comment fic roundup for past two months. :D

[wellownedbkup]

it's past dark when he finally makes it out of the office where he's been interning for the past 2 months, jacket tossed over his shoulder carelessly as he breathes in the night air. he feels like he hasn't surfaced in ages, hasn't been out of doors long enough between the last of his classes and the work his mentor is piling on him. it's late, and he's not tired yet. he's thankful for the nearness of the parking lot, though, glad to drive back toward campus where the diners stay open all night and the food is cheap.

he can appreciate that as well as anyone.

the middle aged waitress who takes his order smiles widely at him with a hand on her hip. "you're just as pretty as a picture," she drawls, chuckling a little at his soft blush.

the guy in the booth across the aisle laughs as she leaves. "you know, she's not wrong."

dean startles, looking around for the direction of the comment, to see if it was directed towards him. "excuse me?"

"she's not wrong. you are pretty as a picture." the guy grins wide, hair pulled back into a too-short ponytail at the crown of his head. dean blushes again, pulling at the tie and buttons at his neck until his throat is bare and he doesn't feel like he's choking beneath it anymore. the guy looks at him askance, head tilted as if he's considering something.

dean rubs his ear nervously. "why are you staring?"

the guy shrugs and turns away, slyly glancing back across. "you'd be prettier if you messed your hair up a bit. you look like you're trying too hard."

"you can never try too hard," he says, pausing when he doesn't have a name to finish that sentence.

"sam." sam dusts his fingers on his jeans leg before holding it out to shake, dimples creasing his cheeks. dean tries, he really does, but he can't stop himself from wanting to keep this giant skinny kid with him.



sam makes the best of things. really, he does. but he's told dean time and time again not to dry their clothes on high heat. he knows it saves time and money, but sometimes you just have to sacrifice.

sam's just a little frustrated, you know? it's a lot of work trying to remember not to stretch or even hunch over because he'll go all HULK SMASH on his clothes and he'll be left with just a few tatters for a shirt. not to mention how tight his jeans have gotten lately. dean just doesn't seem to listen.

so sam's making the best of things, really. a few stressed buttons on a shirt are nothing when he thinks about the month of pink underwear from his botched attempt at washing their clothes.

he just wishes he knew why dean insisted on drying everything on high. and then walking just a few steps behind him when they went out.



dean will always make a fool of himself for his sam. his sammy. he doesn't have any control over it, something that's been ingrained in his system like breathing, like eating. saving people, hunting things--the family business-- comes second only to protecting sam, making sam happy.

he makes silly faces at sammy-the-baby when he's 6 years old, a two year old sammy in the booster chair with mutinous crying hovering at the edges of his expression. dad's driving, has been for hours and hours, and dean knows that he's too exhausted to deal with an unhappy baby. so dean keeps sammy occupied by scrunching his face until his baby brother giggles. until he smiles with little tiny teeth and tongue peeking out like a secret.

dean pushes through any of his discomfort when, at 17, he no longer wants to deal with touchy-feely stuff, with hugs and Care Bear sharing. pushes through it because sammy-call-me-sam needs a hug and the arm wrapped around his shoulder as they head back to another in a string of motels. sam needs the leaning and the sturdiness of someone to lean on when dad's off in another town for some hunch on a job. but dean can overlook the uncoolness of hanging with his baby brother, just to see that grin that's been all too rare of late.

that's why he plays the typical big brother when he crashes sam's stanford pad. jess is cute-- blonde and tiny, perfect foil for his brother. and sam... sam's smile is soft and wide, only for her. dean misses sam dreadfully, would give anything to leave that smile on his brother's face (or to have been the one to put it there, like he used to when they were kids). if it weren't for dad being MIA, the friendly arm punch and the typical comment about jess would've been all. his sammy, his sam... happy.

dean'll make an ass of himself, put himself out there just to see that smile. it's been a long time since he's seen his brother's dimples, too-white teeth. if he can see his baby brother happy, he will sell his soul. has.

so it's no surprise that they're lying on the roof of the impala one night, stuck out in the desert and watching the stars like they used to do years and years ago. all's quiet-- just the sounds of their breathing. and sam has been sad for so long, angry and shaken by all that they've seen. dean can't help himself, telling sam the one thing he's never told anyone.

