Halloween 2014 Ficlets
Timestamp for the Cuckoo 'verse.
“Oh, for- could you please not do that in here?”
Sam looks over the top of his book at Dean, who’s shielding his eyes like Sam’s supine position on the couch is just too much. “Do what?”
“You can’t just-” A helpless wave of hands.
“… Oh my god, you’re right,” Sam says with heavy sarcasm. The cat on his stomach stretches luxuriously, and he gives it an absent stroke. “How could I possibly read in the library? Scandalous.”
“Look, what you do with that asshole in private is your own fucking business,” Dean says hotly, “but the rest of us don’t need to know, okay? Me especially. I really, really do not need to know.”
“What asshole?” Sam asks, tilting the book down to glare unimpeded at his brother. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Dean points at Sam’s lap, currently 110% occupied. “That asshole, genius!”
Sam looks down at the cat. It blinks slowly back, vivid gold eyes the only spot of color on an inky black coat, and sharp white claws flex into his shirt.
“Did you seriously just notice him,” Dean says. “Sam.”
“Cas has tons of cats,” Sam says defensively, and, “You’re a goddamn creep, you know that?” to Lucifer as he lays his book over the top of the couch and starts to get up.
Lucifer retaliates by relaxing into his human shape, and Sam is crushed deep into the cushions with a pained grunt.
Dean glares at him. “There’s got to be some fucking way to specify an angel-banishing spell!”
“Of course there is,” Lucifer says, draped just as limply across Sam as he’d been as a cat. His ribs are wedged between Sam’s thighs, his head on his chest. “No one who knows is going to tell you, though.”
“Get the fuck out of here!”
“Why the long face, Dean?” the devil asks, resting his chin on Sam’s sternum. “By my estimation, things are going your way. Your precious malakhim and younger brothers are restored to themselves, Michael has pulled a Gabriel, and the usurper of heaven is no more. You have nothing to complain about.”
“Listen up, chucklehead,” Dean snarls, “I’ve got plenty. We’ve got more angels coming and going than we have beds, even more fucking cats than angels, Bobby’s friends, Charlie’s friends, Dorothy’s friends- the ex-candidates for King of Hell are in my den, arguing over my remote and eating my popcorn, and oh yeah, there’s you! This ain’t a halfway house, take the kids and go home!”
“Mmhm,” Lucifer hums, smiling in a frankly terrifying way. “Maybe I don’t feel appreciated enough,” he says. “Maybe I’m waiting for some genuine gratitude from the Winchesters.”
“Eat a bag of dicks,” Dean suggests.
Lucifer taps a finger to Sam’s nose. “Say thank you, Sam.”
“Thanks for eating Metatron,” Sam says, as dryly as he can. “You did literally nothing else. Now get off me.”
“How sharper than a serpent’s tooth,” Lucifer sighs. “I’m afraid I don’t feel appreciated at all. I guess I’ll stick around a little longer.” He drops his head onto Sam’s chest and closes his eyes with an air of finality.
Dean opens his mouth, looking as ready to breath fire as Lucifer ever did, but there’s a rattling crash from the den and the sound of Crowley yelping, “Abby, darling, can’t we talk about this-“
“Fuckfuckfuckfuck-,” Dean hisses as he runs off in the direction of the commotion.
“Aren’t you going to get that?” Sam asks pointedly.
“Children will be children,” Lucifer murmurs, heavy as a stone statue. “Best to let them sort it out themselves.”
“Shit! Someone get the fire extinguisher!”
“I’m sure deep down they love each other, as much as my brothers did me,” he adds philosophically.
02. do bad things
Castiel/Dean Winchester - R - Alternate Universe: Vampire, 2014!Castiel/Dean Smith, Dubious Consent, Blood Drinking, allusions to rough sex, Ficlet
Anonymous inquired: castiel is a vampire?
feat. Dean Smith
He snaps into wakefulness with Dean’s wrist already in his hand, fragile human bone grinding against itself before he scents the air and pauses. Remembers.
“Sorry, I- I didn’t mean to startle you,” Dean says shakily, crouched at the side of the bed. “I think you’re, um. Lying on my shirt.”
“Mm?” Castiel looks down his body, mostly exposed in the twisted-up sheets, and sees the sleeve of Dean’s utterly unimaginative navy pinstripe pinned between his chest and the mattress. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, and when Castiel releases his wrist and he stumbles back, catching himself on the side table.
