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I got a Hancock story for Yuletide! Through a Glass Darkly: It’s Ray/Hancock and Mary/Ray, and of course Hancock/Mary by proxy. It doesn’t shy away from the difficulties and it lets Mary shine, so of course I love it.
Another goody as I start to trawl through: selves unimaginably mine, Chuck, Chuck/Sarah post 2x11
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meret
SPN Dean/Pamela/Sam, first time; Warning: sap alert!
When Pamela called them up, ten months after she’d fled Bobby’s and six after they’d seen her last, Sam wasn’t quite sure they should go to her. Dean called him a coward, asked him what else was on his calendar, and turned the car around.
There was some satisfaction in the fact that Dean did the bigger double-take when she opened her door for them, thirty pounds heavier and a whole lot more pregnant.
“Shut your mouths,” she said, stepping aside to let them in.
Dean’s eyes were as round as coins, and he almost didn’t enter. Sam shoved him forward until they were both standing in her hallway. The place was neat, well-organized; she hadn’t ever said, but Sam was pretty sure that her Sight only worked on living things.
“Yeah,” she said, “she’s yours. No, I don’t know which one.”
Sam tried to remember that night, but he’d spent a lot of time ignoring it and the details were too fuzzy to be any aid. But looking at Dean, ten years and a thousand small tragedies wiped from his face in an instant, Sam thought he knew the true answer.
“I, uh—” Sam began.
Pamela stepped forward and grabbed them both, her fingers tight on Sam’s upper arm, rubbing the muscle there with her thumb. “No way. You’re here for two reasons: first, give you a little extra incentive in that war you got going on. Spending all that time with angels and demons, you’re like to forget what really matters. Second, I am so horny I’m about to pop. So you get your asses back in that bedroom. You get back on the road tomorrow, you’ll remember what you’re really protecting.”
Sam checked on Dean, whose eyes were bouncing between Pamela’s breasts and her stomach. He was grinning, the unforced smile that Dean never showed on purpose.
“Okay, then,” Sam said, because for the first time since he’d found out what Dean remembered, he thought that Dean might intend to survive.
formangokulfi
Dean POV in Double Cross verse.
Even before his time Down Under, Dean hadn’t particularly enjoyed spending time in his own head, and the change from ‘nothing there worth seeing’ to ‘oh god don’t look’ had been a distinct deterioration. So of course he was going to spend as much time as possible between Dee’s legs. They were doing each other a favor.
Sam seemed to think it was more than that, and Dean couldn’t figure out why. Even when they’d been kids, Sam had always treated Dean’s girls like his credit cards: short-term only. Dee wasn’t looking for more than a good sweat any more than he was, and Sam should have seen that twice over.
He’d thought maybe, when Sam had a roll with her too, that meant Sam understood. But the strange tension hadn’t lifted.
She wasn’t as careful as Dean was in bed, which Dean figured was because she didn’t have to work as hard—guys were so much easier to get off. But damn, that had been hot, doubling up on one girl. He’d never trusted guy-girl couples enough to do a threesome like that; two chicks he could handle, but men always raised the threat level. Made him wonder what Dee did to keep herself safe. Maybe he’d ask, when he got back to the motel.
“Dean,” Castiel said, and Dean jerked his head up, shuddering a little at the shock of the angel’s appearance. Cas was the same as ever, distant and not quite amused, a kind of compassion in his eyes that reminded Dean too much of his mom’s ghost. Hard to resist, even when you knew it was coming from the one who put you where you needed to be pitied.
Dean cleared his throat. “Give me the fucking sword already.”
Castiel nodded, and Dean felt the flutter of wing-swept wind around him. “For what it’s worth, Dean—”
“For Christ’s sake, shut your mouth,” he snarled and stared at his feet so that he wouldn’t punch God’s messenger in his stupid loving face.
Castiel’s hand on his shoulder was not quite a surprise. He let the warmth soak in through his jacket for half a second before he twisted and pulled away.
