Four Misc. Fics (Sherlock, SPN, Dexter, & Mad Men)
Title: two atoms in a molecule
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Words: 466
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: He’s like a hound on the hunt, he’s caught the scent of blood on the air and he won’t rest until he’s found his quarry.
A/N: Five Acts fic written for primarycolors92 who asked for scars.
Sherlock’s thumb fits neatly into the puckered crevice of John’s bullet wound. The scar isn’t old yet, not really. The wound is still fresh enough in his mind that he wants to bat Sherlock’s hand away. He misses the war, yes. But there are still things he’d just as soon leave there.
He twists his body away from Sherlock’s touch and turns on his side in what he hopes will be interpreted as a casual movement, a sign that he is tired and nothing more. The bed shifts as Sherlock moves closer, his hand clamping down on John’s shoulder forcing him to lie on his back instead. He’s like a hound on the hunt, he’s caught the scent of blood on the air and he won’t rest until he’s found his quarry.
“It bothers you when I touch this,” Sherlock observes, running a fingertip over the scar for effect.
There’s no bother lying, not to Sherlock. John sighs and sits up in the bed he dimly remembers belonging only to him some distant time ago.
“Yes,” he says. “And yet, you keep doing it.”
“It fascinates me.”
“Ah, well carry on then,” John grumbles.
Sherlock takes his sarcasm as an invitation. He leans in, examining John as if he is a particularly interesting cadaver he’s found at the morgue. John watches as Sherlock stretches his fingers apart as far as they will go, measuring the space between John’s scar and his heart.
“One inch to the left and you would have died,” Sherlock muses. “That would have been a pity.”
Laughter rumbles through John’s chest as he shakes his head in wonderment at Sherlock and his odd, roundabout way of saying he’s glad that John isn’t dead.
Sherlock’s lips quirk upwards ever so slightly before he dips his head down and covers the scar with his mouth. It’s such an oddly tender; un-Sherlock thing to do John’s laughter is quickly replaced with shock. Sherlock pulls back and props his head on one hand, eyes searching John’s face.
“I have my own scars, you know.”
“Do you?” John asks even though he knows very well that Sherlock does. He’s seen them, thin white lines almost lost against his pale flesh, the ghost of old track marks on his arms.
“I’ve never nearly died though. Well, maybe the once. Or twice. Possibly three times. It depends on your perspective. I always had matters in hand.”
“Of course.”
Absently, Sherlock slides his thumb back into the indentation and John thinks it’s odd how perfectly it fits there, almost as if Sherlock himself left the mark. It would be preferable to think of it as a permanent thumbprint, instead of the battle scar that it is.
“Do you mind?” Sherlock asks, his voice strangely sincere.
John finds that he doesn’t.
Title: i believe
Fandom: SPN
Pairing: Castiel/Dean
Rating: PG
Words: 684
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: There is only one spirit not at rest here tonight.
A/N: Five Acts fic written for angela_weber who asked for angst & ghost stories. Set in early s4.
This is a story about a ghost.
There is an empty house, doors bolted shut against intruders while the windows stand gaping open like wounds. In the parlor, a dead man crouches in a circle of salt, his body tense, alert as he scans the room for fellow travelers. He grips his sawed off shotgun in his hands poised and ready to blow them to hell and back.
A gust of wind, a distant creak---he’s not alone.
“Hello, Dean.”
Dean turns on his heels, nearly dropping his gun. Castiel stands in the darkness, head tilted slightly to one side, watching.
“What did I say about this whole appearing out of nowhere thing?” Dean barks.
“Not to do it,” Castiel says, his voice calm and even.
“Think you could maybe try that?”
“Perhaps.”
Dean sighs, turns his attention back to the task of waiting. This is a stupid job. Amateur hour. He should be doing more. He should be doing…good. He can still see fire when he closes his eyes, still taste brimstone on his tongue, still feel the cool metal of the tools in his hand---
“You’re wasting time,” Castiel says. “This house is clean.”
Dean snorts.
