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flawedamythystFirst five here, then ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lazy_daze's will need its own post because it's so damned long. Hope you all had an awesome Christmas, and I'm sorry these didn't come sooner!
They're mainly unBetaed, although I madesaltnburnbaby look over various bits, and River gave me some quick advice on Americanisms. Thanks, guys!
Formerihn:
Title: No Words
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 558 words
Prompt: Sam/Dean, the sweetest first time you can possibly write without killing yourself.
A/N: This year I even managed to give you almost exactly what you wanted, hopefully!
It was raining, torrents of water falling from the sky like God had left a tap running six months ago and the ceiling had finally collapsed. Sam was juggling about fourteen bags and trying to get a hand free so he could pull out their room key, trying to flick his wet bangs out of his eyes at the same time. Every time he did, they just fell straight back down again.
Dean reached out without even thinking about it and pushed them back for him, and Sam looked at him with surprise and something else, something darker. Dean found himself leaving his hand in Sam's hair, holding back wet locks, while they just looked at each other for a moment, more passing between their eyes in that instant than they usually said in a hundred conversations.
Sam dropped his bags in the same moment that Dean stepped forward, lips meeting as if it was pre-ordained. Sam's lips were wet and cold, and Dean licked the rain water off them before pushing inside his mouth, feeling the heat of Sam's tongue moving against his. Sam's hands settled on his waist, pulling him closer, and he moved into them, forcing Sam up against the door.
Sam let out a little gasp when his back hit the door, breaking he kiss and the moment. Suddenly Dean was incredibly aware of where he was and what he was doing – kissing his brother in the parking lot of a motel, in full view of anyone stupid enough to be out in this weather. He started to move away, but Sam's hands kept him where he was, held tight against him.
“Door's wet,” he said as an explanation and kissed Dean again, pulling him in even tighter until Dean's body was completely pressed against his, wet clothes soaking into each other and making Dean shiver.
He pulled away from the kiss again, but didn't go further than a couple of inches from Sam's mouth, their breath mingling in the air between them. “Let's get inside,” he suggested.
“And get out of these wet clothes?” Sam suggested with a wicked smirk.
“Hell yeah,” said Dean. He stayed where he was for a second longer, just savouring the moment, before peeling himself away and starting to pick up the bags. “Get the door open,” he commanded, but Sam was already on it.
They dumped the bags just inside the door and Dean shut the door firmly behind them. He turned back to Sam, who was watching him with a blown-right-open expression, as if he couldn't believe this was real.
Dean stepped forward and tucked at the bottom of his wet shirts, pulling it up and over Sam's head as if he was still a small boy who needed help with dressing. Sam blinked at him, hair everywhere, and then stepped forward to pull Dean into another kiss, this one slower and warmer, a realisation that this was happening and they had all night for it.
Dean pressed in close to it, hands running over Sam's cold skin, and hoped like hell that it would always be this easy, both of them moving in the same direction without needing words because it was the only place to go.
****
Merry Christmas! I love you, Alexia.
****
Fortiffosis:
Title: Sammy's First Stocking
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 635 words
Prompt: SPN, stocking stuffers
A/N: Future, domestic-type fic.
When Dean came home with them, Sam's first thought was that it was a joke or a prank or something. He looked at the two stockings – one with 'Sammy's First Stocking' written on it in fancy script, the other simply saying 'D' – and raised an eyebrow.
“Stockings, Dean?” he said. “Seriously?”
Dean put them down on the table. “You’ve never had one, right?” he said. “Not even at Stanford?”
Sam shook his head. “I’m pretty sure 41 is too old for a stocking,” he said.
Dean waved that away. “You’re never too old,” he said firmly. “And you better get me tons of presents.”
“Don’t you mean Santa should?” said Sam, looking back down at the stockings, wondering if it was his imagination, or if the one marked D was bigger than the other one.
Dean shrugged. “Whoever,” he said. “I just want a big haul this year.”
“Better write a letter to Santa then,” said Sam. “And hope you’ve been a good enough boy.”
Dean leered at him. “Oh, I’ve been a good boy,” he said. “Least, you always seem to think so.”
****
It turned out that buying stocking presents was a whole lot harder than Sam had expected. They might be all settled down now, living in an actual house rather than out of the car, but that didn’t mean they needed a whole load of stuff. After a lifetime of keeping all their belongings down to what they could easily carry, neither of them were really the type for hoarding crap. Sam bought some chocolate and snacks and such, but it felt a bit cheap to just fill the whole thing up with things that Dean could have bought for himself from any convenience store.
In the end, he made new copies of some of Dean’s favourite tapes, ones without the hiss and spit of the originals, then filled up the rest with anything small enough he could find in the nearest auto store. Good enough, he thought. It was always the gesture rather than the item that counted, anyway.
After so many years of just the two of them, they already had a bunch of Christmas traditions. Dean always found a tree somewhere and decorated it with the cheapest things he could find. Sam always made the eggnog, and every year, he added a bit more alcohol, just to see if Dean would say anything. At this point, the eggnog mix was really more for colouring than anything else.
They always exchanged presents then sat down to watch the game. In the old days, when they were still travelling, they always spent most of it trying to pretend they were the kind of regular guys who had the time to follow the football all year round, and who knew things about the teams and players. These days, now they’d settled, they actually were close to being those guys, although Sam still had to fake some of it most years. What the hell did he care about a bunch of jocks running around after a ball anyway?
This year, they did all that with two stockings hanging on the wall, over-flowing with newspaper-wrapped presents. Sam could see at least one in his that he was pretty sure was a doll of some kind, but he couldn’t bring himself to get too riled up about still being the butt of ‘Sam’s a girl’ jokes. After all, at the end of the evening, when they went up to bed, Dean was going to blow him until he couldn't see, then curl up close beside him and whisper things he thought Sam couldn’t hear into his skin, things that almost any other red-blooded football-watching type of guy would say made Dean the girl. That was also tradition.
****
Hope you like this, and that you had an awesome Christmas! *hugs* Have a good New Year.
****
Forraths_kitten:
Title: Christmas Is For Children
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 1,482 words
Prompt: Sam/Dean, christmas, Sam's 16.
A/N: Not quite what you meant by the prompt, perhaps, but it's what the muse gave me.
“I still don’t understand why we can’t have sex,” said Sam grumpily, as if they were alone in the car rather than in the middle of a crowded grocery store on one of the busiest shopping days of the year.
Dean gritted his teeth and plastered a fake smile on for the benefit of the woman glaring at him from just down the aisle. “Because you’re sixteen,” he said. “Now quit whining about it.”
Sam narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sixteen,” he said. “I’m twenty-eight. I just look sixteen.”
“And act it,” Dean pointed out. “It doesn’t matter, Sammy. I’m not having sex with you while you’re cursed. Or while you’re being an annoying brat. Now, what the hell do you want for dinner tomorrow?”
“Your cock,” said Sam stubbornly.
Dean gave up. Sam had only been a sixteen-year-old again for three days and already he was driving him nuts. It had been bad enough the first time around, when at least Sam had had Dad to butt heads against and Dean had been able to escape to a bar or somewhere. This time it was just the two of them and Sam seemed determined to take out all his rejuvenated teenage angst on Dean, especially once Dean had refused to have sex with him.
It was just weird, was all. Dean liked having sex with grown-up Sam, the one who was big enough and strong enough to take everything Dean could throw at him and turn it back on him. Sixteen-year-old Sam was still growing, still at the same height as Dean and skinny like he could barely believe Sam had ever been. He was the Sam Dean used to take for drives so that he could escape Dad for a bit, the one who was obsessed with libraries and homework – definitely not the one Dean wanted to be fucking.