When he forced his eyes back to the angel, Castiel was offering the sword across his outstretched palms. Even in its sheath, it was the most beautiful thing Dean had ever seen; he could almost hear it singing to him, promising glory. Of all the craziness, this was almost the worst: that somehow his horrorshow soul was deemed fit to bear a weapon like this.
“You’ve made the only choice,” Castiel said.
Dean clenched his jaw and reached for the sword. It seemed to glow when he touched it, golden warm. The shock ran through him, heating his veins and arteries until he thought he might melt where he stood, while at the same time he was drunk with strength, like being a kid again, right after his first successful hunt.
Sam, he reminded himself, and even thinking the name hurt, a black cloud that screamed and curled away from the power leaching into his bones.
“God forgives you,” Castiel said, and that was it for him.
“Yeah?” he asked, turning away, hoping that if he ever met the angel again it would burn his eyes out so that he wouldn’t have to see any more. “I don’t.”
Forcellia
Sarah Blake being awesome in a story. Bonus: it involves art.
“How’d you get this number?” Sam Winchester asked, sounding more freaked than anything else.
“It wasn’t easy,” Sarah told him, understatement of the decade. “But I need your help.” The non-supernatural details were tragically common: art looted from a wealthy German Jewish family in the 1930s, squirreled away for decades. This particular minor Impressionist work, at least, had been returned to the heirs after it had been exhibited in New York.
Except that now four people were dead, and Sarah was convinced that the spirit of the Nazi colonel who’d stolen the painting in the first place was to blame. There was no one who’d believe her except the guy who’d introduced her to the concept of vengeful spirits in the first place.
Sam was sincerely apologetic but very clear. He couldn’t possibly get away from his current ‘hunt.’ She’d have to do the legwork, and the purification ritual he emailed, on her own. (He did tell her to salt and burn the bones as a first try, but she thought it unlikely that she could make it over to Germany, find the man’s grave, and commit a crime in a foreign land, at least not before more people died. So, purification ritual it was.)
The ritual was in Latin, which made her feel insecure; she’d taken and forgotten French, and she had to hope that close-enough pronunciation counted. About halfway through, the brazier started to smoke, and something that stunk and groaned and moved like a man threw itself against the protective circle she’d drawn. But after ten seconds of mind-numbing terror, she realized the circle was going to hold, and returned to her work with greater intensity.
The thumps and guttural howls rose to a frenzy as the fire leapt higher. The flames were slowly consuming the bundle of herbs, wrapped in linen marked with charcoal, that Sam had told her how to make. When the fire went out, so did the noise.
Sarah waited for the smoke to clear—no way was she crossing that circle without seeing where she was going—and saw the storage room, empty of everything but the painting and her little performance art piece. Even in the dim light bleeding in from the hallway, the painting looked cleaner, lighter.
I can’t believe I did that, she thought.
Then: I want to do it again.
If there were enough hunts around the country to keep the Winchesters busy full-time, there had to be work in the tri-state area.
Sarah stepped over the chalk marks on the floor and into the new morning.
forjakrar
SPN: Dean/Sam, Dean/Castiel -- When it's time to choose, he chooses Dean. ('He' being either Sam or Castiel...or both.) (Note: one could easily read the Dean/Sam content here as gen.)
When it is time to choose, he chooses Dean.
Lucifer’s sin was pride: he refused to acknowledge that God loved Man better. Humans were weaker, true, but also more intricate, less straightforward, the better to reflect the variety that the Divine wished for His universe.
Castiel’s sin is otherwise: he imitates God, and loves a human more than anything else. More even than the One Who parted the waters and raised the land.
Dean, in return, surrenders Castiel everything. He offers his demon-tainted soul, his fragile and risen body, his constant attention, flickering like candleflame against Castiel’s mortal skin. Dean surrenders everything and Castiel does not notice until far, far too late that Dean never once speaks of love.