“Sorry Tangina, six deaths in three years says different. There’s something here, I just got to wait for it to show its ugly mug.”
“I can feel them when they’re not at rest,” Castiel says.
Dean shivers as another breeze rips through the house. He wonders if this place was ever a home. If any of those sorry SOBs ever had a happy, apple pie life before they blew their brains out over breakfast. He wonders how many of them are living downstairs now. They could have crossed paths. For their sake, he hopes they didn’t.
He stands up slowly, his legs stiff, feet numb, and kicks at the salt feeling foolish. It’s not often that he’s wrong about a case. Maybe he is rusty after all.
“You sure?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Fuck.”
Dean tosses his rifle into the duffel and shoulders the pack, but Castiel doesn’t move. He stands perfectly still, staring intently at Dean. Dean can’t tell if it’s curiosity in his eyes or fascination, his gut tells him it’s pity.
“If you have something to say, just say it.”
“This is not how you will find redemption,” Castiel says. He places a hand on Dean’s shoulder, a casual gesture, almost human. It unsettles Dean.
“Let me guess, I let you have your way with me and I’ll have redemption coming out of my ass?”
Castiel moves closer, his fingers turning down reflexively, digging into the skin of Dean’s shoulder. There’s barely any room between them when Castiel speaks and Dean makes a mental note to have the personal space talk with him again.
“There is only one spirit not at rest here tonight,” he says slowly. “I would like to change that. If you will let me.”
“I’m not a believer, Cas. That’s Sammy’s thing. You let me worry about my soul, okay?”
“Do you believe in me?”
There’s a weight to the question that Dean pretends he doesn’t understand. Something’s coming. A fight, maybe the fight and this guy, this angel is asking Dean to give just a little bit more than he’s willing to offer.
He shrugs Castiel’s hand away as he shifts the bag higher on his shoulder.
“Well, you’re sure as hell not the Easter Bunny.”
“I don’t understand,” Castiel says, a genuine look of bewilderment crossing his face. Dean grins and heads for the door.
“I don’t have time to explain it to you. I’ve got to hit the road, there’s a case---”
Castiel is already gone.
The phantom feeling of Castiel’s touch lingers on his skin as Dean climbs into the Impala and he thinks he’ll have to tell Castiel the truth soon.
Dean used to believe in himself. Fuck everything else.
But deep down he knows there's not enough left of him to believe in anymore. All he’s got left to believe in now is the thing that had enough balls to drag him back.
Title: for you i forget about my tainted heart
Fandom: Dexter
Pairing: Deb/Quinn
Rating: R (sex)
Words: 412
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Quinn tries to distract Deb from the heat.
A/N: Five Acts fic written for gigglemonster who asked for weather.
There’s a storm brewing; the heat’s been rising all day, leaving an endless shit storm of murders and bar fights and lunatics practically howling at the fucking moon in its wake. Deb just wants it to break already, let the rain fall and wash the crazy right out of Miami, at least for one night.
She’s starting to understand why her dad used to come crawling home after twelve hour shifts looking like he had the shit beat out of him now. Her bones ache like she’s a goddamn ninety year old woman and she’s pretty sure if someone so much as looks at her cross-eyed she’s going to slam them against a wall.
Quinn’s waiting for her when she opens the door. The apartment’s like a sauna, their window unit blowing uselessly and there’s Quinn in his boxer shorts, beer in hand, grinning like the fucking cat that ate the canary.
“Guess it’s easy to grin when you’ve been sitting on your ass all day,” she snaps. Quinn’s grin never falters. He sprawls across the couch, waggling his eyebrows, and Deb’s not sure if she should kiss him or punch him in the face.
“Crazy day?” he asks innocently.
“Shut the fuck up.”
He laughs, catches her wrist as she tries to pass and drags her down on top of him. His body is slick with sweat, his sticky hands already inching up the back of her shirt. It’s too hot for breathing let alone fucking, but when he leans up and kisses her, easy and sweet, she kisses him back.
“You say the nicest things,” he mutters, tongue darting out to taste the sweat dripping down her collarbone.
