April Drabble Dump
Apr. 30th, 2010 04:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tiptoe39Included one adult one in here because there was only one, and because the # was so low they're not broken up into categories. Enjoy!
April drabbles
Together We Work
As weird as it may sound, Dean had no difficulty coming right out and saying it.
It was Sam, after all; poor guy deserved someone being straight with him, what with the devils and the angels all trying to get his goat in various underhanded ways. So when it happened, Dean came home, Sam saw the just-got-laid expression on his face, and said, "Congratulations."
And Dean looked him right in the eye and said, "It was Cas."
"What was Cas?"
"Who I was with tonight. It was Cas."
"Oh." Sam went on folding his shirts. "Oh, sorry, I thought-- you know, you looked like you'd just..."
"We did."
A white shirt went to the floor. "What?"
"Cas and I. We did. We slept together."
Sam's brows were folded into tight knots. "What, did he jump into some babe's body or something?"
"No." Dean's expression was unmoving. "No, it was Cas. Trenchcoat, boy parts... the whole kit and caboodle."
"Ha, ha, ha." Sam bent down to retrieve the crumpled shirt. He straightened it out, snapped it through the air a few times to get out the wrinkles.
"Sammy."
"Very funny, Dean. Really. Laugh riot."
"Sammy, I'm not kidding."
Deadpan. Not looking. "Tell me more. I can hardly stand it."
"I'm in love with him."
And that's what brought Sam around to face him and wiped the smile off his peaked face. "What?" Dean expression still hadn't changed, and Sam drew back. "Dude, no. No, this is some sick joke. You don't fall in love. And if you do, it's not with--"
"Well, why do you think I don't fall in love?" Dean's voice rose nearly to anger. "Maybe I wasn't looking in the right place. Fuck it Sam, this is..."
"You don't do this!" Sam said. "This isn't you. You're not making any sense, Dean! It doesn't make any sense for you, and Cas, Cas isn't even human, how can it..."
"That's the whole point!" Raising one palm to smack against his forehead, Dean heaved a heavy sigh. "He doesn't make sense, I don't make sense. But Sammy..." He bit his lip briefly. "But... together we make sense. I don't know any other way to say it. We work."
Sam's face softened. He stood and gazed at Dean in silence. For a second time, the white shirt fell from his slackening grasp.
"What do you want me to say?" he said finally.
Dean shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe..." He looked at the ground, and his cheeks reddened. "Maybe that you're happy for me, I guess."
Sam's smile was wan, forced, but it was there. "Of course," he said in a muted voice. "Sure. I'm happy for you, Dean."
It wasn't much, but it was a good start.
-
Love Conquers All
Misha and Jensen were in Eric Kripke's office the very next morning.
"Oh, God, not this again," Eric said, a hand to his forehead.
"You saw what happened," Jensen said. "How on earth was that not like a jilted bride returning the ring?"
"I had my back turned and I could still see how crushed Dean was," Misha pressed. "You could feel it coming off him in waves. His boyfriend was..."
"...Walking out on him."
"You two finish each other's sentences," Eric pointed out, "like an old married couple."
Jensen reddened and looked over at Misha. "Funny, that," he muttered.
"I swear, I get enough of this from Sera." Eric rolled his eyes. "Guys, what do you want me to do? How am I supposed to pitch that to the powers that be?"
"Tell them love conquers all," Misha said, his voice strangely even.
Eric twirled a pencil between his fingers. "That's a better pitchline than 'gay sex saves the world,'" he murmured. Jensen's eyebrows rose; Misha muttered Sera at him, and he nodded in sudden understanding. "Tell you guys what," Eric said finally, "let me sketch out some scene ideas. Run them by you this afternoon."
"You are a prince among men," Misha said, bowing like an old-style knight.
"Not really," Eric quipped. "I'm just stepping down anyway. What are they going to do, fire me?"
-
This Is His Angel
Dean's eyes are set to pop right the hell out of his head. This is his angel? This is the hothead who beat the crap out of him, this is the stony-faced stoic whose voice barely ever breaks from its guttural monotone? Can't be. But every push of skin and taut muscle says it is, and Dean can't stop staring.