The room is a little cold, a heavy patter of rain striking windows hidden by drawn curtains. They make the room gloomy, but it’s still bright to Castiel’s eyes- his kind prefer the dark.
They are not, however, particularly fond of the cold. The sheets next to him have lost all of the warmth lent by Dean’s sleeping body, and Castiel eyes the man with some petulance as he climbs awkwardly to his feet.
Castiel follows his lead, sitting up on his knees in the tangled froth of bedding and plucking the shirt from the snarl. “You’re leaving?”
Dean bites his swollen bottom lip. “I’ve got a couple meetings this afternoon, and I really need to… to get changed.”
Poor Dean. His fussily-coordinated suit and jacket are hopelessly wrinkled, his once-smooth hair spiking in twenty different directions. His tie is missing completely- still looped around one of the bedposts, Castiel confirms with a glance. One of the knees has been torn out of his pants, and when he shifts his weight he winces.
“It’s still quite early,” Castiel says, evaluating the oblique slant of what little light escapes the heavy curtains. “Why don’t you stay a little longer?”
Dean swallows. “I’d love to, really, but… I…” He takes a hobbling step back, then catches himself and stands firm as Castiel slips from the bed, naked and carrying his shirt on one finger. “I really can’t.”
“I won’t stop you,” Castiel says, shaking out the fabric. He straightens the collar before drawing the shirt over Dean’s bare shoulders, smoothing it in place. “But I’d like it if you stayed.”
His fingers stray over one of the deeper bites on Dean’s lovely neck, and the man shudders. “Can’t,” he says again, then gasps at the press of Castiel’s lips there.
Dean is heat and life, the salt-sweet taste of exertion and a faint note of copper as wounds reopen under Castiel’s seeking mouth. “Cas,” Dean protests, and Castiel firms his grip on both lapels and pulls him that little bit down for a proper kiss, finding the tiny cuts where he’d been careless with his teeth last night and drinking in Dean’s weak moan.
“Stay?” he asks. “Just a few more hours.”
“Okay,” Dean breathes, his hands settling on Castiel’s waist, clutching tighter at the firm stroke of Castiel’s tongue over abused flesh. “Alright, I’ll stay, ah, please-”
03. Illusion
Gabriel/Sam Winchester - PG - Alternate Universe - Fugitives, On the Run, Mysterious and Annoying Strangers on a Train, Conspiracy, Ficlet
rosalikeys inquired: prompt 45: illusion, Sam and Gabriel
“Hey, kid. Wanna see a magic trick?”
Sam keeps his arms folded and his eyes on the train’s darkened aisle, at the feet and elbows and sleeping heads that poke out every other seat. “No, thanks,” he says curtly.
The guy across from him just grins. “You sure? I know all the tricks, and I do mean all of them.”
Sam draws his legs in a little more. “I’m good.”
The other people in their section passed out a while ago, but this weirdo seems wide awake and antsy with it, fingers tapping an insistent staccato rhythm on the armrest. To be honest, Sam would like to be sleeping too, but the train attendants will be walking through in a couple of minutes. He has to be ready to move.
“You don’t look good,” the man observes. “You look like shit.”
Sam sets his jaw. “Yeah? Great. Good to know.”
The man leans forward with his hands on the seat, feet swinging free- too short to reach the ground. “C’mon, Sam. It’ll take your mind off things.”
Sam looks at him then, eyes jerking away from the door to the next car. “How did you know my-?”
“It’s on your bag,” the man says, pointing.
Sam looks down at his bag, at the goddamn airline tag that has his name and the hospital’s address on it. He rips it off right there and then, but his mind is scrambling, trying to think of who else might’ve seen it. Stupid shit like this is how they found him in the first place, and if they find him again-
The man tilts his head, eyebrows rising as he watches Sam tears the tag into tiny little pieces. “Sorry, kid. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I’m not scared,” Sam shoots back, which is the biggest lie he’s told today. And that’s saying something.
“If you say so,” the man says. “My name’s Gabe, by the way. Sure you don’t want to see a trick?”
As he speaks, he fans a deck of cards out face down on the plastic table between them, and it’s all Sam can do not to sweep them onto the floor. “I’m really, really sure,” he snaps, getting his duffel strap over his shoulder.
The door slides open, and two men in blue uniforms step into the car. Sam freezes when the first shines shines his flashlight right in Sam’s eyes and says, “Ticket, please.” .
