And now I get to inaugurate a Dark Angel tag! Sorry I’m so slow on these, but there will be a couple of longer stories at the end. And next year, Hanukah might be late enough that I can actually manage to be on time!

1. [personal profile] alexseanchai: Sam and Dean's role in stopping the apocalypse has made the news and the boys are guests on the Colbert Report. Discussion of Sam/Dean.

“You claim to have stopped the apocalypse,” Stephen Colbert said.

Dean was busy leering at a pretty girl in the front row, not paying much attention, but Sam leaned forward, putting his forearms on the desk and opening his hands, eyes wide and sincere. “Well, we still don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t fought off Lucifer—maybe God would have changed His mind about intervening. Or if this was all destined to happen, maybe it’s not right to say we stopped anything.”

“Yes, yes, free will,” Colbert said, waving his hand, “but my point is: you are obviously lying. Because, if the apocalypse was near, then, as a righteous man, I would have been assumed bodily into Heaven, just as promised in the Left Behind books, I mean in the Book of Revelation.”

“Uh,” said Sam. Maybe he should have spent a little more time researching this Colbert guy before he’d agreed to go on the show. Next to him, Dean mugged for the camera some more. “I guess we didn’t get close enough for the Rapture to have been triggered? Also, I gotta say, Heaven is nowhere near as fun as they make it out to be. It’s more like life on infinite rerun.”

“Watching me four times a day,” Colbert said, and sighed happily. “Sounds like Heaven to me.” The studio audience roared.

Sam tried to smile. The lights were really bright. And hot. Also he was still pretty concerned that there’d be FBI agents waiting to arrest them once they stepped outside. Dean struck a pose, and Sam didn’t have the heart to tell him that he looked less Schwarzenegger than Zoolander.

“Moving on. What do you say to reports that your relationship with your brother is more than brotherly?”

“Dude!” Dean exclaimed, finally paying attention. “Have you been talking to that chick Becky?”

Colbert looked down at his notes. “Actually, I have reports here from people you’ve saved in ten states who’ve made that inference. Not to mention the online gossip. Let’s face it, boys, you’re kind of old to be sharing a bed—”

“A room!” Sam interjected quickly. “We share a room!” Rooms, plural, across the lower forty-eight, plus that one time in Scotland, no matter how many times they were offered two, but that was just saving money and a totally natural reluctance on each of their parts to let the other out of their sights and not at all about watching each other sleep or get dressed or anything like that.

“—Sam’s built like a brick bleephouse, Dean’s so pretty I’m not even sure it’s gay to lust after him, you have no ties to anyone else, you went to Hell and/or unleashed Lucifer on Earth for each other. Overall, I’d have to say: that’s pretty gay.”

Dean looked like he’d just seen the Impala turn into a flock of doves, not sure whether he was more amazed or panicked. Sam cleared his throat and kicked Dean’s shin, trying to get him to reboot. “Well, Stephen, what you have to understand is, what with the demons after us, and no one else believing there were demons after us, and growing up on the run with nothing but hustling and scams—”

Pool hustling,” Dean broke in. “Pool. And petty crime.” He grinned out at the audience, just a little too brightly.

“—and everyone we ever made an emotional connection with, pretty much, dying horribly--I mean, after a while, you kind of just—stop trying.”

“And turn to the tender, well-muscled embrace of the only one who will ever truly understand, your brother in arms,” Colbert finished. Sam began a protest, but Colbert spoke over him. “Well, thank you so much for coming on the show and sharing your story of triumph and forbidden love. We’ll be right back.”

2. [personal profile] backinblack: Fringe! This is a stretch but something about Olivia and Charlie? If you feel like bending the rules of the OTP of Peter/Olivia, maaaaaybe Olivia/alt!Charlie of some sort? Note: ended up Bolivia and alt!Charlie.

Lincoln thinks Olivia’s his missed connection. Charlie doesn’t bother to correct his misconception. Lincoln’s a kid, really, kept young by playing constantly with all his tech.

