swan_bite

Dean got a look in his eye like a deer stuck in the Impala's headlights, like Sam had seen that one time when they were driving down some back road late at night and a doe and her fawn had crossed the road in front of them. Sam never forgot how they stood frozen in place, and he'd never forgiven his father for hitting the fawn, although logically he knew it wasn't John's fault.

The little body had gone flying through the air and the doe had skittered off into the woods while her baby thumped onto the shoulder of the road and lay still and broken, its eyes blank in the moonlight.

The whole gruesome tableau had stayed with Sam for years, stuck in his memories, showing up in his nightmares whenever he was particularly angry at his father.

And that expression of frozen terror was what he saw on his brother's face whenever Sam got too close. Sam started deliberately brushing his arm across Dean's when he reached past him for the ketchup while they ate, or bumping his shoulder into Dean's when they tramped side by side through the woods, following along behind their father while he taught them the art of tracking..

"How are the exchange students this term?" Andrew asked. He'd really wanted to go to the dinner they'd held to welcome the students from Columbia, except he'd bought tickets for the screening of The Man Who Fell To Earth at Modern Art Oxford and it'd so happened that the dinner and the film had been on the same day.

Ellen shrugged. Ellen was Canadian, but she wasn't an exchange student. She was an international student who decided she'd rather spend four years focusing on what she really loved (Biology; she wanted to live in an ecological commune someday) than "flailing around at a liberal arts school", and now she was in the third year of her degree. Last year she had been the college's LGBTQ representative and this year she was returning to the committee as the international students' rep. Andrew loved her. "Not bad," she said. "I sat next to this guy with dark curly hair who wouldn't say much. He had the bluest eyes, though."

"Sounds exactly like my type," Andrew told her, pretending to swoon. "Did you get a name?"

"I did, actually," Ellen said. "Jesse Eisenberg."

“Deception, deceit. The Shining One is a predator. Save the little ones: they have not yet had the chance to grow. Save the little ones.”

I frown. “We need to find this so-called Shining One.”

Spock nods and whispers against the bark, asking directions. I watch his lips and feel a familiar flip of yearning low in my stomach. I don't need this crap. It's probably just too much fresh air. I approach the tree myself and trace my hand over its gnarled flesh. “We've already beamed back some seedlings and we'll try to take as many as we can. Your children will not be lost.”

Spock's face seems slightly less serious, which means I've managed to shock the hell out of him. “It has understood you.”

I smile softly, patting the trunk. “I like this tree.”

Something terrifying flashes in Spock's eyes for a millisecond and I let my hand fall back down to my side. I couldn't have seen that. Jealousy? Over a tree?

“The Shining One is located three kilometers north in a large valley,” Spock says, his voice as cold as ever.

I must be going crazy.

Brendon still hadn’t gotten used to how quiet it was as an only child, even though he probably made enough noise to compensate for at least one or two siblings. He hummed obnoxiously as he headed for the kitchen without changing out of pajamas, figuring that if he managed to spill anything on himself, at least he wouldn’t be in his church clothes yet.

It was when he passed the window at the landing of the stairs that he realized something was off.

The sun was way too high for it to still be morning, which meant they should have been at church hours before. Brendon’s family never missed church. Tentatively, he called, “Mom? Dad?” as he jogged the rest of the way down the stairs.

There was no reply, and when Brendon got into the kitchen, it was empty.

“Huh,” he said, leaning against the doorframe to take stock of the situation. For a wild moment he wondered if they’d actually left without him—if the conversation from the previous night had actually stuck with them. It seemed unlikely, considering that his father had been pretty adamant when telling Brendon that it was church, or hell. Brendon was still proud that he’d refrained from answering that.

A hand catches Dean as he steps away, wraps all the way around his wrist, makes him look small, which Dean fucking well is not. "Dean. Thank you."

"Yessir."

The hunter makes that almost-smile of his, like he's forgotten how to do it and he's just imitating everyone else. "Call me Sam, okay?"

"Yeah," Dean says, clutching the med kit tightly. "Okay. Uh, Sam."

"G'night, Dean." And then and then oh God, the almost-smile is more smile-like, and there are white teeth and oh shit dimples.

And then Dean's shutting the door behind him and he's got a hard-on for the eighth time today and he's sharing a shitty motel room with his dad and his twelve-year-old little brother, and he heads for the shower so he can jerk off over a really hot, definitely alcoholic, probably crazy and borderline suicidal hunter.

And this is why Sam Moore is ruining Dean Winchester's life.

