Hello, Goodbye. Also, SPN fic bits
So I'm off to family vacation land in the Poconos for most of this next week and I've really got to pack, but... *waves*
But then I'll be back in VT for a week and then writercon and then my brother's driving me to Chicago! *bounces*
Anyway, before I left I figured I might as well spill some SPN fic-ish bits that have been moldering on my hard-drive. The first is a pre-series Wincest-ish double drabble that isn't going to go anywhere else. The second is a dash of Faith/Dean that probably will.
Title: Things That Come From Books
Pairing/Characters: Wincest-flavored
Rating: R, for language and sexual implications
Summary: Pre-series. Dean POV.
Disclaimer: Still not mine. Don't sue.
Dean taught Sam how to do a lot of things: how to tie his shoelaces (Dad was busy), how to load a gun with rock salt, how to jump start a car battery.
(How to jerk off. With surreptitious spittle for glide and secret thumb swirl circles around the head before you pull.)
Sam got taller than his big brother so fast. And then he wanted to learn about things that Dean couldn’t teach him. Things that come from books. And not tomes of demon lore, neither, but crisp, clean library books with indexes and appendixes and dewey decimal coding.
*****
Sam didn’t need him anymore, with his shiny, new college boy life going on. Dean could picture Sam, probably wearing dorky-ass sweaters and loafers and grinning that disturbingly megawatt, Rembrandt smile. Sipping mochachinos with other smart kids while Dean drinks dishwater coffee from greasy spoons while waiting for Dad. Always waiting for Dad.
(Waiting for Sam.)
He calls just to listen to Sammy’s voicemail sometimes, and though it changes from month to month, it always sounds dorky boy happy and that’s good. Yeah, it’s probably good that Sam’s gotten out. But it feels like shit all the same over here.
*****
The following Faith/Dean scraplet is about 650 words long, set mid-S2, and is rated NC17. Comes after Not in Kansas Anymore but that really doesn't matter for this bit.
Sometimes Sam’s broodiness catches up with him all at once, and like a strike of lighting, he takes off to. . .do whatever it is Sam does when he’s chasing the ghosts that have nothing to do with Dean. The ones outside of Dean’s area of expertise-the ones that can’t be dealt with using a shotgun and rock salt.
But at least this time, Dean’s not alone, twiddling his thumbs and waiting to see how long this particular spell of Sammy’s will last. This time’s she’s here. And she’s got beer.
Faith sidles up all siren sexy with a cold longneck in each hand, tossing her long hair in a way that’s less shampoo-commercial feminine mystique than functional, but still, you know-shiny. How she manages to slink like that while also clomping (audibly) in those shitkickers of hers is a mystery to him. Faith takes the leaning space a foot away from Dean and reclines against the hood of the Impala. Then she gives him a slight grin and unceremoniously removes both bottle caps with her teeth and hands one over.
Fuck.
She’s a show-off, but it works. Dean can appreciate that. He cocks his head slightly on a short, jerky axis, bugs his eyes out and smiles at Faith all wide and giddy like she’s something completely new. They both raise their beers and clink them together automatically, ‘cause that’s what you do.
They’re both halfway through-chug chug-before Faith breaks the non-brewsky-slurping silence.
“What’s up with your bro? He gets this look sometimes like a cross between a wounded puppy and, I don’t know, he’s got to take a dump in a real bad way or something.”
A staccato half-choke, half-laugh thing erupts from Dean before he can stop himself. But he musters a quick save and crumples his face into what he hopes is an appropriately serious facial expression, mostly so she won’t think he’s a psychopath. Her words are crude-but true-and hilarious in a really sad, really fucked up kind of way. But then, tragedy is no reason to leave behind the dick and fart jokes, in Dean’s opinion. Dean has a feeling she might understand that. But still. . .
Dean sighs and rakes his fingers gracelessly through his hair.
“He’s, uh, grieving.”
Faith doesn’t blink.
“Oh,” she says and nods. Takes another hit off her beer. “Got it.”
And from the look in her eye, Dean thinks that she really does get it, but he doesn’t ask, he just drains his bottle dry and pins her up against the hood of his car, taking her neck hostage with his mouth and shoving his knee up between her thighs until she growls into his parted lips.
*****
Dean slides into her ass slowly and groans. Faith wiggles her rear in response and grabs his hands and places them on her tits, and when he starts to really move, it is good. God, is it good.
The weird thing about fucking Faith is that she is totally down for all kinds of shit, and she makes no bones about it. Lets him fuck her six ways to Sunday, but Dean never feels like he’s taking from her (even when she yells at him to do exactly that). Because no matter who’s fucking who, or what gets inserted where or in whom (and you are NOT going to repeat that), it still feels like they’re meeting somewhere in the middle. Where things are raw, and they both clearly have more wounds than either would normally ‘fess up to, and where they can lick each other a little bit cleaner.