Charlie doesn’t have any illusions that Olivia’s his. Anyway, he loves Kathy, and he wouldn’t change that. But what Charlie does know, from working with Olivia over the last few years, is that she has the same electrifying effect on a lot of the men (and not a few of the women) that they deal with. Olivia is so alive, so dedicated, that she makes you want to be the best you can be, just to keep up with her. When Charlie was younger, he might’ve mistaken that for romantic infatuation—hell, there might’ve been some romantic infatuation mixed in; Charlie’s never been dumb or celibate. But Olivia is more than that, which Lincoln is starting to figure out.

They met right after Charlie lost Stacy to the amber. Olivia took him to get his tattoo. Ordinarily you went with the others in your unit, but he couldn’t face anybody but Olivia right then, because she was a stranger but she cared and it was okay for him to break down in front of her. Her fury at what had happened to their universe was like a cleansing fire. She held his hand while the artist worked, and she told him about her own tattoo.

That was Olivia through and through: somehow she knew he needed to hear it, even though tattoo stories were personal—in an age where your ShowMe told everything about you and the government tracked people to the square foot in order to protect them as much as possible against the air, and the vortexes, and the amber, you didn’t tell just anyone who you were mourning with your ink. But Olivia could tell that Charlie needed a reason to keep going, and the way she talked about her friends brought them alive again for Charlie, just for a little while. He hoped she’d taken some comfort in sharing the story with him.

Lincoln says he didn’t know Olivia was dating Frank when he kissed her. This may or may not be true. If Charlie had been in Lincoln’s place, who’s to say whether he would’ve let some hypothetical successful doctor boyfriend deter him?

But Charlie’s happier that he was never in a position to find out. He wants to know Olivia for a very long time, and that’s easier as friends. Even now, with Olivia’s inexplicable and frankly terrifying breakdown, with the moments of strangeness that Olivia must have picked up from the fake Olivia from the other side, there’s nobody Charlie would rather track down a Fringe event with. Nobody he’d trust more when the situation got tight.

He’d never say it—except maybe to Olivia, if she ever needed to hear it—but Olivia’s become a kind of role model for him. She’d do anything to save the world. Charlie truly believes that, if Olivia puts her mind to it, she can.

3. [personal profile] seperis: peter/olivia, pretend to be married or forced marriage or something in that family?

“You’ll go to jail if I testify,” Olivia said, as if Peter didn’t know that.

“You’ll go to jail if you don’t.” He could handle himself in jail if it came to that. It was so obvious that for Olivia to miss it was shocking. “Why are you so adamant about this? You tell the truth, and we’ll work it out just like you worked it out with me in the very beginning, when you still needed blackmail to keep me around.” He had no doubt that Broyles would be able to extract him, possibly on worse formal terms than his current deal with the FBI, but his day-to-day life was unlikely to change, given that he was already in Fringe Division for keeps.

“Peter,” she said, “there are forces in Washington I don’t know if we can control. Your father’s position with Massive Dynamic means power, but it also means enemies. If you’re taken away—”

Peter saw from the expression on Broyles’ face that this was something he’d just said to her, earlier, and that he wasn’t entirely thrilled that she’d decided to share his concerns with Peter. “The same goes for you, then.”

I can’t build a doomsday device,” Olivia pointed out, with the tight control that suggested that she wanted to yell but wouldn’t let herself.

Peter smiled at her, just a little. “But you’re better leverage against me inside than locking me up could ever be.”

Olivia didn’t have much to say to that.

“I believe I have a solution,” Walter piped up.

They all turned. “Go on,” Peter prompted, because somebody had to.

Walter smiled and shuffled a little, the way he did when he was happy that people were listening to him. “In the 1970s, I was ordained as a minister. Very strange religion, actually. But never mind that. There is no waiting period in Connecticut, mere hours away, and, once married to Peter, you, Olivia, will be able to refuse to testify without penalty.”

“What?” Astrid said, because somebody had to.

“Actually—” Broyles began.

“Walter,” Peter interrupted before this could get sillier.

“No, Peter!” Walter wagged his finger, as if that would be convincing. “This is a good idea. It is legally impeccable. In a sense, you’ve already consummated the relationship—no grand jury is going to distinguish this Olivia from Fauxlivia—”

Peter turned away, hiding his face, while Astrid made the requisite sound of embarrassment.

“Would it work?” Olivia’s tone was as expressionless as her face.

“Let me make a few calls,” Broyles said.