Because Dean is buried balls deep in him and Castiel is riding him, hands vises around Dean's wrists pulling his arms like they're reins and Dean's an unruly bull. His head is thrown back and his back is arched and he's keening, moaning, a tumble of quick yes-yes-yes-yeses turning into a low cry. He jerks his hips forward and gyrates them on Dean. Cas is riding the shit out of him, completely lost in the intensity of it, and Dean doesn't think he's ever seen him like this before.
Then again, maybe this is exactly who Cas is. The hotheaded angel who rebelled, whose tongue is quick to demand respect from Dean, is dominating him now. Maybe Dean's not the one being penetrated, but Castiel's still very much in charge -- he's moving to get the right angle in, hissing every time Dean hits it, even though Dean is barely moving. The stoic takes all the work on himself, as usual. And the rebel is taking the spoils, doing what Dean's always told him to do and letting go.
Yeah, this is his Cas. And it's that knowledge that sends Dean over the edge into a gritted-teeth, shut-eyes, curled-fingers climax. Because if this is Cas, then it's the closest they've ever been, and that is the biggest turn-on of all.
-
Enjoy It
Astrid has to admit that she was the last person to find herself in this position, but quite frankly, after that, she's ready to start a blog or shout from the rooftops: Sex with an older man? Rocks, girls!
Not that she'll be doing anything like that any time soon. Right now, she is settling back into a pair of arms that are warm, and wrinkled, and soft, and feeling like the queen of the world. "Whoo," she says, a laugh breaking up the sound.
Walter chuckles and kisses her hair right behind her ear. "You were magnificent," he says, and his voice is chocolate-rich.
"Me?" She laughs. "Walter, you just-- I don't even know how you did that. I think I lost count after the third time." She twists in his arms, looks up at him, and he puts well-worn fingers on her face and draws her in for a kiss. "I'm... I'm not going to catch my breath for another week," she murmurs, though she's the one talking a blue streak right now.
He calls her on it. "You seem to be doing an admirable job." Damn it, she would have to try to bluff a genius. She cuts off any further smart-ass remarks by kissing him soundly.
When the kiss is through, he looks at her seriously, runs a finger down one stubborn curl of her hair. "Astrid, dearest, I hope you know what this has meant to me--"
She settles down into the crook of his arms. "Shut up and enjoy it, Walter," she chides. But she knows. When his lips mist over her jawline, when he folds her up like something precious he might never catch again, she knows exactly what it means.
-
Nothing Day
"Do you realize what happened today?" Sam says suddenly.
They both stare at him.
"Nothing. Isn't that great?"
They stare at him a little harder. But when Sam starts rattling off how three years ago tomorrow was the day he died, and four years ago the day after that was when he had to "do something he didn't want to do" (which Dean remembers involved killing someone he loved) and the day after that fifteen years ago was when he and Dean got in a gigantic screaming fight that ended in Dean slugging him and saying "don't you dare come to me when you need me," and the day after that a year ago was when Castiel became the proverbial Chunky soup, that's when it starts to dawn on them just what a nice thing today is.
Dean then goes to the local bakery and picks up a pie, a nice cherry one across the top of which he has them write in loopy letters "Happy Nothing Day"; Castiel does his thing and gets beer and burgers through shady means; and Sam meets the two of them in a wide park with a couple of kids playing a pickup baseball game in one corner. They spread out a blanket, sit, drink and eat. Cas' trench coat is rumpled on the grass. Dean grins up at the sun. "This is living," he says, and Sam wonders if he knows just how true and significant a statement that is.
Bringing it to his attention, though, would defeat the purpose. This is living, and for once they take some time to do it without worrying about it or trying to protect it. Beer tingles on their tongues, pie melts sweet after rich meat, and they swap dirty jokes (some of them translated from the Enochian) and just hang out. By the time the sun is low and orange in the sky, they're not drunk - not enough beer to do that - but they're damned happy nonetheless.
"Happy Nothing Day," Sam says, with a hand on Castiel's shoulder, as they walk back to the car.
"Yes," says Castiel, "it is."
Sam figures he doesn't really know how significant a statement that is, either. But that's cool.
-
I Know How You Feel
"So you're an angel." Jo peered at him through slitted eyes. Her beer dangled between two expertly looped fingers.
Castiel felt an inexplicable need to loosen his collar. "Yes." He cleared his throat.
"You don't look like an angel."
He grimaced. "I've heard that before."