“I… let me look, uh, in my bag,” Sam stutters, and slowly tugs it into his lap. If he pretends to search long enough, the attendant will move on, maybe, and he can slip into the bathroom or up the stairs-
“Excuse me,” Gabe says, and slides two cards from the deck on the table, holding them up to the flashlight’s beam. “Our tickets.”
The attendant glances impassively at the cards, a jack of spades and a joker, and nods. “Have a pleasant rest of the evening, gentlemen,” he says. He tips his hat to them and walks off to the next group of seats.
Sams gapes after him, then at Gabe, who reshuffles the cards into the deck with quick, expert turns of his wrists. “How did you do that?”
Gabe eyes flick up, and a slight smirk crosses his face. “What? No thank you?”
“Um, thanks. Thank you.” Sam lets his bag drop down to the floor at his feet. “Really, though. How?”
A twitch of Gabe’s hand, and a card beans Sam right between the eyes before fluttering down to the table. The joker again.
“You’re not the only special one, Sam,” Gabe says, shrugging as though he hasn’t just stopped Sam’s heart dead in his chest. “If you’re really running-”
“I’m never going back there,” Sam says, fingers digging painfully hard into the side of the plastic table. “You can’t make me.”
Gabe gives him a cool once-over. “Not making you do anything. I’m offering.”
“Offering… what?”
The train rumbles by a well-lit station, a stripe of light running over Gabe’s face. His eyes are yellow and strange, but not without empathy. “Some company. Some protection. Could be I also know where your brother is.”
“Dean,” Sam breathes. “He’s okay?”
Oddly, this makes Gabe roll his eyes. “Oh, he’s just dandy. And I owe him. Which is why you’re going to sit back and let me handle the rest of this Homeward Bound: The Incredible Journey remake. And, Sam,” he says, holding up a hand when Sam opens his mouth. “I don’t care if you don’t trust me. This will only be slightly harder if I have to haul your unconscious body all the way to South Dakota.”
“South Dakota?”
Gabe sighs. “Get some sleep. We’ll talk once we get off in Lansing.”
Sam stares at him. “Like I’ll be able to sleep now!”
Gabe’s smile takes on a mean edge. “Oh, I can definitely help with that,” he says, and snaps his fingers.
04. Runway Runaway
Bela Talbot/Ellie (Trial and Error) - R - Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Hellhounds, On the Run, Fashion & Couture, Hedonism: a Valid Life Choice When You Could Die at Any Second, Blood and Gore, Ficlet
Anonymous said: bela talbot and ellie (from trial and error) on the run from hellhounds!
Her spoon has just, oh, just cracked through the crisp layer of perfectly caramelized sugar on her creme brulée when the first ululating howl cuts through the din of dining room chatter, clear as churchbells at a wake.
Bela gives herself a moment to properly mourn the loss of her beautiful dessert before reaching for the knife and the glasses tucked into her purse- a spring Marchesa Valentino, because she’d so adored the little crystal- and a second howl comes in the echoes of the first, closer. It sounds like the little beasties are in the sparkling hotel foyer just outside.
The waitress next to her drops her tray.
Bela looks up, ugly square frames already in place, and sees all color drain from the girl’s face, her lips forming the words no, nonono as she starts to back away towards the kitchen. She’s a pretty little thing, all dark eyes and soft, trembling mouth, and she lets out a weak little moan of terror when something massive and dark trots around the corner, sulphurous breath rising as it bares its teeth at them.
Bela smiles back.
The battle ends in an upstairs hallway, brutal and bloody, scattering screaming patrons in all directions. Bela guts the damned dogs with as much fierce joy as she did the first time- not today, messieurs and mesdames of the crossroads, not today- and throws their smoky bodies down the garbage chute.
Maybe dear, stupid Dean was right about the whole business. Bela is sure she’ll make a lovely demonness when she dies, but she’s in no hurry to speed the process.
She’s sitting splayed against the elevator door, exhausted and bleeding and laughing about it. She’s broken the heel off one of her Laboutins and the red Dior is a total loss, torn to shreds that barely cling to her and splattered up and down with hellhound viscera. The girl is crouched next to her, cradling a badly-clawed arm to her chest but otherwise unhurt.
“I- I don’t know how I can thank you,” she stutters, breath coming in uneven gasps. “I mean, I thought I was going to- my name’s Ellie, and you’re- how did you-?.”
“Ellie,” Bela purrs, licking the blood off her teeth. “We shouldn’t stay out here. Why don’t you come up to my room? I’ll tell you all about it.”
