help meeeeeee

[obstinatrix]

Urgh. Okay, I'm horribly See Spot Run with my writing today. And, you know, yesterday as well. Not funny. I have porn that needs to be written. And, you know, spn_summergen. (A pause while I cry about that. Okay, done.) I am 22K into a J2 AU which I may sit on until after Big Bang season but really want to get written because it's eating my brain; I owe a Sam/Dean/Cas for help_nz - and, damn, it is hard to get those three to fuck. And then there's DCBB which I'm not even thinking about. I did at least get some work done on the PhD this morning, but I'm off work tomorrow, and I reckon that means half a day for PhD stuff and half a day for J2 AU. And then possibly fictictactoe, if I can get on a roll. But apparently I do not have a roll to get on right now. SO.

Give me one of my own stories, and a timestamp sometime in the future after the end of the story, or sometime in the past before the story started, and I'll write you at least a hundred words of what happened then, whether it's five minutes before the story started or ten years in the future.

Masterlist is here.

um. someone please request something? I fail at life today.

Maybe I shouldn't sign up for the samdean_otp minibang thingy if I'm having this much trouble getting shit done. But I'm totally going to. GOOD LIFE CHOICES, I MAKE THEM.

Comments

[de-nugis.livejournal.com]

You are so signing up for the minibang. It is your destiny, young Skywalker.

And I want MOAR Trusting Who We Are. Earlier, later, it's all good. Tell me how Sam broke his leg. Tell me how Dean made him catch up on his share of the chores when the cast came off. Go back and tell me how they settled there. Go forward ten years in the future. Just, MOAR.

omfg, how did this exceed a comment length? *facepalm* 1/2

[obstinatrix.livejournal.com]

Warning: you left too many prompts, and I may or may not have actually filled any of them. ;)

**

"We didn't mean to go to sea," Sam says, dreamily, the corners of his mouth curving upward. His face, his whole body is blurred by the sedatives and the curious shrinking effect of the hospital gown, but the words are the first he's said clearly since they gave him the shot. Dean sits up immediately in his chair, bolt upright and attentive.

"Sam?" His newspaper crumples on the floor, but it isn't as if he was paying much attention to it anyway. It isn't as if anything exciting ever happens in slow-drifting Howard. Maybe that was why he drove Sam all the way back here after his accident with that spirit down in Houston, some part of him unconsciously associating Howard with safety.

Bullshit.

Maybe.

Sam's smiling at him now, though his eyes droop drowsily. He looks like the world's most gargantuan six-year-old boy, and it's - weirdly endearing, reassuring. Dean allows his muscles to relax infinitesimally. "That the meds talking, Sammy?" he prods, cautiously. Something about what Sam said - the rhythm of the words - rang an ancient bell in his mind, but it was probably nonsense. Something unimportant, half-remembered.

Sam rolls his shoulders, laughs a little, and says it again. "Didn't mean to go to sea, Dean." He stretches out a long arm, fingers grasping at the air. "Remember that book?"

Dean doesn't, but he smiles back anyway, shifts his chair a little closer to the bed. Sam's hand looks warm, bony and inviting, and he doesn't even think before he slips his own into it, feels Sam's grip close firm around his palm. "Remember you always readin'," he says. "Nerd."

This is about the point at which Sam would usually get his bitch on, but apparently the meds have taken care of that. He just laughs more, low and tired, fingers flexing reflexively around Dean's. "We didn't mean to settle down," he says, and Dean hears it, the parallel rhythm. Wonders if, maybe, thinking the one made Sam's drugged mind recall the other. "How'd we end up here, Dean?"

And God, Dean thinks, but Sam is - Sam like this, battered but smiling, leg in probably the longest cast this hospital's ever made up. Dean can't remember how they got here, but he remembers why. Remembers why they stopped: the moment when Sam grinned at him and a secret, stubborn, sentimental part of Dean said, no, we've done our bit. Not gonna lose this. They didn't choose Howard so much as Howard grew up around them without so much as a by-your-leave, but it's good. It's good.

Dean's still scrambling for a response when the nurse comes in - must've heard them talking. "You see," she tells Dean, flashing white teeth, "Didn't we say he'd be fine?" There's a smudge of lipstick on the front incisor, which turns slightly inward. She's pretty. Dean smiles up at her, not flirtatiously. It's not his habit to flirt like breathing any more.

"Yeah," he concedes, echoing her quiet, hospital tones, "Sammy always lands on his feet."

2/2!

[obstinatrix.livejournal.com]

She inclines her head, still smiling, and Dean doesn't miss the way her eyes flicker down to their joined hands. "It's difficult, though, when it's someone you love. I know that." She hefts the bulk of files in her arms and nods towards the door before he can formulate a response. "You call if you need anything, okay?"

Dean blinks after her slowly. A year ago, if she'd pulled a stunt like that, he'd have been eyeing her ass and thinking of ways to slip he's my brother into their next conversation without it sounding crass. Today, though, it - doesn't really feel like it matters. He's here with Sam, where he oughta be, and she's recognised that. For whatever reason, Dean doesn't really give a shit about any of the ways she's gotten it wrong, because she has the main thing bang on: he belongs with Sam. Sam belongs with Dean.

By the time he turns back to Sam, mouth open to respond to him, finally, he's fallen asleep. His hand is still tight on Dean's, long, strong fingers, but he's definitely dead to the world. His mouth has fallen open the way it always has, that soft, open-faced expression he's worn in his sleep for as long as Dean can remember.

How'd we end up here, Dean? Sam asked, and Dean doesn't know. But maybe - maybe he knows why.

He squeezes Sam's hand before he speaks, just to check he's asleep. Sam squirms a little, grips back harder, but he's gone. Oh, man, he's gone. Dean bites his lip, smiles slowly.

"Love you, Sam," he says, under his breath. There's nobody to hear, after all. It can't hurt.

Sam isn't awake to overhear and mock, so Dean guesses he can probably afford to let him live.

Re: 2/2!

[de-nugis.livejournal.com]

*high-pitched dolphin noises*

H/C with drugged, sleepy, out of it Sam! Dean being sneakily sentimental! And this: They didn't choose Howard so much as Howard grew up around them without so much as a by-your-leave, I love that, the way their lives now are unexpected, but so organic and natural to them.

THANK YOU!!!!

Re: 2/2!

[obstinatrix.livejournal.com]

:DDD YOU ARE WELCOME! I enjoy playing in this universe greatly. :)

Re: 2/2!

[mistyzeo.livejournal.com]

♥_♥

Re: 2/2!

[harrigan.livejournal.com]

♥ ♥ ♥