"And you don't like it." Jo's smile curled to one side of her lips, leaving her face lopsided and jaunty. "I know how you feel."
He drew up into himself proudly. "No, you don't."
"Let me guess." She snapped her fingers. "Spend your whole life trying to show off to the man upstairs, then when he finally gives you a big job to do, you screw it up and never hear the end of it."
Castiel stood. "Have you been talking to Dean?"
"Well, yes." She took a swig of beer and grinned widely at him. "But I also have a mom."
-
Strings
His life was in bright angles and sharp corners. A splash of blood across his horizon was not color but death; the horror and revulsion that anyone would dare to war on heaven struck through him and curled him up inside. The voices of his brothers, all indistinct and blending together, held him up when he couldn't stand. He marched with them, white wings and robes, silver-steel blades. The music of the choirs spurred him on. He had no voice of his own. He didn't need one. He was a string on the harp, one of hundreds. There was no him. There was them. There was Heaven, and there was everything else.
The march on Hell had stained everything. Orange flame and red skies, his brothers struck down, and some of the strings came loose from their tightly tuned machine. Castiel began to doubt. He feared that the next string to be plucked would be his. And then what help could he be, how would he defend Heaven against the evils that threatened it? For the first time, having his own name, his own being meant something. If he were to find glory on this quest, if the Righteous Man were to fall into his care, surely his survival would be assured. He would be safe.
He shouted until he could finally hear his own voice over the din of clashes and war songs. And he rushed forward to claim the prize he had earned. His hand fell onto the arm of a man who had killed and been killed.
And immediately the regimented songs of Heaven scattered into a thousand pieces. A cacophony of voices, hearts, thoughts drifted into his consciousness. Castiel saw a childhood. A family in which every son had his own voice. Fights for power, for individuality.
"You have to give me some room to breathe!" said a voice in the Man's memory.
"What about loyalty to your family?" said another.
"Sometimes you just have to do what's right," said a third voice. They were all different. They thought different things. Their beliefs were a messy hodgepodge of contradictions. Strings not carefully laid in line but hopelessly tangled. And playing music nonetheless.
Behind him lay the masses of a heavenly army. Below his hand lay a way he'd never seen before.
Perhaps he had his own voice, too.
Castiel grabbed that mess of strings, and he pulled hard.
April drabbles
Together We Work
As weird as it may sound, Dean had no difficulty coming right out and saying it.
It was Sam, after all; poor guy deserved someone being straight with him, what with the devils and the angels all trying to get his goat in various underhanded ways. So when it happened, Dean came home, Sam saw the just-got-laid expression on his face, and said, "Congratulations."
And Dean looked him right in the eye and said, "It was Cas."
"What was Cas?"
"Who I was with tonight. It was Cas."
"Oh." Sam went on folding his shirts. "Oh, sorry, I thought-- you know, you looked like you'd just..."
"We did."
A white shirt went to the floor. "What?"
"Cas and I. We did. We slept together."
Sam's brows were folded into tight knots. "What, did he jump into some babe's body or something?"
"No." Dean's expression was unmoving. "No, it was Cas. Trenchcoat, boy parts... the whole kit and caboodle."
"Ha, ha, ha." Sam bent down to retrieve the crumpled shirt. He straightened it out, snapped it through the air a few times to get out the wrinkles.
"Sammy."
"Very funny, Dean. Really. Laugh riot."
"Sammy, I'm not kidding."
Deadpan. Not looking. "Tell me more. I can hardly stand it."
"I'm in love with him."
And that's what brought Sam around to face him and wiped the smile off his peaked face. "What?" Dean expression still hadn't changed, and Sam drew back. "Dude, no. No, this is some sick joke. You don't fall in love. And if you do, it's not with--"
"Well, why do you think I don't fall in love?" Dean's voice rose nearly to anger. "Maybe I wasn't looking in the right place. Fuck it Sam, this is..."
"You don't do this!" Sam said. "This isn't you. You're not making any sense, Dean! It doesn't make any sense for you, and Cas, Cas isn't even human, how can it..."
"That's the whole point!" Raising one palm to smack against his forehead, Dean heaved a heavy sigh. "He doesn't make sense, I don't make sense. But Sammy..." He bit his lip briefly. "But... together we make sense. I don't know any other way to say it. We work."
Sam's face softened. He stood and gazed at Dean in silence. For a second time, the white shirt fell from his slackening grasp.
