In slow motion, the blast is beautiful

Fic: Absinthe Makes The Heart Grow Fonder

2009-10-12T12:20:05Z

Title: Absinthe Makes The Heart Grow Fonder
Author: Spacemonkey
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: R
Word Count: 1330
Warnings: Set during 5X04, allusions to drug use, swearing, and odd dreams.
Pairing: Dean/Castiel Dean/Future Cas, Future Dean/Future Cas
Summary: Dean wishes he could just click his heels three times and be done with it, but life never was that simple. And then there was Cas.

Notes: I was writing a completely different fic when I started writing this one, and it started out as being crack, but turned into something a bit different and weird. Love to all.

Disclaimer: Disclaimer: Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

Any mention of Supernatural, any associated entites, or any copywrited material pertaining therein is reasonably protected by the Fair Use Rule of the United States Copyright Act of 1976, and is not intended to infringe upon any copywrited material.

Dean falls asleep on a hardwood floor that’s grimy and gross and he just knows he’s going to be sore tomorrow. It takes him hours to drift off, and when he finally does, he ends up smack bang in the middle of Spartacus, standing up in a sea of Dean’s and yelling “I am Dean Winchester” then smugly sitting back when a hundred other Dean’s shoot back, one at a time, that they’re Dean, and it’s funny at first. But then it goes on and on and Dean figures there’s about five hundred more Dean’s to go through, and that’s when he thinks it’s gonna get real tedious real quick, and the smirk drops from his face.

“One of you is bad enough,” Sam remarks, propping his legs up on the seat in front of him. Dean rolls his eyes, and the Dean sitting up front turns around and sends Sam a glare that is child’s talk for “get those size fifteens off of my seat, asshole.”

Sam shrugs and laughs like he really is an asshole, but his feet hit the ground anyway and he turns to Dean. “I bet you’re loving this.”

“Why would you think that?” Dean snaps.

Sam shakes his head. “Why wouldn’t I?”

It doesn’t even surprise Dean when he blinks and suddenly Sam has turned into another Dean. He does think, blandly when that same Dean stands up and tells everyone to shut their pie holes, that maybe next time he shouldn’t let trust Chuck when he says “the food is fine . . . I think” because Dean usually dreams about tits and hell and occasionally Castiel, not necessarily in that order and the latter mostly because he pops up to chat in Dean’s damn dreams, and sometimes because Dean can’t help himself. He hates Chuck’s stupid dream inducing food, and Castiel tilts his head and says, “You don’t belong here.”

Dean doesn’t wonder where Castiel came from. He doesn’t react at all. Just stares blankly as the asshole to his right starts to yell in his ear, and Castiel sits at his left, his brow furrowed and his hands loose in his lap, and he whispers, “Dean.” In such a way that it makes Dean’s stomach drop. He swallows and nods when Castiel takes his hand and wordlessly the two of them make their way through the Dean’s and towards the door, with a green and white EXIT sign burning bright above it. Dean allows himself to be led, and they both breathe a sigh of relief once they’re through the door and its shut behind them.

Castiel doesn’t let his hand go, doesn’t look at him, he just stands there and stares out into the darkness and Dean has to ask. “Is it you?”

“No,” Castiel murmurs. He turns and Dean sucks in a breath at the look Castiel gives him. Bright and fucking alive, and Dean hasn’t seen that in days now. “No, it’s not. The real me still has an hour and a half till he’s allowed to wake you.” Dean frowns, because he’s completely lost when Castiel gets like this, figment of his imagination Castiel or not, but then Castiel spreads the arm that isn’t currently occupied with Dean’s own hand and looks down at himself. “But isn’t this enough?”

Dean looks. Same old suit, no jeans or heavy boots or shirts that have seen better days, and he smells amazing. Like fucking sunshine and rainwater or whatever the hell smells good because Dean has troubles with labelling things, and Castiel smirks in that way that screams still an angel and says, “You’re labelling me again.”

