.

“I can’t believe you’re just sitting there,” Sam continued. “I’m cursed, I’m dying, and you’re watching TV.”

Dean glanced over to where Sam was bundled up in the comforters and blankets from both beds, pouting like the last girl cut from the cheerleading squad, and poking forlornly at the chocolate pudding Dean had finally gotten for him after Sam had unleashed the puppy dog eyes.

For the fifth time in as many days, Dean carefully enunciated, “You. Have. The. Flu.”

“You don’t know that. That witch could have cursed us.”

“Sure, Sam, she cursed you with becoming a little bitch whenever you’re sick. Except, wait, you’ve always been a bitch when you’re sick.”

“I still say it’s weird. I mean, how come I got the flu and you didn’t, when we spend, like, every minute together and probably get germs all over each other?”

“Because I have a bionic immune system, Sammy,” Dean said smugly. He was pissed but not terribly surprised when the empty pudding cup hit him in the side of the face a moment later.

Dean rubbed a hand over his forehead. Sam had hit the justifiable-homicide stage of sickness. Dean guessed he should feel relieved. The first two days, Sam had spiked a fever and been barely coherent. Dean had packed bags of ice all around Sam’s body, wiped a cool cloth over his face, pressed his cheek to Sam’s forehead and murmured soothing nonsense when Sam wrapped his clammy fingers around Dean’s wrist and moaned, “Dean, Dean,” in confusion.

The third night, Sam had a nightmare, apparently rendered more vivid by his fever, and Dean had to wrap the blankets into a makeshift straitjacket to keep Sam from thrashing himself to injury. Dean wasn't sure if Sam ever woke, but knew that even if he did, they were never going to mention the part where Sam buried his face in Dean’s shoulder and wept so messily and copiously that Dean was afraid he was going to dehydrate himself.

On day four, the bitching started. The room was too hot, then too cold. The pillow was lumpy, the sheets scratchy. Sam didn’t want Sudafed, he wanted codeine.

Dean was half tempted to give him the damn drugs just to shut him up. Sam hadn’t gotten this sick since before he left for college, and Dean had pretty much forgotten just how huge a jackass Sam could be when he put his mind to it.

Dean felt something light but sharp hit the side of his face and looked down to find one of the boxes of flu medicine that he’d so thoughtfully shoplifted for Sam. “What?”

“I’m bored.”

“Fuck off.”

“Can you get the laptop for me?”

“It’s on the floor! Just lean over and grab it, you freak.”

“Yeah, but I’m finally comfortable, and I don’t want to disturb my warm spot. Pleeeeaasse.”

Dean swung his feet off the bed, picked up the laptop, dropped it on Sam’s lap from a higher height than necessary, and walked out the door.

He spent most of the next two nights at the bar down the road, flirting with the middle-aged bartender, making her laugh and scoring free beers. He drove around during the days, listening to the Impala, making sure she was healthy and happy. He didn’t talk to Sam, who was either sleeping or pretending to sleep when Dean was at the motel.

The third evening, he came home to find that all of their laundry had been done and folded and his comforter was back on his bed. He raised his eyebrows and said, “Christo.”

“Funny,” Sam muttered, mouth curling down in a way that made Dean think the big baby was pissed. So he found himself flailing a little when Sam stepped forward and pressed against Dean, pulling him in for a desperate kiss.

“Missed this,” Sam muttered against Dean’s lips.

“That why you were so fucking cranky?”

Sam sighed hard, said, “You gonna shut up and let me make it up to you or what?”

Dean smiled and purred, “Depends on what you’re planning.”

“Telling you the plan is not part of the plan. Now take off your clothes,” Sam growled.

Dean arched an eyebrow and tried to hide the shiver that ran through him at Sam’s tone of voice. “Bossing me around is your idea of ‘making it up to me’?”

“I could tear off your clothes,” Sam whispered, breath hot just under Dean’s ear.

“Pain in my ass,” Dean muttered, beginning to strip off his shirts.

“You got three of those words right,” Sam replied, biting Dean’s bottom lip and reaching down to open his pants. “You wanna lie down on the bed?”

“You really asking?”

Sam’s smile broke across his face like a sunrise. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Yeah,” Dean muttered, staring like a moron at Sam's dimples. “Yeah. Okay.”

He didn’t even make it to the bed before Sam’s hands were on him, alternately grabbing and stroking. Sam’s chest was warm against Dean’s back, his heart beating strongly. Dean sagged against his brother, suddenly overwhelmed by something that felt a lot like relief.

“Hey,” Sam said softly, wrapping his arms around Dean and nuzzling into his hair. “Hey.”

They stayed still for a moment, Dean’s hands resting lightly on Sam’s hips, Sam breathing hot onto his scalp, until Sam gently turned Dean around, pressed him down onto the mattress. Then they were kissing, hard and slow, Sam biting down occasionally, making it hurt in a way that made Dean shake.

Sam bent to mouth at Dean’s collar bone, shifted his body down until he was sucking and licking at Dean’s stomach. Dean moaned appreciatively, tangled his hand in Sam’s long hair.

“Flip over,” Sam rumbled, and Dean resisted the urge to say, What? You’re just getting to the good part., because Sam had said he’d make it worth Dean’s while , and Sam was nothing if not a man of his word.

Sam placed careful kisses along Dean’s hairline as he pressed strong hands against muscles Dean didn’t even realize were tense until they released. Dean felt drugged, almost more relaxed than aroused. He wanted Sam to keep going, keep quietly winding him up and calming him down for hours.

Sam pressed his thumbs down along Dean’s shoulder blades and Dean groaned. “You like that?” Sam murmured, because he was always asking dumb questions during sex. Dean thought maybe he got the habit from watching too much porn. But it was okay, because the next thing Sammy said was, “Gonna fuck you stupid.”

Dean was good with this plan. No wondering if Sam’s fever was dangerously high, or whether he should take him to the hospital. No pondering whether it would be wrong to smother the gigantic, snoring bastard in his sleep. Just Sam’s fingers, trailing lightly down his spine, pressing at the base of his back and crowding lower, pulling him open.

At the first touch of Sam’s tongue, Dean was suddenly desperate. He tried to roll over, but Sam leaned down hard, pinning him. Heat rose in the center of his body, pulsed outward to his fingers and lips, and he whimpered into the pillow.

“Lean up, lean up,” Sam said breathlessly.

Dean scrambled forward, clutching at the headboard, banging his head into the wall as Sam pushed a slick finger into him. He rocked back, raised his sweating hands to press against the cool plaster, ground out, “Come on, Sam. Now.”

All Dean could hear was Sam’s harsh breathing as Sam’s fingers stretched him, his cock pressed in. Sam dug his fingers into Dean’s hips, took a deep breath and surged forward until Dean’s body was crowded against the wall, Sam rocking and moaning behind him.

Keeping Dean pinned with his hips and chest, Sam raised a hand to Dean's head, shoved two fingers into Dean's mouth while stroking Dean's jaw with his thumb. Dean sucked and bit, forgot about everything but the clever fingers stroking his cheeks and teeth and tongue and the low buzz of pleasure in every curve of his body.

Dean came the instant he felt Sam's hand wrap around his cock. He wasn't even vaguely embarrassed, not with the fucking gorgeous noises Sam was making behind him. Sam pulled Dean down onto his lap and Dean sagged down against his brother, sated and loose-limbed, whimpering at the little jolts of pleasure still shocking through him.

Sam came with a hoarse cry, which turned into a coughing fit, which really killed the mood, in Dean's humble opinion. They broke apart awkwardly, Dean rubbing Sam's back until the coughing subsided. Then Sam leaned over and caught Dean in a rib-crunching hug.

"Thanks for not killing me, man," Sam mumbled against Dean's shoulder.

Dean grinned and gave Sam's hair a sharp tug. "Eh, you're no good to me dead," he said. "Now come on, put your clothes back on before you start feeling crappy again. I don't think I could take another week of it."

SPN fic: Nightshifter coda (R, Wincest)

anna.lazarus@gmail.com — Sun, 28 Jan 2007 01:48:43 GMT

Hey, I wrote something! This piece completely owes its existence to apetslife and monkiedude, who got the idea stuck in my head. Extra thanks to Monkie for beta & general cheerleading.

They’ll swear that the shaking is the comedown from the adrenaline rush, that they’re clinging to each other like the only piece of flotsam in an ocean because they’re exhausted, nothing else.

Dean’s got Sam’s upper arms in his hands and Sam’s lower lip between his teeth, and he’s happy to surrender everything else. To let go and tip his head back, let Sam turn and slide his cheek down from Dean’s temple to jaw, feel Sam’s teeth scrape behind his ear.