"i love you, sammy."

sam's smile is a gift that has him almost believing in God again.


for elle's kissing meme...

after spending so long in vancouver winters, where flatlands suddenly become mountainous with snow, dallas in winter is a cakewalk. jensen's outside on the porch in just a sweater, watching what passes for snow around these parts fall and gather on the yard and the cars parked in the driveway. it's definitely something he's going to miss--days where the eight feet of snow doesn't keep them in, where twelve feet does and there's endless hot chocolate and cable sports channels and two heavy dogs to compete with couch space for.

he knows he should get back to the party, beer bottle in his hand nearly empty and only a few minutes left til midnight, but he's just a little too maudlin to celebrate. a little too wrapped in himself to think about putting on a face for his texas friends.

jared joins him eventually, trading the empty bottle for a cold full one and leaning on the railing beside him, unheeding the snowflakes gathering in his hair. he doesn't say anything, for once, enjoying the quiet and present company. jensen finally turns to him after a long moment, smile drifting across his lips. inside he can hear the countdown, and his fingers itch to dust the snow out of jared's hair, tangle there and never let go. he gives in, just as the clocks tick over and the ball drops, everyone inside shouting "happy new year" as his lips finally touch jared's.

there's no fireworks here, no foot-popping movie style kiss. it's almost chaste and languorous, jensen's cold fingers warmed by jared's scalp and melting the snow right into his hair as they kiss for a long minute, enjoying the moment.

jensen's blushing as they pull back, jared depositing a kiss to the tip of his cold, cold nose. yeah, he could go for being stuck with jared at least another year, even if this is the last season of Supernatural.


it's been hours, running solely on caffeine and the energy of the fans. there's been pictures and autographs and panels and maaaaaaybe some smuggled in alcohol to ward off the nerves. not that either of them would talk about that.

but once the exhaustion kicks in after the adrenaline wears off, they may be a little punch drunk walking back to their rooms after being dropped off at their hotel. and, yeah, their security is a little ridiculous (three car changes just to avoid fans? yeah, overkill much?), so it's not entirely their fault that they're giggling all the way up the elevator and down the hall to jensen's room.

"fuck, man, can't find my key." jared's drawl is long, punctuated by snorts of incontrollable giggles. he's halfhearted in his search anyway, patting one side of himself in the general area of his pockets, propped up on the other side by the wall outside jensen's door. "lemme crash."

jensen snorts and lets him into the room after him, not even bothering to flip on the lights as he flops face-first onto the king sized bed in the bedroom. he may or may not say something to the effect of "whatever, dude, just don't drool on my pillow and brush your teeth before you get here," but it doesn't really make it past the pillow muffling the words against his mouth. it sends them both into tired laughs, jared unable to stop himself from crashing right next to jensen on the bed.

they quiet for a minute, just breathing and easing themselves down into sleep. jensen's far closer to it than jared, having craved a bed since before they even got started on the breakfast panel. so much time passes, jensen's almost completely asleep before he feels the dry press of lips to his forehead, his nose, and a chaste kiss to his lips.

"goodnight, jen."


turning 14 in north carolina makes sam's bones itch, hot and humid summer settling in and no escape. as if the heat weren't oppressive enough, the house they're in for the month while john's away on a job is ramshackle at best, dark and stifling. dean tinkers with the air conditioner daily, trying to get it working at some point to ease them. the nights are bad, and the days are worse and all sam wants to do is lie in a tub of ice water until dean can fix the AC.

nothing seems to happen.

dean walks into the room not too long after the sun's gone down and what little breeze blowing through the trees knocks the temperature from "hellish" to "boiling", sucking on a cherry popsicle. sam rolls his eyes from where he's lying on the floor, stripped down to a ragged pair of basketball shorts.

