turn that frown upside down

[tiptoe39]

I want to write and be read today. Is there anything I can write for yall? Leave commentfic prompts if you like.

I can't promise anything and whatever I write will be small but....

I'd just like to write something that isn't fivesentencesmut right now.

EDIT thanks guys... i'm mopey and slow so sorry i'm not goin thru these faster.

Comments

[morganoconner.livejournal.com]

I probably won't have a chance to read anything until I get back from my interview late this afternoon, but it would be really lovely to have some Dean/Gabriel schmoop to come home to? Maybe some cuddling and smooches after Dean's been hurt on a hunt?

*huggles* I'm sorry you're depressed bb. If there's anything I can do to help, let me know? Love you!

♥

this came out super angstyyy and not very schmoopy at all.

[tiptoe39.livejournal.com]

Neither Dean nor Gabriel is the cuddly sort, not by a long shot. They're not holding hands in public, they're not using endearments unless they're facetious (but honey bear, I told you that the ice cream would melt all over the floor, so clean it up, schnookums!), they're just not doing any of that. If they have begrudgingly decided they honestly just like each other enough to live together, and if the sex is good enough (and is it ever!), that's not because of some fairy-pants, Pollyanna, spoon-gaggingly romantic love. It just works. There's no need to shout it from the rooftops.

But sometimes, just once in a while, Dean comes back from a hunt with blood caked in his hair and the dying breath of an innocent lingering on his fingertips. He scuffs his shoes on the mat, looking down, trying to see if the guilt will come off with the grass and mud.

And Gabriel, who's been watching the Three Stooges since 3 p.m., stops mid-laugh and rises, his eyes bright with concern. He doesn't say a word, because any word would be wrong. He just comes over, stands with his toes at the edge of the mat, and raises a palm to Dean's face.

Dean's still looking down. "You're wearing those striped socks," he says. "I hate those damn socks."

A moment of wavering, a slight pressure of Gabriel's hand, and Dean crumples forward.

His head bows into Gabriel's shoulder. There's a comforting smell there, like caramel and coffee, and he holds tight as Gabriel guides him across the floor and down onto the couch. There are grown men poking each other in the eye and getting hit by cream pies on the TV screen, and the manic regularity of their movements is something like comfort too -- a reminder that life still moves on in the background, quick and ridiculous, when the heart comes to a standstill.

Gabriel folds his knees, lets Dean down to lie in his lap. Perhaps he's meant to sleep there, but Dean just stares at the striped socks until he can't stand it anymore. He sits up. "Those are so distracting," he complains.

He gets a tilted head and a quirked brow in response. And for the first time since the hunt went bad, Dean finds the strength to smile.

[prettybird.livejournal.com]

SPN or PSME, sharing a meal with family (blood or otherwise).

Really, just anything that isn't sad would be awesome.

pre-series

[tiptoe39.livejournal.com]

There are, on occasions, times when Haruhiko's father has time to eat with them. If Haru's in the hospital, he'll hang his hat on the hospital room door and sit down for a family meal prepared on identical cafeteria trays; but when Haruhiko is at home, those are the high points of his year.

His father's stout, jolly, and he looks more Italian than Japanese; between him and his wife, it's remarkable that Haruhiko looks Japanese at all. He likes to cook, too, and when he's home Haruhiko will look up from his magazines and smile as he hears his parents jostling and bantering in the kitchen over the sound of the rice cooker's jumping. The rich smells of broiled fish and seaweed fill the house, and Haru's heart feels stronger already for having those scents in his nostrils and filling up his lungs.

He runs down the stairs, and his mother puts her hand over her heart, afraid the exertion will finish him off, but not even death could keep him from the dinner table.

They kneel on the mats, and Haru flushes with the steam of the soup rising into his face. He looks healthier then than he ever does, and his mother's hand is on her heart for a different reason now as he shovels away rice and talks about dinosaurs and science and his lovely dreams of the "pretty girl in the moon," as his father calls her.