"What do you want me to say?" he said finally.
Dean shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe..." He looked at the ground, and his cheeks reddened. "Maybe that you're happy for me, I guess."
Sam's smile was wan, forced, but it was there. "Of course," he said in a muted voice. "Sure. I'm happy for you, Dean."
It wasn't much, but it was a good start.
-
Love Conquers All
Misha and Jensen were in Eric Kripke's office the very next morning.
"Oh, God, not this again," Eric said, a hand to his forehead.
"You saw what happened," Jensen said. "How on earth was that not like a jilted bride returning the ring?"
"I had my back turned and I could still see how crushed Dean was," Misha pressed. "You could feel it coming off him in waves. His boyfriend was..."
"...Walking out on him."
"You two finish each other's sentences," Eric pointed out, "like an old married couple."
Jensen reddened and looked over at Misha. "Funny, that," he muttered.
"I swear, I get enough of this from Sera." Eric rolled his eyes. "Guys, what do you want me to do? How am I supposed to pitch that to the powers that be?"
"Tell them love conquers all," Misha said, his voice strangely even.
Eric twirled a pencil between his fingers. "That's a better pitchline than 'gay sex saves the world,'" he murmured. Jensen's eyebrows rose; Misha muttered Sera at him, and he nodded in sudden understanding. "Tell you guys what," Eric said finally, "let me sketch out some scene ideas. Run them by you this afternoon."
"You are a prince among men," Misha said, bowing like an old-style knight.
"Not really," Eric quipped. "I'm just stepping down anyway. What are they going to do, fire me?"
-
This Is His Angel
Dean's eyes are set to pop right the hell out of his head. This is his angel? This is the hothead who beat the crap out of him, this is the stony-faced stoic whose voice barely ever breaks from its guttural monotone? Can't be. But every push of skin and taut muscle says it is, and Dean can't stop staring.
Because Dean is buried balls deep in him and Castiel is riding him, hands vises around Dean's wrists pulling his arms like they're reins and Dean's an unruly bull. His head is thrown back and his back is arched and he's keening, moaning, a tumble of quick yes-yes-yes-yeses turning into a low cry. He jerks his hips forward and gyrates them on Dean. Cas is riding the shit out of him, completely lost in the intensity of it, and Dean doesn't think he's ever seen him like this before.
Then again, maybe this is exactly who Cas is. The hotheaded angel who rebelled, whose tongue is quick to demand respect from Dean, is dominating him now. Maybe Dean's not the one being penetrated, but Castiel's still very much in charge -- he's moving to get the right angle in, hissing every time Dean hits it, even though Dean is barely moving. The stoic takes all the work on himself, as usual. And the rebel is taking the spoils, doing what Dean's always told him to do and letting go.
Yeah, this is his Cas. And it's that knowledge that sends Dean over the edge into a gritted-teeth, shut-eyes, curled-fingers climax. Because if this is Cas, then it's the closest they've ever been, and that is the biggest turn-on of all.
-
Enjoy It
Astrid has to admit that she was the last person to find herself in this position, but quite frankly, after that, she's ready to start a blog or shout from the rooftops: Sex with an older man? Rocks, girls!
Not that she'll be doing anything like that any time soon. Right now, she is settling back into a pair of arms that are warm, and wrinkled, and soft, and feeling like the queen of the world. "Whoo," she says, a laugh breaking up the sound.
Walter chuckles and kisses her hair right behind her ear. "You were magnificent," he says, and his voice is chocolate-rich.
"Me?" She laughs. "Walter, you just-- I don't even know how you did that. I think I lost count after the third time." She twists in his arms, looks up at him, and he puts well-worn fingers on her face and draws her in for a kiss. "I'm... I'm not going to catch my breath for another week," she murmurs, though she's the one talking a blue streak right now.
He calls her on it. "You seem to be doing an admirable job." Damn it, she would have to try to bluff a genius. She cuts off any further smart-ass remarks by kissing him soundly.
When the kiss is through, he looks at her seriously, runs a finger down one stubborn curl of her hair. "Astrid, dearest, I hope you know what this has meant to me--"
She settles down into the crook of his arms. "Shut up and enjoy it, Walter," she chides. But she knows. When his lips mist over her jawline, when he folds her up like something precious he might never catch again, she knows exactly what it means.