"god, dean. what are you, 5? since when do we have popsicles?"

dean shrugs and sucks it back into his mouth. "whatever works to cool you off, sammy boy."

"yeah, right." sam's derisive laugh cuts through the room like a knife.

dean flicks an eyebrow up before coming to a decision. he pulls the popsicle from his mouth slowly, aware of sam's gaze on the movement. time seems to still as dean presses his lips lightly on sam's, chilly and the slightest bit wet from the juice. sam shivers, opens his mouth a bit, craving more of the coolness still lingering in dean's mouth.

it's over too soon, dean pulling away from the kiss just as his popsicle starts melting onto his hand. he tosses another one, still in its wrapper, onto sam's chest, grinning at the yelp that comes immediately thereafter. "brought one for you too, sammy."


for comment_fic@LJ

there don't seem to be any calluses on the hands that wield the Hand of God. no roughness, as if the dust and the road and the cold nights don't even touch the Boss. there's nothing that says this man is an outlaw.

it's their third night across the border, waiting for the right time to get back to looting stagecoaches and humiliating pinkertons, the good life. charlie's shuddering, shaking in between sheets where the Boss's whore of the night had lain an hour before, dusty head pillowed where she'd left a shocked O lip print as she'd muffled her cries. and Ben Wade, the most fearsome man to set foot on God's green earth, is on his knees like a penitent.

the room's hot and time's stretching taffy thick, while charlie waits for some clue of what to do that doesn't involve curses and prayers and the sweat that collects beneath him. Ben Wade doesn't get on his knees for just any man.


it's better than the rumble of her motorcycle beneath her or freedom from manticore or even knowing eyes only. one hand traces down a long stretch of skin, heated satin despite the ravages around them.

cindy was right; women are much better.


he had no doubt in his mind that max was trying to keep logan's wonder hands a secret solely out of spite. because those wide palms catch just right on the skin. he's never come faster in his life, even when in heat.


there's a stream of dresses and shop's assistants, boxes and hangers and it's almost too much for claire to handle.

her grandmother is a real piece of work, directing each one with what seems to be a look or a gesture with the mimosa in her hand, discarding people and ideas in a whirl of fabric.

claire only tried to speak once, but since refrained, not wanting to hear another diatribe on the fashion faux pas of a Texas high school cheerleader.


"What do you mean you don't have any power bars? I saw you pack those MREs before we left and if you think I'm not going to search you for them, you're mistaken, McKay."

Somehow, it doesn't have the threatening effect Sheppard thought it would have.


dean's got her laid out in the backseat of the impala, red hair crunched up against the door and her sighs in his ears. women have always been easy for him, their soft curves cradled just right in his angles. god, he can even remember cassie and how wild she was back when he thought that he might just hang up his gun for awhile and let someone make an honest man out of him.

his mind keeps drifting away from the pale woman beneath him, this woman who hears voices of angels and now has to be his choice-- return her, or lose his brother. it's like choosing between eating and drinking; no real choice at all.

she whimpers beneath him, stark white of her bra lighting up the space between them like a halo. and it just keeps feeling off, the way his mind drifts back to other women in other times, his brother, saving people, hunting things. there's nothing he'd rather do than make this good for her, it seems, except everything else.

she brings his mind back to the here and now with a hand ghosting over the palmprint scar left by an overzealous angel and a golden ticket out of Hell. and he jolts, mind entirely on her for the first time since they got into the impala, for the first time since she took off her shirt.


and when she gets her glory back, when they're having it out in the barn with demons on one side and angels on the other, he still can't shake the feeling that he was the one who was actually fucked.


they decide to show up to the school reunion separately. their friends weren't of the same groups, after all. they'd only met and gotten together when it hadn't mattered anymore. after college, before the real world. they figured that they could come separately, meet the people they used to know, and not rock an old high school drama boat 10 years after the fact.

that didn't stop scott from making sure jordan knew exactly who he belonged to.