Soon there will be a seismic shift in Haru's life. He will meet a man named Tamura who will become the full-time father he's never had. But right now, not knowing what that's like, Haruhiko is too fragile to be bitter. And these moments are bright gleaming rays of sunlight, treasures for all of them.

[mulder200.livejournal.com]

SPN, Dean/Castiel, pie

[tiptoe39.livejournal.com]

Dean Winchester's Ode to Pie

Pie is delicious.
It's delicious when it's apple.
It's delicious when it's blueberry.
It's delicious when it's cherry, and no I don't mean that kind, but yeah, well, that kind too.

It's delicious when you eat it with your hands.
It's delicious on the end of a fork.
It's delicious hanging off an angel's lips, with the taste of his mouth just beneath the taste of the whipped cream.
(Her mouth. I mean her mouth. Of course.)

It's delicious when you bite off a big piece.
It's delicious with each little nibble.
It's delicious licked off an elbow or fingers or sometimes a thigh, with crumbs everywhere so you've got salty and sweet at the same time.
And it's delicious when you're not the one doing the licking.
(Shut up, Sam, I'm pouring my heart out in epic poetry here.)

Pie is delicious in every flavor, on every plate, and eaten with every topping and utensil you can imagine.
And on every body part.
And... yes, God damn it, all right, it's delicious when I'm fucking sucking it off Castiel's cock, OK? Are you happy now? For crap's sake, Sam!
(...Sam?
What's that look for?
Wait, you didn't...
you didn't know?)

Aw, crap.
I'll be right back.
Just... leave me a slice of the damn pie, OK?


*applause*

[bballgirl3022.livejournal.com]

I would totally love some Dean/Cas cuddly goodness.

i imagine they're a bit older here

[tiptoe39.livejournal.com]

"Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and all the angels in heaven, it's fricking cold out," Dean says. He looks over his shoulder. "Uh, no offense, there, Cas."'

"None taken." Castiel is wrapped in a turtleneck wrapped in a blanket on the couch, and he's huddling against a mug of cocoa. If he had salt-and-pepper hair, he'd be a goddamn Christmas special.

Dean resumes shedding his coat; the sweater he's got on underneath is threadbare, and as he puts the groceries on the counter his hands ache, so brittle he thinks they're going to snap right off. "Aren't you cozy."

"You could join me." Said, always, in that low, casual tone that drives Dean crazy to this day trying to figure it out.

"After I put the eggnog away, genius." Brittle hands or no, Castiel looks like the definition of warm and toasty over there on the couch, so Dean moves quick to rid himself of the groceries. It doesn't even occur to him to ask for help; Cas looks too perfect all nestled up there, and Dean couldn't think of shattering that picture.

He's thawing a bit by the time he gravitates to the sofa and forces his stiff legs to bend. Castiel raises the blanket like a cape, setting his cocoa aside on the end table and opening mug-warmed hands to curl around Dean's jaw. "You are cold," he murmurs, pressing his lips to Dean's in a soft greeting.

"D-duh," Dean starts, but his jaw stutters, half undone by the cold and half by the kiss. He curls up the lower hem of Castiel's turtleneck and flattens his palms against the angel's stomach; Castiel hisses with the sudden cold and Dean chuckles and sighs as warmth starts to bleed into his fingertips.

Castiel's eyes droop; he leans forward, drawing Dean into his arms, and presses their foreheads together. "You need to warm up," he says.

"Remember what I said about 'Duh'?" Dean arches an eyebrow at him; this close, his vision is out of focus, and three or four sets of eyelashes blink back.

"Perhaps I just like to hear you say it." Castiel's fingertips dance up Dean's spine, and a different kind of chill assaults Dean's senses in their wake.

"That's a strange thing to like." Dean's warming up now, gut first, and he presses his mouth to Castiel's again, feeling the sweet surge of want fill his still-cold toes with tingles.