By the time Dean’s coverall is down and Sam’s hand is curved tight and possessive around the muscle of Dean’s ass, Dean’s ready to let got completely, unlock his knees, swoon, and wait for Sam to carry him home. But that’s not how it works. It’s a nice fantasy, that Sam could hold them together, make the plans and get it all right, listen to the bitching instead of doing it.

But he’s still here, at least. Hasn’t run, hasn’t sold Dean out yet for what he always wanted. Sam could be a baby lawyer by now, in a suit custom-made for his ginormousness and a better haircut than the one Dean gives him every couple of months. Instead he’s in ill-fitting SWAT gear and boots, murmuring, “Come on, come on,” and shuffling them towards the sorry excuse for a bed.

Dean’s the one who shoves first; knocks Sam down then pulls, pushes, gets his hands under whatever-the-fuck the coveralls are made of and gets them off of Sam as quick as he can. The feel of the scratchy-slick material makes his heart pound, a stupid, bulletproof reminder of how very fucked they are. Which is something he needs to forget right now, or make an ugly pulp of himself, Sam, and what’s left of their life.

And now he’s not panting, he’s close to hyperventilating. He rests his head on the hardsoft warmth of Sam’s chest, finds the side of his face covered by Sam’s huge hand, petting through his hair and pulling back to trace his face with just fingertips.

Then Sam’s hand is at the top of his head, pushing down gently and insistently, and oh yeah, there’s an actual point to all this besides Dean trying not to lose his fucking mind. He licks slow and rough all over Sam’s stomach, around and over the curves of his hipbones, and for once Sam doesn’t growl and shove him, tell Dean he’s a fucking tease. He just breathes, deep and uneven, and Dean feels himself rising and falling with his brother.

At some point, maybe when he’s pushing Sam’s legs open and tonguing high up on Sam’s inner thigh, he realizes that Sam’s talking, saying, “Dean, come on, Dean. You know I want it, come on.” The last part hits him square in the gut, finally knocks anything that isn’t Sam right out of his body. “Ask nicely,” he mutters, but moves to mouth at the base of Sam’s cock anyway, because he isn’t really in the mood to tease. It’s just habit.

Sam complies, though, murmuring, “Please, oh, please.”

Dean chokes on a moan, then shoves Sam’s legs up and sets himself to licking Sam open, because he needs to focus right now, focus on getting Sam to make that breathy, girly noise that makes Dean want to tear him open and climb inside, live in his blood and bones.

He manages to work two fingers in alongside his tongue before Sam starts grabbing at him, not even asking anymore, since the noises coming from his mouth ceased to be words awhile ago.

Dean raises his head and then takes Sam deep, swallows around Sam’s cock until he’s choking, until bright spots appear behind his eyelids, until Sam’s thrashing beneath him. Dean shoves Sam down hard as he pulls up, and that’s it, Sam’s coming, gasping in time to the pounding in Dean’s ears.

The panic edges in again while Sam catches his breath. But then Sam grabs Dean by the jaw, drags him up and wraps his furnace-hot body around Dean, rubbing against him in small bursts, almost shivering.

Dean threads his fingers into Sam’s damp hair, sucks the sweat from around his hairline, and breathes out hard when Sam’s hand closes around his cock. He lets Sam roll him onto his back, not mentioning that he can hardly breathe with Sam’s weight on him, because, frankly, suffocating in Sam’s arms is the best way to go that he can think of.

Although maybe not, because then he wouldn’t get to feel the mind-numbing bliss as he comes hard, trying desperately to move and only managing to nearly shake himself apart beneath his brother. And he’d miss Sam bringing his hand up between their mouths, and how stupidly fucking hot it is when their tongues touch as they lick Sam’s hand clean.

The comforter’s up around their shoulders, and Dean can’t remember if he pulled it up or Sam did. In a few hours they’ll wake in the dark, shower, wipe down the room, and drive until they’ve both had too long to think about how the fuck they’re going to get even further off the map, even deeper into the darkness they’re supposed to be fighting.

Sam’ll snap at some point, yell and bang his hands against the dashboard, and Dean’ll make a stupid joke about not hurting the car, even though he really wants to do the same damn thing.

“Dean,” Sam whispers, breath ghosting over Dean’s lips.

Dean sets his shoulders, waits for the question, the confession, whatever sucker-punch Sam’s got for him now.

Sam presses his face hard into the crook of Dean’s shoulder and says, “Let me drive tomorrow, huh?”

“Yeah,” Dean replies, and decides he’s shaking because it’s cold.

Fic: What Happens...Well, You Know (Jsquared, NC-17)

anna.lazarus@gmail.com — Mon, 13 Nov 2006 01:34:52 GMT

Title: What Happens...Well, You Know
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Summary: Jsquared go to a Playboy party. And then have sex. What, you were expecting something profound?
Notes: Huge thanks to keepaofthecheez for her mad beta skillz.

Jensen was a pussy. There was no way around it, and nothing would convince Jared otherwise. It was a fucking Playboy party! With Playboy models! They were all over Jensen. Aw hell, they were all over Jared too, but, well, truth be told, they were all over everybody. Only there was one girl, with crazy sexy honey-blonde hair and legs for fucking miles, who really wanted Jensen. She wasn't just doing her job like the fifteen blondes who'd asked Jared how tall he was in the exact same teasing-yet-bored tone of voice.

Nuh-uh, that chick was working it, getting a leg up over Jensen every time he sat down and writhing all over him like she'd fucking invented the lapdance.

“I can't believe you're going home alone!” Jared said as the two of them leaned drunkenly against each other in the elevator up to their rooms.

“Whatever, man. Those Playboy bitches aren't worth it,” Jensen replied. Jared amended his opinion: Jensen was a pussy and a snob.

“Joanna!” Jared replied.

Jensen held up a finger, like he was about to say something profound. “I met her before she was in Playboy,” he said.

Jared thought that was shaky logic at best, and expressed this opinion to Jensen by saying, “You're a fucking moron. And since when do you turn down any girl who sits in your lap, Playboy or otherwise?” They reached their floor, and Jared followed Jensen into his suite, partially because he wasn't sure he could find his own room.

“I have standards!” Jensen insisted.

Bullshit!” Jared replied. “Your standards are breathing and willing to suck your dick.”

Jensen poured himself a glass of whiskey and flopped down on the overstuffed couch. “Her technique left something to be desired,” he said with a smirk.

“Her what?” Jared said, confused. “Like, her lapdance technique? Jesus, Jensen, how is it possible to give a bad lapdance?”

Jensen just shook his head and said, “Ah, man. I gotta explain everything to you, don't I? Come here.”

“What? Why? No! Fuck you.” Jared wasn't quite sure if he was worried or turned on by the gleam in Jensen's eye.

“Just. Come. Here,” Jensen repeated.

Jared sighed and walked over, only slightly surprised to find himself yanked down onto Jensen's lap. He wriggled and waved his arms around as Jensen laughed and held onto Jared's hips to keep him from keeling over.

Jared finally got settled, still feeling like an idiot, with his knees splayed on either side of Jensen's legs and the waistband of his jeans cutting uncomfortably into his hips.

Okay,” Jensen said, moving his hands up to Jared's waist and holding Jared's gaze. “The most important thing? Is eye contact. Bambi or Barbie or whatever kept looking all over the place, seeing if there was someone more famous there for her to fuck. I wanna feel like I'm the only guy in the room, got it?”

“You gonna pay me for this at least?” Jared grumbled.

Jensen grinned broadly. “Maybe,” he said. “Depends how you do. Start slow, now.”

Jared rolled his eyes. What the hell, it couldn't be that hard. He tried the serpentine back roll strippers made look so damn easy and ended up banging right into Jensen's nose.

“Gah!” Jensen said. “Okay, there goes your tip.”

“Shut up,” Jared muttered, feeling himself turn bright red. He breathed out heavily and decided to try something a little simpler. He started rolling his hips in small circles, careful not to go too far and lose his balance.

“Yeah,” Jensen breathed, and Jared was shocked to hear his voice break. “Like that.”

Jared bit his lip, leaned forward so that he was close enough to feel the heat pouring off of Jensen. He tucked his fingers into Jen's dress shirt and said, “I think I'm a natural.”

“I don't know,” Jensen said, sliding a hand down to rest high up on the inside of Jared's thigh. “You're gonna need to go a little longer before I can really decide.”

“Sure,” Jared said, running his free hand up and down Jensen's chest. “I'm not sure you're allowed to have your hand there, though.”

Jensen smiled slowly, licked his lips, and said softly, “Let's say I got us a private room.”

“Yeah, okay,” Jared said, setting his hands on Jensen's shoulders and beginning to grind in earnest against him. It was awkward and probably ridiculous looking, but Jared's dick was rubbing against Jensen's, making Jen gasp and pant, and that was all Jared cared about right now. That and getting his goddamn pants off.