He grabbed a couple of frozen dinners off the shelf almost at random and threw them in the basket. It was Christmas Day tomorrow and there wasn’t going to be anywhere open for them to get food, which really added to the annoyance of Sam being cursed. Dean had been almost looking forward to Christmas – staying in for the day, drinking way too much eggnog, watching the game and then fucking Sam for a good few hours, until they were both just worn out and sweaty and feeling awesome. Having to put up with the grumbling-teenage-bitch version of Sam just wasn’t going to be the same.
“I want the other one,” said Sam, pointing. Dean suppressed a sigh and swapped the dinner he’d just grabbed. “Also, we need eggnog,” added Sam.
“You’re not drinking till you’re 28 again,” said Dean immediately.
Sam gaped at him. “What? Oh, come on, Dean! That’s ridiculous!”
“It’s the rules,” said Dean firmly. “Sixteen-year-olds don’t drink.”
Sam scowled. “No sex, no alcohol...being a teenager sucks,” he muttered, shoving his hands deep into his hoodie pockets. Dean had to resist the urge to ruffle his hair to wind him up, like he’d used to twelve years ago. Getting Sam even more riled up was just going to make him even more of a pain to shop with.
“Being around a teenager sucks too,” he said. “Seriously, I’m this close to just leaving you here and going to a strip club.”
Sam made an annoyed sound that Dean instantly recognised from when he’d been sixteen the first time around, but he mercifully shut up for the rest of the trip round the supermarket, trailing behind Dean sullenly. Dean ignored him and got on with grabbing what they needed and getting the hell out of the shop before the mass of people inside it caused a rupture in the space-time continuum. He hated shopping on Christmas Eve.
****
Sam was in a slightly better mood the next day, after Bobby had called to wish them a merry Christmas, and to tell them that he’d finished working out the ritual that would turn Sam back to his real age, just as soon as there was a full moon. They ate their meals, then settled down with a big bowl of popcorn in front of the game. Dean thought about getting himself a beer, but the inevitable argument with Sam over whether or not he got one as well just wasn’t going to be worth it.
Sam settled on the sofa beside Dean, a lot closer than he usually sat. Dean could feel his bony teenage limbs pressed against his body and it was an unwelcome reminder that he wasn’t going to get his Christmas fuck.
“Shift up,” he said, pushing at Sam.
Sam didn’t move. “I need to be able to reach the popcorn or you’ll eat it all.”
Dean had to admit to himself that that was likely. “Well,” he grumbled, “just keep your sharp elbows out of my ribs, then.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “You’ve got plenty of padding,” he muttered. Dean frowned, and tried to subtly feel his belly. There wasn’t any padding there – Sam was just trying to wind him up. He was as fit as he’d always been. Well, maybe there was a slight roll that wasn’t there before, but he was getting older, it was to be expected, right? Maybe he should think about eating less. He shovelled in a handful of popcorn. In the new year, obviously.
The game was exciting enough to keep Dean entertained and for a while he didn’t notice that Sam was creeping ever closer, or how often their hands seemed to accidentally brush in the popcorn bowl. When he did catch on, he was more amused than annoyed. It seemed like Sam’s seduction techniques had regressed to a teenager’s as well. Any minute now he’d be doing the old yawn-and-put-your-arm-around trick, and then Dean might just have to mock him forever.
Instead, Sam put his hand casually on Dean’s knee, fingers curling around to his in-seam. Dean suppressed a smirk and pretended not to notice, staring at the TV as if the game had all his attention. Sam started stealthily moving his hand up, further and further, until his hand was resting right against Dean’s crotch. Dean couldn’t hide his automatic reaction to having Sam’s hand there, cock growing half-hard, and he could tell from the way Sam shifted his leg that he thought that meant he was going to win.
“You can grope me all you want,” said Dean conversationally. “I’m still not going to fuck you.”
Sam huffed out an annoyed breath, but his hand didn’t move away. Instead, he gave up all pretence of watching the game and turned to face Dean, rubbing his hand properly over his cock. “Come on, Dean,” he wheedled. “Just let me blow you – you can shut your eyes and pretend I’m my real age, if it would make you feel better.”
The whine in his voice just made him sound way too young. Dean grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand away. “No,” he said. “It’s not happening, Sam, just accept it.”
Sam threw himself sulkily back onto the sofa and crossed his arms. He stared hard at the TV, frown carved deep on his face.
Dean sighed. “Don’t be a bitch,” he said. “Sam, you know this is bugging me just as much as it is you.”
“If that was true,” said Sam, petulantly, “we’d be doing it already.”
“Well, maybe a bit less,” admitted Dean. “Guess I don’t have the sex drive of a teenager any more.”
“I wish I didn’t,” said Sam, uncrossing his arms and relaxing back a bit. “It’s a pain in the ass. Feels like I’m hard all the freaking time.” He turned wide, pleading eyes on Dean. “If you’d just...please, Dean.”
“No,” said Dean again, firmly. He relented slightly though and pulled Sam back in against his body, one arm around his shoulders. “It’s not long,” he said. “Just another week and a bit, then we can get you back to how you should be, and fuck like Viagra-driven bunnies.”
“We could fuck now,” muttered Sam, but he seemed to have given up for now, resting his head down on Dean’s shoulder with a sigh. Dean usually didn’t like this kind of thing – cuddling on the sofa like a couple of chicks - but having Sam so young again was making him remember just how clingy he’d been as a kid, before he’d gone into angst-ridden teenager mode.
The game went into the second quarter, and Dean settled back again, Sam warm against the side of his body. He might not be getting all the sex he’d been looking forward to, but this was still a pretty good Christmas, especially compared to some of the others they’d had.
****
Frohe Weihnachten!! I hope you had an awesome one, and that your New Year is epic!
****
Forsaltnburnbaby:
Title: We Are Learning To Make Fire
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 1,771 words
Prompt: Sam/Dean, post Sam vessel for Lucifer, hospital, schmoop
A/N: What's to say? You've already read it, you already know how badly I failed at schmoop, and you already know all my Christmas wishes for you.
Betaed bysapphic85, who rocks my socks. Title from Margaret Atwood's Habitation.
Waiting for Sam to wake up was worse than all the rest of it put together. The whole apocalypse – Sam being forced to say ‘yes’ to Lucifer so that they could destroy him, Lucifer finally dying and Dean thinking for a heart-stopping moment that he’d taken Sam with him, all of it paled into insignificance compared to sitting by Sam’s bed, listening to the machines beep and wondering if they were about to alarm out.
And even if Sam did wake up, Dean couldn’t forget seeing Raphael’s vessel sitting blankly in his wheel chair with nothing behind his eyes. Dean was pretty sure that Sam would rather die than be like that, and he was damned sure that he’d rather Sam died than be like that.
Sam’s coma lasted nearly a week. Dean didn’t bother responding to any of the nurses’ gentle suggestions that he go home and get some sleep. With the way things had been going the last few years, if he left demons were bound to attack, or Sam would wake up and get it into his head to run off, or something equally annoying. Dean wasn’t going anywhere.
When Sam finally opened his eyes, Dean almost missed it. He was staring aimlessly out the window at the night sky, thoughts rumbling along on very depressing lines, and he only really glanced at Sam as a reflex. It took him a couple of moments to realise that Sam was looking back, his eyes calm and his face still in the placid expression he’d worn while he was unconscious.
“Sammy,” said Dean, unable to hide his relief. He sat forward and put his hand on Sam’s arm. “Christ, you can’t scare me like that.” He rang for assistance, and the room was soon bustling with activity, everyone talking at once and pushing Dean back out of the way as they checked over Sam.
Sam didn’t say a word. He just lay there, blinking up at the nurses as if they were alien creatures. The nurses all gave each other significant looks, and one of them scurried off to get a doctor.
Dean stepped close to the bed and took Sam’s hand. “Hey, kid,” he said quietly, and Sam’s eyes turned to look at him. “Don’t go quiet on me now. It’s over, you can forget about it all. Good guys won, bad guys are gone. Time for the happy ending, right?”