“I’ll try not to,” Dean says. Steps closer and breathes. There’s no heavy air of sex, drugs and minus the rock; more of the roll and plenty of Absinthe if you will, and Castiel stands there and lets him breathe, lets him close his eyes and lean forward until their foreheads touch and their lips meet chastely.

“Is it you?” Castiel asks this time, and Dean doesn’t have an answer. Castiel nods as the seconds of silence stretch on, and he presses a kiss against Dean’s cheek before turning away and letting Dean’s hand go. “He misses you.”

“Who?” Dean manages.

Castiel smiles thinly. “Me.”

Dean wakes up on a hardwood floor, feeling sore as hell and not at all rested, but he guesses that’s how it goes in 2014. He wipes the grime out of his eyes, and rolls over to find Cas who smells of sex and drugs and plenty more where that came from. Their eyes meet, and Dean has to look away almost instantly. He’s blank and fucking wrong, broken being a word that Chuck had whispered in his ear like a writer would, and Dean has more than a feeling that other Dean is part of the cause.

“You don’t like me,” Cas says with a smile that’s stretching. Dean ignores the question, choosing to sit up and roll his shoulders instead. “I know you don’t.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Cas leans forward, straight into Dean’s face and of all the things that have changed, Dean’s sort of glad to see something stayed the same. “I know things. Angel, remember?” He laughs hysterically then, eyes crinkling and teeth barely showing and Dean pulls back, rolls away and up till he’s on his feet and heading anywhere but down on the floor.

He feels sick. Physically sick like he’s seconds from bending over and heaving Chuck’s dream inducing dinner all over the disgusting ground, and doing that would probably be a blessing, but then Cas is silent and standing right there in front of him. He’s got a look on his face that’s almost normal, almost clear, and then it turns desperate and Dean’s just glad to see a bit of life still hanging around. “I know you can’t stand to look at me anymore, that you’ll fuck anything that isn’t me, and then you will, and I know you don’t like me.” Cas grins through it all, and Dean has to swallow harshly. He doesn’t want to be having this conversation on a good day, let alone two minutes after waking up on a goddamn floor, and he raises his hands in a calming gesture.

“Do you know that I’m not him?”

“You both end up the same.” Cas takes his hand from the air, clings to it like Dean imagines he would a needle, and Dean sees the bruises up and down his bare arm; pinpricks and fingerprints and Dean’s stomach rolls. “And so do I.”

“Cas-”

“I still like you. Both of you.” Cas smirks. “Chuck wrote love, but what the fuck does he know?”

Dean stares, and isn’t surprised when Cas kisses him. He’s sure as hell surprised that he kisses back, though, and that he’s the one that’s needy and desperate. Cas stands there when Dean pulls away, grinning to himself like he knows something that no one else does and it’s probably fact that he does, and Dean feels suffocated. He heads for the door, ignoring the quiet “see ya” thrown his way that feels rehashed and ends up face to face with himself. Dean slams the door behind him, glowering at Other Dean, who is leaning against the wall and smirking like a total asshole, and Dean knows exactly what he’s thinking; what he’s feeling and what he’s done, and he hates himself. “Having fun yet?” Other Dean asks, and Dean can’t even look anymore.

He growls “fuck you” in his own damn face before shoving past and heading out into the cold night air. He has half a mind to click his heels together three times, but that’s not all he wants to do, and in the end Dean just slams his hand against a wall and shouts “son of a bitch” because that’s all he can do, and Dean sits down in a pile of dirt and waits right there til there’s something else to be done.

spacemonkey_699 @ 2009-10-06T20:44:00

2009-10-06T10:15:47Z

I JUST PAID LOTS OF MONEY TO GO SEE MISHA AND JIM NEXT MAY. OMG. OMG, IS IT TIME YET?

Eta, two seconds later: Shit, I'm already freaking out about the prospect of having to fly. My cousins wedding? No wai. Going to America with my best friend? Uh uh. Seeing Misha and Jim? TAKE THAT, PLANE FEARS. LET ME QUAKE IN PETRIFIED FEAR ONLY FOR YOU TWO.