05. Election Night
Castiel/Dean Winchester - G - Alternate Universe - Politics, West Wing Fusion, Election Night, Alcohol, Established Relationship, Ficlet
queeniebroccolini asked: hiiiiiii i've been watching the west wing and i have a MIGHTY NEED for a spn political au!! maybe with dean as the wise-cracking press secretary, cas as a secret service agent and sam as the idealistic young deputy communications director!!! YOURE THE BEST
An enterprising someone has repurposed the mail cart into a mobile drinks station. Dean, still on the line with the polling center downstairs, watches in mute resignation as one of the interns patrols up the hallway, hands reaching out from offices and cubicles for the solo cups and cheap wine they keep on hand for parties. Victor takes two cups, and Benny just grabs a bottle and starts drinking like a bum on the sidewalk.
He needs to get these people out of here.
“Dean? Paying attention?”
“Yeah, I’m still here,” he says, readjusting the phone where it’s tucked between his face and shoulder. “The natives are getting restless. How are our Ohio numbers?”
“No change since the last fifty times you asked,” Charlie answers, voice still bright and bubbly despite the late hour and the horrific levels of noise on her end. “Exit polling still has us in the lead by a good handful of points. Not that that means anything, really, but it’s good news.”
“Better than nothing,” Dean grimly agrees. “Keep your eyes open for any last-minute surprises?”
“Aye-aye, Mister Smee.”
Dean makes a face at the president’s portrait, framed and hanging on the wall opposite his desk. “What?”
“President Mills is Captain Hook, right? So that makes you First Mate Smee.”
“Hey, if anybody’s Smee, it’s Bobby.” Dean catches movement out of the corner of his eye, and glances up to see Castiel parking his shoulder against the doorframe. When he sees Dean’s looking, he gives a little wave.
“Nuh-uh. Press Secretary Winchester is definitely first mate. Mr. Singer is the boatswain.”
Dean sighs. “Go watch my polls, cabin girl.”
“Sir yes sir!” she chirps, and hangs up.
Dean drops the phone in its cradle and stands up to stretch, hands braced on his lower back. Crap, it sounds like a string of popcorn in there. “Hey, Cas. Whatcha got there?”
“Given the mood, it seemed pertinent to remove the hard alcohol from the premises,” the man says gravely, holding up a dusty bottle with a yellowing label. It’s shaped like a woman’s high-heeled shoe. “I believe this is the last. Can I interest you in some fine Georgian cognac?”
Dean squints at it, back still arched. “Is that the one that’s been the cabinet above the copier since we moved in?”
“That would be the one,” Castiel says, pacing forward. He’s not wearing a jacket, and his holster brackets his chest in twin strips of dark leather. “I believe it dates to the president’s first term in Congress.”
“Mmm. Bet it would clear out the sink in the break room.”
“And possibly eat through the pipes,” Castiel returns, settling the bottle on the desk. “Your back hurts.”
Dean shrugs. “I’ve been at my desk for fifteen hours and counting, so yeah, it- Cas?”
Castiel gestures down at the chair he’s pulled between them, backed up to the desk. “Sit.”
“Alright…?” Dean moves to sit down.
“No, facing away from me.”
Dean obeys, but he can’t help looking over his shoulder as Castiel rolls up one sleeve, then the other. “What are you- oh fuck.”
“I thought so,” Castiel says with satisfaction, digging his thumbs deep into the cramped muscle above Dean’s shoulderblades and massaging down. “Does that help?”
“Do it harder,” Dean begs, and moans unashamedly when Castiel leans into it. “God, so good.”
Coming back up, Castiel finds a tense spot at the base of his skull and rubs small circles along his spine, into his hair. “And here?”
“Especially there,” Dean says around an orgasmic noise, forehead on the back of the chair. “Oh fuck, mmmm, fuck.”
When Jody storms into the press office ten minutes later, trailing what sounds like Sam and half the communications team, Dean peels himself out of the chair with a petulant sigh and gets ready to intercept before she scares away the staff. Before he leaves the refuge of his office, though, he catches Castiel’s hand in his and mouths later. They are doing so much more of that, later. Castiel gives him a small, heated smile in return, but is admirably blank when they step outside to meet Hurricane Mills straight on.
“Dean! Ohio? Ohio, Dean!” she says, grabbing his shirt.
“Ohio is fine, we are fine,” Dean says soothingly, feeling like it’s true for the first time today, and ushers her towards the tunnel to the West Wing to wait out the voting.