“In the meantime, might I suggest that we decamp to Connecticut? It wouldn’t do to arrive after the clerk’s office had closed. I suggest New Haven. Despite the inferiority of the college, I have always had a fondness for the architecture. You could exchange vows in front of Maya Lin’s sculpture! And after that we could feed the pigeons.”

“Olivia—” Peter had no idea how that sentence ended. Actually, her name was the only word he wanted to say. He just didn’t know if she wanted to hear it.

“It’s all right,” Olivia said, and if the warmth in her tone was forced, no one was going to call her on it. “It wouldn’t necessarily mean anything.”

And Peter couldn’t say: that’s the problem; we already did that--I already did that, with the Olivia from the other side, and it’s screwed us up so bad I don’t know if we can get through it. “It’d mean something to me,” he said instead, soft and confessional, and Astrid and Broyles averted their eyes.

Olivia just stood there, cool and distant as the FBI agent who’d extorted his cooperation from him all those eternities ago. “All right, then,” she said, acknowledging Peter with a nod. She wasn’t denying how Peter felt, even if she wasn’t ready for anything else, and Peter loved her more than he’d thought possible, wondering if there was anything that she wasn’t strong enough to fight through, and if he’d ever get a chance to make it up to her. “Let’s not waste any more time.”

4. [personal profile] kiezh: Castiel/Dean, unexpectedly slipping into a D/s dynamic. Note: this is my own version of “unexpected.” NC-17.

Why We Fight

“Cas,” Dean said, with his usual demanding tone, as if Castiel had appeared at his summons rather than on his own terms.

“No,” Castiel said, and waved his hand to take Dean’s voice before Dean could begin to bluster. “You require much, but you offer little in return, Dean. Why is that?” On the other plane of existence, impossibly distant and yet pressed against his skin, Castiel’s wings fanned and settled, hiding him from interruption by his siblings.

Dean was rubbing at his throat and making ever more exaggerated gestures, eyes wide and furious. Castiel reached out, celestial intent turned actual if not tangible, and determined that Sam was at the local library, surrounded by books and not likely to return any time soon. This dingy little room (no more unclean than any human construction to his eyes) would be an appropriate forum for their long-delayed conversation.

“Do you believe that you have given me so much that I owe you? Or do you believe that my rescuing you from Hell has created some further obligation?” Castiel ignored Dean’s pantomime. “Admittedly, you were misused in the plot to release Lucifer, and I accept some responsibility for that, but I believe we have gone well past redressing my involvement. So the question remains: why do you expect me to do your bidding?”

Dean had stopped struggling and was watching Castiel, wary now, shoulders tensed as if he could even reach a weapon that might harm an angel.

“Are you ready to answer?” Castiel asked warningly.

Dean nodded, and Castiel raised his hand, signalling that he’d returned Dean’s voice.

“I, uh.” He cleared his throat. “I thought, you know, we saved the world together, we’re friends—”

Dean’s voice was trailing off uncertainly even before Castiel did him the favor of interrupting. “Are we? Are we friends, Dean?”

Dean gazed over Castiel’s shoulder. “I—I wouldn’t know. I’ve never really had a friend.”

“Your self-pity no longer fascinates me,” Castiel told him.

Dean’s mouth twitched at that. “Yeah, me neither. But it’s true, okay? I thought—you and me, we’ve been through stuff. And you—so why do you keep helping us?”

Castiel stepped forward, close enough that he would only have to reach out with the arm of his human form. “I keep helping you, Dean. I have come to realize that I do it because I—desire that which is human in you.”

Dean’s brows drew close together, then he smirked again. “What, you want to be a real boy? I’m not sure I’m such a great—”

He reached out and stopped Dean’s useless words with the press of his fingers, no power but the physical. Dean’s mouth was not as soft as it looked, dry and a little chapped. “You are deliberately obtuse. Occasionally it is charming, but do not pretend now.”

Dean’s lips moved soundlessly against his fingertips. The sensation was delicate, and engrossing.

“Take off your clothes,” Castiel said.

There was a moment when Dean might have resisted. For all his obedience, there was a streak of rebellion running through him, a vein so deep that it might never be mined out, like a ribbon of gold twined throughout his bloodied soul. Castiel thought that, though it was paradoxical, it was that resistance that made Dean so very good at following orders. He suspected that it had something to do with free will, that Dean could construe his submission as something voluntary and therefore chosen.