one hand was holding jordan face down on the bed, the other guiding scott's cock into him over and over. scott could hear jordan begging, whining for more, harder, please, but giving no relief. he wanted nothing more than to leave his lover a boneless mess, too blissed out to do anything more than grin stupidly at his old friends. he wanted the satisfaction of seeing jordan squirm in his seat from where he could still feel himself open and wet.

scott shuddered and pressed into him again, whispering "mine" over and over until there was no telling the difference between it and breathing.


lyle knows a lot more than he lets on. like claire and her whole... invincibility issues? yeah, lyle's been knowing about that for about as long as claire has. and his dad's job at the "paper factory"? honestly, who wouldn't have called that a cover??

see, lyle's smarter than he ever shows because he knows the power of having spies.

and really, who thinks twice about a little anklebiter roaming around the house?? not that he calls muggles that to his face. muggles is more than a little yapping dog. he's got a lot more respect for that dog than anyone. he's heard some of the babble his mom puts on that dog, and he wouldn't wish that on anyone--two or four legged.

which is why he doesn't tell anyone about his own power. it's not like it's all that much of a power at all-- invisibility or flying or even claire's invincibility would be miles over this. but it still makes him smile sometimes when muggles comes into the living room and sits on his lap and proceeds to tell him about the boy hiding in claire's closet, or where the best cookies are being hidden.

understanding what an animal has to say can be pretty useful, all things considered.


they're three days into a job on the florida coastline, and they haven't spent a single day inside. the motel's ten minutes from the beach where there's endless swimming and sand and cheap icees for when it gets too hot. john's working hard and just sends up a thankful prayer that his boys are out from underfoot and that dean knows how to take care of his brother.

they're three days into a job on the florida coastline when the rain finally hits and they realize just how sunburnt they are. the raindrops sizzle on their skin, looking cooked from hours spent under the magnifying glass of ocean water. and they can't be happier.

dean's a resourceful older brother, even if he occasionally flicks sam just to hear his hiss of pain. he charms the lady at the desk for some aloe, spreading it over the worst of the burns on sammy's back and face.

the rain lasts for 4 days, the rest of the job. and dean peels away the burn of the sun to reveal more freckles than he can remember either of them having. and counts them until they fade from three days on the florida coastline, three days in the summer sun.


for all his height and musculature, jared holds his liquor about as well as a bucket with a hole in it carries water. so saint paddy's day? totally not his best day on any count. two green beers and he's pretty much down. horny as fuck, but down and stumbling like any other drunk.

jeff and jensen, on the other hand, seem to keep having competitions over who can drink the most before they get sick and pass out. or until the green food coloring becomes a problem. either way, it bores jared to no end to watch them put away pitcher after pitcher in a bar until all three of them are stumbling into the street, collapsed together as the only way to hold themselves up until they can get in a cab and make it back to whoever's place they're at tonight.

but jared's got a plan, see? this year, there's a house in vancouver and he's bought a few six packs to loosen them up. he's promised himself he can only have one beer cause he wants something to come out of this night. after 4 years of these guys teasing him, he ought to get something out of it.


julian is always miffed when elim refuses to play any cardassian music around him. he's so sure that what garak says is couched in half-truths that he doesn't even blink to hear him say that cardassian music is not for human consumption. whatever that means. he just assumes that elim is not proud of his music, or just wants to make julian feel at ease.

most of the time, when julian passes garak's shop, he'll hear verdi or wagner streaming out with a greeting to the Doctor Bashir strolling by. when he's in garak's quarters for a game of kotra, he's a bit curious at the piano classics playing softly at the edges of the room.

he assumes that cardassian music must be primitive, like aboriginal chants and that's why garak distances himself with terran classical music.

when he walks in on a garak's quarters late one evening uninvited and nearly collapses from the spontaneous orgasm the cardassian opera provokes, he begins to rethink his ideas on cardassian music.


so, the big round-up. some fandom, some rps, some original work. whee!