Sam’s hand closed around Dean’s, but he didn’t speak, and his expression didn’t change. Dean felt a sick feeling beginning to form in the pit of stomach.
****
The look on the doctor’s face didn’t reassure Dean at all. He ran a bunch of tests, then took Dean aside to talk to him quietly about the complexities of the human brain, and how little they really knew about it. Dean watched Sam’s face over the doctor’s shoulder, and wondered just how much Sam understood right now.
“Could it be some kind of post-traumatic thing?” he asked when the doctor had run out of words. “Stress, or whatever?”
The doctor gave him a sharp look. “Possibly,” he allowed. “Severe trauma can sometimes result in voluntary mutism. You said this was a car accident - did something happen that you’ve not mentioned, Mr Bonham?”
Dean shook his head tiredly. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.” It seemed like their whole lives had been one severe trauma after another. Sam’s hand shifted against the covers, and he left the doctor standing there in order to go and sit on the edge of his bed.
“You always have to do things the tough way,” he said quietly. Sam just stared at him blankly. Dean tried to take it as a good sign that Sam always turned his face towards Dean when he spoke, as opposed to just staring blankly into space like he did with the nurses and doctors, but it was hard to take comfort in anything right now.
It was all meant to be over – angels and demons sent back home, human race saved from imminent apocalypse, and the Winchesters free from all the crap that both heaven and hell had been plaguing them with for years – for their whole lives. Instead, it looked like there was never going to be an end to this – they were never going to get to just draw a line under it all and move on.
Sam was still staring at him, mouth fixed in a straight line as if he’d completely forgotten it was even there, let alone how to use it. Dean wondered what else he’d forgotten – how much of Sam was left inside the blank shell.
“Are you even in there, Sammy?” he asked. “You hearing me?”
Sam just blinked, and continued to stare at him. Dean sighed, and rubbed a hand over his face.
****
He called Bobby the next morning. “He’s not completely unresponsive,” he told him. “As long as you guide him, he’ll sit up, move where you want him to. It’s just...he’s like a doll, or a robot. Going through the motions, but there’s nothing behind it.”
“Give him time,” said Bobby. “He’s been through a lot. Getting regular possessed is bad enough, but having Satan riding you like a rodeo cowboy....I can’t even imagine.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Dean, glancing over at where Sam was sitting in a wheelchair by the window, staring blankly out at the clouds. The hospital’s psychiatrist was sitting with him, trying to get some response, but it was as if Sam didn’t even know she was there.
“He’s stubborn,” Bobby reminded him. “He won’t let Lucifer beat him, not like this.”
Dean swallowed. “I don’t know, Bobby,” he said slowly. “You haven’t seen him. I’m not sure there's any of him left to be stubborn.”
Bobby was silent for a long moment. “He’ll be okay,” he said, but he didn’t sound very confident. “You’ll get through to him, somehow. You boys always find a way, with each other.”
Dean took a deep breath, wondering if that would be enough. He and Sam hadn’t exactly been on the best of terms in the last couple of years, after all. He’d been kinda hoping that they’d be able to fix that after everything was over, get back to the balance they’d found before Sam’s death in Cold Oak. For a while there, it had been like everything was falling perfectly into place. The on-again, off-again sex thing they'd had since they were teenagers had slotted together with the way they were hunting as a team, perfectly matched, until it had all begun to feel like a real relationship, like something that was going to last.
Then Sam had died, and Dean had made that stupid deal, and the whole thing had fallen apart. Dean had been counting on finding their way back to that now that they'd sorted out all the other shit, but it didn’t seem like that was going to happen now, not with Sam like this.
“I got to go,” he told Bobby.
“Keep me updated on how he is,” said Bobby. “And, Dean...you boys need somewhere to go, you know you’re always welcome here.”
“I know,” said Dean. “Thanks Bobby.”
“Take care,” replied Bobby and he hung up.
****
The psychiatrist didn’t get anything out of Sam, and didn’t have anything to tell Dean that he didn’t already know.
“He’s withdrawn completely,” she said. “I'm sorry, Mr Bonham.”
“But will he come out of it?” Dean asked.
“He might,” she said, but Dean could tell from her voice that she really had no idea. “Something might jolt him out of it, or he might just gradually come back to himself.”
Dean went over to stand next to Sam's chair, looking out at the same sky for a moment, wondering if Sam was even seeing it. He glanced down at Sam's docile face, remembering all the emotions he'd seen written large on it – anger, mirth, passion. Sam had always been so expressive, as if his emotions were too strong to be contained. He tentatively put his hand onto Sam's head, fingers sliding smoothly through the strands of his hair. Sam’s gaze shifted from the sky to his face, but that was all the response Dean got.
“Hey, Sammy,” said Dean. He waited, without much hope, for a response, but none came. He sighed. “What we going to do about this one?” Sam continued to just watch his face with empty eyes. Dean felt despair well up in him. It felt like every time he thought he was getting close to a happy ending, it slipped out of his grasp, leaving him with nothing but ashes.
It had always been okay before, though, because Sam was always there. Even when they were fighting, or Sam was a million miles away, living his 'normal' life at Stanford, he always believed deep down that they’d one day make up and everything would be fine.
“You remember when we were kids?” he said. Sam didn't make a sign that he'd heard, but Dean kept going anyway. “I’d piss you off some how – mock your hair or hide your book or something – and you’d stop talking to me, pretend I didn’t exist. Man, I hated that. I used to make out it didn’t bother me, but I really hated it.” He paused, and looked away from Sam’s blank, unresponsive face. He could feel tears welling up in his eyes, but he made no move to hide them. Sam probably had no idea what he was saying anyway.
“You never could last long, though,” he continued. “You’d forget, or something would happen that you’d have to comment on. It used to frustrate you that you couldn’t stick to it longer than a few hours, but I couldn’t have stood it if you’d ignored me longer.” He paused, swallowing back his emotions. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath.
There was a tentative touch on his knee, and he opened his eyes to see Sam’s hand on it. He looked up, surprised, to see Sam looking at him, properly seeing him for the first time since he’d woken up.
“Dean,” he said in a raspy whisper.
Dean put his hand over Sam’s. “Sammy,” he answered, in a voice just as hushed as Sam's. Sam didn’t say anything else, but his hand squeezed Dean’s knee. Dean felt hope unfurl in his chest again. They were going to make it. They were going to get their happy ending. It might take a bit longer than Dean had been planning, but they'd get there.
****
Love you, Kid - here's to another year of Epic Joy.
****
Forjoans23:
Title: Professionalism Is Over-Rated
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: J2
Word Count: 1,565 words
Prompt: Come on, write me a J2 AU! ANY AU OF YOUR CHOICE! As long as there's snogging.
A/N: Not as much snogging as I thought there'd be, and the title's suffering from the hour, and the fact I'm running out of title ideas after doing so many in one go. Hope you like it anyway!
Despite all the many, many jokes Jensen had heard about his job (mainly from Chris,) he was a complete professional about it. 'Massage therapist' might sound like some kind of euphemism, but that didn't mean the people he worked with didn't need his help just as much as they needed the help of Mike, the physical therapist, or Tom, the chiropractor. He might have to get pretty hands-on with his patients, and occasionally have to deal with the effects of that, but that didn't mean that they didn't need his help. Even that totally disgusting dude who kept claiming he had a groin injury, even though his notes said it was a twisted knee.
By now, Jensen could spot if a client was one of the two kinds of guy who found it most uncomfortable. The uber-macho, manly-man type, who didn't really believe in any kind of nancy-boy therapy and were only there because a) their wives forced them to go, or b) they got confused between 'massage therapist' and 'thai hooker.' Usually as soon as Jensen introduced himself, they got a sick, panicked look of 'some dude is going to put his hands all over me!'