Deb pulls her shirt over her head without bothering to unbutton it while Quinn unfastens the clasp on her pants. The air feels thick on her skin as she sheds her clothes, but it’s better than trying to paw at Quinn through a layer of cotton.
“It’s too hot for this,” Deb says, but she’s already straddling him, the bad kind of heat rapidly falling away in favor of the good kind.
“It’s never too hot for this,” Quinn shoots back.
Deb braces her hands on Quinn’s chest as she slides down on him, his face tensing with pleasure as she rocks against his cock.
“Goddamn, Deb,” he says reverently.
She laughs, moving faster, the aches and pains of the day forgotten. Outside, the first drops of rain finally start to fall.
Title: i won’t march again on your battlefield
Fandom: Mad Men
Pairing: Pete/Peggy
Rating: R (sex, implied character deaths)
Words: 653
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: This isn’t the first time they’ve sat side by side on a couch and waited for the world to end.
A/N: Five Acts fic written for lenina20 who asked apocalypse and quick/rushed situations.
She hates that the world is proving the tin hat wearing crazies right, hates that somewhere they’re huddled in their bomb shelters with their shelves lined with cans filled with soggy peas and corn, hands clasped in prayer for all those poor lost souls as if the radiation isn’t going to eat them from the inside out the minute they set foot above ground.
Peggy checks her watch. The news anchors said the bomb would drop within the hour---May God be with us.The offices at Sterling, Cooper, Draper & Pryce are silent, but for the occasional sob or sloshing of liquor against glass. It almost feels like business as usual. And it is, in a way---they sold the apocalypse when they sold the war and they sold it well.
A knock on her door makes Peggy turn. She’s not surprised to see Pete there, pale faced and hesitant. He wanted to go home, they all did, but the streets of Manhattan are in chaos and in the end they were all too afraid of dying out there, alone en route to homes they never spent enough time in for them to ever really earn the title.
“May I come in?” he asks, ever the gentleman.
“Please,” Peggy says as she scoots over to make room for him on the couch.
He smiles and perches on the edge, his hands gripping his knees.
This isn’t the first time they’ve sat side by side on a couch and waited for the world to end. It’s different this time though, it feels…final.
“I’m sure Johnson and his men have everything under control. They’ll have things cleared up in no time.”
Pete covers Peggy’s hand with his. His skin is clammy and the feeling makes her stomach twist. He’s afraid and she knows he hates to be afraid. The adwoman in her advises her to lie, to reassure him, but there’s no need for copywriters anymore, no need for pretty words.
“We’re going to die, Pete,” she says not unkindly.
He goes quiet, turns his attention to his shoes and even now he looks like such the little boy. Peggy reaches out to touch his cheek, coaxing him to meet her eyes. It’s been so long since they’ve touched without fear the sensation is almost foreign. She leans in until her lips meet his. He’s quivering.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs against his mouth. “It’s okay.”
As always, the adwoman wins out. Lies are easy. Lies are good and she’s very skilled at telling them, there's no reason to stop now.
He slides one hand under her silk shirt as she works at the knot of his tie. They undo only the necessary amount of clothes, his pants bunching at his knees as he pushes up her skirt and settles himself between her legs. Peggy only has a moment to marvel at how easily they still fit together, before Pete slides inside her.
Their breaths come in quick, ragged puffs, their foreheads pressed together as they struggle to find their old rhythm. Nothing separates them from the rest of the office but a very thin wall and for once, Peggy isn’t worried.
Recklessly, she thinks let them see, let them know. It doesn’t matter anymore. They’ve ran out of reasons to wait.
The material of the couch scratches against her thigh and she knows the skin there is rapidly turning red. She giggles and it sounds irrational and strange. Pete kisses the corner of her mouth, mutters something she doesn’t understand.
There’s a pressure building inside and she pulls Pete closer, her hips straining upward to meet his, to force him deeper.
Somewhere outside someone screams, or maybe it’s her, she can’t tell, her body is shuddering and she’s clinging to Pete, her voice sounds like it’s coming from far away---
It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.