SPN FIC REC

2009-09-07T14:13:12Z

Everyone should read this, holy crap. It's just brilliant. Bonus? IT WAS WRITTEN ALL FOR ME, HOW DID I GET TO BE THIS BLESSED?

http://community.livejournal.com/deancastiel/974772.html#cutid1

spacemonkey_699 @ 2009-09-07T20:57:00

2009-09-07T11:29:05Z

There is nothing better than chillin out while listening to some Metallica when you've had a shit few days. They always make me feel better.

Oh, that and the fact that SPN IS BACK IN 4 DAYS, HOLY FUCKING SHIT.

There was only one picture I could think of to celebrate Misha's birthday:

2009-08-20T12:03:05Z

"

Look, he's celebrating! BAW CHICKA BAW WAW. And as a bonus, he gets to assrape Jared in my icon. All in all, a damn good birthday, me thinks.

...I NEED SPN LIKE YESTERDAY, HOLY SHITBALLS.

spacemonkey_699 @ 2009-08-05T22:03:00

2009-08-05T12:33:05Z

Drunk

Fuck you, writers block. FUCK. YOU.

2009-07-31T12:17:47Z

Ugh. There is so much I need/want to finish, but just CAN'T. WHY?

spacemonkey_699 @ 2009-07-30T19:19:00

2009-07-30T09:50:41Z

Is it weird that the first thing I thought after viewing Misha's latest tweet pics was "God I want some H/C fic to come out of this."

Fandom has turned me into this. I LOVE IT.

Dear America:

2009-07-26T12:22:40Z

Take good care of Deanne for the next three weeks. I want her back in one piece, ya hear me?

Love,

Carina

P.S. Your offering of slash is quite noble.

spacemonkey_699 @ 2009-07-21T18:56:00

2009-07-21T09:27:00Z

Lol, fandom.

Thought of the day:

2009-07-17T11:57:37Z

I'm pretty sure foot fisting isn't a thing. Well, it is an act, but. . . as there is no fist involved, it should not be labelled as such, because it is a dirty dirty lie.

I'm just sayin'

What every daughter wants to hear from their daddy:

2009-07-15T02:20:29Z

You'd be a pretty girl if you lost 10 kilos.

...bye dad. Nice to see you again.

Fic: Shells

2009-07-14T06:59:31Z

Title: Shells
Author: Spacemonkey
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: R
Word Count: 748
Warnings: Future fic, major character death.
Pairing: Dean/Sam, Dean/Castiel
Summary: Castiel never drank, never commented on how much Bobby did drink, and they’d both start all their sentences with Dean.

Notes:
This was written for the fortune cookie challenge over at deancastiel I had to write about: The first man gets the oyster, the second man gets the shell. And it came out quite angsty, so I had to post here...

Disclaimer: Disclaimer: Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

Any mention of Supernatural, any associated entites, or any copywrited material pertaining therein is reasonably protected by the Fair Use Rule of the United States Copyright Act of 1976, and is not intended to infringe upon any copywrited material.

The sun was starting to rise, turning the sky orange from what Bobby could see through the dark clouds, when Dean came home. Stinkin' of cigarette smoke and perfume and a touch of vomit. Whether it was his vomit or not, now that was a different story. Bobby hoped it was.

He stumbled in, lipstick on his collar like he’d marched straight out of some teen sex romp movie, his face pale and a little bit green. Bobby held the door open.

“Didn’t have to wait up,” Dean said.

“I wasn’t.”

Dean thought about that for a moment, tossed his jacket on the couch, then kicked his shoes off and shrugged. “Goin up,” he muttered.

Bobby watched him climb the stairs, unsteady but familiar, and he waited a fair amount of time before throwing Dean’s boots outside to clean up later – mud and vomit, not the best combination, and there was gonna be some yellin if either had gotten in Dean’s car – and neatly laying the jacket across one of his dining room chairs. He sat down, grabbed his half empty beer, and didn’t jump when he heard the rustle of wings behind him.