Then there was the other kind of guy – guys like Jared Padalecki, who'd messed his back up lifting weights. When Jensen walked into the therapy room, he was momentarily taken aback. Not only was this guy huge - and not in the grotesque, over-muscled way that weight-lifters often were, but in a more natural 'I just grew to be a giant' way – but he was ridiculously hot as well. He was sitting on Jensen's massage table, already stripped down to just a towel, making the whole room like smaller in comparison.
“Heya,” said Jared brightly. “I'm the dude you're going to be putting your hands on for the next hour. Unless you're not the massage dude, in which case I've just propositioned a random guy, and this is about to get really awkward.”
“I'm Jensen Ackles,” said Jensen. “I'm the massage dude, although that's not exactly what my business card says.”
Jared grinned and Jensen had to pause to clear his throat because, Jesus Christ, he had the most amazing dimples ever. He put on his most professional demeanour, ignoring the voice in his head that was wishing he was a thai hooker, just for this guy. After all, if he was tall enough to make Jensen's massage table look like a child-sized toy, then how big must his cock be?
“If you could just lie down on your front,” he said, flicking open Jared's file to check his details again and to keep his eyes off all the long lines of golden skin as Jared twisted himself around and lay down.
“This isn't going to hurt, right?” he asked.
“It shouldn't do,” said Jensen, stepping closer to begin, trying hard to tell himself that this was just another client, and there was no reason to get weird about it. “I'm going to see if I can't loosen up some of these muscles for you, smooth out some of the knots. It may cause some discomfort to begin with, but that should fade as I relax you out.” He hesitated, then added the usual disclaimer he gave guys when they gave him the look Jared had given him when he came in. “Some guys have, uh, a reaction to it, which is pretty normal, but I don't need to know about it, okay?”
Not like that guy last year, who'd grabbed his arm and demanded an 'oral massage' for his raging hard-on after Jensen had finished working on him.
“Reaction?” asked Jared, shifting to get more comfortable. “You mean, like...an erection?”
“Yes,” said Jensen, putting his hands on Jared's shoulder so that he could feel the injured muscles. He tried hard to ignore the warmth of Jared's skin, and started to wonder if he should be worrying about his own reaction rather than Jared's.
Jared snorted into the table. “You say that to all your clients? I could be a totally-straight homophobic prick, and then I'd have to get up and kick your ass just for suggesting it, and I'm pretty sure that's on Dr Kripke's proscribed activities list.”
“I can usually tell the totally-straight homophobic pricks,” said Jensen, starting to rub out some of the tension. “They're the ones who look incredibly disappointed that I'm not a hot Swedish blonde when they meet me.”
“You're not Swedish?” asked Jared with mock-upset. “Man, I'm taking my custom elsewhere.”
“You try and leave now, and I'll make sure you can't walk for a week,” said Jensen.
“Kinky,” muttered Jared, but he was already going into the usual relaxed daze of someone whose muscles were turning to putty. Jensen let himself settle into his working rhythm, concentrating on what he could feel, and how he needed to manipulate it to get it better.
Jared's shoulders were really broad and he was perfectly built – just enough muscle to make Jensen's mouth water, not enough to look overdone and ugly. They were firm and strong under Jensen's hand – in fact, his whole back was a work of art, straight spine leading all the way down to a surprisingly trim waist and the smooth curve of his ass under the towel. Jensen had to keep refocusing his eyes where they were meant to be and not on blatantly ogling his client.
By the end of the session, Jensen was half-hard, which made him feel horribly unprofessional. He was meant to be fixing up Jared's shoulder, not perving on him. He stepped back from the table and took a deep breath, hoping to calm himself down a bit.
“Okay,” he said. “You can get up now.”
Jared lifted his head slightly, still looking a little dazed. “Uh, I'll just...take a moment,” he said.
Jensen nodded and turned away, pretending to look at Jared's chart again. He jotted down a few notes, but he wasn't really sure they made much sense, not when he was suddenly, acutely aware that Jared was turned on as well. He checked the number of sessions that Jared was down for – one a week for the next six weeks. Well, that wasn't going to get increasingly awkward at all. He thought for a moment about transferring Jared to another massage therapist, but it seemed unprofessional to send him off elsewhere just because Jensen couldn't keep control of himself.
Besides, why should someone else get the pleasure of putting their hands all over Jared's back?
****
The next six weeks went by way too fast. Jensen found himself looking forward to his Thursday morning appointments with Jared all week and trying to hide his growing anticipation from his co-workers, largely unsuccessfully. By the third week, the whole clinic knew about his crush on Jared, and took to teasing him about it – claiming Jared had called to cancel, or that he was suing Jensen for sexual harassment.
Jensen ignored them all. He concentrated on not making a total idiot of himself every time Jared grinned at him and lit up the room, and not getting too obviously hard while he was rubbing Jared’s shoulder. It might have been okay if it had just been a purely physical crush, but the more he got to know Jared, the more he fell in love with his personality as well.
Jared always seemed to be cheerful and was incredibly nice to everyone, even Chad-the-douchey-orderly. He and Jensen seemed to have loads in common – sports, computer games, even the same TV shows. Jared started hanging around longer and longer after his session, just chatting, apparently unconcerned that he was only wearing a towel.
At the end of Jared's last session, Jensen had to fight the urge to lie and tell him his shoulder needed another six weeks of therapy. He was a professional, though, and signed him off instead.
“You’re all done,” he told Jared. “Just be careful for another couple of weeks, but it should all be healed up.”
Jared sat up on the massage table. “You’re done being my massage dude?” he asked.
“Massage therapist,” Jensen corrected. “And, yeah.”
“Awesome,” said Jared, his grin growing.
Jensen felt stung. Had he really been that bad as a therapist? “Don’t be too obviously happy.”
Jared shook his head and stood up. “No, it just means....if I’m not your patient any more, I can ask you to dinner, right?” Jensen stared at him for a long moment, not sure he'd heard right. Jared's grin faded slightly. “That's right, isn't it? Chad told me the doctor-patient thingy only applied while you were actually treating me.”
“Oh, yeah, that's right,” said Jensen, recovering slightly. “Yes.”
Jared's grin brightened again. “That's yes, you will go out with me, right?” he clarified.
Jensen nodded, and Jared stood up, his towel only just clinging round his waist. “Awesome!” he said, crossed the two steps between them, and pulled Jensen into a kiss, hands holding on to Jensen's head. Jensen kissed back, despite how completely unprofessional it was to be doing it in his therapy room. Sometimes, professionalism had to take a back seat.
****
Merry Christmas! Hope it's been awesome, and that your New Year is epic!!
****
And now these damn things are all done with, maybe I'll find the time to read the last week's worth of my Flist.
*
lazy_daze's will need its own post because it's so damned long. Hope you all had an awesome Christmas, and I'm sorry these didn't come sooner!They're mainly unBetaed, although I made
saltnburnbaby look over various bits, and River gave me some quick advice on Americanisms. Thanks, guys!For
merihn: Title: No Words
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 558 words
Prompt: Sam/Dean, the sweetest first time you can possibly write without killing yourself.
A/N: This year I even managed to give you almost exactly what you wanted, hopefully!
It was raining, torrents of water falling from the sky like God had left a tap running six months ago and the ceiling had finally collapsed. Sam was juggling about fourteen bags and trying to get a hand free so he could pull out their room key, trying to flick his wet bangs out of his eyes at the same time. Every time he did, they just fell straight back down again.
Dean reached out without even thinking about it and pushed them back for him, and Sam looked at him with surprise and something else, something darker. Dean found himself leaving his hand in Sam's hair, holding back wet locks, while they just looked at each other for a moment, more passing between their eyes in that instant than they usually said in a hundred conversations.