Like he was reading Jared's mind, Jensen somehow got Jared's fly unbuttoned. Pressing his other hand hard into the small of Jared's back, he reached in and wrapped a sweaty hand around Jared's dick. “You wanna know the real reason I didn't take that girl up here?” he growled.

“Yeah,” Jared gasped.

Jensen licked a stripe across Jared's collarbone and whispered, “Because all I really wanted to do all night was suck your cock.”

Jared lost his breath, moaned as Jensen began gently turning and lowering him down onto the couch. He caught Jensen's face in his hands and kissed him hard, shoved and rubbed his cock against Jensen's leg when Jen bit his lower lip.

Jensen broke the kiss and climbed down Jared's body. Jared had no fucking clue how they'd gotten here, but he didn't really care, because Jensen was rubbing his lips over the head of Jared's dick. Fuck, but nothing could possibly feel better than Jensen slowly, torturously sucking him down. If Jared had had any idea that Jensen was so good at this, he would've been bribing Jensen to suck him off every day of the fucking week.

He squirmed and arched, desperately tried to thrust, but Jen held him down until Jared could only feel the sharp ache of Jen's fingers on his hipbones and the perfect slide and suction of Jensen's unbelievable mouth. He felt himself losing control, gasped, “Jensen, Jen I'm...”

Jensen just sucked harder and pressed the heel of his hand against Jared's balls, making Jared come so hard he thought he'd break his back.

He was gulping air, trying to get it together when he realized Jensen was moving above him, making pathetic little frustrated noises as he shoved at his pants.

Jared pulled his shirt up and said, “Jen, c'mere, c'mon.”

Jensen looked confused, so Jared surged up, pulled Jensen down with him and wrapped a hand around Jensen's cock, letting Jensen thrust into his hand and rub the head of his dick against Jared's sweat-damp stomach.

Jensen was making obscene noises, almost like crying, and it only took him a few minutes to come, gasping brokenly into Jared's neck.

“Oh God,” Jensen muttered, sounding embarrassed. Jared nudged Jen with his face until Jensen turned so that Jared could kiss him.

“I don't remember where my room is,” Jared said, his voice rough.

Jen's lips curved into an exhausted smile. “You want to stay here, princess?”

“Yeah,” Jared yawned. “I can sleep on the couch.”

“No,” Jensen said, sitting up and pulling on Jared's arms. “I think the bed's big enough for both of us. Snore and you can sleep in the hall, though.”

“Mmm,” Jared responded sleepily, standing and leaning heavily against Jensen. “Hey Jen?”

“Yeah?”

“Can we do that again tomorrow morning?”

silliness

anna.lazarus@gmail.com — Sun, 12 Nov 2006 00:00:57 GMT

I am watching VH1's 100 Top Hard Rock Bands or whatever, and it might as well be titled Dean Winchester's Life Soundtrack. Mr. Lazarus, who occasionally has delusions that he's hardcore, is currently happy as a pig in shit.

This is just a little self-indulgence, taking place a bit after Common As a Winter Cold.

Sam rolled into town with a shit eating grin and a gigantic teddy bear in the backseat of the Impala. When he walked into Kathleen's living room, he found Dean engrossed in a book of baby names and Kath devouring a pie precariously balanced on the top of her belly.

"How you feeling Kath?" Sam asked, flopping down on her loveseat.

"Gleeful," she answered around a mouthful of fruit and crust. "Full of glee."

"Full of pie, anyway," Dean muttered.

"Same thing," she said.

"Brunhilde," Dean replied, and Sam leaned back and settled in for the show.

"No," Kath sighed.

"We could call her Hildy,"

"Hildy Murphy?"

"Hildy Winchester!"

"Wait a minute," Sam broke in. "You haven't decided on a last name yet?"

"Sam, we're still working on a first name," Dean said, frustrated. "We haven't exactly gotten to the second part yet."

"We could combine our last names?" Kath suggested.

"Winphy?" Sam said at the same time Dean disbelievingly spat out, "Murph-chester?"

"Okay. Maybe not," she laughed.

"Boudica," Dean said.

"You can barely pronounce that," Kath replied.

"Diana."

"After the goddess or after Wonder Woman?"

"Will the answer affect your decision?"

"Next!"

"Grace."

The plate on Kathleen's belly jumped. "Huh," she said. "The monkey seems to like that one. After Grace O'Malley, I hope?"

"You got it."

"Why didn't you start with that one?"

"I honestly thought you'd go for Brunhilde."

comment porn, Jsquared edition

anna.lazarus@gmail.com — Sat, 11 Nov 2006 00:48:56 GMT

Miss Nan asked for porn yesterday, so I gave her something I started and abandoned ages ago. Here it is:

The thing about Jensen is that he's quiet. Not 'cause he's shy. He's not shy. He'd just rather sit there nursing a beer or with a pencil stuck between his teeth, waiting until just the right moment to say five words that'll get everyone grinning at him or threatening to kick his ass at pool. As far as Jared knows, he's the only person in Vancouver with a surefire way to make Jensen downright chatty.

It starts with kissing like fighting, then the shove-rip of clothes sent every which way, followed by the race to see who ends up with bite marks first, and finally Jared shoving Jensen against the nearest sturdy surface—the wall, the back of the couch, the kitchen table on one particularly desperate occasion—and rubbing and licking until Jensen just fucking loses it.

Jared's taken to rushing through the preliminaries, trying to get to that point where Jensen's breath catches and the words break loose, like some sort of porn epiphany. "Jesus Jared, I'm'a bite you all over, fuck your mouth, want to, oh, god, lick the come out of your mouth, want you to fuck me stupid."

And Jared has to shove his tongue hard against Jensen's to get him to stop, even though he wants to hear it all, because none of that fantastically fucking filthy stuff is gonna happen if Jared comes all over Jensen's stomach.

So Jared's got both hands on Jensen's face, and he's sucking on Jensen's tongue like his life depends on it. But he has to breathe some time, and when he does, Jensen starts right back up again. "Jesus, just fucking touch me, oh, yeah. God, I want your fingers in my ass so fucking bad."

And Jared thanks God or whatever perverted higher power might be listening in at this moment that he was born with huge hands, because this just isn't gonna work unless Jensen stops talking for a second. He shoves Jensen around, slaps one hand over Jen's mouth, wraps the other around Jen's cock. Jensen, the crazy bastard, is. Still. Talking. Jared's heard it all so many times that he can translate the muffled moans in his head as, "J, c'mon. Fuck me you fucking pussy."

For fecundfic: "Common as a winter cold," SPN, Dean/OFC

anna.lazarus@gmail.com — Fri, 10 Nov 2006 01:37:15 GMT

Title: Common as a winter cold
Author: annalazarus
Rating: R
Warnings: Pregnancy. Sex.
Disclaimer: Dean's not real, and he's not mine. Also? I have no money.
Notes: Thanks to Monkie and Susan for saying things like "Where the hell is Sam?" and "There's no apostrophe here, Miss Fancy School English Degree." Title from Neko Case's song That Teenage Feeling. Kath comes from this story. There's a silly little post-story bit here.

She was pissed. She was pissed and she was yelling, although what, Dean didn’t know. He was too busy focusing on the swinging, double-sided ax in her hands.

“Point that thing somewhere else!” he yelled. “And chill the fuck out, would you?”

“I nearly had to shoot you!” she hollered right back.

“Eh.” Dean shrugged. “That shit happens all the time.”

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. That was a very bad sign.

Dean put his hands up, said, “Hey. Kathleen. I know this wasn’t the job you signed up for. I swear, I thought it was just one succubus, not a fucking nest.”

Kath gave him another dark look and Dean seriously wished he could remember anything that happened after they stepped into the succubus’s... well, the lair, he guessed. If you could call a suburban split-level half an hour outside of Vegas a ‘lair.’

Sammy was in the hospital with a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the arm, the only thing he could think of to get himself out of the demon’s thrall. Sam told Dean the succubus was alone. She must’ve been hiding Sam from her sisters in the same way Dean used to hide Cheez-Its from Sam when they were kids.

“Anyway,” Dean continued. “They’re all dead, we’re okay, and you got yourself a spiffy new ax. Good deal, right?”

Kath cleared her throat, dropped her voice, and said, “It’ll take ten minutes, Kath. We’ll get in and out, and I’ll buy you a nice dinner.” Her hands and arms were shaking a little as she came down from the adrenaline rush. “You’re a fucking moron, you know that?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “I do. But hey, I bet the casino buffets are still open if you’re up for that dinner.”

She laughed, rubbed a hand over her face. “Get in the car,” she said.

Dean went to reach for the driver’s side door, but Kathleen caught his arm. “The backseat,” she ordered.