“Don’t exactly think now is the best time,” Bobby said after a long stretch of silence. Castiel appeared to his right, and Bobby took another long gulp. “Don’t exactly think now is the best lifetime for Dean.”

“It will get better,” Castiel said, and Bobby kicked out a chair for him to sit down in. Castiel sat after a moment’s consideration, shaking his head when Bobby offered him a beer, and they sat together until Bobby decided it was time for his own chance at shut eye.

*****

Dean didn’t talk much these days, which would have usually suited Bobby fine, but he found after a few days of it that he was starting to miss the headache Dean caused while talking about a random movie from the 80’s that no one had even heard of while Sam was on about the latest arty farty flick or blockbuster, or some demon they needed to waste and waste quickly, or any number of things that went from being enjoyable to downright irritating after that much repetition. The singing was the worst, and Bobby had even come to miss that, which he took to mean he was losing his goddamn mind.

When Dean did talk, it was when he was drunk and willing to share. When he was sober, it was to Castiel, and Bobby was sure they didn’t do much talkin.

Dean never talked about Sam.

Castiel did, some nights when Dean was asleep or awake and missing, and Bobby found himself nursing a bottle of Jack’s and wondering what the hell he was gonna do. Castiel never drank, never commented on how much Bobby did drink, and they’d both start all their sentences with Dean.

“Dean misses his brother,” Castiel would say, and Bobby would nod.

“Dean blames himself,” Bobby would say later, and Castiel would flutter off to wherever he was when he wasn’t there. He’d be back some night later, and they’d go over everything again, same old shit.

“It’s my fault Sam’s dead,” Castiel said one night, and Bobby didn’t quite know what to make of it.

****

He didn’t push, and Castiel didn’t give, and they ended up straight back into their old routine.

“Dean loved his brother,” Bobby said one night while Dean was on the couch, shoes still on and thankfully clean. He didn’t know why he said it, why he was saying it after all the time that had passed, but he knew it had to be said.

“I know this,” Castiel said sharply.

“Well, sorry to ruffle some feathers.” Bobby shrugged and left his bottle in the sink. He turned, eying Castiel thoughtfully. “You poor son of a bitch.”

Bobby leaned back against the sink like he’d seen Dean do so many times, like Castiel had done once or twice, and like Sam never had. “You know you’re not gonna be able to fix him, right? Get him like he used to be?”

Castiel stayed silent, sitting at the table with his head bowed, and Bobby nodded , pushed himself away from the sink and headed for the stairs. He didn’t miss Castiel’s quiet, “I know,” and almost thought to pause, but figured they could finish their conversation another night. He was damn tired.

HALP

2009-07-13T13:44:10Z

Does anyone know where I could find some Ice Age slash? Specifically, Diego/Sid?

...

DON'T LOOK DOWN ON ME, I HAVE AN ILLNESS. YOU WERE ALL THINKING THE SAME THING WATCHING THE MOVIES, ADMIT IT.

*sobs in corner*

spacemonkey_699 @ 2009-07-10T13:49:00

2009-07-10T04:20:20Z

I haven't been on compy for two day...scared to check my flist. IT MIGHT TAKE ME HOURS.

Stupid birthday.

spacemonkey_699 @ 2009-07-06T21:14:00

2009-07-06T11:45:46Z

Happy birthday to logos_00 for today, the 6th. And me for tomorrow. Coz I am that awes, motherfucker!

Also, I had a dream last night where Heath Ledger was haunting me. Scared the crap out of me. Looking back, it was silly. Damnit Heath.

spacemonkey_699 @ 2009-07-04T18:56:00

2009-07-04T09:27:44Z

Things I needed:

New Laptop
Jeans

Things I got today:
New Laptop
Jeans

Win.

spacemonkey_699 @ 2009-07-03T15:23:00

2009-07-03T05:55:07Z





Being Australian is about driving in a German car to an Irish pub for A Belgian beer, then on the way home, grabbing an Indian curry or A Turkish kebab, to sit on Swedish furniture and watch American shows on a Japanese TV. 