Love is, Castiel believes, the worst creation of the Divine. It is mis-aimed or stunted; it curls in on itself until it becomes vanity or hatred or jealousy. Its purity is only so notable because pure love is as rare as a burning bush, and as dangerous.
Lucifer is rising, the earth shaking itself apart to ease his way, and Sam Winchester is the only barrier remaining. Lilith has twined herself through Dean, body and soul. If Castiel abandons him to save his brother, he will die in agony and there will be no resurrection. Or Castiel can raise him to be with the angels and they can retreat, begin again with some new world.
Dean’s eyes are still his own, green like the leaves in the Garden of Eden. He cannot speak but he can beg nonetheless. Castiel can hear him make his claim: You owe me this. I bought it with my body and my soul.
This, then, is love: dust and bitterness merely.
When it is time to choose, he chooses to do what Dean would have him do. He leaves Lilith to do her worst and he saves Sam, whose rage is the sun’s fire against the Star of the Morning. They wade side-by-side through blood to victory.
After the world reforms itself into ordinariness, they find themselves standing in an empty field, stubbled with old grass. Sam will not look at him. Castiel would as soon raise his hand and erase the demon-blooded abomination from the earth, but that would require drawing on his Grace and that is even more untenable.
The gates of Hell are closed, blind and impenetrable as the gates of Heaven.
Castiel furls his wings, useless heavy reminders of a faith unrewarded, and starts to walk.
Sam screams, rage and loathing. Castiel hears every note: I loved him, I hate you, it should have been me.
Castiel stops, but does not turn. “Are you coming?” he asks.
“Why would I go anywhere with you?” Sam is not honestly curious; it is simply another accusation, a hope to hurt Castiel.
“Dean is nowhere I can reach,” Castiel says, looking to the horizon. “But if Lucifer may burst his chains, it may be that other walls God has built are not eternal. And I believe I am done following orders.”
It is less than a minute before he hears the scuff of Sam’s feet on the ground, following him.
They do not need to enjoy one another’s company. They still have a common enemy. Only His identity has changed.
Another goody as I start to trawl through: selves unimaginably mine, Chuck, Chuck/Sarah post 2x11
For
meretSPN Dean/Pamela/Sam, first time; Warning: sap alert!
When Pamela called them up, ten months after she’d fled Bobby’s and six after they’d seen her last, Sam wasn’t quite sure they should go to her. Dean called him a coward, asked him what else was on his calendar, and turned the car around.
There was some satisfaction in the fact that Dean did the bigger double-take when she opened her door for them, thirty pounds heavier and a whole lot more pregnant.
“Shut your mouths,” she said, stepping aside to let them in.
Dean’s eyes were as round as coins, and he almost didn’t enter. Sam shoved him forward until they were both standing in her hallway. The place was neat, well-organized; she hadn’t ever said, but Sam was pretty sure that her Sight only worked on living things.
“Yeah,” she said, “she’s yours. No, I don’t know which one.”
Sam tried to remember that night, but he’d spent a lot of time ignoring it and the details were too fuzzy to be any aid. But looking at Dean, ten years and a thousand small tragedies wiped from his face in an instant, Sam thought he knew the true answer.
“I, uh—” Sam began.
Pamela stepped forward and grabbed them both, her fingers tight on Sam’s upper arm, rubbing the muscle there with her thumb. “No way. You’re here for two reasons: first, give you a little extra incentive in that war you got going on. Spending all that time with angels and demons, you’re like to forget what really matters. Second, I am so horny I’m about to pop. So you get your asses back in that bedroom. You get back on the road tomorrow, you’ll remember what you’re really protecting.”
Sam checked on Dean, whose eyes were bouncing between Pamela’s breasts and her stomach. He was grinning, the unforced smile that Dean never showed on purpose.
“Okay, then,” Sam said, because for the first time since he’d found out what Dean remembered, he thought that Dean might intend to survive.
for
mangokulfiDean POV in Double Cross verse.
