"digging out the bullet and holding it up to the light," SPN, Dean/Cas, PGpann_cakeJanuary 7 2012, 06:26:14 UTC
Dean has a dream about him.
They’re standing in an empty street, surrounded by half-fallen buildings. There’s a streetlight flickering feebly at them, blinking on and off, on and off. It reminds Dean a bit of 2014, and he shudders, pulls his jacket tighter.
Cas is standing an arm’s length away, and they’re arguing but Dean isn’t sure about what. He doesn’t think it really matters, it’s never the exact words that hurt, anyway. Cas’s sharp tone, full of defeat and disappointment, hits Dean like a bullet to the chest.
“What the hell do you want me to do, Cas? Hm?” Dean snaps, taking a step forward, crowding into Cas’s space. “Look around. There’s nothing left.”
“We can still fix this, Dean,” Cas says, voice steady now, eyes clear. “There’s always hope.”
Dean shakes his head sadly. “Not this time, Cas.”
“Yes, there is, Dean.” Cas reaches out, clasps Dean on the shoulder, fingers gripping tight. “I won’t let you give up.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because you’re family. And family doesn’t give up on each other. You taught
( ... )
"morning ritual," John/Sherlock pre-slash, PGpann_cakeJanuary 7 2012, 06:48:21 UTC
Sherlock has taken to not wearing clothes. A lot. John isn’t sure quite when it started, if it was something he used to do before he had John as his flatmate, or what. He just knows that Sherlock wraps himself loosely in a sheet most mornings, as if it’s completely normal.
He’s in a sheet when he makes tea (sometimes he makes one for John). He’s in a sheet when he checks his email (on John’s computer). He’s in a sheet when he scrolls through news stories on his phone (John pretends to read the paper).
John’s starting to think Sherlock’s doing it on purpose.
One morning, Sherlock stands from his chair and stretches, his arms over his head and his shoulders cracking. When his arms come back down the sheet slips. John can’t help it, his eyes follow the sheet down, past Sherlock’s navel, past his bony hips, almost low enough to
( ... )
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They’re standing in an empty street, surrounded by half-fallen buildings. There’s a streetlight flickering feebly at them, blinking on and off, on and off. It reminds Dean a bit of 2014, and he shudders, pulls his jacket tighter.
Cas is standing an arm’s length away, and they’re arguing but Dean isn’t sure about what. He doesn’t think it really matters, it’s never the exact words that hurt, anyway. Cas’s sharp tone, full of defeat and disappointment, hits Dean like a bullet to the chest.
“What the hell do you want me to do, Cas? Hm?” Dean snaps, taking a step forward, crowding into Cas’s space. “Look around. There’s nothing left.”
“We can still fix this, Dean,” Cas says, voice steady now, eyes clear. “There’s always hope.”
Dean shakes his head sadly. “Not this time, Cas.”
“Yes, there is, Dean.” Cas reaches out, clasps Dean on the shoulder, fingers gripping tight. “I won’t let you give up.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because you’re family. And family doesn’t give up on each other. You taught ( ... )
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He’s in a sheet when he makes tea (sometimes he makes one for John). He’s in a sheet when he checks his email (on John’s computer). He’s in a sheet when he scrolls through news stories on his phone (John pretends to read the paper).
John’s starting to think Sherlock’s doing it on purpose.
One morning, Sherlock stands from his chair and stretches, his arms over his head and his shoulders cracking. When his arms come back down the sheet slips. John can’t help it, his eyes follow the sheet down, past Sherlock’s navel, past his bony hips, almost low enough to ( ... )
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That's why you sleep with one eye open
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