We will be stopping momentarily.
Day twenty-one.
1. [ The fact that I did not literally murder someone with the heel of my shoe during my commute this morning is a motherfuckin' miracle. ] How much do I love that it's the lead story on CNN? That is all.
2. If you ever loved me, you will rec me high school!Sam or Stanford!Sam stories.
3. I'd been hanging on to this to post with a couple other ficlets, but since this week is shaping up to be insanity, I will instead get it out of my draft folder. innie_darling requested Dean's favorite jeans, but it turned into more of a character sketch than a ficlet.
Dean Winchester has spent most of his life in jeans, from his first pair when he was a year old that had an elastic waist and snaps up the inside of the legs to the pair he lifted from Diesel in Chicago only a month back.
There's this one pair; he can't even say why he likes them best. He knows he's had them longest; they're that perfect kind of faded and just this side of too soft. There's a hole in the right knee that he earned himself instead of paying sixty bucks extra for; it took eighteen loads (he counted) for the last remnants of the bloodstain to fade. There's an ink stain on the seam from the first and only time he'd let Sam borrow them that refuses to fade.
He needs their durability. He acknowledges that they camouflage his, okay, sort of bowed legs. He respects the way they don't wrinkle when he rolls them up and packs them like his dad taught him. He appreciates how they grow with him when he puts on some extra muscle and would probably still fit if he ever got sick or hurt. He likes that they allow him to go commando when there's no laundromat in sight for miles.
They hold Dad's journal or a gun safe against the small of his back. They hold a lighter and a Swiss Army knife secure at the top of his left thigh, and the keys to the Impala at his right one. They hold his poker winnings, and Hector Uframian's plastic, and sometimes a phone number snug against his ass.
And he doesn't care if Sam thinks he's a girl because he knows they go with his brown leather jacket and his hiking boots just as well as they go with his black one and his shitkickers. He doesn't care, because when he puts on his favorite shirt over them he can leave a bar with whomever he wants, even if it's nobody at all.
And also, a drabble I wrote for her a while back that I never posted here. She requested "Dean, the first time he hears someone say something about that luscious mouth of his."
It’s a standoff. Winchesters versus a nest of vamps. Dad’s actually trying to negotiate with the undead when their leader, leering, offers to trade: the dumb girl who’d been out alone at night for that boy; the one with the cocksucking mouth.
It’s not the first time he’s heard those words, and it’s not the first time he’s heard those words together, but it’s the first time he’s heard them together and referring to HIM. He stakes the fucker on Dad’s cue even though his first instinct is to cover Sammy’s ears and his second is to lick his lips.
1. [ The fact that I did not literally murder someone with the heel of my shoe during my commute this morning is a motherfuckin' miracle. ] How much do I love that it's the lead story on CNN? That is all.
2. If you ever loved me, you will rec me high school!Sam or Stanford!Sam stories.
3. I'd been hanging on to this to post with a couple other ficlets, but since this week is shaping up to be insanity, I will instead get it out of my draft folder. innie_darling requested Dean's favorite jeans, but it turned into more of a character sketch than a ficlet.
Dean Winchester has spent most of his life in jeans, from his first pair when he was a year old that had an elastic waist and snaps up the inside of the legs to the pair he lifted from Diesel in Chicago only a month back.
There's this one pair; he can't even say why he likes them best. He knows he's had them longest; they're that perfect kind of faded and just this side of too soft. There's a hole in the right knee that he earned himself instead of paying sixty bucks extra for; it took eighteen loads (he counted) for the last remnants of the bloodstain to fade. There's an ink stain on the seam from the first and only time he'd let Sam borrow them that refuses to fade.
He needs their durability. He acknowledges that they camouflage his, okay, sort of bowed legs. He respects the way they don't wrinkle when he rolls them up and packs them like his dad taught him. He appreciates how they grow with him when he puts on some extra muscle and would probably still fit if he ever got sick or hurt. He likes that they allow him to go commando when there's no laundromat in sight for miles.
They hold Dad's journal or a gun safe against the small of his back. They hold a lighter and a Swiss Army knife secure at the top of his left thigh, and the keys to the Impala at his right one. They hold his poker winnings, and Hector Uframian's plastic, and sometimes a phone number snug against his ass.
And he doesn't care if Sam thinks he's a girl because he knows they go with his brown leather jacket and his hiking boots just as well as they go with his black one and his shitkickers. He doesn't care, because when he puts on his favorite shirt over them he can leave a bar with whomever he wants, even if it's nobody at all.
And also, a drabble I wrote for her a while back that I never posted here. She requested "Dean, the first time he hears someone say something about that luscious mouth of his."
It’s a standoff. Winchesters versus a nest of vamps. Dad’s actually trying to negotiate with the undead when their leader, leering, offers to trade: the dumb girl who’d been out alone at night for that boy; the one with the cocksucking mouth.
It’s not the first time he’s heard those words, and it’s not the first time he’s heard those words together, but it’s the first time he’s heard them together and referring to HIM. He stakes the fucker on Dad’s cue even though his first instinct is to cover Sammy’s ears and his second is to lick his lips.