Even before his time Down Under, Dean hadn’t particularly enjoyed spending time in his own head, and the change from ‘nothing there worth seeing’ to ‘oh god don’t look’ had been a distinct deterioration. So of course he was going to spend as much time as possible between Dee’s legs. They were doing each other a favor.
Sam seemed to think it was more than that, and Dean couldn’t figure out why. Even when they’d been kids, Sam had always treated Dean’s girls like his credit cards: short-term only. Dee wasn’t looking for more than a good sweat any more than he was, and Sam should have seen that twice over.
He’d thought maybe, when Sam had a roll with her too, that meant Sam understood. But the strange tension hadn’t lifted.
She wasn’t as careful as Dean was in bed, which Dean figured was because she didn’t have to work as hard—guys were so much easier to get off. But damn, that had been hot, doubling up on one girl. He’d never trusted guy-girl couples enough to do a threesome like that; two chicks he could handle, but men always raised the threat level. Made him wonder what Dee did to keep herself safe. Maybe he’d ask, when he got back to the motel.
“Dean,” Castiel said, and Dean jerked his head up, shuddering a little at the shock of the angel’s appearance. Cas was the same as ever, distant and not quite amused, a kind of compassion in his eyes that reminded Dean too much of his mom’s ghost. Hard to resist, even when you knew it was coming from the one who put you where you needed to be pitied.
Dean cleared his throat. “Give me the fucking sword already.”
Castiel nodded, and Dean felt the flutter of wing-swept wind around him. “For what it’s worth, Dean—”
“For Christ’s sake, shut your mouth,” he snarled and stared at his feet so that he wouldn’t punch God’s messenger in his stupid loving face.
Castiel’s hand on his shoulder was not quite a surprise. He let the warmth soak in through his jacket for half a second before he twisted and pulled away.
When he forced his eyes back to the angel, Castiel was offering the sword across his outstretched palms. Even in its sheath, it was the most beautiful thing Dean had ever seen; he could almost hear it singing to him, promising glory. Of all the craziness, this was almost the worst: that somehow his horrorshow soul was deemed fit to bear a weapon like this.
“You’ve made the only choice,” Castiel said.
Dean clenched his jaw and reached for the sword. It seemed to glow when he touched it, golden warm. The shock ran through him, heating his veins and arteries until he thought he might melt where he stood, while at the same time he was drunk with strength, like being a kid again, right after his first successful hunt.
Sam, he reminded himself, and even thinking the name hurt, a black cloud that screamed and curled away from the power leaching into his bones.
“God forgives you,” Castiel said, and that was it for him.
“Yeah?” he asked, turning away, hoping that if he ever met the angel again it would burn his eyes out so that he wouldn’t have to see any more. “I don’t.”
For
celliaSarah Blake being awesome in a story. Bonus: it involves art.
“How’d you get this number?” Sam Winchester asked, sounding more freaked than anything else.
“It wasn’t easy,” Sarah told him, understatement of the decade. “But I need your help.” The non-supernatural details were tragically common: art looted from a wealthy German Jewish family in the 1930s, squirreled away for decades. This particular minor Impressionist work, at least, had been returned to the heirs after it had been exhibited in New York.
Except that now four people were dead, and Sarah was convinced that the spirit of the Nazi colonel who’d stolen the painting in the first place was to blame. There was no one who’d believe her except the guy who’d introduced her to the concept of vengeful spirits in the first place.
Sam was sincerely apologetic but very clear. He couldn’t possibly get away from his current ‘hunt.’ She’d have to do the legwork, and the purification ritual he emailed, on her own. (He did tell her to salt and burn the bones as a first try, but she thought it unlikely that she could make it over to Germany, find the man’s grave, and commit a crime in a foreign land, at least not before more people died. So, purification ritual it was.)
