obstinatrix | some random things

1. I turned in my

spnspringfling assignment! *\o/* Actually managed to write it all in one go and everything. Clearly, shortfic exchanges are an awesome idea.

2. Have some tiny scraps of stuff that got tweeted at various points.

a)

annundriel prompted 'magpie' and I was bored, so I wrote some unforgivably schmoopy Jensen/Misha for her.

"And this is the tree," Misha says, tossing the photograph down on the coffee table with a flick of his wrist, the way you'd skim stones across water. "I don't know if it's still there - haven't checked. Haven't been down there much, what with all the stuff for Divine." He laughs, glances up at Jensen. "What?" He prods him in the stomach, long insistent fingers. "What's with the strange look?"

Jensen snorts; stretches his arms up over the back of the sofa and shakes his head. "Oh, nothing." It's easy, now, to drop one arm casually around Misha's shoulders, pull him in close against his side. He moulds there easily, malleable as clay, warming to the heat of Jensen's blood. "Just." He grins, self-deprecating. "Such a magpie, Mish."

"Hmm?" Misha's tired, Jensen can feel it in every drooping line of his body, and the weight of him is heavy and lax against Jensen's side. "How'd you mean?"

Jensen shrugs. "Oh, you know. Politics, acting, your charity stuff. Producing. Something shiny catches your eye, and you're gone." Misha's hair is soft, gives a good smell, and Jensen can't help but rub his cheek against it, just slightly. "You always been that way?"

Misha's smile, when he tips his face up to Jensen's, has gone strangely soft, something dark and warm in his eyes. "About some things," he admits, and his hand lifts lazily to brush Jensen's cheek, palm the curve of it. "Not everything. Some things I stick with."

Jensen half-laughs, eyes narrowing, momentarily unsure if Misha's actually being that sappy, or if he's reading him totally wrong. "Oh, yeah?" he prompts, carefully. There's a warm feeling rising in his chest, but he's not about to let it burst out before its time. Not yet. Not with Misha, when it's all too important.

Misha raises an eyebrow, pointedly, and the sceptical arc of it is enough to dispel Jensen's doubts. "Trying to be sentimental here, Jensen. Don't expect me to say it twice."

"Sap," Jensen says, but the corners of his mouth are quirking upward, despite his best efforts.

"You love it," Misha retorts, "due to your secretly feminine soul." He lunges up, catches Jensen around the nape of the neck.

"I hate you," Jensen says, around a grin, and kisses him.

*

b) My cunning plan to get

cautionzombies into Wincest through the side door may or may not have started when she talked to me about my Samstiel DCBB idea. (Note: PLAN IS WORKING. MWAHAHAHAHA. SORT OF.)

Dean's breathless, shifting incrementally on the bed, and the room is too hot, his chest hitching helplessly with the need for air. Castiel is there, right there, so close Dean can hear his stuttered, shallow breaths, can feel the distance between them like a burn, but -

"Can't," Castiel says, as if he's reading Dean's mind. It isn't the voice Dean used to associate with him, but it isn't Sam's voice, either; is something lower and deeper, gravelled with grace and fire. Something brushes the ball of Dean's shoulder where it meets his arm: Castiel's fingers, and the brief contact sets a shudder rolling down Dean's spine, makes his hips twitch on the bed. He's hard in his shorts, cock pulsing up against the waistband, struggling to be free, and God, he wants. He wants Cas, wants his hands and his mouth and his cock. It isn't Dean's fault that all of those things also belong to Sam right now.

"Cas," he gets out, broken little whimper, "Cas, shit."

Castiel's palm flattens on Dean's sternum, bleeding heat right into his bones, and Dean grasps for all the reasons why they can't; thinks about the shape of the palm, of those fingers, long and years-familiar and Sam's. He can't do this to Sam; he won't. Not even when he hardly sees Sam in this body any more when Castiel has control; not even when the way Castiel moves Sam's body is entirely his own. The way his gestures and turns of expression are the ones Dean fell in love with.

Dean shivers a little under the touch, pelvis lifting. Fuck.

"Stop," he mutters. It's the hardest thing he's ever said, but a second more of this, and he won't be able to speak at all. "Cas - "

"I know," Castiel says, voice darker, now, broken-glass thick, and Dean's chest heaves, searching for breath. Then Cas's, Sam's, Cas's hand is moving, fingers trailing a line of fire up Dean's breastbone, over his clavicle. Along the curve of his jaw, across his fucking mouth, and Dean can't bite back his broken gasp, the moan in the back of his throat when Castiel's fingers dip, if only for a moment, into the silken wet heat between his lips. Castiel is shivering, too, Dean can feel in his arm, in the tension of the muscles.

"Dean," Castiel whispers, barely heard, and then his hand is moving again, fingers tracing a damp path down to Dean's nipple, touching it, descending. "Dean..."

*

3. What should I write for my S/D minibang? I'm kind of obsessed with Sam's dreamscape but I sort of already played with that. I want to write current canon, though, I'm pretty sure. Any ideas? I'm not above shameless begging. Is there anything anyone would like to see, however small?