-
Nothing Day
"Do you realize what happened today?" Sam says suddenly.
They both stare at him.
"Nothing. Isn't that great?"
They stare at him a little harder. But when Sam starts rattling off how three years ago tomorrow was the day he died, and four years ago the day after that was when he had to "do something he didn't want to do" (which Dean remembers involved killing someone he loved) and the day after that fifteen years ago was when he and Dean got in a gigantic screaming fight that ended in Dean slugging him and saying "don't you dare come to me when you need me," and the day after that a year ago was when Castiel became the proverbial Chunky soup, that's when it starts to dawn on them just what a nice thing today is.
Dean then goes to the local bakery and picks up a pie, a nice cherry one across the top of which he has them write in loopy letters "Happy Nothing Day"; Castiel does his thing and gets beer and burgers through shady means; and Sam meets the two of them in a wide park with a couple of kids playing a pickup baseball game in one corner. They spread out a blanket, sit, drink and eat. Cas' trench coat is rumpled on the grass. Dean grins up at the sun. "This is living," he says, and Sam wonders if he knows just how true and significant a statement that is.
Bringing it to his attention, though, would defeat the purpose. This is living, and for once they take some time to do it without worrying about it or trying to protect it. Beer tingles on their tongues, pie melts sweet after rich meat, and they swap dirty jokes (some of them translated from the Enochian) and just hang out. By the time the sun is low and orange in the sky, they're not drunk - not enough beer to do that - but they're damned happy nonetheless.
"Happy Nothing Day," Sam says, with a hand on Castiel's shoulder, as they walk back to the car.
"Yes," says Castiel, "it is."
Sam figures he doesn't really know how significant a statement that is, either. But that's cool.
-
I Know How You Feel
"So you're an angel." Jo peered at him through slitted eyes. Her beer dangled between two expertly looped fingers.
Castiel felt an inexplicable need to loosen his collar. "Yes." He cleared his throat.
"You don't look like an angel."
He grimaced. "I've heard that before."
"And you don't like it." Jo's smile curled to one side of her lips, leaving her face lopsided and jaunty. "I know how you feel."
He drew up into himself proudly. "No, you don't."
"Let me guess." She snapped her fingers. "Spend your whole life trying to show off to the man upstairs, then when he finally gives you a big job to do, you screw it up and never hear the end of it."
Castiel stood. "Have you been talking to Dean?"
"Well, yes." She took a swig of beer and grinned widely at him. "But I also have a mom."
-
Strings
His life was in bright angles and sharp corners. A splash of blood across his horizon was not color but death; the horror and revulsion that anyone would dare to war on heaven struck through him and curled him up inside. The voices of his brothers, all indistinct and blending together, held him up when he couldn't stand. He marched with them, white wings and robes, silver-steel blades. The music of the choirs spurred him on. He had no voice of his own. He didn't need one. He was a string on the harp, one of hundreds. There was no him. There was them. There was Heaven, and there was everything else.
The march on Hell had stained everything. Orange flame and red skies, his brothers struck down, and some of the strings came loose from their tightly tuned machine. Castiel began to doubt. He feared that the next string to be plucked would be his. And then what help could he be, how would he defend Heaven against the evils that threatened it? For the first time, having his own name, his own being meant something. If he were to find glory on this quest, if the Righteous Man were to fall into his care, surely his survival would be assured. He would be safe.
He shouted until he could finally hear his own voice over the din of clashes and war songs. And he rushed forward to claim the prize he had earned. His hand fell onto the arm of a man who had killed and been killed.
And immediately the regimented songs of Heaven scattered into a thousand pieces. A cacophony of voices, hearts, thoughts drifted into his consciousness. Castiel saw a childhood. A family in which every son had his own voice. Fights for power, for individuality.
"You have to give me some room to breathe!" said a voice in the Man's memory.
"What about loyalty to your family?" said another.
"Sometimes you just have to do what's right," said a third voice. They were all different. They thought different things. Their beliefs were a messy hodgepodge of contradictions. Strings not carefully laid in line but hopelessly tangled. And playing music nonetheless.
Behind him lay the masses of a heavenly army. Below his hand lay a way he'd never seen before.
Perhaps he had his own voice, too.
Castiel grabbed that mess of strings, and he pulled hard.