"I like your superior look," Castiel says, and the secret smile on his face is so very knowing that Dean can only think there must be secrets inside it. He pulls the blanket over them and goes searching.

[lexhibition.livejournal.com]

Castiel/Meg, eating pizza (and that's not a euphemism XDD)

[tiptoe39.livejournal.com]

"This is very problematic."

Meg looks at Cas, who is looking at a string of cheese still tying his slice to the box. She licks a smear of tomato sauce from her lips. "You're too funny."

Castiel scowls. "I do not wish to violate hygiene, but there are no utensils here with which to detach--"

"Use your hands. Geez, you'd think we'd never swapped spit before."

Castiel reaches out, curls a finger around the lingering string, and pulls. It comes apart with a bounce that plasters the cheese against his face. He frowns, crosses his eyes as though trying to look at it. "I really don't like pizza," he says.

"You haven't even had any yet!" Meg swallows her mouthful and leans back, kicking her feet up onto the table. "Come on, Clarence, it's not gonna bite you."

"It already did." Castiel peels the cheese off his cheek and gazes dubiously at the greasy piece. "And I can't use a fork?"

"You eat pizza with a fork, you're going to a hell even I can't get you out of," she said. "It is a cardinal sin. Roll up and go." She bends her slice in half and takes a big bite.

Castiel attempts. He looks rather more like he's trying to trap a wild beast, opening his mouth wide and attempting to guide the pizza in with a quick stab that misses and spatters tomato sauce on his cheek.

Meg sighs and throws up her hands. "This isn't working," she says. "Clearly I'm gonna have to feed you."

Castiel hunches forward. "I can feed myself." He manages to put his mouth around a bite and chews defiantly at her, still red-cheeked from his earlier, less successful encounter.

She gets up and plunks herself in his lap. "Still," she says, licking a stripe of marinara from his skin, "I can't let all that good food go to waste."

[tiptoe39.livejournal.com]

I can do dark. I am PMS-y too.

[princess-aleera.livejournal.com]

Fandom: Supernatural

I talk to God as much as I talk to Satan
'Cause I want to hear both sides?
Does that make me cynical?

Any POV/pairing. Gen's okay, too. Go wild, if you wanna. <3

rare character tiem

[tiptoe39.livejournal.com]

Ava's not completely gone, you know. She's simply weighed the options on the table. Go and meet her maker at the hands of one of the others, or take control of the situation and at the very least delay the cold hand of the Reaper before it takes her.

She's prayed on it, but God doesn't talk. The yellow-eyed demon, though, he talks. He talks a good line, and he makes good promises. Ava doesn't trust him either, but so far, he's made good on everything he's told her.

Like the way her power has opened up. Like the way the demons treat her with something resembling respect. Like the way she barely flinches now, the way the fear has drained from her body the way the blood drains through the floor after each one of the others dies.

She thinks the demons might drink it up. In which case it's a win-win. It keeps them happy, it keeps her from having to clean it up or destroy evidence, and if they're drinking her victims' blood (how easy it is to think of them as victims without remorse, now!) they're not getting thirsty for hers.

Maybe that makes her cold-hearted, or cynical. But Ava feels like she's given every side a fair shake. She knows which side her bread is buttered on, and frankly, it's even starting to be fun.

[ember-firedrake.livejournal.com]

In a H50 mood, sooo Steve/Danny, lazy from heat. :)

[tiptoe39.livejournal.com]

Danny didn't think he'd ever see a day too hot for Steve, not for this Navy SEAL George of the Jungle type who would sooner chew out his own liver than ever back down from a challenge. But it's an unusually muggy day, something to do with the mountains and moisture and fog, and everyone in Hawaii who thrives on dry heat is suddenly overtaken by the evil life-sucking demon that is humidity.

Danny, having grown up and lived in New Jersey, is fine with it.

"Steve," he says, flopping down on the bed between Steve's legs (not in a lewd way, or at least not yet - Steve's quite literally airing out his bits.)