Sam dropped his bags in the same moment that Dean stepped forward, lips meeting as if it was pre-ordained. Sam's lips were wet and cold, and Dean licked the rain water off them before pushing inside his mouth, feeling the heat of Sam's tongue moving against his. Sam's hands settled on his waist, pulling him closer, and he moved into them, forcing Sam up against the door.
Sam let out a little gasp when his back hit the door, breaking he kiss and the moment. Suddenly Dean was incredibly aware of where he was and what he was doing – kissing his brother in the parking lot of a motel, in full view of anyone stupid enough to be out in this weather. He started to move away, but Sam's hands kept him where he was, held tight against him.
“Door's wet,” he said as an explanation and kissed Dean again, pulling him in even tighter until Dean's body was completely pressed against his, wet clothes soaking into each other and making Dean shiver.
He pulled away from the kiss again, but didn't go further than a couple of inches from Sam's mouth, their breath mingling in the air between them. “Let's get inside,” he suggested.
“And get out of these wet clothes?” Sam suggested with a wicked smirk.
“Hell yeah,” said Dean. He stayed where he was for a second longer, just savouring the moment, before peeling himself away and starting to pick up the bags. “Get the door open,” he commanded, but Sam was already on it.
They dumped the bags just inside the door and Dean shut the door firmly behind them. He turned back to Sam, who was watching him with a blown-right-open expression, as if he couldn't believe this was real.
Dean stepped forward and tucked at the bottom of his wet shirts, pulling it up and over Sam's head as if he was still a small boy who needed help with dressing. Sam blinked at him, hair everywhere, and then stepped forward to pull Dean into another kiss, this one slower and warmer, a realisation that this was happening and they had all night for it.
Dean pressed in close to it, hands running over Sam's cold skin, and hoped like hell that it would always be this easy, both of them moving in the same direction without needing words because it was the only place to go.
Merry Christmas! I love you, Alexia.
For
tiffosis: Title: Sammy's First Stocking
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 635 words
Prompt: SPN, stocking stuffers
A/N: Future, domestic-type fic.
When Dean came home with them, Sam's first thought was that it was a joke or a prank or something. He looked at the two stockings – one with 'Sammy's First Stocking' written on it in fancy script, the other simply saying 'D' – and raised an eyebrow.
“Stockings, Dean?” he said. “Seriously?”
Dean put them down on the table. “You’ve never had one, right?” he said. “Not even at Stanford?”
Sam shook his head. “I’m pretty sure 41 is too old for a stocking,” he said.
Dean waved that away. “You’re never too old,” he said firmly. “And you better get me tons of presents.”
“Don’t you mean Santa should?” said Sam, looking back down at the stockings, wondering if it was his imagination, or if the one marked D was bigger than the other one.
Dean shrugged. “Whoever,” he said. “I just want a big haul this year.”
“Better write a letter to Santa then,” said Sam. “And hope you’ve been a good enough boy.”
Dean leered at him. “Oh, I’ve been a good boy,” he said. “Least, you always seem to think so.”
It turned out that buying stocking presents was a whole lot harder than Sam had expected. They might be all settled down now, living in an actual house rather than out of the car, but that didn’t mean they needed a whole load of stuff. After a lifetime of keeping all their belongings down to what they could easily carry, neither of them were really the type for hoarding crap. Sam bought some chocolate and snacks and such, but it felt a bit cheap to just fill the whole thing up with things that Dean could have bought for himself from any convenience store.
In the end, he made new copies of some of Dean’s favourite tapes, ones without the hiss and spit of the originals, then filled up the rest with anything small enough he could find in the nearest auto store. Good enough, he thought. It was always the gesture rather than the item that counted, anyway.
After so many years of just the two of them, they already had a bunch of Christmas traditions. Dean always found a tree somewhere and decorated it with the cheapest things he could find. Sam always made the eggnog, and every year, he added a bit more alcohol, just to see if Dean would say anything. At this point, the eggnog mix was really more for colouring than anything else.
They always exchanged presents then sat down to watch the game. In the old days, when they were still travelling, they always spent most of it trying to pretend they were the kind of regular guys who had the time to follow the football all year round, and who knew things about the teams and players. These days, now they’d settled, they actually were close to being those guys, although Sam still had to fake some of it most years. What the hell did he care about a bunch of jocks running around after a ball anyway?
This year, they did all that with two stockings hanging on the wall, over-flowing with newspaper-wrapped presents. Sam could see at least one in his that he was pretty sure was a doll of some kind, but he couldn’t bring himself to get too riled up about still being the butt of ‘Sam’s a girl’ jokes. After all, at the end of the evening, when they went up to bed, Dean was going to blow him until he couldn't see, then curl up close beside him and whisper things he thought Sam couldn’t hear into his skin, things that almost any other red-blooded football-watching type of guy would say made Dean the girl. That was also tradition.
Hope you like this, and that you had an awesome Christmas! *hugs* Have a good New Year.
For
raths_kitten: Title: Christmas Is For Children
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 1,482 words
Prompt: Sam/Dean, christmas, Sam's 16.
A/N: Not quite what you meant by the prompt, perhaps, but it's what the muse gave me.
“I still don’t understand why we can’t have sex,” said Sam grumpily, as if they were alone in the car rather than in the middle of a crowded grocery store on one of the busiest shopping days of the year.
Dean gritted his teeth and plastered a fake smile on for the benefit of the woman glaring at him from just down the aisle. “Because you’re sixteen,” he said. “Now quit whining about it.”
Sam narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sixteen,” he said. “I’m twenty-eight. I just look sixteen.”
“And act it,” Dean pointed out. “It doesn’t matter, Sammy. I’m not having sex with you while you’re cursed. Or while you’re being an annoying brat. Now, what the hell do you want for dinner tomorrow?”
“Your cock,” said Sam stubbornly.
Dean gave up. Sam had only been a sixteen-year-old again for three days and already he was driving him nuts. It had been bad enough the first time around, when at least Sam had had Dad to butt heads against and Dean had been able to escape to a bar or somewhere. This time it was just the two of them and Sam seemed determined to take out all his rejuvenated teenage angst on Dean, especially once Dean had refused to have sex with him.
It was just weird, was all. Dean liked having sex with grown-up Sam, the one who was big enough and strong enough to take everything Dean could throw at him and turn it back on him. Sixteen-year-old Sam was still growing, still at the same height as Dean and skinny like he could barely believe Sam had ever been. He was the Sam Dean used to take for drives so that he could escape Dad for a bit, the one who was obsessed with libraries and homework – definitely not the one Dean wanted to be fucking.
He grabbed a couple of frozen dinners off the shelf almost at random and threw them in the basket. It was Christmas Day tomorrow and there wasn’t going to be anywhere open for them to get food, which really added to the annoyance of Sam being cursed. Dean had been almost looking forward to Christmas – staying in for the day, drinking way too much eggnog, watching the game and then fucking Sam for a good few hours, until they were both just worn out and sweaty and feeling awesome. Having to put up with the grumbling-teenage-bitch version of Sam just wasn’t going to be the same.
“I want the other one,” said Sam, pointing. Dean suppressed a sigh and swapped the dinner he’d just grabbed. “Also, we need eggnog,” added Sam.
“You’re not drinking till you’re 28 again,” said Dean immediately.
Sam gaped at him. “What? Oh, come on, Dean! That’s ridiculous!”
“It’s the rules,” said Dean firmly. “Sixteen-year-olds don’t drink.”
Sam scowled. “No sex, no alcohol...being a teenager sucks,” he muttered, shoving his hands deep into his hoodie pockets. Dean had to resist the urge to ruffle his hair to wind him up, like he’d used to twelve years ago. Getting Sam even more riled up was just going to make him even more of a pain to shop with.
“Being around a teenager sucks too,” he said. “Seriously, I’m this close to just leaving you here and going to a strip club.”