All at once, everything explodes.
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Words: 466
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: He’s like a hound on the hunt, he’s caught the scent of blood on the air and he won’t rest until he’s found his quarry.
A/N: Five Acts fic written for primarycolors92 who asked for scars.
Sherlock’s thumb fits neatly into the puckered crevice of John’s bullet wound. The scar isn’t old yet, not really. The wound is still fresh enough in his mind that he wants to bat Sherlock’s hand away. He misses the war, yes. But there are still things he’d just as soon leave there.
He twists his body away from Sherlock’s touch and turns on his side in what he hopes will be interpreted as a casual movement, a sign that he is tired and nothing more. The bed shifts as Sherlock moves closer, his hand clamping down on John’s shoulder forcing him to lie on his back instead. He’s like a hound on the hunt, he’s caught the scent of blood on the air and he won’t rest until he’s found his quarry.
“It bothers you when I touch this,” Sherlock observes, running a fingertip over the scar for effect.
There’s no bother lying, not to Sherlock. John sighs and sits up in the bed he dimly remembers belonging only to him some distant time ago.
“Yes,” he says. “And yet, you keep doing it.”
“It fascinates me.”
“Ah, well carry on then,” John grumbles.
Sherlock takes his sarcasm as an invitation. He leans in, examining John as if he is a particularly interesting cadaver he’s found at the morgue. John watches as Sherlock stretches his fingers apart as far as they will go, measuring the space between John’s scar and his heart.
“One inch to the left and you would have died,” Sherlock muses. “That would have been a pity.”
Laughter rumbles through John’s chest as he shakes his head in wonderment at Sherlock and his odd, roundabout way of saying he’s glad that John isn’t dead.
Sherlock’s lips quirk upwards ever so slightly before he dips his head down and covers the scar with his mouth. It’s such an oddly tender; un-Sherlock thing to do John’s laughter is quickly replaced with shock. Sherlock pulls back and props his head on one hand, eyes searching John’s face.
“I have my own scars, you know.”
“Do you?” John asks even though he knows very well that Sherlock does. He’s seen them, thin white lines almost lost against his pale flesh, the ghost of old track marks on his arms.
“I’ve never nearly died though. Well, maybe the once. Or twice. Possibly three times. It depends on your perspective. I always had matters in hand.”
“Of course.”
Absently, Sherlock slides his thumb back into the indentation and John thinks it’s odd how perfectly it fits there, almost as if Sherlock himself left the mark. It would be preferable to think of it as a permanent thumbprint, instead of the battle scar that it is.
“Do you mind?” Sherlock asks, his voice strangely sincere.
John finds that he doesn’t.
Title: i believe
Fandom: SPN
Pairing: Castiel/Dean
Rating: PG
Words: 684
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: There is only one spirit not at rest here tonight.
A/N: Five Acts fic written for angela_weber who asked for angst & ghost stories. Set in early s4.
This is a story about a ghost.
There is an empty house, doors bolted shut against intruders while the windows stand gaping open like wounds. In the parlor, a dead man crouches in a circle of salt, his body tense, alert as he scans the room for fellow travelers. He grips his sawed off shotgun in his hands poised and ready to blow them to hell and back.
A gust of wind, a distant creak---he’s not alone.
“Hello, Dean.”
Dean turns on his heels, nearly dropping his gun. Castiel stands in the darkness, head tilted slightly to one side, watching.
“What did I say about this whole appearing out of nowhere thing?” Dean barks.
“Not to do it,” Castiel says, his voice calm and even.
“Think you could maybe try that?”
“Perhaps.”
Dean sighs, turns his attention back to the task of waiting. This is a stupid job. Amateur hour. He should be doing more. He should be doing…good. He can still see fire when he closes his eyes, still taste brimstone on his tongue, still feel the cool metal of the tools in his hand---
“You’re wasting time,” Castiel says. “This house is clean.”
Dean snorts.
“Sorry Tangina, six deaths in three years says different. There’s something here, I just got to wait for it to show its ugly mug.”