He reached for her, but she grabbed his wrist, slammed it against the roof of the car, her breath coming hard. “You owe me,” she said. “Backseat. Pants down. No attempts at meaningful conversation afterward.”

Dean grinned, remembered why Kath was maybe his favorite girl ever. She was all action, no talk. Sometimes he wondered what it’d be like to drop Sammy off with Kath's brothers, throw her over his shoulder and take her on the road with him for a few weeks. Just hunting and fucking, and maybe even a few days spent in bed just rubbing her back and making her laugh.

Fond thoughts of Kath curvy and warm in his motel bed were probably as close to domestic as Dean got, and he was perfectly happy to take whatever she gave him, which at this moment was angry car sex. He could always roll with that.

Dean undid his pants, watching as she pulled off her shirt and unwound the bandage that bound her breasts with a pleased sigh. Dean was hard, had been since the succubi had put the goddamn whammy on him, but now it was finally accompanied by real, honest arousal, the want washing through him like warm water.

He looked at her scars to distract himself, thinking otherwise he’d say something stupid about her beauty, which she’d think was a line, which would really piss her off. She had far fewer marks than he did, partly because hunting was her hobby rather than her job, and partly because she hunted with two freakishly large brothers instead of just one.

He’d touched all of her scars over the years, licked the one on her neck every time he got the chance. Yet somehow he still turned into a grinning idiot whenever she took her shirt off for him.

She caught sight of his smile, sighed and shook her head, but Dean still caught the quick upward curve of her lips. She pushed him hard against the back of the seat with both hands and crawled across his lap. She was naked and Dean had only pushed his jeans and underwear down to his knees. She helped him out of his jacket and t-shirt, muttered “better,” and pressed herself to him, sighing and arching her back.

Dean ran his hands up her sides, pushed her back a little so he could get his mouth on her. He was perfectly content to nuzzle and suck at her breasts for as long as she’d let him while she petted at his hair. She smelled like roses and bread dough. He licked a stripe up her sternum, bit at the hollow of her neck.

She was making little whimpery noises, which was weird, because if Kathleen wasn’t screaming outright, she was usually shoving Dean around and telling him what to do. Dean pulled back, asked, “You all right?”

She gave him a strange look--startled, annoyed, with something darker behind it. “Yeah,” she said. “What’d I say about conversation?”

He tried to kiss her, but she rocked forward, pressing his face to her chest again. He heard her breathe out sharply as she sank onto his dick, her thighs snug against his hips.

It was quick, nothing mind-blowing, but Dean knew Kath was just fucking him to make sure he was okay. It was all right. Having her strong body in his arms was reassuring for Dean too. He let her lead, closing his eyes and kissing at whatever bit of her skin was within reach.

Afterward, they found a 24-hour In-&-Out burger, and Kath rested her head on Dean’s shoulder while she inhaled two burgers and a milkshake. There was no meaningful conversation.

Four months later, Sam and Dean rolled into what Dean fondly thought of as Murphy Territory. Kath, Jimmy and Pat hunted most of the baddies in the Arizona/New Mexico area, which was fine by Dean since all the prefab houses and perfectly manicured lawns surrounded by desert in those states gave him the creeps. It wasn’t natural.

They were between hunts, and Dean waited for Sam to suggest that maybe the Murphys might want some company on their next one. They both knew it was code for, Hey, if we call them, maybe they’ll feed us, and Dean went along with it willingly. He liked the boys, even if they were a little too quick with the manly arm punching, and it’d been too long since he’d seen Kath.

Sam called Jimmy, who of course offered to have them over for dinner, and then promised that they could also count on a few more meals before they left town. Since the Murphys were all gainfully employed, the Winchesters had an afternoon to kill. Sam headed to the library to look for their next case, and Dean went over to Kathleen’s.

She had a little annex on her house, built by Jimmy, that served as her shop. Dean walked in and smiled at the trill of the bell above the door. It was all so normal. Girl had them all fooled.

Kath was standing behind a crabby looking old lady, fussing with the woman’s thinning white hair and discussing gardening. Kath smiled at Dean and the old lady scowled. Dean raised an eyebrow back at her and noted that Kath looked like she’d put on a little weight since he last saw her. He thought maybe he’d tell her that that’s what happened when you did too much haircutting and not enough hunting. Then maybe she’d hit him, and they’d end up having sex.

He sat in one of the comfy chairs near the door, flipped through the perfumy women’s magazines. He looked up when the old lady stood and Kath came out from behind the barber’s chair.

Dean felt his mouth drop, and then snapped it shut again at the thin-lipped scowl Kath gave him.

She was pregnant. Well, either that or she’d gone on an all carb diet. Pregnancy seemed marginally more likely. Kathleen Murphy, pregnant. Dean was trying to form an opinion on this fact, but all his brain would supply him with was, Fuckin’ weird, man.

Which was exactly what he said when Kathleen’s client finally left and she said, “Well, what do you think?”

She laughed, and Dean was glad that she seemed happy. He never would have guessed her for the mothering type, but her motto in life had always been, Sure. Why the hell not? and he figured that was as good an approach to parenting as any. Jesus. Kathleen: a mom. It was gonna take a while to get used to.

She offered to make him a sandwich. He accepted, even though he wasn’t that hungry. He figured eating would keep him occupied so that all the stupid thoughts going through his head didn’t come out of his mouth. Are you scared? Are you uncomfortable? Is there seriously a small person growing inside of you? Seriously? Who’s the dad? Have your brothers threatened to kneecap him? Do you love him? What do you look like naked now? He chewed very deliberately until he regained his equilibrium and said, “Man, Kath. I leave you alone for a couple of months, and look at how much trouble you get into.”

She half-smiled, turned to put the tea kettle on the stove and said, “Actually, eighteen weeks.”

Dean paused, mid-chew. He didn’t want to ask the question, but he wasn’t stupid. He was also quite fond of his kneecaps. “And, uh, how far along are you?”

She’d barely finished saying, “Four and a half months,” before he heard himself say, “Kathleen!” sounding much harsher to his ears than he intended. He wished he’d just kept eating the damn sandwich and hadn’t asked.

She wrapped her arms around herself, said defensively, “It’s not. You don’t. I just.” She put her hands to her face, “Shit. I really should have prepared a speech or something.”

Dean waited. Kath peeked out from between her fingers, said, “I kept having nightmares of telling you over the phone, and you driving off the road, or jumping in the car and driving way too fast to get here. Or,” she took a shaky breath, “driving way too fast to get away from me. Anyway. All the scenarios I could think of where I told you over the phone ended with you in a hideous, flaming car accident, so, sorry, but I just had to wait for you.” Her voice was strained, and Dean wondered if she was expecting him to yell at her.

He stared, wished he could think of something to say to get that tone out of her voice, get that miserable look off her face. He wanted to rewind to the part where she was laughing at him. “I’m not mad,” he finally said, unable to come up with anything else. “You seem, I mean, you seem okay, so I just. I’m happy for you,” he finished lamely.

She sighed, a little bit of the tension leaving her shoulders, though she still looked worried. The kettle whistled and she turned to take it off of the heat, resting her free hand on her belly.

She was wearing a flowy, flowered top and threadbare jeans. Her hair was loose and tucked behind her ears.

Dean had the sudden and overwhelming urge to tell her that everything was going to be all right, that he’d stay and get a job as a mechanic, or work for Jimmy. That he’d take care of her forever and never let anything bad happen to her.

He shook his head, dizzy, said, “Kathleen, you know I’ll do whatever you want me to do, right?”

She smiled. “I know. And I wish I had any fucking clue what I want you to do.”

“We’ll call it a standing offer, then.”

She grinned, big and wide, then put a hand to her face, said, “Shit. I’m getting teary. I get teary all the fucking time now. It’s so stupid.”

Dean stood, walked over and put his arms around her. She nuzzled into his neck and Dean decided that this was not the time for him to freak out. Right now, Kath needed him, and he knew what to do about that.

“Hey, Kath, hey.” He took her face in her hands, did his best to look utterly sincere. “Sweetheart. I want to see you naked.”

She laughed so hard she got spit on his face, but it was all right, because she grabbed his arms and dragged him right to the bedroom.

“If you laugh at my underwear? I’ll kill you,” she said pulling her shirt over her head.

Dean was too mesmerized by Kath’s magically inflated breasts to say anything, which was probably a good thing, since it looked like he could probably build an industrial strength slingshot with her panties.

He stripped to his boxers, took Kath’s hand, and said, “Lay on your back, okay?”

“I feel a little fat, you know?” she laughed as she rested herself on the pillows.

Dean leaned forward and kissed her. “You’re gorgeous.”