“Oh, for- could you please not do that in here?”
Sam looks over the top of his book at Dean, who’s shielding his eyes like Sam’s supine position on the couch is just too much. “Do what?”
“You can’t just-” A helpless wave of hands.
“… Oh my god, you’re right,” Sam says with heavy sarcasm. The cat on his stomach stretches luxuriously, and he gives it an absent stroke. “How could I possibly read in the library? Scandalous.”
“Look, what you do with that asshole in private is your own fucking business,” Dean says hotly, “but the rest of us don’t need to know, okay? Me especially. I really, really do not need to know.”
“What asshole?” Sam asks, tilting the book down to glare unimpeded at his brother. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Dean points at Sam’s lap, currently 110% occupied. “That asshole, genius!”
Sam looks down at the cat. It blinks slowly back, vivid gold eyes the only spot of color on an inky black coat, and sharp white claws flex into his shirt.
“Did you seriously just notice him,” Dean says. “Sam.”
“Cas has tons of cats,” Sam says defensively, and, “You’re a goddamn creep, you know that?” to Lucifer as he lays his book over the top of the couch and starts to get up.
Lucifer retaliates by relaxing into his human shape, and Sam is crushed deep into the cushions with a pained grunt.
Dean glares at him. “There’s got to be some fucking way to specify an angel-banishing spell!”
“Of course there is,” Lucifer says, draped just as limply across Sam as he’d been as a cat. His ribs are wedged between Sam’s thighs, his head on his chest. “No one who knows is going to tell you, though.”
“Get the fuck out of here!”
“Why the long face, Dean?” the devil asks, resting his chin on Sam’s sternum. “By my estimation, things are going your way. Your precious malakhim and younger brothers are restored to themselves, Michael has pulled a Gabriel, and the usurper of heaven is no more. You have nothing to complain about.”
“Listen up, chucklehead,” Dean snarls, “I’ve got plenty. We’ve got more angels coming and going than we have beds, even more fucking cats than angels, Bobby’s friends, Charlie’s friends, Dorothy’s friends- the ex-candidates for King of Hell are in my den, arguing over my remote and eating my popcorn, and oh yeah, there’s you! This ain’t a halfway house, take the kids and go home!”
“Mmhm,” Lucifer hums, smiling in a frankly terrifying way. “Maybe I don’t feel appreciated enough,” he says. “Maybe I’m waiting for some genuine gratitude from the Winchesters.”
“Eat a bag of dicks,” Dean suggests.
Lucifer taps a finger to Sam’s nose. “Say thank you, Sam.”
“Thanks for eating Metatron,” Sam says, as dryly as he can. “You did literally nothing else. Now get off me.”
“How sharper than a serpent’s tooth,” Lucifer sighs. “I’m afraid I don’t feel appreciated at all. I guess I’ll stick around a little longer.” He drops his head onto Sam’s chest and closes his eyes with an air of finality.
Dean opens his mouth, looking as ready to breath fire as Lucifer ever did, but there’s a rattling crash from the den and the sound of Crowley yelping, “Abby, darling, can’t we talk about this-“
“Fuckfuckfuckfuck-,” Dean hisses as he runs off in the direction of the commotion.
“Aren’t you going to get that?” Sam asks pointedly.
“Children will be children,” Lucifer murmurs, heavy as a stone statue. “Best to let them sort it out themselves.”
“Shit! Someone get the fire extinguisher!”
“I’m sure deep down they love each other, as much as my brothers did me,” he adds philosophically.
02. do bad things
Castiel/Dean Winchester - R - Alternate Universe: Vampire, 2014!Castiel/Dean Smith, Dubious Consent, Blood Drinking, allusions to rough sex, Ficlet
Anonymous inquired: castiel is a vampire?
feat. Dean Smith
He snaps into wakefulness with Dean’s wrist already in his hand, fragile human bone grinding against itself before he scents the air and pauses. Remembers.
“Sorry, I- I didn’t mean to startle you,” Dean says shakily, crouched at the side of the bed. “I think you’re, um. Lying on my shirt.”
“Mm?” Castiel looks down his body, mostly exposed in the twisted-up sheets, and sees the sleeve of Dean’s utterly unimaginative navy pinstripe pinned between his chest and the mattress. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, and when Castiel releases his wrist and he stumbles back, catching himself on the side table.