*****
Note: The rest of my Faith/Dean odds and ends can be found here. Largely 'shippy and porny, I warn you.
But then I'll be back in VT for a week and then writercon and then my brother's driving me to Chicago! *bounces*
Anyway, before I left I figured I might as well spill some SPN fic-ish bits that have been moldering on my hard-drive. The first is a pre-series Wincest-ish double drabble that isn't going to go anywhere else. The second is a dash of Faith/Dean that probably will.
Title: Things That Come From Books
Pairing/Characters: Wincest-flavored
Rating: R, for language and sexual implications
Summary: Pre-series. Dean POV.
Disclaimer: Still not mine. Don't sue.
Dean taught Sam how to do a lot of things: how to tie his shoelaces (Dad was busy), how to load a gun with rock salt, how to jump start a car battery.
(How to jerk off. With surreptitious spittle for glide and secret thumb swirl circles around the head before you pull.)
Sam got taller than his big brother so fast. And then he wanted to learn about things that Dean couldn’t teach him. Things that come from books. And not tomes of demon lore, neither, but crisp, clean library books with indexes and appendixes and dewey decimal coding.
*****
Sam didn’t need him anymore, with his shiny, new college boy life going on. Dean could picture Sam, probably wearing dorky-ass sweaters and loafers and grinning that disturbingly megawatt, Rembrandt smile. Sipping mochachinos with other smart kids while Dean drinks dishwater coffee from greasy spoons while waiting for Dad. Always waiting for Dad.
(Waiting for Sam.)
He calls just to listen to Sammy’s voicemail sometimes, and though it changes from month to month, it always sounds dorky boy happy and that’s good. Yeah, it’s probably good that Sam’s gotten out. But it feels like shit all the same over here.
*****
The following Faith/Dean scraplet is about 650 words long, set mid-S2, and is rated NC17. Comes after Not in Kansas Anymore but that really doesn't matter for this bit.
Sometimes Sam’s broodiness catches up with him all at once, and like a strike of lighting, he takes off to. . .do whatever it is Sam does when he’s chasing the ghosts that have nothing to do with Dean. The ones outside of Dean’s area of expertise-the ones that can’t be dealt with using a shotgun and rock salt.
But at least this time, Dean’s not alone, twiddling his thumbs and waiting to see how long this particular spell of Sammy’s will last. This time’s she’s here. And she’s got beer.
Faith sidles up all siren sexy with a cold longneck in each hand, tossing her long hair in a way that’s less shampoo-commercial feminine mystique than functional, but still, you know-shiny. How she manages to slink like that while also clomping (audibly) in those shitkickers of hers is a mystery to him. Faith takes the leaning space a foot away from Dean and reclines against the hood of the Impala. Then she gives him a slight grin and unceremoniously removes both bottle caps with her teeth and hands one over.
Fuck.
She’s a show-off, but it works. Dean can appreciate that. He cocks his head slightly on a short, jerky axis, bugs his eyes out and smiles at Faith all wide and giddy like she’s something completely new. They both raise their beers and clink them together automatically, ‘cause that’s what you do.
They’re both halfway through-chug chug-before Faith breaks the non-brewsky-slurping silence.
“What’s up with your bro? He gets this look sometimes like a cross between a wounded puppy and, I don’t know, he’s got to take a dump in a real bad way or something.”
A staccato half-choke, half-laugh thing erupts from Dean before he can stop himself. But he musters a quick save and crumples his face into what he hopes is an appropriately serious facial expression, mostly so she won’t think he’s a psychopath. Her words are crude-but true-and hilarious in a really sad, really fucked up kind of way. But then, tragedy is no reason to leave behind the dick and fart jokes, in Dean’s opinion. Dean has a feeling she might understand that. But still. . .
Dean sighs and rakes his fingers gracelessly through his hair.
“He’s, uh, grieving.”
Faith doesn’t blink.
“Oh,” she says and nods. Takes another hit off her beer. “Got it.”
And from the look in her eye, Dean thinks that she really does get it, but he doesn’t ask, he just drains his bottle dry and pins her up against the hood of his car, taking her neck hostage with his mouth and shoving his knee up between her thighs until she growls into his parted lips.
*****
Dean slides into her ass slowly and groans. Faith wiggles her rear in response and grabs his hands and places them on her tits, and when he starts to really move, it is good. God, is it good.
The weird thing about fucking Faith is that she is totally down for all kinds of shit, and she makes no bones about it. Lets him fuck her six ways to Sunday, but Dean never feels like he’s taking from her (even when she yells at him to do exactly that). Because no matter who’s fucking who, or what gets inserted where or in whom (and you are NOT going to repeat that), it still feels like they’re meeting somewhere in the middle. Where things are raw, and they both clearly have more wounds than either would normally ‘fess up to, and where they can lick each other a little bit cleaner.
*****
Note: The rest of my Faith/Dean odds and ends can be found here. Largely 'shippy and porny, I warn you.