He ran his hands down her arms, touched the skin of her hips, then began tracing the curve of her belly, surprised that though she looked so soft, she still felt strong, solid. He palmed her breasts, smiled at her hum of pleasure.

She opened her eyes as he was stroking the soft skin just above her collar bones. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said, sounding surprised at herself.

Dean looked away, embarrassed. He leaned over to replace his fingers with his mouth, kissing all over her chest. She sighed, threaded her fingers into his hair.

Dean reached down, slid his hand between her legs. He found her slick and soft and pressed two fingers into her, easy as breathing. She moaned and arched, and after just a few strokes, she shuddered and came, flooding his hand with warm wetness.

Dean looked up at Kath, who was trying to catch her breath. “Well,” she said. “I think that’s probably nature’s way of making up for the morning sickness.” She caught his face in her hands, giggled as she kissed him. “Come on,” she said, hitching up her legs. “You obviously don’t have to bother looking for a condom.”

He fucked her with his eyes open, memorizing the sweet curve of her lips, the way she pushed her shoulders down so she could rock against him. Her hands fluttered at his sides, finally coming to rest on his hips, her thumbs stroking the muscle there.

They hadn’t had sex in this bed since the first night he met her, nearly a decade ago, while Sammy was still at school. The next morning, she’d made him breakfast, programmed her number into his phone, and told him she didn’t expect him to call.

Dean had been staring down the end of Pat Murphy’s gun the next time he saw her. She’d laughed as Dean tried to convince Pat he wasn’t a werewolf. She’d refused to bail him out just because he couldn’t remember her name.

Now she was lying next to him, her head on her chest, her stomach pressing against his side.

“Can you feel it kick?” he asked.

“Not really, not yet,” she replied. “I get, like, flutters. It’s kind of neat, actually.”

They lay in silence for a bit. “Will you call me when it starts kicking?” he asked softly, feeling sleep tugging at him.

“Yeah,” she said, "Yeah, I will."

Kathleen woke him up an hour later, told him to go find Sam and meet her at Jimmy's house.

"And don't act like an idiot," she said. "I haven't told them and they haven't asked, so let's try not to make a scene, okay?"

"Spoken like a true Catholic girl," Dean muttered.

"I'm going to ignore that comment because my doctor tells me it wouldn't be a good idea for me to kick the shit out of anyone while in my delicate condition. Tell Sam I say hi."

Dean was fine until he pulled out of Kathleen's driveway. Then it hit him hard. He got short of breath and had to pull over and rest his head against the steering wheel. This was not going to work. Parenthood was, like, forever. Forever was not Dean's strong suit. He couldn't do this. But he couldn't not do it either. Kath'd kill him. He'd kill himself. Fucking rock and a hard place.

He realized he had to pull himself together before he picked up Sam, because, Jesus, he did not want to discuss this with Sam right now.

Sam swung into the Impala, buckled up, and said, "So, did she tell you?"

"Tell me what?" Dean said before his brain kicked in. "Ah, fuck! She told you? Jesus, Sam." He didn't even know what to say. "Jesus."

"Hey, so I get to be an uncle!" Sam said happily.

Dean dropped his head to the steering wheel again. "You think I should marry her?" he said.

"Do you want to?" Dean thought maybe he should be insulted at how shocked Sam sounded.

Dean shrugged. "It wouldn't have occurred to me if she wasn't pregnant, so I guess not, but I feel like I should do something, you know?"

"Well," Sam said slowly. "We don't have to travel every week of the year. If you wanted to make Arizona our home base, you could still hunt and see Kath and the baby whenever."

"Yeah," Dean said, sort of glad he had Sam there to think for him. He felt all sorts of exhausted all of a sudden. "But, man, think about our work. What if I get killed?"

Sam was silent for a bit, then said, "What if we'd grown up to be firefighters? Would you be asking me the same question right now?"

"You and your stupid hypothetical questions," Dean muttered and found that was all he wanted to say on the subject. "I don't know. Let's just try to get through dinner without Jimmy or Pat pulling a gun on me, okay?"

Dinner was fine, and Jimmy and Pat didn't even blink when Dean said he was getting over the flu to explain his lack of appetite. In fact, Pat said, "S'okay. Kath'll eat whatever you don't," leading her to throw a roll at him, him to throw it back, and that was the end of that conversation.

Dean left Sam at Jimmy's house and went home with Kathleen. They didn't talk in the car, and when they got to the house, all Kath said was, "Hey, bring your guns in," before heading for the front door.

When Dean came in with a duffle full of assorted rifles and pistols, Kath had gotten out the rags and oil and was carefully cleaning her own guns. He sat down next to her and started doing the same.

By the time Kath kissed him on the cheek and said, "I'm going to take a shower and go to bed. Meet me there," Dean knew things were going to be all right. Weird and probably fucked up by anyone else's standards, but all right.

A month and a half later, Dean left Sam with Jo and Ellen and drove out to see Kath. On the way there he tried to figure out how to tell her that sometimes he daydreamed about holding a baby girl in the frilliest little pink dress in the world and accepting compliments on her cuteness by saying, “She gets it from her mom.” Or that he’d already started threatening to murder Sam if Uncle Sammy ever told the kid even one-quarter of the shit Dean got up to as a teenager. Or that if she didn’t have a rocking chair, she should get one, because he was probably going to want to sit in it and sing to the baby. Though he figured he’d have to get that last one across in hand gestures, because he sure as hell was never saying it out loud.

He’d been calling Kathleen pretty much every night, suggesting names.

“Snake.”
“No.”
“Conan.”
“No!”
“Rambo.”
“Okay, first of all, Rambo was his last name, and secondly NO. Try girls.”
“Gertrude.”
“Dean? Have you recently hit your head?”
“No. I figure if we give her a really lame name, guys won’t ever hit on her. What do you think?”
“I think I’m hanging up now.”

She met him at the door looking like she’d been sucking on a lemon. “You look like Sam,” he said before he could catch himself.

“Your child spent all of last night kicking the hell out of me.”

Dean grinned. “Awesome! We’ve created a kickboxing champion.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? I was a good fetus! This is all the fault of your damn overactive genes.”

He wrapped his arms around her and said, “It’s good to see you too.”

She hugged him back and said, “My hormones have turned me into a crazy person. And! I’m too fat to get into the bathtub by myself. It’s awful.”

Dean offered to help her with the second problem. Her belly was still improbably high. It looked uncomfortable. Dean bent over and announced to her bellybutton, “Be nice to your mother!”

She laughed and said, “The little monkey’s kicking again, if you want to feel it.” Before Dean could answer, she’d taken his hand and put it on her stomach. And there it was: a distinct thump from inside of her.

“Holy shit!” he said.

“No kidding,” she replied. “It still freaks me out every time.”

He helped her sit in the tub and turned on the water.

“Thought of anymore names?” she asked as she tried to settle herself comfortably.

“Aurora. Belle. Jasmine,” he said.

She sighed. “Do you have any real suggestions?”

“I trust you to pick something good,” he said softly.

She took his hand, kissed it. “You're gonna be the sappiest daddy ever,” she laughed.

“I promise if it’s a girl I won’t buy her a pony,” Dean said.

“Yeah? Do you promise not to buy a boy a BB gun?”

“No comment.”

He sat on the floor by the tub, washed her back for her, groped her a little until she smacked him. When he helped her out of the tub, she said, “Hey, lean against the wall.”

“Kath,” he said, weirdly embarrassed that her words were getting him hard.

She smiled as she undid his pants. “You can make it up to me afterward, okay? I think my days of blowing guys in bathrooms are coming to an end soon, so indulge me.”

She took hold of him, licked around the head of his dick while looking him in the eye, and Dean tried to deal with the cognitive dissonance of getting a porn-worthy blow job from a heavily pregnant woman. He shut his eyes when she sucked him down, put a hand on her head and tried not to thrust. God, he loved her.

She rose up onto her knees, cupped her breasts and rubbed them against Dean’s dick. He gasped her name, tried to hold back. She just took him in hand, jacked him hard, made him come all over her chest.

He flat-out whimpered. He wasn’t even going to try to deny it. He helped her up, cleaned her up, clung to her. Then he took her to bed and they spent some time arranging her comfortably on a nest of pillows. Then he went down on her for a long time, touching her delicately with tongue and lips, winding her up, making her come, and not giving her time to come down before starting again.

She finally hit him on the head to make him stop. He crawled up to lie beside her, displacing a few pillows along the way. He licked the sweat off of her neck, and she sighed happily.

“Jimmy made me a crib,” she said, apropos of nothing.

“I know,” Dean replied. “He told me he doesn’t like the paint you picked for the baby’s room.”

“Whatever. He’s an idiot.” They lay in silence for a few minutes before Kath said, “You asked him for a job.”