"Nmmnm." There's a pillow over Steve's head, how that keeps him cool Danny has no idea but logic has never worked with this man.

"Steven. You're killing me here. Get up, you're going to grow mold."

"Sh'dup," Steve says.

"That's original. And creative, and quite eloquent, too. What is wrong with you? So it's muggy. You could do a hundred-meter freestyle in a hot spring if you wanted."

Steve's body twitches on the bed, but he doesn't say a thing.

"That's it." Danny heaves a sigh. "You want me to make matters worse? Because I can make matters worse if you don't get up."

Nothing.

"You asked for it." And now Danny does worm himself up into the notch of Steve's legs, blowing cool air over the aforementioned bits.

"Nng, that's nice, do that again," Steve says. First coherent sentence out of him in a while.

"Are you for serious? Yeah, OK." Danny blows a line of air down his thigh. Steve's knee turns outward to try and get some air in the sweaty fold beneath it.

"Do I look like your personal air conditioning? For Pete's sake." Danny licks up that line of sweat instead, and Steve shivers all over. "Oh, shivers are good. Shivers are progress." He kisses the inside of Steve's thigh.

Steve's hands come down and grip his hair, pulling him closer, trying to tug him upward.

"Steve. You do realize this is heading in a direction that's just going to make you more hot and sweaty."

The only response is a harder tug. "Geez. Yowch. OK." Danny sighs. "No complaining later, babe."

There are no complaints later, but mostly that's just because they're both unable to move.

[sin-stained-ink.livejournal.com]

Sam and Gabriel (or Sam/Gabriel. It's so much harder to hide at night.

after mystery spot

[tiptoe39.livejournal.com]

Sam has the feeling he's being watched for a long time after he packs up on the Wednesday after six months that didn't happen. He has it all the time, but at night it's particularly bad, a prickling on the back of his neck, the sound of a chuckle with no mirth in it just barely audible in the back of a loud room. He turns around and sees no one, all the time.

He should avoid it, should run from it, and most of the time he does, skulking around back roads and taking sudden turns. It doesn't help, he can't get away from it, but he tries. During the day.

At night he just wants to face it head-on.

He goes out into the parking lot one night, when Dean's in a drunken stupor that can't be disturbed, and faces his palms up to the sky. "What?" he says. "What do you want?"

Nothing. Perhaps a faint echo of laughter.

"Why are you hiding?" Sam shouts. Desperation echoes in his voice.

A single footstep on gravel. "I figured you didn't want to see me," says the Trickster.

Sam turns, gapes, his jaw hanging open. He brushes his hair back from his face. His bangs are starting to grow out now, and they're annoying, always flopping everywhere. "You."

"Yep." The Trickster swings his clasped hands forward. "But you knew that."

"I didn't--" Sam stops. Maybe he did.

The Trickster smiles, tilts his head, stares at him with an expression of casual curiosity. Sam feels like a lab rat. He shifts uncomfortably. "So why?"

"Just seeing if my lesson took," the Trickster says. "Disappointed so far. You really are a numbskull, aren't you, Sam?"

Sam's jaw sets. He frowns, and if he could shoot through the Trickster with the heat of his eyes there'd be a melted demigod dribbling into the gravel right now. "If you mean I should give up on him, forget it. It's never gonna happen."

"It'll be easier for you in the long run."

"Bull." Sam scowls harder.

The Trickster feigns terror. "Whoa, watch those flaring nostrils, kid, you might hit someone."

"You know what?" Sam says. "If you had a brother, you'd understand. That's the thing about all of you sons of bitches. If you had a brother, someone you'd die for, you'd know exactly why I can never give up on him. Never."

The Trickster's face grows red, and his lips turn down. A rare moment when he's without a smile. For a moment Sam thinks he's going to get screamed at.

Then, without a word, the Trickster lowers his eyes and vanishes.

After that, Sam no longer has that feeling he's being watched. If only it felt like a relief.