Oh, and only in Australia can a pizza get to your house faster than an ambulance. 


Only in Australia do supermarkets make sick people walk all the way to the back of the shop 



to get their prescriptions while healthy people can buy cigarettes at the front. 


Only in Australia do people order double cheeseburgers, large fries and a DIET coke. 


Only in Australia do banks leave both doors wide open and chain the pens to the counters. 


Only in Australia do we leave cars worth thousands of dollars in the driveway and lock our junk and cheap lawn mower in the garage. 


Not to mention: 



3 Aussies die each year testing if a 9v battery works on their tongue.
58 Aussies are injured each year by using sharp knives instead of screwdrivers.
31 Aussies have died since 1996 by watering their Christmas tree while the fairy lights were plugged in.
8 Aussies had serious burns in 2000 trying on a new jumper with a lit cigarette in their mouth.
A massive 543 Aussies were admitted to Emergency in the last two years after opening bottles of beer with their teeth.
And finally, in 2000 eight Aussies cracked their skull whilst throwing up into the toilet.


If you're proud to be an Aussie post this in your journal :)

spacemonkey_699 @ 2009-06-29T17:28:00

2009-06-29T08:00:18Z

My laptop is in heaven. Time to break out Sarah McLachlan and drink heavily. Live long and prosper, Lappy. In heaven I mean.

Live long and...prosper.

spacemonkey_699 @ 2009-06-25T17:48:00

2009-06-25T08:19:16Z

I totally got awarded Crew Member of the Year for our Maccas store today. TAKE THAT, EVERYONE ELSE, IM GETTING A MOTHERFUCKING TROPHY.

Proof that I'm a fangirl..

2009-06-24T13:33:23Z

Rewatching Are You There God? It's Me, Dean Winchester, I noticed one thing that made me squee like crazy.

At the beginning, when El Deano, Sammy and Bobby are talking about Angels, Dean leans against the sink with his back to it, hands clenching the bench for just a moment. I took notice of this the first time, said "hey, wait a minute!" and skipped forward 35 minutes to confirm that, yes, that was EXACTLY the same way Castiel was standing when Dean first notices it.

In my mind, this makes them totally gay. And worthy of all my squees.

I need to get out more. BUT THAT HAD TO BE DONE ON PURPOSE, RIGHT? I'M NOT CRAZY.

spacemonkey_699 @ 2009-06-18T20:27:00

2009-06-18T10:58:18Z

I need a bumper sticker that says:

1 800 HOW-AM-I-PEEING

The amount of times I've been asked that over the last couple of days....

spacemonkey_699 @ 2009-06-12T15:56:00

2009-06-12T06:27:02Z

MISHA IS TO BE EXECUTED IN LESS THEN AN HOUR! THIS IS DIRE.

OR YOU KNOW, FALSE ALARM, HE LIVES FOR ANOTHER DAY. LIFE IS GOOD. I DID HAVE MY RIP MISHA ICON ALMOST PREPARED THOUGH, SO I AM SAD THAT I WON'T BE ABLE TO USE IT.

I hope the damage to his frontal lobe brings some lols. I mean, wiki tells me:

Damage to the frontal lobes can lead to a variety of results:

* Mental flexibility and spontaneity are impaired, but IQ is not reduced.
* Talking may increase or decrease dramatically.
* Perceptions regarding risk taking and rule abiding are impaired.
* Socialization can diminish or increase.
* Orbital frontal lobe damage can result in peculiar sexual habits.
* Dorsolateral frontal lobe damage reduces sexual interest.
* Creativity is diminished as well as problem solving skills.
* Distraction occurs more frequently.
* Loss of smell and/or taste.

HERE'S HOPING FOR THE PECULIAR SEXUAL HABITS AND INCREASE IN TALKING.