Sam made an annoyed sound that Dean instantly recognised from when he’d been sixteen the first time around, but he mercifully shut up for the rest of the trip round the supermarket, trailing behind Dean sullenly. Dean ignored him and got on with grabbing what they needed and getting the hell out of the shop before the mass of people inside it caused a rupture in the space-time continuum. He hated shopping on Christmas Eve.
Sam was in a slightly better mood the next day, after Bobby had called to wish them a merry Christmas, and to tell them that he’d finished working out the ritual that would turn Sam back to his real age, just as soon as there was a full moon. They ate their meals, then settled down with a big bowl of popcorn in front of the game. Dean thought about getting himself a beer, but the inevitable argument with Sam over whether or not he got one as well just wasn’t going to be worth it.
Sam settled on the sofa beside Dean, a lot closer than he usually sat. Dean could feel his bony teenage limbs pressed against his body and it was an unwelcome reminder that he wasn’t going to get his Christmas fuck.
“Shift up,” he said, pushing at Sam.
Sam didn’t move. “I need to be able to reach the popcorn or you’ll eat it all.”
Dean had to admit to himself that that was likely. “Well,” he grumbled, “just keep your sharp elbows out of my ribs, then.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “You’ve got plenty of padding,” he muttered. Dean frowned, and tried to subtly feel his belly. There wasn’t any padding there – Sam was just trying to wind him up. He was as fit as he’d always been. Well, maybe there was a slight roll that wasn’t there before, but he was getting older, it was to be expected, right? Maybe he should think about eating less. He shovelled in a handful of popcorn. In the new year, obviously.
The game was exciting enough to keep Dean entertained and for a while he didn’t notice that Sam was creeping ever closer, or how often their hands seemed to accidentally brush in the popcorn bowl. When he did catch on, he was more amused than annoyed. It seemed like Sam’s seduction techniques had regressed to a teenager’s as well. Any minute now he’d be doing the old yawn-and-put-your-arm-around trick, and then Dean might just have to mock him forever.
Instead, Sam put his hand casually on Dean’s knee, fingers curling around to his in-seam. Dean suppressed a smirk and pretended not to notice, staring at the TV as if the game had all his attention. Sam started stealthily moving his hand up, further and further, until his hand was resting right against Dean’s crotch. Dean couldn’t hide his automatic reaction to having Sam’s hand there, cock growing half-hard, and he could tell from the way Sam shifted his leg that he thought that meant he was going to win.
“You can grope me all you want,” said Dean conversationally. “I’m still not going to fuck you.”
Sam huffed out an annoyed breath, but his hand didn’t move away. Instead, he gave up all pretence of watching the game and turned to face Dean, rubbing his hand properly over his cock. “Come on, Dean,” he wheedled. “Just let me blow you – you can shut your eyes and pretend I’m my real age, if it would make you feel better.”
The whine in his voice just made him sound way too young. Dean grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand away. “No,” he said. “It’s not happening, Sam, just accept it.”
Sam threw himself sulkily back onto the sofa and crossed his arms. He stared hard at the TV, frown carved deep on his face.
Dean sighed. “Don’t be a bitch,” he said. “Sam, you know this is bugging me just as much as it is you.”
“If that was true,” said Sam, petulantly, “we’d be doing it already.”
“Well, maybe a bit less,” admitted Dean. “Guess I don’t have the sex drive of a teenager any more.”
“I wish I didn’t,” said Sam, uncrossing his arms and relaxing back a bit. “It’s a pain in the ass. Feels like I’m hard all the freaking time.” He turned wide, pleading eyes on Dean. “If you’d just...please, Dean.”
“No,” said Dean again, firmly. He relented slightly though and pulled Sam back in against his body, one arm around his shoulders. “It’s not long,” he said. “Just another week and a bit, then we can get you back to how you should be, and fuck like Viagra-driven bunnies.”
“We could fuck now,” muttered Sam, but he seemed to have given up for now, resting his head down on Dean’s shoulder with a sigh. Dean usually didn’t like this kind of thing – cuddling on the sofa like a couple of chicks - but having Sam so young again was making him remember just how clingy he’d been as a kid, before he’d gone into angst-ridden teenager mode.
The game went into the second quarter, and Dean settled back again, Sam warm against the side of his body. He might not be getting all the sex he’d been looking forward to, but this was still a pretty good Christmas, especially compared to some of the others they’d had.
Frohe Weihnachten!! I hope you had an awesome one, and that your New Year is epic!
For
saltnburnbaby: Title: We Are Learning To Make Fire
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Word Count: 1,771 words
Prompt: Sam/Dean, post Sam vessel for Lucifer, hospital, schmoop
A/N: What's to say? You've already read it, you already know how badly I failed at schmoop, and you already know all my Christmas wishes for you.
Betaed by
sapphic85, who rocks my socks. Title from Margaret Atwood's Habitation.Waiting for Sam to wake up was worse than all the rest of it put together. The whole apocalypse – Sam being forced to say ‘yes’ to Lucifer so that they could destroy him, Lucifer finally dying and Dean thinking for a heart-stopping moment that he’d taken Sam with him, all of it paled into insignificance compared to sitting by Sam’s bed, listening to the machines beep and wondering if they were about to alarm out.
And even if Sam did wake up, Dean couldn’t forget seeing Raphael’s vessel sitting blankly in his wheel chair with nothing behind his eyes. Dean was pretty sure that Sam would rather die than be like that, and he was damned sure that he’d rather Sam died than be like that.
Sam’s coma lasted nearly a week. Dean didn’t bother responding to any of the nurses’ gentle suggestions that he go home and get some sleep. With the way things had been going the last few years, if he left demons were bound to attack, or Sam would wake up and get it into his head to run off, or something equally annoying. Dean wasn’t going anywhere.
When Sam finally opened his eyes, Dean almost missed it. He was staring aimlessly out the window at the night sky, thoughts rumbling along on very depressing lines, and he only really glanced at Sam as a reflex. It took him a couple of moments to realise that Sam was looking back, his eyes calm and his face still in the placid expression he’d worn while he was unconscious.
“Sammy,” said Dean, unable to hide his relief. He sat forward and put his hand on Sam’s arm. “Christ, you can’t scare me like that.” He rang for assistance, and the room was soon bustling with activity, everyone talking at once and pushing Dean back out of the way as they checked over Sam.
Sam didn’t say a word. He just lay there, blinking up at the nurses as if they were alien creatures. The nurses all gave each other significant looks, and one of them scurried off to get a doctor.
Dean stepped close to the bed and took Sam’s hand. “Hey, kid,” he said quietly, and Sam’s eyes turned to look at him. “Don’t go quiet on me now. It’s over, you can forget about it all. Good guys won, bad guys are gone. Time for the happy ending, right?”
Sam’s hand closed around Dean’s, but he didn’t speak, and his expression didn’t change. Dean felt a sick feeling beginning to form in the pit of stomach.
****
The look on the doctor’s face didn’t reassure Dean at all. He ran a bunch of tests, then took Dean aside to talk to him quietly about the complexities of the human brain, and how little they really knew about it. Dean watched Sam’s face over the doctor’s shoulder, and wondered just how much Sam understood right now.
“Could it be some kind of post-traumatic thing?” he asked when the doctor had run out of words. “Stress, or whatever?”
The doctor gave him a sharp look. “Possibly,” he allowed. “Severe trauma can sometimes result in voluntary mutism. You said this was a car accident - did something happen that you’ve not mentioned, Mr Bonham?”
Dean shook his head tiredly. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.” It seemed like their whole lives had been one severe trauma after another. Sam’s hand shifted against the covers, and he left the doctor standing there in order to go and sit on the edge of his bed.
“You always have to do things the tough way,” he said quietly. Sam just stared at him blankly. Dean tried to take it as a good sign that Sam always turned his face towards Dean when he spoke, as opposed to just staring blankly into space like he did with the nurses and doctors, but it was hard to take comfort in anything right now.