[aerilex.livejournal.com]

May I have a D/C wing!cuddle if you're still responding to prompts?

this is not a cuddle, this is esoteric crap

[tiptoe39.livejournal.com]

Dean dreams about feathers sometimes. Not white feathers. Dark, dirty feathers like pigeon feathers, the sort of thing that in real life would gross him the hell out. In the dream, though, even though they're gray to black, they seem to have light inside them. Like a home wrapped up in dark shingles, but there's a lamp on inside the upstairs window, so you still feel happy when you finally make it to the front door.

The only lamplight Dean knows these days is the car light that goes on when he opens up the driver's side door. Which is, in itself, home, but that doesn't mean he doesn't wish for more. For an upstairs window, and the welcoming light that emanates from the heart of the darkest place.

Then he is gone to the darkness, and in that place he can no longer dream.

A lifetime later, he's brought forth from the pit, and he still doesn't dream, can't dream of anything but screams and blood and fire.

Until he sees the shadow of angel wings against the doors of a barn.

For the first time the wings make sense.

Still, it will be a long time before he's able to trust himself to knock on that front door, to ask entry to the warmth of dark wings. It will take courage and self-knowledge like Dean's never allowed himself to have, an acceptance of all that he is, and all that he's done. And an acceptance, finally, of the love that's been guiding him all this time. His mouth will seek out the benediction of another's, his arms will stretch forward toward warmth, and he'll draw himself up toward the light because finally, he can forgive himself. Finally, it's all right to be happy.

Then, wrapped up in a flood of darkness that feels so much like light, Dean will look into Castiel's eyes and know at last that he's home.

[chibikameai.livejournal.com]

Did I miss the band wagon on this one? Is it still too late to add something? How about some femslash: Anna/young!Mary back in the seat impala sex!

Hope you cheer up soon.

[tiptoe39.livejournal.com]

"You shouldn't be out here," Mary chides her through the glass. She looks furtively to and fro, and her blonde hair bounces as she does, picked up by the breeze.

"And you shouldn't come in here," Anna says levelly from the back seat.

"It's John's car! And it's cramped." But Mary's climbing in, giggling.

"I've been in the back seat of this car before," Anna says. "There's plenty of room."

"Do I want to know?"

Anna reaches out for her. "Probably not."

Mary's still laughing as she slides into Anna's arms, as her mouth falls against Anna's mouth and the liquid music of her giggles slide in. Anna tastes her laughter and takes it in, transmutes it to moans and sighs, and looks up at this beautiful young future-mother and sees the same devil-may-care sexiness that her son once held.

For a moment, between the unclasping of bras and the slide of fingers between legs, Mary thinks she sees a whisper of sadness in the wayward angel's face. When her hand curls around Anna's shoulder, it's like she's trying to press hard enough to leave a mark.

"Is everything all right?" she whispers, pressing kisses to Anna's ear like they're a storm of stars.

"I wish I could do more for you," Anna says. Her hands cinch around Mary's waist and hold her fast. Red hair moves like a cloud as Anna cranes her neck upward to bury her face in Mary's slim shoulder. "I wish I could save you. I wish I could save them."

"Anna?" Mary wants to ask more, but then pink lips are against hers like a vise and slender thighs are pumping against hers. It's so easy to forget, then, and Mary has so much she wishes she could forget. She suspects Anna does, too. So as much as she might want to ask, she stays silent and gives Anna the luxury of oblivion.

[lovedlea.livejournal.com]

Something 3some-y? No pairing preference, just mmf.

sam dean and ruby as requested.

[tiptoe39.livejournal.com]

Suppose she doesn't get killed. Suppose Dean doesn't get there in time. Suppose she lives on.

The world goes dark. Lucifer walks. Sam is never cleansed, he stays addicted, and Dean can't abandon him no matter what. He's losing faith in anything besides pain, and when Famine marches across the land, he hungers for closeness, he hungers for Sam.

He finds them in bed together and tears her away from him, touching his own mouth to her opened vein. He will drink the demon blood too, if that means Sam will be closer to him again.