“I can feel them when they’re not at rest,” Castiel says.
Dean shivers as another breeze rips through the house. He wonders if this place was ever a home. If any of those sorry SOBs ever had a happy, apple pie life before they blew their brains out over breakfast. He wonders how many of them are living downstairs now. They could have crossed paths. For their sake, he hopes they didn’t.
He stands up slowly, his legs stiff, feet numb, and kicks at the salt feeling foolish. It’s not often that he’s wrong about a case. Maybe he is rusty after all.
“You sure?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Fuck.”
Dean tosses his rifle into the duffel and shoulders the pack, but Castiel doesn’t move. He stands perfectly still, staring intently at Dean. Dean can’t tell if it’s curiosity in his eyes or fascination, his gut tells him it’s pity.
“If you have something to say, just say it.”
“This is not how you will find redemption,” Castiel says. He places a hand on Dean’s shoulder, a casual gesture, almost human. It unsettles Dean.
“Let me guess, I let you have your way with me and I’ll have redemption coming out of my ass?”
Castiel moves closer, his fingers turning down reflexively, digging into the skin of Dean’s shoulder. There’s barely any room between them when Castiel speaks and Dean makes a mental note to have the personal space talk with him again.
“There is only one spirit not at rest here tonight,” he says slowly. “I would like to change that. If you will let me.”
“I’m not a believer, Cas. That’s Sammy’s thing. You let me worry about my soul, okay?”
“Do you believe in me?”
There’s a weight to the question that Dean pretends he doesn’t understand. Something’s coming. A fight, maybe the fight and this guy, this angel is asking Dean to give just a little bit more than he’s willing to offer.
He shrugs Castiel’s hand away as he shifts the bag higher on his shoulder.
“Well, you’re sure as hell not the Easter Bunny.”
“I don’t understand,” Castiel says, a genuine look of bewilderment crossing his face. Dean grins and heads for the door.
“I don’t have time to explain it to you. I’ve got to hit the road, there’s a case---”
Castiel is already gone.
The phantom feeling of Castiel’s touch lingers on his skin as Dean climbs into the Impala and he thinks he’ll have to tell Castiel the truth soon.
Dean used to believe in himself. Fuck everything else.
But deep down he knows there's not enough left of him to believe in anymore. All he’s got left to believe in now is the thing that had enough balls to drag him back.
Title: for you i forget about my tainted heart
Fandom: Dexter
Pairing: Deb/Quinn
Rating: R (sex)
Words: 412
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Quinn tries to distract Deb from the heat.
A/N: Five Acts fic written for gigglemonster who asked for weather.
There’s a storm brewing; the heat’s been rising all day, leaving an endless shit storm of murders and bar fights and lunatics practically howling at the fucking moon in its wake. Deb just wants it to break already, let the rain fall and wash the crazy right out of Miami, at least for one night.
She’s starting to understand why her dad used to come crawling home after twelve hour shifts looking like he had the shit beat out of him now. Her bones ache like she’s a goddamn ninety year old woman and she’s pretty sure if someone so much as looks at her cross-eyed she’s going to slam them against a wall.
Quinn’s waiting for her when she opens the door. The apartment’s like a sauna, their window unit blowing uselessly and there’s Quinn in his boxer shorts, beer in hand, grinning like the fucking cat that ate the canary.
“Guess it’s easy to grin when you’ve been sitting on your ass all day,” she snaps. Quinn’s grin never falters. He sprawls across the couch, waggling his eyebrows, and Deb’s not sure if she should kiss him or punch him in the face.
“Crazy day?” he asks innocently.
“Shut the fuck up.”
He laughs, catches her wrist as she tries to pass and drags her down on top of him. His body is slick with sweat, his sticky hands already inching up the back of her shirt. It’s too hot for breathing let alone fucking, but when he leans up and kisses her, easy and sweet, she kisses him back.
“You say the nicest things,” he mutters, tongue darting out to taste the sweat dripping down her collarbone.