The moment passed, and Dean began to strip. He alternated between smugness—confident that he knew what Castiel wanted from him, as so many in the past had wanted—and uncertainty, as if he did not know what to expect from Castiel in particular. The skin revealed by the removal of his clothes was pale, untouched by sun. Nearly as unscarred as when Castiel had decanted him, new-remade, back into the Earth. Castiel could feel the Enochian on his ribs, a certain psychic blankness, and if he hadn’t been accustomed to it he would have found it uncanny. As it was, the sensation was just another part of the contradictions that made up Dean, the empty vessel and the human overfull with life, angelic language scrawled white on his bones and human runes black on his skin.

“Aren’t you gonna join the party?” Dean asked, thinking he was hiding his nervousness, but Castiel ignored him, choosing instead to circle around Dean. Dean’s back stiffened and he obviously had to fight instinct to let Castiel get behind him. Watching Dean struggle made Castiel’s own body react. This, he knew, was why the Nephilim were created, this thrill of power, this call of the human form. Of course, he and Dean would make no Nephilim together, and that, too, was both disappointing and reassuring.

When Castiel returned to his initial position, Dean was shaking, almost invisibly. He was also semi-erect and making no moves to cover himself. Dean hadn’t shaved his face that morning, Castiel realized, imagining the blade close to Dean’s skin, so different than how Dean had been holding the razor when Castiel had first approached him in Hell. Before Castiel had given thought to rebellion, before he’d lost his faith in God, before he’d learned that so many of his brothers did not think they had any responsibility as stewards of Creation. Bitter fruit, all. The man gave it to me, and I ate.

“On your knees,” Castiel instructed. Dean’s full-body shudder was a sensation as powerful as being hit across the face. Castiel tasted the blood of his human form and realized that he’d bitten down, all unknowing.

Dean dropped down without any of his usual grace. Castiel enjoyed watching him obey. Perhaps—

“Crawl to me.” His fists had clenched; Castiel forced them to relax.

Dean made a choked-off noise. Castiel briefly considered how he might sound with Castiel’s hands around his neck. Later, possibly.

Dean crawled badly, not sure whether he should be on all fours or just using his knees. Castiel was indifferent, and Dean didn’t have far to go. He stopped just shy of Castiel’s body, not daring to touch, and Castiel nodded his approval.

“Now my belt,” he rasped.

Dean reached out, then hesitated. When he looked up through lowered lashes, Castiel wondered how many people Dean had bent to his will through such measures.

But Dean was not teasing. “Jimmy—he’s gone?” he asked. For some reason, this gesture of concern for Castiel’s form made Castiel’s physical being pulse with something he could only call tenderness, except that there was nothing soft about it.

“Jimmy Novak is no more,” he agreed. “This is only a replica of a template. The belt, Dean.”

Dean’s hands were quick and clever, hands he’d rebuilt and then watched touch guns and books and the wheel of the Impala, now so close to his manifested skin.

“Suck me,” he said. Dean flushed. He made no move to comply, though neither did he move away. Castiel frowned. “You are naked and kneeling before me,” he pointed out. “Resistance now would be most ludicrous. Or do you wish me to punish you for noncompliance?”

Dean closed his eyes and reached down to press his own erection to his stomach, sighing out a breath. Castiel thought that he could enjoy exploring all the various sensations, including pain, with Dean, but he would prefer to retain that as an option for later. Now—“I told you to suck me.”

He could see Dean’s desire to make some small distancing remark—‘never should have let you watch porn,’ most likely—but instead Dean swallowed and reached for Castiel’s zipper.

Dean’s mouth was excruciatingly pleasurable, hot and wet and distracting. Dean made noises, grunts and smacking sounds, breathing heavily through his nose. He was sloppy, shoving himself forward, reaching up to grab Castiel’s hips. There was nothing comparable in Castiel’s experience of transcendence; it was wholly human, wholly concentrated in itself. No wonder humans fell so easily into solipsism and anthropomorphism.