It was all meant to be over – angels and demons sent back home, human race saved from imminent apocalypse, and the Winchesters free from all the crap that both heaven and hell had been plaguing them with for years – for their whole lives. Instead, it looked like there was never going to be an end to this – they were never going to get to just draw a line under it all and move on.
Sam was still staring at him, mouth fixed in a straight line as if he’d completely forgotten it was even there, let alone how to use it. Dean wondered what else he’d forgotten – how much of Sam was left inside the blank shell.
“Are you even in there, Sammy?” he asked. “You hearing me?”
Sam just blinked, and continued to stare at him. Dean sighed, and rubbed a hand over his face.
****
He called Bobby the next morning. “He’s not completely unresponsive,” he told him. “As long as you guide him, he’ll sit up, move where you want him to. It’s just...he’s like a doll, or a robot. Going through the motions, but there’s nothing behind it.”
“Give him time,” said Bobby. “He’s been through a lot. Getting regular possessed is bad enough, but having Satan riding you like a rodeo cowboy....I can’t even imagine.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Dean, glancing over at where Sam was sitting in a wheelchair by the window, staring blankly out at the clouds. The hospital’s psychiatrist was sitting with him, trying to get some response, but it was as if Sam didn’t even know she was there.
“He’s stubborn,” Bobby reminded him. “He won’t let Lucifer beat him, not like this.”
Dean swallowed. “I don’t know, Bobby,” he said slowly. “You haven’t seen him. I’m not sure there's any of him left to be stubborn.”
Bobby was silent for a long moment. “He’ll be okay,” he said, but he didn’t sound very confident. “You’ll get through to him, somehow. You boys always find a way, with each other.”
Dean took a deep breath, wondering if that would be enough. He and Sam hadn’t exactly been on the best of terms in the last couple of years, after all. He’d been kinda hoping that they’d be able to fix that after everything was over, get back to the balance they’d found before Sam’s death in Cold Oak. For a while there, it had been like everything was falling perfectly into place. The on-again, off-again sex thing they'd had since they were teenagers had slotted together with the way they were hunting as a team, perfectly matched, until it had all begun to feel like a real relationship, like something that was going to last.
Then Sam had died, and Dean had made that stupid deal, and the whole thing had fallen apart. Dean had been counting on finding their way back to that now that they'd sorted out all the other shit, but it didn’t seem like that was going to happen now, not with Sam like this.
“I got to go,” he told Bobby.
“Keep me updated on how he is,” said Bobby. “And, Dean...you boys need somewhere to go, you know you’re always welcome here.”
“I know,” said Dean. “Thanks Bobby.”
“Take care,” replied Bobby and he hung up.
****
The psychiatrist didn’t get anything out of Sam, and didn’t have anything to tell Dean that he didn’t already know.
“He’s withdrawn completely,” she said. “I'm sorry, Mr Bonham.”
“But will he come out of it?” Dean asked.
“He might,” she said, but Dean could tell from her voice that she really had no idea. “Something might jolt him out of it, or he might just gradually come back to himself.”
Dean went over to stand next to Sam's chair, looking out at the same sky for a moment, wondering if Sam was even seeing it. He glanced down at Sam's docile face, remembering all the emotions he'd seen written large on it – anger, mirth, passion. Sam had always been so expressive, as if his emotions were too strong to be contained. He tentatively put his hand onto Sam's head, fingers sliding smoothly through the strands of his hair. Sam’s gaze shifted from the sky to his face, but that was all the response Dean got.
“Hey, Sammy,” said Dean. He waited, without much hope, for a response, but none came. He sighed. “What we going to do about this one?” Sam continued to just watch his face with empty eyes. Dean felt despair well up in him. It felt like every time he thought he was getting close to a happy ending, it slipped out of his grasp, leaving him with nothing but ashes.
It had always been okay before, though, because Sam was always there. Even when they were fighting, or Sam was a million miles away, living his 'normal' life at Stanford, he always believed deep down that they’d one day make up and everything would be fine.
“You remember when we were kids?” he said. Sam didn't make a sign that he'd heard, but Dean kept going anyway. “I’d piss you off some how – mock your hair or hide your book or something – and you’d stop talking to me, pretend I didn’t exist. Man, I hated that. I used to make out it didn’t bother me, but I really hated it.” He paused, and looked away from Sam’s blank, unresponsive face. He could feel tears welling up in his eyes, but he made no move to hide them. Sam probably had no idea what he was saying anyway.
“You never could last long, though,” he continued. “You’d forget, or something would happen that you’d have to comment on. It used to frustrate you that you couldn’t stick to it longer than a few hours, but I couldn’t have stood it if you’d ignored me longer.” He paused, swallowing back his emotions. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath.
There was a tentative touch on his knee, and he opened his eyes to see Sam’s hand on it. He looked up, surprised, to see Sam looking at him, properly seeing him for the first time since he’d woken up.
“Dean,” he said in a raspy whisper.
Dean put his hand over Sam’s. “Sammy,” he answered, in a voice just as hushed as Sam's. Sam didn’t say anything else, but his hand squeezed Dean’s knee. Dean felt hope unfurl in his chest again. They were going to make it. They were going to get their happy ending. It might take a bit longer than Dean had been planning, but they'd get there.
Love you, Kid - here's to another year of Epic Joy.
For
joans23: Title: Professionalism Is Over-Rated
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: J2
Word Count: 1,565 words
Prompt: Come on, write me a J2 AU! ANY AU OF YOUR CHOICE! As long as there's snogging.
A/N: Not as much snogging as I thought there'd be, and the title's suffering from the hour, and the fact I'm running out of title ideas after doing so many in one go. Hope you like it anyway!
Despite all the many, many jokes Jensen had heard about his job (mainly from Chris,) he was a complete professional about it. 'Massage therapist' might sound like some kind of euphemism, but that didn't mean the people he worked with didn't need his help just as much as they needed the help of Mike, the physical therapist, or Tom, the chiropractor. He might have to get pretty hands-on with his patients, and occasionally have to deal with the effects of that, but that didn't mean that they didn't need his help. Even that totally disgusting dude who kept claiming he had a groin injury, even though his notes said it was a twisted knee.
By now, Jensen could spot if a client was one of the two kinds of guy who found it most uncomfortable. The uber-macho, manly-man type, who didn't really believe in any kind of nancy-boy therapy and were only there because a) their wives forced them to go, or b) they got confused between 'massage therapist' and 'thai hooker.' Usually as soon as Jensen introduced himself, they got a sick, panicked look of 'some dude is going to put his hands all over me!'
Then there was the other kind of guy – guys like Jared Padalecki, who'd messed his back up lifting weights. When Jensen walked into the therapy room, he was momentarily taken aback. Not only was this guy huge - and not in the grotesque, over-muscled way that weight-lifters often were, but in a more natural 'I just grew to be a giant' way – but he was ridiculously hot as well. He was sitting on Jensen's massage table, already stripped down to just a towel, making the whole room like smaller in comparison.
“Heya,” said Jared brightly. “I'm the dude you're going to be putting your hands on for the next hour. Unless you're not the massage dude, in which case I've just propositioned a random guy, and this is about to get really awkward.”
“I'm Jensen Ackles,” said Jensen. “I'm the massage dude, although that's not exactly what my business card says.”
Jared grinned and Jensen had to pause to clear his throat because, Jesus Christ, he had the most amazing dimples ever. He put on his most professional demeanour, ignoring the voice in his head that was wishing he was a thai hooker, just for this guy. After all, if he was tall enough to make Jensen's massage table look like a child-sized toy, then how big must his cock be?
“If you could just lie down on your front,” he said, flicking open Jared's file to check his details again and to keep his eyes off all the long lines of golden skin as Jared twisted himself around and lay down.