He doesn't expect it to go to his head like wine; he doesn't expect it to sink to his gut like a pinup. He's suddenly ravaging her body as well as her blood; when Sam reasserts himself, grabbing her by the waist, Dean snarls at him like an angry dog until he realizes he's holding her waist, guiding her up and down on Dean's cock, so she's free to touch herself and gasp and open her arm for them to drink. Her blood-soaked hand touches Dean's lips, then Sam's, and then forces them forward an inch at a time until they're breathing into each other's mouths. Then they forgo her entirely, kissing and licking desperately while she rides weightless between them, kicking her legs forward and shaking violently, laughing as she comes, the conductor in this concerto of their destruction.

[zekkass.livejournal.com]

*hugs* I don't like it when my flist is sad. So - could I ask for some Mamoru/Usagi fluff?

And failing that, some Gabriel/Sam in a library fluff would be nice, too. :)

two for the price of one.

[tiptoe39.livejournal.com]

He's carrying really old books... so old that Mamoru is intrigued. He doesn't mean to follow, but sneaking has always been second nature to him, so he tails the tall guy all the way to the end of the row, where the stranger stops, looks around suspiciously, and whispers, "Is someone there?"

Mamoru might be a good sneak, but that doesn't make him a creep. He clears his throat. "I'm sorry," he says in his still-accented English, "I saw your old books, and I was curious."

He swings around the end of the aisle to face the stranger. "What are they about?"

A few minutes later they're chatting animatedly about demon lore and life energy as sunlight streams through a high, wide window. Sam has wide brown eyes, eyes that hold a sort of darkness that Mamoru immediately pities him for having to shoulder. But there's hope, too, something bright in the center of the pitch-black pupils, and Mamoru says, "I think that you have seen angels, too. Maybe one watches over you?"

"Maybe," Sam says, coy. "Angels aren't always so great, but I've got one of the good ones in my corner."

"Me, too," Mamoru says. smiling fondly. "Even if she drives me crazy sometimes."

"So does mine."

"Really?"

"Yes." A pause. "Maybe they're meant to."

Sam says it so readily that Mamoru looks up. Their eyes catch, and without knowing, or having a clue, they fall into an understanding, like they've been friends for years.

Better an angel to drive you crazy than no angels at all.

[ladyeternal.livejournal.com]

I'm adding my voice to the chorus here:

SPN, lying in a quiet meadow or lawn

Sam/Cas, Sam/Gabe or OT4- whichever suits your mood.

♥

[tiptoe39.livejournal.com]

Dean would rather sleep in the car, but Dean doesn't get a choice in the matter. Gabriel's seen to that with a snap of the fingers. There's a single tree over them, casting shade that leaves only their feet in the path of the sun, warming their chilled toes as the rest of them cool and relax after the grueling rigor of an all-night hunt.

"So what, we're not allowed to get up until...?"

"Until you're good and rested," Gabriel says. "And that goes for you too, Captain Trenchpants." He gives a scathing look at Castiel, who is lying face up, stiff, as though he's about to get put through a CAT scan.

"He's right, you know," Sam sighs and lays a hand over Castiel's. "You should relax. Just let your body recover."

"I can heal my body--"

"But you shouldn't have to," Sam says, quietly insistent. "Just let it go at its own pace for once."

"They don't understand us men of action," Dean says, turning onto his side to grin at Castiel.

"Oh, please. You look like you're one margarita away from comatose." Gabriel settles down into the grass himself. "Now close your eyes, inhale the fresh air, and take a fricking nap, the lot of you. Behave, or I'll draw mustaches on you in your sleep."

"You will not," Sam says, and yawns. "You're gonna sleep, too."

"Stop telling all my secrets," Gabriel says and crawls his way over to Sam's chest to lean on it. "Mean bitch."

Dean gives a half-conscious murmur of assent. Castiel's breathing evens out.