Without intending to do so, he’d thrown his head back. His hands reached down and found Dean’s hair, too short to hold but thrillingly prickly against his fingers. Dean was louder in response, shaking—

“No,” Castiel told him sharply, and Dean groaned around Castiel’s cock and brought his hand back to brace against Castiel’s thigh. This, then, was the thrill of obedience from a human. Created to do otherwise, to stand apart from the angels, yet submitting; beautiful as only the imperfect and impermanent could be. But also specifically Dean--Castiel remembered Dean’s shoulders, slumped on a park bench; Dean’s fearful face when his demon-killing knife did nothing to Castiel’s host; Dean’s flesh bruising under his fists.

The orgasm was raw and unexpected, pulsing through him like the shock of entering a vessel, only a thousand times more concentrated. Dean swallowed readily, until Castiel pushed him away.

Dean stared up at him, lips shining and flushed with blood. His eyes were shocked-wide and ocean-green. Part of Castiel wanted to tear him apart, consume him—anything to get closer to all that inchoate need.

“Now,” he rasped. “Now you can touch yourself.”

Dean turned his head, something like shame darkening his features, but he complied. He was rough with himself, as Castiel should have expected.

He didn’t take long to spill, filling his hand and dripping down to worsen the condition of the carpet.

“Very good,” Castiel said, because he at least would not deny the obedient their just rewards.

For some reason, Dean’s head dipped further at that, flush hot all the way down his neck. With a grimace, he wiped his hand on the floor. “What, uh,” he said. “What was that?”

Dean Winchester was no virgin by the time he’d lived fourteen years, nor was his experience with other men delayed much beyond that, so Castiel didn’t bother with the obvious answer. “I informed you that I am not winning the war in Heaven,” he said, rearranging his clothes with a twitch of his will.

“Yeah, but—” Dean rose to his feet, his nakedness forgotten. “Wait, if this was some last night on Earth thing—”

Castiel shook his head. “No, Dean. Not yet,” he corrected himself, because Dean should know the full truth. “In fact, I won the most recent battle. But if my time is limited, then I want—” how strange, these words, and yet they were at the core of who he had become—“to have something that is mine. I want to have you. Not your body—” cutting off Dean’s automatic self-defense—“though I do find it pleasing. I want you.”

Dean, Castiel knew, would remain suspicious that anyone, angel or human, could want the man rather than the body. But Dean could act as if he believed, and then his acts could produce faith.

“Cas,” Dean said, helpless. “I don’t—It’s not.” He took a breath. “Sam,” he said, which was worth ten paragraphs he’d never be able to say if given eons to compose them.

Castiel nodded. “You are not your devotion to your brother. I am asking for the rest of you.”

Dean looked very young, then. “You really think there’s that much of me left?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, and this patience came easily, unlike so many things after his belief in his Father had dissipated. He held out his hand. “I am asking, Dean.” He hoped that Dean would understand: Castiel was trying to offer a choice, as no one else had. “I am asking because it’s what I want.”

Dean took a deep breath. Then, slowly, he reached out. Their fingertips brushed, then their hands clasped. Castiel pulled him closer and reached with his other hand to touch Dean’s face.

“Is there gonna be more of this kinky shit?” Dean asked, his voice only shaking slightly. “Because I could really—”

“If there is,” Castiel told him, buoyant, “you’ll do it. And you’ll like it.”

Dean swallowed. Castiel let his fingers trace down, over Dean’s throat, enjoying the rise and fall, the haste in the blood that made Dean’s breath erratic.

“Mine,” Castiel repeated, liking the shape of the word. He, too, could make and unmake. “Say it.”

Dean’s entire body tightened. Castiel wondered if he had pushed too far, too fast. But there was no certainty of tomorrow, and he had asked only what he desired. “Yours,” Dean said, heat and a confused gratitude in his eyes.

Dean kissed him then, a presumption Castiel was all too willing to allow, leaning down as he tugged Castiel even closer. He fit their mouths together as if they were made just for this.

This small triumph would sustain him, Castiel was certain, through the grinding battles yet to come. Dean had battles of his own to fight, for Sam and most likely with Sam, though Castiel had determined to allow Dean to make his own decisions about that.

In the meantime, Castiel intended to explore every inch of the territory Dean had conceded to him. “Perhaps another handprint,” he mused, breaking the kiss, and Dean shuddered. But he grabbed Castiel’s tie and pulled him backwards towards the bed, so Castiel didn’t think he opposed the idea in any way that mattered.