The ritual was in Latin, which made her feel insecure; she’d taken and forgotten French, and she had to hope that close-enough pronunciation counted. About halfway through, the brazier started to smoke, and something that stunk and groaned and moved like a man threw itself against the protective circle she’d drawn. But after ten seconds of mind-numbing terror, she realized the circle was going to hold, and returned to her work with greater intensity.
The thumps and guttural howls rose to a frenzy as the fire leapt higher. The flames were slowly consuming the bundle of herbs, wrapped in linen marked with charcoal, that Sam had told her how to make. When the fire went out, so did the noise.
Sarah waited for the smoke to clear—no way was she crossing that circle without seeing where she was going—and saw the storage room, empty of everything but the painting and her little performance art piece. Even in the dim light bleeding in from the hallway, the painting looked cleaner, lighter.
I can’t believe I did that, she thought.
Then: I want to do it again.
If there were enough hunts around the country to keep the Winchesters busy full-time, there had to be work in the tri-state area.
Sarah stepped over the chalk marks on the floor and into the new morning.
for
jakrarSPN: Dean/Sam, Dean/Castiel -- When it's time to choose, he chooses Dean. ('He' being either Sam or Castiel...or both.) (Note: one could easily read the Dean/Sam content here as gen.)
When it is time to choose, he chooses Dean.
Lucifer’s sin was pride: he refused to acknowledge that God loved Man better. Humans were weaker, true, but also more intricate, less straightforward, the better to reflect the variety that the Divine wished for His universe.
Castiel’s sin is otherwise: he imitates God, and loves a human more than anything else. More even than the One Who parted the waters and raised the land.
Dean, in return, surrenders Castiel everything. He offers his demon-tainted soul, his fragile and risen body, his constant attention, flickering like candleflame against Castiel’s mortal skin. Dean surrenders everything and Castiel does not notice until far, far too late that Dean never once speaks of love.
Love is, Castiel believes, the worst creation of the Divine. It is mis-aimed or stunted; it curls in on itself until it becomes vanity or hatred or jealousy. Its purity is only so notable because pure love is as rare as a burning bush, and as dangerous.
Lucifer is rising, the earth shaking itself apart to ease his way, and Sam Winchester is the only barrier remaining. Lilith has twined herself through Dean, body and soul. If Castiel abandons him to save his brother, he will die in agony and there will be no resurrection. Or Castiel can raise him to be with the angels and they can retreat, begin again with some new world.
Dean’s eyes are still his own, green like the leaves in the Garden of Eden. He cannot speak but he can beg nonetheless. Castiel can hear him make his claim: You owe me this. I bought it with my body and my soul.
This, then, is love: dust and bitterness merely.
When it is time to choose, he chooses to do what Dean would have him do. He leaves Lilith to do her worst and he saves Sam, whose rage is the sun’s fire against the Star of the Morning. They wade side-by-side through blood to victory.
After the world reforms itself into ordinariness, they find themselves standing in an empty field, stubbled with old grass. Sam will not look at him. Castiel would as soon raise his hand and erase the demon-blooded abomination from the earth, but that would require drawing on his Grace and that is even more untenable.
The gates of Hell are closed, blind and impenetrable as the gates of Heaven.
Castiel furls his wings, useless heavy reminders of a faith unrewarded, and starts to walk.
Sam screams, rage and loathing. Castiel hears every note: I loved him, I hate you, it should have been me.
Castiel stops, but does not turn. “Are you coming?” he asks.
“Why would I go anywhere with you?” Sam is not honestly curious; it is simply another accusation, a hope to hurt Castiel.
“Dean is nowhere I can reach,” Castiel says, looking to the horizon. “But if Lucifer may burst his chains, it may be that other walls God has built are not eternal. And I believe I am done following orders.”
It is less than a minute before he hears the scuff of Sam’s feet on the ground, following him.
They do not need to enjoy one another’s company. They still have a common enemy. Only His identity has changed.
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