“This isn't going to hurt, right?” he asked.
“It shouldn't do,” said Jensen, stepping closer to begin, trying hard to tell himself that this was just another client, and there was no reason to get weird about it. “I'm going to see if I can't loosen up some of these muscles for you, smooth out some of the knots. It may cause some discomfort to begin with, but that should fade as I relax you out.” He hesitated, then added the usual disclaimer he gave guys when they gave him the look Jared had given him when he came in. “Some guys have, uh, a reaction to it, which is pretty normal, but I don't need to know about it, okay?”
Not like that guy last year, who'd grabbed his arm and demanded an 'oral massage' for his raging hard-on after Jensen had finished working on him.
“Reaction?” asked Jared, shifting to get more comfortable. “You mean, like...an erection?”
“Yes,” said Jensen, putting his hands on Jared's shoulder so that he could feel the injured muscles. He tried hard to ignore the warmth of Jared's skin, and started to wonder if he should be worrying about his own reaction rather than Jared's.
Jared snorted into the table. “You say that to all your clients? I could be a totally-straight homophobic prick, and then I'd have to get up and kick your ass just for suggesting it, and I'm pretty sure that's on Dr Kripke's proscribed activities list.”
“I can usually tell the totally-straight homophobic pricks,” said Jensen, starting to rub out some of the tension. “They're the ones who look incredibly disappointed that I'm not a hot Swedish blonde when they meet me.”
“You're not Swedish?” asked Jared with mock-upset. “Man, I'm taking my custom elsewhere.”
“You try and leave now, and I'll make sure you can't walk for a week,” said Jensen.
“Kinky,” muttered Jared, but he was already going into the usual relaxed daze of someone whose muscles were turning to putty. Jensen let himself settle into his working rhythm, concentrating on what he could feel, and how he needed to manipulate it to get it better.
Jared's shoulders were really broad and he was perfectly built – just enough muscle to make Jensen's mouth water, not enough to look overdone and ugly. They were firm and strong under Jensen's hand – in fact, his whole back was a work of art, straight spine leading all the way down to a surprisingly trim waist and the smooth curve of his ass under the towel. Jensen had to keep refocusing his eyes where they were meant to be and not on blatantly ogling his client.
By the end of the session, Jensen was half-hard, which made him feel horribly unprofessional. He was meant to be fixing up Jared's shoulder, not perving on him. He stepped back from the table and took a deep breath, hoping to calm himself down a bit.
“Okay,” he said. “You can get up now.”
Jared lifted his head slightly, still looking a little dazed. “Uh, I'll just...take a moment,” he said.
Jensen nodded and turned away, pretending to look at Jared's chart again. He jotted down a few notes, but he wasn't really sure they made much sense, not when he was suddenly, acutely aware that Jared was turned on as well. He checked the number of sessions that Jared was down for – one a week for the next six weeks. Well, that wasn't going to get increasingly awkward at all. He thought for a moment about transferring Jared to another massage therapist, but it seemed unprofessional to send him off elsewhere just because Jensen couldn't keep control of himself.
Besides, why should someone else get the pleasure of putting their hands all over Jared's back?
The next six weeks went by way too fast. Jensen found himself looking forward to his Thursday morning appointments with Jared all week and trying to hide his growing anticipation from his co-workers, largely unsuccessfully. By the third week, the whole clinic knew about his crush on Jared, and took to teasing him about it – claiming Jared had called to cancel, or that he was suing Jensen for sexual harassment.
Jensen ignored them all. He concentrated on not making a total idiot of himself every time Jared grinned at him and lit up the room, and not getting too obviously hard while he was rubbing Jared’s shoulder. It might have been okay if it had just been a purely physical crush, but the more he got to know Jared, the more he fell in love with his personality as well.
Jared always seemed to be cheerful and was incredibly nice to everyone, even Chad-the-douchey-orderly. He and Jensen seemed to have loads in common – sports, computer games, even the same TV shows. Jared started hanging around longer and longer after his session, just chatting, apparently unconcerned that he was only wearing a towel.
At the end of Jared's last session, Jensen had to fight the urge to lie and tell him his shoulder needed another six weeks of therapy. He was a professional, though, and signed him off instead.
“You’re all done,” he told Jared. “Just be careful for another couple of weeks, but it should all be healed up.”
Jared sat up on the massage table. “You’re done being my massage dude?” he asked.
“Massage therapist,” Jensen corrected. “And, yeah.”
“Awesome,” said Jared, his grin growing.
Jensen felt stung. Had he really been that bad as a therapist? “Don’t be too obviously happy.”
Jared shook his head and stood up. “No, it just means....if I’m not your patient any more, I can ask you to dinner, right?” Jensen stared at him for a long moment, not sure he'd heard right. Jared's grin faded slightly. “That's right, isn't it? Chad told me the doctor-patient thingy only applied while you were actually treating me.”
“Oh, yeah, that's right,” said Jensen, recovering slightly. “Yes.”
Jared's grin brightened again. “That's yes, you will go out with me, right?” he clarified.
Jensen nodded, and Jared stood up, his towel only just clinging round his waist. “Awesome!” he said, crossed the two steps between them, and pulled Jensen into a kiss, hands holding on to Jensen's head. Jensen kissed back, despite how completely unprofessional it was to be doing it in his therapy room. Sometimes, professionalism had to take a back seat.
Merry Christmas! Hope it's been awesome, and that your New Year is epic!!
And now these damn things are all done with, maybe I'll find the time to read the last week's worth of my Flist.
*
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OMG
Date: 2009-12-28 02:51 am (UTC)clearely, mine is my favourite *gently strokes hard copy of it*, but all of them just rock!
yay for NOT EVER SPEAKING for sam and dean. motto: if you want schmoop, make them mute!
and yes, here is to another year of epic epic joy and CHICAGO!!!!! *toasts with wine, pims, winter pims, spiced rum, apple juice and all other sorts of liquid awesome*
*hugs*
"Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat. "We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."
"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.
"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here."
Lewis Carol
To madness and all the joy it brings!
xxxxxxxxxx
Re: OMG
Date: 2009-12-28 03:01 am (UTC)xxxx
no subject
Date: 2009-12-28 07:03 am (UTC)My sister left Australia today to fly to England, she's teaching in Nottingham for 6 months and then doing some travelling, so I might (MIGHT) be coming over sometime in the next year to visit her, and HOPEFULLY YOU. HOW EXCITING IS THAT? I've been saving like a mad thing for a while cos all I have really is work and the internet, so I should be able to afford it.
♥
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Date: 2009-12-28 12:07 pm (UTC)And OMG YES COME VISIT ME! IT WOULD BE EPIC!
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Date: 2009-12-28 12:57 pm (UTC)IT WOULD. I'm crazily excited just THINKING about it and I don't even know if its going to happen yet. But omg I want it so badly. I miss you so hard.
♥
no subject
Date: 2009-12-28 12:01 pm (UTC)YOU!!!!!!!!!!!1
OMG, I love my ficlet SO MUCH! The others kick ass too, but I'm gonna be biased and say mine is the best. ;)
THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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Date: 2009-12-28 12:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-28 12:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-29 12:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-28 01:03 pm (UTC)The last one totally cheers me up again though. Massage therapist!Jensen is really awesome :D
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Date: 2009-12-29 12:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-28 02:07 pm (UTC)Avon xx
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Date: 2009-12-29 12:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-28 02:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-29 12:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-28 02:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-29 12:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-28 11:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-29 12:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-29 01:56 am (UTC)Of course the awesome includes "my" fic. I didn't imagine this, but that just made it better. You surprised me. And it was just too damn funny! And sweet. But why, I thought my prompt was "cheese"? *frowns* ;)
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Date: 2009-12-30 12:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-06 05:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-07 12:19 am (UTC)