5. [personal profile] livrelibre: Dark Angel: building, post-Freak Nation.  Gen.

“Are you sure about this?” Alec said, which was just posturing, because Alec knew as well as Max did they’d only looked at plans in books. But they’d built the frame just like the diagrams said, and the nails were all pounded in right, and Joseph, whose specialty was engineering, said that it would work. So Max gave him her best shut-up face and sure enough Alec didn’t whine further.

“Okay, everyone!” she yelled. “Grab your rope and get ready to pull!”

Of course, Joseph was more of an electrical engineer, no more experienced with barn-raising than the rest of them. But it would probably work, and they definitely needed a barn to store the cows in, plus after that they’d have to build something else to hold the crops.

Making your own civilization on abandoned land was exhausting, but it was a lot better than relying solely on scavenging. And nothing grew in Terminal City. That couldn’t be good for the babies, OC had said, and that was no lie.

Babies had a way of making you plan for the long term.

Max shielded her eyes with her hand, looking over the assembled crew. They’d picked up a bunch of non-Manticoreans along the way, and only the ones who could fully deal had been chosen for the colony. They stood next to their genetically engineered fellow citizens, everyone waiting for her word.

“On three! One, two, three!” There was a single collective grunt, then more groans, and the timber shuddered but began, slowly, to rise.

“Max!” Joshua yelled. “Max, we’re making a barn!”

She made sure that everything was rising at the right rate, then went over to his side to pat him on the back. “Yeah, big guy, we are.”

“Can I paint it?”

Alec huffed; his feet slipped a little on the ground, and then he got himself set again, not that it mattered with Joshua pulling on the same rope.

“I think that’s a great idea,” she said, shooting Alec a later-for-you glare. Alec just blinked innocently.

She couldn’t even care. She could hear Joseph yelling for the crossbeam team to get to work. The sun was shining, there was a two-story outline of a barn right where no barn had been that morning, and her people didn’t need to hide any more.
livrelibre: DW barcode (Default)

From: [personal profile] livrelibre

\0/ I love the idea of Max and all the made-for-war transgenics getting it together to do an old-fashioned barn raising and building their own colony on their own land. This was awesome and just what I wanted. Thanks so much for this and all of these!
abbylee: (Default)

From: [personal profile] abbylee

Mmmm. I love this holiday.

I think that next year I'm going to have to remember to ask for a continuation of the Olivia/Peter forced marriage fic. :D :D :D
kiezh: Tree and birds reflected in water (Default)

From: [personal profile] kiezh

WOW. Castiel is so hot when he's power-tripping.

I love how he fetishizes free will; it makes so much sense for him, after everything. And I love the fundamental respect underlying his view of Dean - Dean may not think he's worthy, or enough, but Castiel does.

Thanks so much for the theology-porn! :D
kiezh: A ball of light in cupped hands (light in hands)

From: [personal profile] kiezh

I think I have a big narrative kink for... awareness of consent, I guess I'd call it. Bringing free will and choice into the foreground, playing with consent and coercion. Of course this button gets pushed a lot in well-written bdsm, but this really hits me there too:

The man gave it to me, and I ate.

All of Castiel's reflections on his and Dean's relationship, which started out as something neither of them chose, and has moved more and more toward freely offering and accepting (even the bitter fruit). And now Cas revels in his power to ask for and receive consent, as well as his ability to give it. Making and unmaking.

Mmm, tasty thinky fic.
sothcweden: birds flying high at sunset/dawn (Default)

From: [personal profile] sothcweden

I didn't read them all, but I very much enjoyed the Dark Angel piece. That last line left me all warm and fuzzy. Also, good character moments between Max, Alec, and Joshua.
yourlibrarian: DAFamily-theaeblackthorn (DA-DAFamily-theaeblackthorn)

From: [personal profile] yourlibrarian

“And turn to the tender, well-muscled embrace of the only one who will ever truly understand, your brother in arms,” Colbert finished. Sam began a protest, but Colbert spoke over him. “Well, thank you so much for coming on the show and sharing your story of triumph and forbidden love. We’ll be right back.”

Hahaha! I would watch that. And hee to Joshua wanting to paint the barn!


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