Deb pulls her shirt over her head without bothering to unbutton it while Quinn unfastens the clasp on her pants. The air feels thick on her skin as she sheds her clothes, but it’s better than trying to paw at Quinn through a layer of cotton.
“It’s too hot for this,” Deb says, but she’s already straddling him, the bad kind of heat rapidly falling away in favor of the good kind.
“It’s never too hot for this,” Quinn shoots back.
Deb braces her hands on Quinn’s chest as she slides down on him, his face tensing with pleasure as she rocks against his cock.
“Goddamn, Deb,” he says reverently.
She laughs, moving faster, the aches and pains of the day forgotten. Outside, the first drops of rain finally start to fall.
Title: i won’t march again on your battlefield
Fandom: Mad Men
Pairing: Pete/Peggy
Rating: R (sex, implied character deaths)
Words: 653
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: This isn’t the first time they’ve sat side by side on a couch and waited for the world to end.
A/N: Five Acts fic written for lenina20 who asked apocalypse and quick/rushed situations.
She hates that the world is proving the tin hat wearing crazies right, hates that somewhere they’re huddled in their bomb shelters with their shelves lined with cans filled with soggy peas and corn, hands clasped in prayer for all those poor lost souls as if the radiation isn’t going to eat them from the inside out the minute they set foot above ground.
Peggy checks her watch. The news anchors said the bomb would drop within the hour---May God be with us.The offices at Sterling, Cooper, Draper & Pryce are silent, but for the occasional sob or sloshing of liquor against glass. It almost feels like business as usual. And it is, in a way---they sold the apocalypse when they sold the war and they sold it well.
A knock on her door makes Peggy turn. She’s not surprised to see Pete there, pale faced and hesitant. He wanted to go home, they all did, but the streets of Manhattan are in chaos and in the end they were all too afraid of dying out there, alone en route to homes they never spent enough time in for them to ever really earn the title.
“May I come in?” he asks, ever the gentleman.
“Please,” Peggy says as she scoots over to make room for him on the couch.
He smiles and perches on the edge, his hands gripping his knees.
This isn’t the first time they’ve sat side by side on a couch and waited for the world to end. It’s different this time though, it feels…final.
“I’m sure Johnson and his men have everything under control. They’ll have things cleared up in no time.”
Pete covers Peggy’s hand with his. His skin is clammy and the feeling makes her stomach twist. He’s afraid and she knows he hates to be afraid. The adwoman in her advises her to lie, to reassure him, but there’s no need for copywriters anymore, no need for pretty words.
“We’re going to die, Pete,” she says not unkindly.
He goes quiet, turns his attention to his shoes and even now he looks like such the little boy. Peggy reaches out to touch his cheek, coaxing him to meet her eyes. It’s been so long since they’ve touched without fear the sensation is almost foreign. She leans in until her lips meet his. He’s quivering.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs against his mouth. “It’s okay.”
As always, the adwoman wins out. Lies are easy. Lies are good and she’s very skilled at telling them, there's no reason to stop now.
He slides one hand under her silk shirt as she works at the knot of his tie. They undo only the necessary amount of clothes, his pants bunching at his knees as he pushes up her skirt and settles himself between her legs. Peggy only has a moment to marvel at how easily they still fit together, before Pete slides inside her.
Their breaths come in quick, ragged puffs, their foreheads pressed together as they struggle to find their old rhythm. Nothing separates them from the rest of the office but a very thin wall and for once, Peggy isn’t worried.
Recklessly, she thinks let them see, let them know. It doesn’t matter anymore. They’ve ran out of reasons to wait.
The material of the couch scratches against her thigh and she knows the skin there is rapidly turning red. She giggles and it sounds irrational and strange. Pete kisses the corner of her mouth, mutters something she doesn’t understand.
There’s a pressure building inside and she pulls Pete closer, her hips straining upward to meet his, to force him deeper.
Somewhere outside someone screams, or maybe it’s her, she can’t tell, her body is shuddering and she’s clinging to Pete, her voice sounds like it’s coming from far away---
It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.
All at once, everything explodes.