“Yeah,” Dean said. This was thin ice. If he said the wrong thing, Kath might tell him she didn’t need his help, his pity. She’d said it a few times over the phone. He didn’t believe her. He’d said I’ll be fine enough times to hear when it really meant Just pretend you’re not helping, okay? from someone else. “I figured you’d probably want me out of the house during the day.”

“How long are you planning on staying?” her voice was neutral.

“Until you come after with me with a kitchen knife, probably.”

She hit him, and he grinned at the ceiling, knowing that was the best possible answer he could’ve gotten. He felt himself drifting toward sleep. “Hey, Kath?” he murmured.

“Yeah?”

"How's Jimmy at rocking chairs?"

"Move Your Arms and Legs," Jared/Jensen/Sandy, NC-17

anna.lazarus@gmail.com — Wed, 11 Oct 2006 00:25:41 GMT

Da-da da-da da-DA. *dances* Cindy owes me cookies!

Title: Move Your Arms and Legs
Author: annalazarus
Pairing: Jared/Jensen/Sandy
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Follows A Lot Like Swimming and First Time Over Your Head. I will be buying sevenfists many drinks this weekend for her wonderful beta work.

It's a lot like swimming
First time over your head
It gets easier
When you move your arms and legs

-Like Swimming, Morphine

Jared took a quick shower, then lay down on the wrecked bed and listened to the sounds of Jensen and Sandy in the kitchen, giggling and knocking pans around. He was exhausted, totally done. He figured he couldn’t get it up again even if the fate of the world depended on his dick.

He shut his eyes and cataloged his post-sex aches and pains, trying to remember who gave him the death-grip bruises on his hip. Images flashed behind his eyes: the flex and roll of Jensen’s ass; Sandy’s mouth, lips red and wet, her hair falling across her face and onto Jensen’s neck.

Jesus. He hadn’t felt this fucked out since that time Sandy took E at a club and spent the next ten hours climbing all over him and bending herself into all sorts of improbable positions. He felt heat pooling low in his belly and thought maybe he could save the world with his dick if he really had to. But not without breakfast first.

He rolled out of bed and wandered into the kitchen. Jensen and Sandy had made French toast. Jensen was eating his plain and staring in horror as Sandy drowned hers in maple syrup and dropped Skittles on top.

“Jensen wants to know why you don’t weigh three hundred pounds,” Jared yawned, making sure he was out of punching range.

Sandy narrowed her eyes at him and announced loudly, “So, how’s your ass?”

Jared grinned and looked at Jensen, who’d turned stop-sign red. Jared walked over and laid his hands over Jensen’s shoulders, rubbing his fingertips over the smooth skin beneath Jensen’s collarbones. “Fine, thanks for asking. Way better than the time you used that purple dildo on it.”

Jensen choked, and Jared hit him on the back.

“Have some food,” Sandy laughed. “Before you kill poor Jensen.”

“M’gonna take a shower, actually,” Jensen managed, coughing and laughing at the same time. “You two try not to think of any new methods of debauchery while I’m gone.”

Jared felt a little bad about staring at Jensen’s ass as he walked away until he looked over and caught Sandy doing exactly the same thing. He grinned at her and she poked him.

Jared sat on the chair Jensen had left. Sandy climbed onto his lap, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed his cheek stickily.

“I can’t believe he went for it,” Jared chuckled, stroking Sandy’s soft hair. “I kind of figured he’d pass out the minute you took off your top.”

“Yeah,” Sandy said. “I think we might have short circuited his brain, though. He may never be the same.”

“He thinks too much anyway,” Jared replied. “Prolly a good idea to dumb him down some.”

Sandy pulled back, and put her elbows on the table, giving Jared a good look at the line of her breasts behind her silky robe, and man, he was really never going to get sick of that view. “Hey,” she said. “Speaking of frying his brain, I think I know what we should do next.” She licked her lips and laid out her plan, and it wasn’t like Jared was going to veto it or anything anyway, but the way she wriggled around on his lap as she described her idea sold him completely.

When Jared breathlessly agreed, she grinned and hooked her chin over his shoulder, rested boneless against him as he reached around her to grab two pieces of French toast.

“Jen’s really different right now,” she mused. “He’s so laid-back.”

“Getting laid twice in twelve hours will do that for a guy,” Jared said around a mouthful of toast.

Sandy snorted. “I’d like to think that he can relax now that he knows we want him the same way he wants us. What do you think?”

“Sandra,” Jared said, rubbing Sandy’s back. “I love you. But I want to talk about feelings about as much as I want pink eye.”

Sandy sighed. “You know, you’re not subtle, but you are direct.”

He couldn’t tell whether she was annoyed from her tone, so he replied with, “Baby, you’re so awesome,” said with his most winning grin.

He heard the shower shut off and stood, picking Sandy up as well. She laughed and said, “What the fuck?”

“Booty call,” Jared said.

“Isn’t that this whole weekend?” she replied.

“I could drop you, you know?” Jared muttered stepping through the bedroom door.

“Put me down, you moron,” Sandy said. “I need to take a shower or I’m gonna be all stinky compared to you two.”

Sandy gracefully padded over to Jensen, who was smirking down at her through his ridiculously long eyelashes. She kissed him, then kicked him in the shin, saying, “Don’t wear him out before I get back.”

Jensen looked up at Jared then, grinned wide and brilliant, his smile causing practically his entire face to crinkle up.

Jared laughed. “C’mere,” he said, and Jensen dropped his towel and launched himself at Jared, knocking them both back onto the bed.

Jen chuckled and cocked an eyebrow. “Hey Jared, you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to tackle you naked?”

“No. But does this mean you’ll stop tackling me so much when we’ve got our clothes on?” Jared grunted, pushing Jen off of him.

“Probably not,” Jensen replied.

“Good,” Jared said, pressing his whole body against Jensen’s before leaning in for the kiss. He wanted to do this slowly, learn Jensen’s body as well as he knew Sandy’s. He licked into Jensen’s mouth, ran his hands up and down Jen’s sides, rolled so Jensen was lying half on top of him. He moved his fingers restlessly, laying them on Jensen’s hairline, between his shoulder blades, at the dip where his spine curved. He sucked on Jen’s lips and tried to memorize the rhythm of his heart, pulsing in counterpoint to Jared’s own.

They were still kissing when Sandy returned, Jensen relaxed and yielding in Jared’s arms. Jared could feel Sandy watching them and tilted Jensen’s chin up to give her a better view, licked at Jensen’s bottom lip and was pleased to hear her gasp. Sandy had a thing for mouths, and Jen’s was pretty fucking spectacular, Jared thought, pressing his tongue further between Jensen’s lips.

Jen moaned and rocked his cock against Jared’s leg, looking for more. Jared caught sight of Jen’s blown eyes and swollen mouth and was sorely tempted to just flip him over and fuck him until he couldn’t breathe, but they had other plans, so instead he set his hands on Jensen’s chest and pushed him onto his back.

Sandy flipped her hair behind her shoulders, laid down next to Jen with narrow eyes and a broad grin, and Jensen whipped his head around and look at Jared in alarm.

Jared threw his head back and laughed. “Don’t worry, Jen,” he murmured, taking hold of Jensen’s arm and leaning down to kiss him lightly. “You’re gonna like this.”

Jensen sighed and rolled his eyes, like it was the most tiresome thing in the world not to know exactly how he was about to get fucked six ways to Sunday. Little bitch.

Jared settled in, half sprawled over Jensen, his cock resting against Jensen’s hip. He looked at Sandy. “You wanna start?”

Sandy played with Jensen’s hair with one hand and held his wrist held firmly in her other hand. “Nah, sweetie. You go first.”

“Okay.” Jared licked his lips and hoped Jensen didn’t laugh at them for this. “So Jensen, Sandy and I were thinking that there’s a lot of stuff we want to do with you that we might not get to this weekend. Like, for example, I want Sandy to ride you while I fuck her ass, and then I want to lick her taste off your cock.”

Jensen’s eyes snapped shut and his breath became noticeably shallower.

“Or,” Sandy murmured seductively, “I want to see Jared pin you to a wall, drop to his knees and suck you off.”

Jared was thrown for a moment by the mental image, the thought of watching Sandy get herself off while Jensen fucked his mouth. He realized he and Sandy had never actually gotten into specifics about what the three of them would do, beyond choreographing their first time. He guessed this little game was gonna be educational for all of them. He caught his breath and countered with, “And I bet you’d love to see me licking her pussy, sucking on her tits.”

Jensen’s eyelashes fluttered, his cheeks stained dark red.

“And you know Jared owes you, right? He’s gonna push your face into the mattress, baby, make you beg for him to touch your cock.” Sandy was panting, and Jared was more than ready to move past the talking, but Sandy wasn’t quite done yet.