The room is a little cold, a heavy patter of rain striking windows hidden by drawn curtains. They make the room gloomy, but it’s still bright to Castiel’s eyes- his kind prefer the dark.
They are not, however, particularly fond of the cold. The sheets next to him have lost all of the warmth lent by Dean’s sleeping body, and Castiel eyes the man with some petulance as he climbs awkwardly to his feet.
Castiel follows his lead, sitting up on his knees in the tangled froth of bedding and plucking the shirt from the snarl. “You’re leaving?”
Dean bites his swollen bottom lip. “I’ve got a couple meetings this afternoon, and I really need to… to get changed.”
Poor Dean. His fussily-coordinated suit and jacket are hopelessly wrinkled, his once-smooth hair spiking in twenty different directions. His tie is missing completely- still looped around one of the bedposts, Castiel confirms with a glance. One of the knees has been torn out of his pants, and when he shifts his weight he winces.
“It’s still quite early,” Castiel says, evaluating the oblique slant of what little light escapes the heavy curtains. “Why don’t you stay a little longer?”
Dean swallows. “I’d love to, really, but… I…” He takes a hobbling step back, then catches himself and stands firm as Castiel slips from the bed, naked and carrying his shirt on one finger. “I really can’t.”
“I won’t stop you,” Castiel says, shaking out the fabric. He straightens the collar before drawing the shirt over Dean’s bare shoulders, smoothing it in place. “But I’d like it if you stayed.”
His fingers stray over one of the deeper bites on Dean’s lovely neck, and the man shudders. “Can’t,” he says again, then gasps at the press of Castiel’s lips there.
Dean is heat and life, the salt-sweet taste of exertion and a faint note of copper as wounds reopen under Castiel’s seeking mouth. “Cas,” Dean protests, and Castiel firms his grip on both lapels and pulls him that little bit down for a proper kiss, finding the tiny cuts where he’d been careless with his teeth last night and drinking in Dean’s weak moan.
“Stay?” he asks. “Just a few more hours.”
“Okay,” Dean breathes, his hands settling on Castiel’s waist, clutching tighter at the firm stroke of Castiel’s tongue over abused flesh. “Alright, I’ll stay, ah, please-”
03. Illusion
Gabriel/Sam Winchester - PG - Alternate Universe - Fugitives, On the Run, Mysterious and Annoying Strangers on a Train, Conspiracy, Ficlet
rosalikeys inquired: prompt 45: illusion, Sam and Gabriel
“Hey, kid. Wanna see a magic trick?”
Sam keeps his arms folded and his eyes on the train’s darkened aisle, at the feet and elbows and sleeping heads that poke out every other seat. “No, thanks,” he says curtly.
The guy across from him just grins. “You sure? I know all the tricks, and I do mean all of them.”
Sam draws his legs in a little more. “I’m good.”
The other people in their section passed out a while ago, but this weirdo seems wide awake and antsy with it, fingers tapping an insistent staccato rhythm on the armrest. To be honest, Sam would like to be sleeping too, but the train attendants will be walking through in a couple of minutes. He has to be ready to move.
“You don’t look good,” the man observes. “You look like shit.”
Sam sets his jaw. “Yeah? Great. Good to know.”
The man leans forward with his hands on the seat, feet swinging free- too short to reach the ground. “C’mon, Sam. It’ll take your mind off things.”
Sam looks at him then, eyes jerking away from the door to the next car. “How did you know my-?”
“It’s on your bag,” the man says, pointing.
Sam looks down at his bag, at the goddamn airline tag that has his name and the hospital’s address on it. He rips it off right there and then, but his mind is scrambling, trying to think of who else might’ve seen it. Stupid shit like this is how they found him in the first place, and if they find him again-
The man tilts his head, eyebrows rising as he watches Sam tears the tag into tiny little pieces. “Sorry, kid. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I’m not scared,” Sam shoots back, which is the biggest lie he’s told today. And that’s saying something.
“If you say so,” the man says. “My name’s Gabe, by the way. Sure you don’t want to see a trick?”
As he speaks, he fans a deck of cards out face down on the plastic table between them, and it’s all Sam can do not to sweep them onto the floor. “I’m really, really sure,” he snaps, getting his duffel strap over his shoulder.
The door slides open, and two men in blue uniforms step into the car. Sam freezes when the first shines shines his flashlight right in Sam’s eyes and says, “Ticket, please.” .