C R E D I T S

P r o f i l e R e c s

“You’re all the things I’m not, all the things he wanted that I wasn’t. Headstrong, impulsive, vain without being at all sure of your worth. You’re brash and bold, or at least you would be, if you weren’t so angry, so confused by what’s happening to you.” Dom shakes his head. “No, I know you, Eames. You’ll be everything Arthur has ever wanted - a partner, a rival, someone to challenge his every move, his every desire. Nothing will compare to the satisfaction he gets when he finally wins you, when you finally realize that fighting him is nothing compared to giving in.”

“Love,” she says. And when the pair of them keep looking at her incomprehensibly, she adds, “Look, Dean sold his soul for Sam. He went to Hell for him. That’s pretty much beyond devotion. And Sam went nuts when Dean was gone—like, a looooong way off the deep end. And then there’s all the little things.”.

Bobby makes a noise. "We don't have time for that, son. That's your brother in the back seat—don't you want to give him a proper burial?"

"No," Dean says. He wants his fucking coat. He goes around to the trunk and shoves his hand in his pocket, looking for his keys, but they aren't there—they're supposed to be in his left pocket, that's where he always keeps them, and if they aren't there he doesn't know where the fuck they are. He'll have to hotwire the car, which is always a pain in the ass, especially when he has to fix it all later. He'd rather just find his fucking keys. Maybe they fell out in the mud, earlier, when he was—when Sam was—maybe he dropped them, is all.

Baby can dance. She can plan and she can fight. She makes a girl want to dream again.

At night, when the lights go out, if you're very quiet, you can slide your fingers down your belly, between your legs, give yourself what the men in here want to take from you.

Rocket used to think of Clark. She used to think of Sweetpea. Now she thinks of Baby and her big eyes and her soft hands and the way she holds a knife.

She thinks of Baby dancing.

Each stutter is harder and harder to listen to. Coiled energy is springing up in the seat of him, and Castiel doesn't think he can listen to another word, until Sam runs out of words and Castiel straightens up and fills the void and the silence with his own mouth, his lips sealing over Sam's, his fingertips pulling Sam's face in, his heart pounding loud enough to drum away the silence. The corners of his eyes catch the red-filtered gaze of the flashlight rolling uselessly over their star map before his lashes droop and he's not seeing anything.

C R E D I T S

It occurs to him then that the rustling isn't just coming from beneath his feet, but from somewhere to the side, as though something is following him, hidden by the tassels and stalks and leaves, and he knows, with a flash of dread insight, that he is not armed. He looks ahead; Dean is no longer visible, and he does not dare look behind him, nor to either side, in case he might glimpse whatever's after him. He smells smoke and realizes suddenly that the field is burning, someone has set it alight, and then without warning he's not dreaming anymore, he's awakened by Dean's hand on his chest, his name in Dean's voice, the way he used to be, all through those weeks after the fire.

That little voice in the back of your mind telling you to go right instead of left – that's your guardian. Your guardian is the one who suggests that maybe you don't want to go home with that guy, or that you shouldn't take the shortcut today. Your guardian hints that perhaps you should go home a little early or that maybe the next flight is a better one. What humans think of as gut instinct actually is a voice belonging to someone – something -- else.

ATTENTION CADETS, OFFICERS, AND OTHERS INTERESTED IN INTRASPECIES COOPERATION AND NEW EXPERIENCES:

WE ARE LOOKING FOR A FEW GOOD SENTIENTS TO ASSIST WITH A REVOLUTIONARY STUDY THAT IS SURE TO BLOW YOUR SOCKS OR EQUIVALENT LOWER EXTREMITY COVERINGS OFF! ALL PARTICIPANTS MUST BE SEXUALLY WILLING, ABLE, AND ACTIVE. OPEN MINDS A MUST.

IF YOU ARE TIRED OF OF BOLDLY GOING WHERE NO MAN HAS GONE BEFORE, BOLDLY COME WITH US!

Sam is a giant and a genius. He takes a fuckton of women's study courses, and every year, he goes to Take Back the Night and stands out like a massive, awkward beanstalk in an ocean of girls with Buddy Holly glasses. He vets all her boyfriends. He sort of telekinetic and scared of it, but he fights it, it works it, he tries to control it. He always wants to listen, to know how you feel about something. He always wants to help. He fights with Dad because he thinks Deanna deserves better, that he deserves better. He wants, and he wants to give, he wants to help. He makes her laugh.

He fucks everything up, because that's all he knows. He scares the shit out of all of them, partly for revenge and partly for pure amusement. And Freddie goes mental, fingers tight at the collar of Cook's shirt, face so close Cook can feel the cold sweat of his nose against his own. Yet still, he doesn't hit him, doesn't headbutt him, doesn't kick him in the balls—nothing. And Cook feels himself longing for it, aching for it, for something. Something's swelling in his gut, anticipation tying his stomach into angry, impatient knots.

C R E D I T S