She raised her head and whispered, “I want you and Jared to come all over my face,” right over Jensen’s lips, and Jared’s cock jumped. He panted hard into Jensen’s neck and barely registered Jensen’s moan. He definitely hadn’t heard that one before, and probably wouldn’t even have thought of it himself. God he loved that girl.

Jensen’s hips were rocking now, his cock an even darker red than his cheeks, the tip shining with wetness, and all Jared wanted to do was lean over and tongue that swollen head. So he told Jensen so.

Jensen was moaning with each breath now, almost sobbing, and Jared took that as his cue to slide a hand under Jensen’s ass, push him up as Sandy pulled at Jensen’s shoulder. Together they rolled him so that he faced Sandy, who leaned forward, rubbed face against Jensen’s.

Jared pressed the heels of his hands between Jensen’s shoulder blades, massaging away the tension there as Sandy stroked his belly, hip, neck, both of them trying to soothe Jensen down a bit.

Jensen’s breathing evened out a little, and he turned toward Jared, said in a shot voice, “I hate you.”

“Hey!” Jared replied. “What makes you think that was my idea? Haven’t you noticed yet that Sandra is the evil genius of this operation?”

“Yeah,” Jensen said, mouthing at Jared’s jaw in a wholly distracting way. “But she’d hit me if I told her that.”

“You’re catching on,” Jared rumbled, biting and sucking on Jensen’s lower lip. Jen gasped into the kiss and Jared opened his eyes to see Sandy’s delicate fingers rubbing and skating along Jensen’s cock. He took his cue, slid his hand down Jensen’s back, curled his fingers to match the curve of Jensen’s sweet ass.

Jensen’s whole body went slack, a small smile playing on his lips now that Jared and Sandy were playing nice. Jared was half tempted to pull back, tease until Jensen begged, cried, pretty lashes damp. But, well, he had to work with the guy on Monday and he wasn’t sure he could get away with that kind of foreplay. Yet.

So he lifted his hand, ignoring Jensen’s protesting noise, raised it to Jensen’s face and brushed his fingers over Jensen’s hair, the thin skin beneath his eye, his warm lips. Sandy watched his movements with liquid eyes, took her hand from Jensen’s cock and pushed gently at Jen’s shoulder until he shifted onto his back, whispered, “Kiss him.”

Jared started gently, weirdly nervous with Sandy staring like that, then pressing in, letting more of his weight fall on Jensen’s chest as his tongue delved into Jensen’s mouth.

“Hey,” Sandy breathed in his ear after who knew how long. “Can I get a turn?”

He didn’t want to stop. Kissing Jen was better than candy. Only the realization that he could be doing other things to Jensen while Sandy kept him occupied allowed him to pull himself away from Jen’s mouth. So he pushed Jensen back toward Sandy, let them twine around each other, murmur and giggle and press together, while he searched the bed for the lube.

He bit along the edge of Jensen’s hairline as Sandy sucked at his mouth, made sure Jensen was wholly distracted before slipping his fingers between Jensen’s ass, pushing in just a little with one fingertip.

Jensen jerked like he’d been electrocuted, said, “Jesus, Jared.” Sandy disengaged herself from Jen’s lips, ran her hands down his chest and made small soothing coos while nuzzling at his face.

Jensen sighed, relaxed again, and Jared slowly pushed his finger all the way in. He pulled back, added another finger, breathed hard as Jensen began to writhe back against him, murmuring encouragement in his filthy gravelly voice.

He was achingly fond of Jensen like this: open and unworried, unconcerned with being smart or tough enough for the world to take him seriously. He’d fuck him every night if it meant he could have this Jensen every day.

Sandy tucked her her face into Jen’s neck and wrapped her hand around his cock again, worked it steadily. The three of them fell into a rhythm, skin catching, rubbing, sliding all up and down their bodies. Jensen hummed happily in the middle of everything, his body heat rising by the moment. His sweet, low sounds turned to groans as Jared added a third finger.

Sandy, breathing hard, raised her head to rest on Jensen’s shoulder and bit sharply at Jared’s chin. “You’re gonna fuck me, right? she panted. “We’re gonna make him come, then you’re gonna ride me hard. Because, Jesus, my pussy has, like, phantom dick ache, I want you in me so badly.”

Jensen was shaking between them. Sandy dropped her head, smashed her mouth to his and rolled her whole body against his.

Jared bit his lip until it bled to keep from coming as he felt Jensen clench around his fingers, the head of his cock sliding against Jensen’s sweat-slick back fitting so, so well in that perfect curve. Sandy will kill me, Sandy will kill me, he chanted to himself, eyes screwed shut. He didn’t want to see Jensen’s pleasure-slack face, was scared he wouldn’t be able to resist flipping Jen over and pounding into his willing body.

He cracked an eye when he heard Sandy giggle, found her sprawled on top of a smiling Jensen. “You’re so easy Padalecki,” she purred, climbing off of Jensen and onto him. She sank onto his cock, her muscles flexing and pulsing around him. She let out a pleased grunt,stuttered out a laugh. “I bet Jensen and I could just take turns riding you until you passed out,” she gasped, rolling her hips.

“Maybe next weekend,” he smiled, flipping her over smoothly and biting viciously at her collarbone. He shoved her legs up, loving as always how easily he could bend her almost in half. He drove into her, deep and hard, but just too slow to do himself any good. It was completely worth it for the perfectly content look on her face though.

“Scratchin’ your itch?” he growled.

“Yeah baby, yeah,” she panted, pressing her hands into the mattress and snapping her hips up to meet his.

He braced himself on one arm, reached between their bodies and worried her clit with his thumb. The moment she arched her back and made that “ah, ah, ah” noise that would get him hard even if he was in a coma, he let go, lost his rhythm, came shaking and spasming, every sore muscle clenching and releasing, reminding him of previous events and drawing out his pleasure until he couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe.

“Oh man, don’t pass out on me,” Sandy said breathlessly beneath him.

He groaned, moved off of her with difficulty, landed on Jensen, who hadn’t moved from where they’d left him, and got a displeased grumble in greeting.

“Okay, this is maybe number one on the list of things I thought I’d never say, but no more sex for awhile, okay?” Jared muttered.

“Yeah, okay,” Sandy yawned, curling up against him.

“Yeah, I don’t really think stars’ dicks fall off would be covered by the show’s insurance,” Jensen drawled.

“Shut up,” Jared slurred out.

“Make me,” Jensen said, poking Jared’s arm.

“I’ll tell the whole set you’re a cuddler.”

“Yeah,” Jensen yawned, wrapping himself around Jared. “Okay. ‘Night.”

Jared wanted to tell Jensen that he, Jared Padalecki, was not a cuddler, and Sandy was perfectly capable of fulfilling his cuddling needs. But Jensen had fallen back asleep, and so had Sandy. Jared knew that one or both of them would wake up and smack him if he tried to move.

Well it wasn’t like he had anything better to do, and being stuck in bed with two of his favorite people wasn’t so terrible. So Jared just closed his eyes and listened to them breathe.

oh you crazy bitches

anna.lazarus@gmail.com — Tue, 10 Oct 2006 03:08:06 GMT

Y'all, I read on myspace that Jensen Ackles likes to wrestle hobos while blindfolded and covered in corn syrup. I'm telling you, he has to wear all those layers because he is covered in bruises from the HOBO WRESTLING. And the corn syrup? TOTALLY explains the spikiness of his hair so far this season. Oh, and I heard from someone whose cousin dates a guy on the SPN set that he only allows the assistant directors to speak to him in Klingon. He doesn't speak Klingon or anything. He just likes the sound of it.

New Fic: "...Robert Frost Spinning in His Grave." Wincest, NC-17

anna.lazarus@gmail.com — Fri, 15 Sep 2006 19:58:58 GMT

Title: The Sort of Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening That Would Have Robert Frost Spinning In His Grave.
Author: annalazarus
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sam and Dean add to a room's history.
Notes: For girlmostlikely, who loves the boys being schmoopy and dirty. Thanks to monkiedude for her awesome and quick beta.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Making no money.

The snow came on quick, making Sam glad they’d stopped for supplies at the Utah border. They had three bags of water, soda, and meal-type food to tide them over, as long as they found a place to crash soon.

Sam glanced over at Dean, who was white-knuckled and mumbling encouragement to the car. Icy flakes were blowing straight into the windshield. Sam started looking out for the next exit.

They ended up in an off-the-map town with one bed and breakfast run by a round old lady who cheerily told the boys that the building started its life as a whorehouse They got the smallest room and still got gouged because, sweet as she was, the old lady knew they weren’t going anywhere. Dean grumbled about it up three flights of stairs, even though it was on Randle P. McMurphy’s credit card.