“I… let me look, uh, in my bag,” Sam stutters, and slowly tugs it into his lap. If he pretends to search long enough, the attendant will move on, maybe, and he can slip into the bathroom or up the stairs-
“Excuse me,” Gabe says, and slides two cards from the deck on the table, holding them up to the flashlight’s beam. “Our tickets.”
The attendant glances impassively at the cards, a jack of spades and a joker, and nods. “Have a pleasant rest of the evening, gentlemen,” he says. He tips his hat to them and walks off to the next group of seats.
Sams gapes after him, then at Gabe, who reshuffles the cards into the deck with quick, expert turns of his wrists. “How did you do that?”
Gabe eyes flick up, and a slight smirk crosses his face. “What? No thank you?”
“Um, thanks. Thank you.” Sam lets his bag drop down to the floor at his feet. “Really, though. How?”
A twitch of Gabe’s hand, and a card beans Sam right between the eyes before fluttering down to the table. The joker again.
“You’re not the only special one, Sam,” Gabe says, shrugging as though he hasn’t just stopped Sam’s heart dead in his chest. “If you’re really running-”
“I’m never going back there,” Sam says, fingers digging painfully hard into the side of the plastic table. “You can’t make me.”
Gabe gives him a cool once-over. “Not making you do anything. I’m offering.”
“Offering… what?”
The train rumbles by a well-lit station, a stripe of light running over Gabe’s face. His eyes are yellow and strange, but not without empathy. “Some company. Some protection. Could be I also know where your brother is.”
“Dean,” Sam breathes. “He’s okay?”
Oddly, this makes Gabe roll his eyes. “Oh, he’s just dandy. And I owe him. Which is why you’re going to sit back and let me handle the rest of this Homeward Bound: The Incredible Journey remake. And, Sam,” he says, holding up a hand when Sam opens his mouth. “I don’t care if you don’t trust me. This will only be slightly harder if I have to haul your unconscious body all the way to South Dakota.”
“South Dakota?”
Gabe sighs. “Get some sleep. We’ll talk once we get off in Lansing.”
Sam stares at him. “Like I’ll be able to sleep now!”
Gabe’s smile takes on a mean edge. “Oh, I can definitely help with that,” he says, and snaps his fingers.
04. Runway Runaway
Bela Talbot/Ellie (Trial and Error) - R - Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Hellhounds, On the Run, Fashion & Couture, Hedonism: a Valid Life Choice When You Could Die at Any Second, Blood and Gore, Ficlet
Anonymous said: bela talbot and ellie (from trial and error) on the run from hellhounds!
Her spoon has just, oh, just cracked through the crisp layer of perfectly caramelized sugar on her creme brulée when the first ululating howl cuts through the din of dining room chatter, clear as churchbells at a wake.
Bela gives herself a moment to properly mourn the loss of her beautiful dessert before reaching for the knife and the glasses tucked into her purse- a spring Marchesa Valentino, because she’d so adored the little crystal- and a second howl comes in the echoes of the first, closer. It sounds like the little beasties are in the sparkling hotel foyer just outside.
The waitress next to her drops her tray.
Bela looks up, ugly square frames already in place, and sees all color drain from the girl’s face, her lips forming the words no, nonono as she starts to back away towards the kitchen. She’s a pretty little thing, all dark eyes and soft, trembling mouth, and she lets out a weak little moan of terror when something massive and dark trots around the corner, sulphurous breath rising as it bares its teeth at them.
Bela smiles back.
The battle ends in an upstairs hallway, brutal and bloody, scattering screaming patrons in all directions. Bela guts the damned dogs with as much fierce joy as she did the first time- not today, messieurs and mesdames of the crossroads, not today- and throws their smoky bodies down the garbage chute.
Maybe dear, stupid Dean was right about the whole business. Bela is sure she’ll make a lovely demonness when she dies, but she’s in no hurry to speed the process.
She’s sitting splayed against the elevator door, exhausted and bleeding and laughing about it. She’s broken the heel off one of her Laboutins and the red Dior is a total loss, torn to shreds that barely cling to her and splattered up and down with hellhound viscera. The girl is crouched next to her, cradling a badly-clawed arm to her chest but otherwise unhurt.
“I- I don’t know how I can thank you,” she stutters, breath coming in uneven gasps. “I mean, I thought I was going to- my name’s Ellie, and you’re- how did you-?.”
“Ellie,” Bela purrs, licking the blood off her teeth. “We shouldn’t stay out here. Why don’t you come up to my room? I’ll tell you all about it.”