Fic: Keep On Tryin' To Turn That Trick

2009-06-11T12:19:57Z

Title: Keep On Tryin' To Turn That Trick
Author: Spacemonkey
Fandom: Supernatural/Metallica
Rating: R
Word Count: 1284
Warnings: Underage/Prostitute Dean, Wee!Chesters
Pairing: Dean Winchester/James Hetfield
Summary: Dean had been twelve the first time he’d visited Los Angeles

Notes:
I had to write it. I've been trying to do it for a year and a half, because come on, Dean would so put out for James Hetfield. And finally, I got there. Hmm. Title is taken from the song 53rd & 3rd, because duh.

Disclaimer: Disclaimer: Any similarity between the fictional version of the person portrayed here and the actual person is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

Any mention of Supernatural, any associated entites, or any copywrited material pertaining therein is reasonably protected by the Fair Use Rule of the United States Copyright Act of 1976, and is not intended to infringe upon any copywrited material.

Dean had been twelve the first time he’d visited Los Angeles, and his dad had insisted they were there for a purpose. In and out, get rid of the spirit, maybe get a cash bonus, and split to wherever the road took em, had been his words. Close enough, anyway.

Sam had wanted to see the sights. Dean had too, but he would never say so, but Sam had been eight and hadn’t realized that in and out meant exactly that.

They stayed an extra day, and Dean tried not to look interested while he walked over famous names, or when Dad pointed out a guy he recognized from a show that had aired in the 70’s, but turned out to be a valet. “Maybe it is the same guy?” he’d suggested, and Dad had shook his head.

“Can’t be.”

“Have you seen him in anything recently?”

Dad had just grabbed Sammy’s hand and crossed the street, and Dean had followed reluctantly, wanting to get another look at the possibly once famous valet. They’d caught a movie, seen a guy dressed as a girl, and ducked their heads into shops that asked hundreds for a freakin shirt.

“No one has that sort of money,” Sam had announced, and Dean and Dad had agreed.

They’d walked a long way back to the car after finding a cheap dinner, and it was dark by then. Dad hustled Sam quick, hand on his shoulder, and Dean had seen Pretty Woman enough times (twice, and only because Caleb had a thing for Julia Roberts) to know that the group of ladies they were walking past, were hookers.

“Let’s go, dude,” Dad had said, smirking when Dean had fallen behind.

“But-” Dean had started, and Sam had stopped and looked behind them.

“They’re gonna get cold,” he decided.

“Are you legal?” Dad had asked, ignoring Sammy completely, and Dean thought about this, then turned to Sam.

“I’m pretty sure they’ll warm up when they have their legs wrapped around-”

“Dean.” The warning came swift, but Dean had just smirked and walked on, listening to Sam ask what he meant. They’d left L.A. two hours later, and split to wherever the road took em.

Dean was fifteen the next time he visited Los Angeles. They were in town for a case, and it was gonna be a long one, Dad said. It was all he’d told Dean, and it was school holidays, so Dad didn’t really care about the length of time. “I don’t have to put you through school here, at least.”

It had only been three days into the case when Dean had learned that Dad was leaving. “Further out then L.A. You and Sammy can’t come.”

The usual. Dad had said he’d be back in a week, at the latest, for a stop before getting back into it. That had been three weeks ago, and Dean dialled Caleb’s number for the third time that day, getting nothing. He slammed the phone back onto the hook, and tried not to cry.

“This is stupid,” Sam said, glaring at the phone booth.

“Shut up, I’m thinking.”

“I’m just saying, it’s stupid.”

And I’m just saying shut up!”

They walked in silence back to the hotel, and Dean watched Sam eat his cereal for dinner, because it was all they had left. He gave it some more thought, and then he watched Sam wash his bowl out and waited for his brother to fall asleep before he walked out of the room.