Hand in hand, head on chest, shoulder to shoulder and heart to heart, they fall asleep in the shade, the world turning slowly around them.

[melalucci.livejournal.com]

Dean and Cas! Something happy and sweet and romantic!

lovedlea suggested a picnic.

[tiptoe39.livejournal.com]

No marine life was harmed in the making of this drabble.


"This is a strange spot for a picnic," Castiel said, drawing his coat a little tighter around him and trying to tame the mad flaps of its edges without much success.

Dean was leaning back, back arched to lift his face and chest to the sun. His arm was wrapped around one knee, and the other leg dangled dangerously over the edge of the bluff. "What are you talking about? It's the perfect place for a picnic. Nobody around, gorgeous view, no ants, and when you're done--" He tossed a piece of styrofoam over the edge, leaning forward to watch it travel down, down along the red cliffs and splash in the waves below.

"That's littering," Castiel said.

"That's plausible deniability," said Dean. "I've seen you drop crap on the side of the highway, what's the difference?"

Castiel glowered at him but said nothing.

"Besides--" Dean got up, sending the corner of the picnic blanket flapping in the wind, and crouched next to Castiel, sliding hands around his waist. "It's romantic. Tragic and romantic. Like Lover's Leap."

"I don't consider double suicide romantic."

Dean buried his head in Castiel's shoulder. "You're hopeless. It's not like I want to jump off a damn cliff with you, it's just-- the idea of it. Like, if it came to that, would you take the plunge? Would you jump off a cliff, just so we could do it together?"

"Yes."

It came easily, without hesitation. Dean lifted his head and stared at Castiel's profile.

"I would never wish such a thing to happen," Castiel said slowly, furrowing his brow. "And I hope there would be some other way. But if my choice were that stark, then yes. I would-- take that plunge with you, Dean."

His eyes were bluer than the junction of ocean and sky. Dean held his breath.

Castiel turned to him and stole a brief, brushing kiss from his parted mouth. Dean slid his arms further around him and held tight. Together, they gazed out into the eternity of the horizon, warm against the chilly torrent of the sea breeze.

[ladyjane]

Joining the hopeful, if it's not too late I'd like to request a DARK fic.

Looking for a spell to add authenticity to her story, Becky accidently activates a love spell. Writer's choice as to whether Sam has to fend off a rabid fan girl who will go to any lengths to get her man; or, if Becky has to face a love-crazed Sam determined to make her his.

ugh, making this dark and not cracky turned my stomach. i hope it's what you wanted.

[tiptoe39.livejournal.com]

Becky didn't know how she was still holding the door closed. Sam was a big meaty guy -- if he wanted to he could break down the door and force his way in. Her heart was hammering, but she held still as he rapped his knuckles hard enough that he had to be bleeding.

"Becky, just open the door. Just let me in," he kept saying. "I just want to talk. Come on, Becky, I know you feel it too."

"I don't feel it!" she shouted, bracing her hands across the doorway. "I don't feel it, and neither do you, it's a love spell, please, Sam, just fight it!"

"But why should I?" His voice was high and plaintive, and Becky's heart twinged. "You liked me, Becky, I know you did, you said so! Now I like you back, so why can't we just be happy?"

"I liked you, Sam!" She sighed. "Not this crazy lovesick thing you're becoming. This isn't how you'd act, not if you really liked me!"

Tears were coming to her eyes. She was terrified. She'd read the lore on the spell, she knew what would happen if he came within touching distance of her. She'd dreamed of Sam Winchester ravishing her, sure, but not like that. "Please," she said. "If you love me, then just... just go away. Just leave me alone, let me try to find some way to undo this."

"I can't," he said, "I can't stand it, you're crying, let me hold you, I'll make you feel better."

Forgetting he couldn't see her, she shook her head silently, tears streaming down her cheeks. This wasn't what she wanted. This was the furthest thing in the world from what she wanted. "Please, God," she whispered, "someone help me."

And then it occurred to her.

"Please," she said again. "Castiel."