05. Election Night
Castiel/Dean Winchester - G - Alternate Universe - Politics, West Wing Fusion, Election Night, Alcohol, Established Relationship, Ficlet
queeniebroccolini asked: hiiiiiii i've been watching the west wing and i have a MIGHTY NEED for a spn political au!! maybe with dean as the wise-cracking press secretary, cas as a secret service agent and sam as the idealistic young deputy communications director!!! YOURE THE BEST
An enterprising someone has repurposed the mail cart into a mobile drinks station. Dean, still on the line with the polling center downstairs, watches in mute resignation as one of the interns patrols up the hallway, hands reaching out from offices and cubicles for the solo cups and cheap wine they keep on hand for parties. Victor takes two cups, and Benny just grabs a bottle and starts drinking like a bum on the sidewalk.
He needs to get these people out of here.
“Dean? Paying attention?”
“Yeah, I’m still here,” he says, readjusting the phone where it’s tucked between his face and shoulder. “The natives are getting restless. How are our Ohio numbers?”
“No change since the last fifty times you asked,” Charlie answers, voice still bright and bubbly despite the late hour and the horrific levels of noise on her end. “Exit polling still has us in the lead by a good handful of points. Not that that means anything, really, but it’s good news.”
“Better than nothing,” Dean grimly agrees. “Keep your eyes open for any last-minute surprises?”
“Aye-aye, Mister Smee.”
Dean makes a face at the president’s portrait, framed and hanging on the wall opposite his desk. “What?”
“President Mills is Captain Hook, right? So that makes you First Mate Smee.”
“Hey, if anybody’s Smee, it’s Bobby.” Dean catches movement out of the corner of his eye, and glances up to see Castiel parking his shoulder against the doorframe. When he sees Dean’s looking, he gives a little wave.
“Nuh-uh. Press Secretary Winchester is definitely first mate. Mr. Singer is the boatswain.”
Dean sighs. “Go watch my polls, cabin girl.”
“Sir yes sir!” she chirps, and hangs up.
Dean drops the phone in its cradle and stands up to stretch, hands braced on his lower back. Crap, it sounds like a string of popcorn in there. “Hey, Cas. Whatcha got there?”
“Given the mood, it seemed pertinent to remove the hard alcohol from the premises,” the man says gravely, holding up a dusty bottle with a yellowing label. It’s shaped like a woman’s high-heeled shoe. “I believe this is the last. Can I interest you in some fine Georgian cognac?”
Dean squints at it, back still arched. “Is that the one that’s been the cabinet above the copier since we moved in?”
“That would be the one,” Castiel says, pacing forward. He’s not wearing a jacket, and his holster brackets his chest in twin strips of dark leather. “I believe it dates to the president’s first term in Congress.”
“Mmm. Bet it would clear out the sink in the break room.”
“And possibly eat through the pipes,” Castiel returns, settling the bottle on the desk. “Your back hurts.”
Dean shrugs. “I’ve been at my desk for fifteen hours and counting, so yeah, it- Cas?”
Castiel gestures down at the chair he’s pulled between them, backed up to the desk. “Sit.”
“Alright…?” Dean moves to sit down.
“No, facing away from me.”
Dean obeys, but he can’t help looking over his shoulder as Castiel rolls up one sleeve, then the other. “What are you- oh fuck.”
“I thought so,” Castiel says with satisfaction, digging his thumbs deep into the cramped muscle above Dean’s shoulderblades and massaging down. “Does that help?”
“Do it harder,” Dean begs, and moans unashamedly when Castiel leans into it. “God, so good.”
Coming back up, Castiel finds a tense spot at the base of his skull and rubs small circles along his spine, into his hair. “And here?”
“Especially there,” Dean says around an orgasmic noise, forehead on the back of the chair. “Oh fuck, mmmm, fuck.”
When Jody storms into the press office ten minutes later, trailing what sounds like Sam and half the communications team, Dean peels himself out of the chair with a petulant sigh and gets ready to intercept before she scares away the staff. Before he leaves the refuge of his office, though, he catches Castiel’s hand in his and mouths later. They are doing so much more of that, later. Castiel gives him a small, heated smile in return, but is admirably blank when they step outside to meet Hurricane Mills straight on.
“Dean! Ohio? Ohio, Dean!” she says, grabbing his shirt.
“Ohio is fine, we are fine,” Dean says soothingly, feeling like it’s true for the first time today, and ushers her towards the tunnel to the West Wing to wait out the voting.