It wasn’t a long walk, coupla miles before he found something useful. Dad hadn’t exactly picked the nice part of town, after all. Hotel was cheap, not cheap enough though, and Dean knew they only had a couple of nights left before they were both out on the streets.

The guys name was Mike. “You legal?” he asked, as way of introduction.

“I wouldn’t be here otherwise,” Dean said. Mike sized him up, then shook his head and laughed.

“Whatever. Doubt anyone is gonna care either way, with that face of yours.”

Dean had been nervous. He had a gun, he knew how to handle himself, protect himself, but this was different. It hurt, the first time. And the second. And he’d had to use his gun the third time, two nights later, when his friend had been too friendly.

It had only been a knee cap, after all.

“It’s good money, though, ain’t it?” Mike said a day later, and Dean had to agree. He pushed down that feeling in his stomach, the one that wondered if Sammy was okay, if his dad was dead, if Caleb was dead and that’s why he wasn’t answering his phone, if maybe he’d get dead tonight, and leaned into the nearest car window, smiling because it’s good money, after all.

“You legal?” the man asked, and Dean froze. Dad was not going to believe it. Because he’d never hear about it, to be fair. But still, they’d listened to The Black Album enough times that it was wearing out (and had taken up current residence in Dean’s Walkman, since Dad had insisted he was sick of it), and Dean had a shirt or two stuffed into his duffel back at the hotel, second-hand because they were expensive as all hell. That was as close as he thought he’d get, but there he was, face to face with a guy named James, and Dean nearly pissed himself. “I’m talkin’ to you, kid.”

Dean cleared his throat. It would be damn good money. He could take Sammy out somewhere nice. Get him food that didn’t taste like an ashtray. Maybe even get enough money to get across the country to somewhere that felt like home. “Would it stop you if I wasn’t?”

“It depends,” James answered, eyes scanning the scene in front of him, and Dean raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah? On what?”

There was a long stretch of silence, and Dean straightened up, sure that James was gonna take off suddenly, dragging Dean with him, and yeah that would probably hurt a lot. But the car stayed there, and James looked at him. “Are you or aren’t you?” he said gruffly, and Dean could smell the alcohol. It was like talking to his dad after a case gone wrong, and Jesus, did Dean not want to get into those sorts of issues. He smiled.

“I wouldn’t be here otherwise,” he said coolly, and then he was in the car with the windows down and the radio up high, and Dean couldn’t believe how normal the vehicle was. “You don’t do convertibles?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

He wanted to ask more, but there was too many words trying to get out, and he was sure they would all come out at once, in a crazy jumble. Plus, the music was really loud, and it was a station that his dad liked to listen to. Really, weird. So Dean leaned back, turned his head to James, and smiled.

“You’re kind of pretty,” James said finally, almost apologetically, and Dean had so not been expecting that. “Don’t usually, but-”

“You shouldn’t drink and drive,” Dean cut in, and the glare he got kept him silent for the next ten minutes, and loud once they reached their destination.

Two hours later, he walked out of the hotel room with a bundle of bills and the continuing stream of holy shit running through his head. But it was enough, and the next morning he sat down next to Sam on the Greyhound and muttered something unintelligible when Sam asked to borrow his Walkman.

Sam frowned. “You’re being weird.”

“Just,” Dean sighed, and shifted in his seat. “Shut up, Sam.”

Dreamsicles

2009-06-11T11:11:53Z

I had a dream last night where my brothers and I went to the Queen's for her birthday, and then she sent an army of Joker's (Heath Joker's, all looking exactly the same) after us for not bringing her a present. And the bitch stole my laptop.

This tells me three things:

I spend too much time on the internet
I spend too much time reading Misha's twitter
My brain wishes me to not spend as much time on the internet, as it hinted through hintiness by stealing my laptop

Alternatively, I tell my brain:

I will continue to spend time on the internet, thusly
Heath will forever be the man
Unless Misha ends up killing himself off tomorrow (which is possible...) there is no way I'm going to stop reading his twitter

Oh, and also:

The Queen is Evil.

The end