The wind rocked the attic room as Dean stuffed towels into the gaps at the windows. Sam wondered why there couldn’t be more hauntings in tropical climates. No one ever seemed to accidentally bulldoze the last resting place of a junior-league Donner party in, say, Florida. Of course, Florida was full of witch doctors, swamp monsters, and scientologists. At least the flesh-eating spirits didn’t try to convert him.

There was a crack outside as a branch gave way to the weight of the snow. “Abominable snowman,” Dean muttered.

“No such thing,” Sam responded without thinking. They used to keep lists: real monsters and fake ones. Sam always wished the ‘fake’ list was longer.

The heat kicked on with a crack even louder than the one outside. “You turn it up?” Sam asked.

“Fuck yeah. For what we’re paying, we deserve it.”

Sam peeled off his sweatshirt, flannel shirt, and long sleeve shirt as it warmed up. He looked around. The room was an indeterminate shade of green, something the paint companies would call “early spring grass” or some such bullshit. The quilt was flowered, and the paintings were of women in yellow dresses and sailboats on sunny seas. Everything oozed brightly colored blandness.

Theoretically, it was a nice change of pace from the alternately dank or antiseptic motel rooms Sam was used to, but there was something just...off. He looked over at Dean, who was watching the blizzard from the window and frowning.

“I kind of hate this room,” Sam said, surprising himself.

Dean laughed shortly. “Me too. It’s, like, the perfect vacation spot for couples who’ve given up on sex.”

Sam looked around again. Yeah, everything here was ordered and cheery in a way that actively discouraged the ugly, noisy, messy freedom of fucking and coming. “Kind of ironic, given its history,” Sam observed.

“Not really,” Dean said. “You gotta figure those girls probably weren’t having such a great time either.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, wondering if enough bad sex could curse a place, and if they could banish it with some burning sage if need be. He glanced at Dean, who was staring out the window again, felt the ember that was always there spark in his gut, and thought maybe there was a better way to cleanse the room’s aura.

Sam dozed off in the middle of his train of thought and woke to something pushing at his face. He reached out and slapped away what turned out to be Dean’s foot.

Dean was dressed in just jeans, flopped out on the bed backwards, his feet on the pillow, one arm behind his head.

“I hate you,” Sam muttered, hiking himself up on his elbows.

“No you don’t,” Dean said, sitting up and slipping his fingers beneath the collar of Sam’s worn undershirt, his short nails tracing along the tendons in Sam’s neck.

Sam closed his eyes, let Dean touch him, take his shirt off, brush their lips together. “You’re not subtle, you know,” Sam murmured into the kiss.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean replied, quirking his mouth to the side and shoving his hand into Sam’s pants.

Sam leaned forward and gripped Dean’s head with both hands, kissed him deeply, pressing and shifting against Dean’s face until he’d tasted every bit of his brother’s mouth, licked from one corner of his lips to the other. “Lean back,” he whispered, hand ghosting over Dean’s crotch.

Dean, the contrary bastard, leaned forward instead, buried his face in Sam’s neck and breathed hard and hot against the spot on Sam’s neck that made Sam shudder like he was naked out in the snow. He could feel the sweat on Dean's skin and the blood below it. Sam closed his eyes and felt himself falling into the place where Dean’s pleasure became his pleasure, where the only sweat and skin and blood that mattered were Dean’s.

Sam shoved Dean down so that his head rested at the bottom of the bed again. Sam slid and curled himself until his face was level with Dean's zipper and tore at Dean's jeans, sucking and licking at Dean’s belly as his fingers fumbled. He didn’t even bother to try to get Dean’s jeans off, just shoved his face down into the opened fly and licked desperately at Dean’s hardening cock.

Sam heard Dean gasp. God, Dean’s dick. He wanted it, always, but especially like it was now, not yet fully hard, when Sam could lick and suck it all into his mouth, feel the blood flow and the thin skin stretch, feel the head push harder and harder against the back of his throat. Oh god. God yes. This was perfect. Sam pulled back to yank at Dean's pants and flick his tongue along Dean’s dick and reconsidered. Almost perfect.

He looked up, saw Dean flat on his back, flushed all over and panting hard. The sight made Sam’s dick press even harder against his zipper, making him gasp. “A little help here,” Sam said raggedly.

“Huh?” Dean responded, eyes glassy and lips spit-licked glossy.

“Jesus, Dean, please tell me you haven’t forgotten how this works,” Sam groaned.

“Oh,” Dean breathed, rolling up onto his hip and reaching for Sam’s jeans. “Yeah. Got it. Just. Go back to what you were doing, okay? Now. Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay,” Sam said as they shifted and curved their backs until they were both lined up cock-to-mouth. Sam waited though, watched Dean get Sam's pants open and pushed down, saw Dean’s eyelashes flutter as he licked Sam’s cock. Then Sam dropped his shoulder back down, curled his fingers around Dean’s hard thigh, pressed a palm to Dean’s stomach.

Sam felt the muscles under his hands twitch and jump as he licked roughly along the base of Dean’s cock. He tried not to jerk his hips at the groan Dean let out when his lips closed over Sam’s dick. Sam wanted to...he had to... He whimpered deep in his throat. Oh god, how could Dean possibly curl his tongue and suck like that at the same time?

It was too much to try and get Dean off while Dean was giving Sam the best blowjob in the history of civilization, so Sam just shoved Dean’s thigh up and buried his face in the hot crease there, sweat and spit making his every move slick and slippery. He moaned as Dean’s hands rolled his balls, lipped and sucked convulsively at Dean’s balls in return.

Dean began rolling his tongue over the head of Sam’s dick. Sam, pleasure-flooded from toes to tongue, panted raggedly and slid one of his hands down along between Dean’s leg and Sam’s face, slicking his fingers and reaching further around to rub and tease until Dean pulled off and said roughly, “Jesus, Sammy. Come on. Either do it or don’t.”

“Same to you.” Sam’s growl became a gasp as he felt Dean’s hottight mouth enthusiastically screwing down onto his cock. He shoved the heels of his hands against Dean’s ass, spread him open and pressed his tongue to Dean’s hole, felt the pulse of blood and knew he had to get deeper, closer.

He could distantly hear Dean moaning extravagantly around his cock, felt the vibrations of those moans all the way down to his balls. His body curled and pulled in. Sam fought it as long as he could, concentrated on tongue-fucking Dean. He pulled back when he thought he might shake apart, keening as orgasm ripped through him.

Sam let his head roll back onto the bed, took a deep breath, and rubbed a hand over his sweat-and-spit-soaked face. He watched cross-eyed as Dean reached down to curl his fingers around his own cock. Sam grabbed Dean’s wrist with a slippery hand, pulled himself up and licked Dean’s fingers, flickering his tongue against Dean’s cock as Dean’s hand slackened.

Sam, desperate to hear his brother fall apart, dragged his lips over and around Dean’s length before swallowing him, once again feeling the blood beneath his lips pulse in time with Sam’s own.

“Oh god,” Dean groaned. “You cocksucking slut. Goddamn, oh, yeah, just like that.”

Sam slithered his hand back again, shoved and curled a finger into Dean, and that was it. Dean cried out sharply, howled a fierce chorus of nothing, and came hot and sticky onto Sam’s lips and tongue.

Sam turned and wiped his mouth on the bedspread, laughing exhaustedly.

"What's so funny?" Dean asked, voice wrecked.

"That's probably as much action as this room's seen in a century," Sam replied, wondering how long it would take him to remember how to untwist himself.

Dean leaned over and pulled at Sam's arms, turned him until Sam was reasonably close to the head of the bed. He untangled the bedspread, pulled it over himself and Sam, then lay down next to Sam. "Probably the first free action it's ever seen," he said.

"What are you talking about?" Sam said, trying for indignant but yawning halfway through. "I'm totally expecting a tip."

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, okay. I'll give you a tip: You might not want to sleep on that pillow. It's the one I had my feet on."

Sam flattened his lips and sighed loudly through his nose. He squirmed over until his head rested on Dean's pillow. "I'll just sleep here then," he muttered, reaching up to bury his fingers in Dean's hair.

"Yeah," Dean whispered, his palm kneading at Sam's hip. Dean may have added something else, but Sam was already sound asleep.

This story was completely inspired by this comment from Ginger on monkiedude's journal:

And see, I think Dean, while he's blowing Sam, would start stroking and massaging his balls. Which would totally drive Sam CRAZY. So he'd slip a finger into his mouth, get it all slick, then start teasing Dean with it, stroking the taut skin behind his balls. Rubbing tiny circles against his asshole, thrusting in, just a little, just enough to make Dean shudder and cry out, muffled around Sam's thick cock.

OH YES. That's how it would go my friends.

Yup. After I regained consciousness, I began writing. :-)