“Could you, uh… could you find someone?”
Dean barely sounds like himself. His voice is a low rasp over the phone. He didn’t introduce himself in any way, didn’t say hello, didn’t call her “your highness.” But Charlie knows it’s him all the same. She can picture him standing in the bunker, holding the phone to his ear, rubbing his other hand across his forehead.
She hadn’t been waiting for the call, but it’s not exactly a surprise to hear from Dean. She saw that “meteor shower,” the one NOAA hadn’t predicted, same as anybody else. She’d looked into it but hadn’t found much—a spike in the birth rate, but that seemed more coincidental than anything else. Then again, when is anything ever a coincidence?
She senses that now is not the time to joke with Dean, so all she says is, “Yeah, probably.”
“He might be—he might be going by Jimmy Novak. Or Emmanuel. He—,”
“Cas? You want me to find Cas?”
Dean is quiet for a moment. Maybe he forgot that she read all Carver Edlund’s books, even the unpublished ones. Charlie hears him swallow before he speaks again. “Yeah.”
“No. Not really.”
Clearly no more explanation is forthcoming. Back to business. “You got any pictures of him?”
Dean doesn’t say anything, but a moment later her phone buzzes. It’s a scan of a small photo, a face shot, probably left over from one of the Winchesters’ many fraudulent collage projects. The man in it is dark-haired, blue-eyed, tired. He doesn’t look like an angel. One of the photo’s corners is very slightly creased, as if it had been folded and then flattened out again, restored. Charlie wonders if Dean had kept this photo aside, tucked into his wallet, a secret icon.
“Good,” she says. “This will help.”
Dean is quiet again.
“Do you… need something else?” Like someone to talk to?
“Just find him,” he says, and hangs up.
Sam is a little bit worried about Dean and Castiel.
When Dean had sat him down a few weeks back and said, “just so you know, me and Cas are a thing, so he’ll be staying in my room from now on”, Sam had been borderline overjoyed. Not only was he going to get the chance to make fun of his brother’s profound bond with his personal guardian angel (something he’d been wanting to do for years) but this meant that all the snarky, sexually frustrated bickering was going to stop and Dean and Castiel were going to start acting like normal human beings in love (well… a normal human being and a normal multi-dimensional wave of celestial intent) like they were supposed to.
But it’s been several weeks now, and the bickering hasn’t stopped. It hasn’t even gotten better.
It’s gotten worse.
The Five Stages Of Grief
When Castiel dies for the first time, Sam watches Dean grit his teeth and mutter “dumb son of a bitch.” He watches his brother take out his anger in tense, vicious barbs against Zachariah, and then growl out “learned that from my friend Cas” like he’s dedicating Zachariah’s pain to the downed angel.
It’s the first time Cas dies, and the first time Sam wonders just when Dean started to care so much about that angel.
The Important Thing Now Is That We're Naked And We're Friends
Word Count: 4,700
Notes: Post-4x14; Kurt and Blaine become long-distance FWB.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit impractical to have a friend with benefits that you have to fly in from Ohio?”
“It’s not a problem; Blaine has frequent flyer miles.”
Anonymous prompted: Blaine goes over to Kurt’s house and Kurt is still sleeping. and Kurt sleeps naked. (A/N: I meant to just write a smutty drabble but then I had feelings. So many feelings.)
At 7:07 he texts Kurt to let him know his connecting flight is delayed. At 7:08 he orders a triple shot soy latte and considers a somewhat rubbery looking egg sandwich in the display case. At 7:09 there’s an announcement for a flight going to Newark instead of LaGuardia. Blaine decides he isn’t all that hungry anyway, and rushes to the counter to make the flight.
He takes a cab in, doesn’t feel up to sorting out public transportation from New Jersey to Bushwick this early in the morning. He doesn’t text Kurt again either. His track record with surprises is spotty, but Blaine just figures that means there’s plenty of room for improvement.
Santana opens the door, gives a brief, unimpressed once-over then steps aside. “He’s in his…area,” she says with a flick of her hand, and goes back to her breakfast.
“Oh, is he busy?”
“Probably,” she says around a mouthful of cereal. “You know, flitting through wild flowers, perching on toadstools, spreading fairy dust everywhere. The usual.”
Best Laid Planners
Word Count: 2,475
Summary: Wedding planning can be frustrating. And I mean like… dirty-frustrating. Written for daxterdd for the klaine wedding minibang
Ficlet: In Limine
Amidst the giddy chaos after Mr. Schue and Miss Pillsbury’s wedding ceremony, Kurt felt someone take his hand. He thought it was Blaine at first, but immediately realized that it felt wrong—the fingers too slender and delicate, the palm cooler than the heat Blaine always radiated.
He turned and saw Brittany. She smiled and placed a finger to her lips, then pulled him gently toward the door. He walked with her out to the hallway, staying silent, wondering what she could possibly want.
Burning Like A Silver Flame
His first time at a gay bar is significantly more depressing than he expected. And really his expectations were not very high in the first place. It’s drab and sticky and the jukebox hasn’t been updated since 1986. It’s also mostly populated by bored looking regulars, all much older than him, not that he couldn’t be into that. Just. Maybe if they didn’t all remind him of his Uncle Fred. Or at least weren’t dead-eyed and flannel clad.
Blaine scans the few groups of men dancing, realizes Sebastian has already ditched him for some random. Just as well, really, but still annoying since he was the one who talked Blaine into this whole thing in the first place.
“Rum and Coke,” Blaine says to the bartender’s back. May as well get a little buzzed while he waits. He fumbles in his wallet for the fake ID Sebastian had gotten him, hops onto a bar stool with a grimace. Seriously, why is everything so sticky?
The bartender plucks the license from his hand and makes a skeptical noise, but sets a glass down in front of him a moment later. Blaine is so busy being horrified by what is stuck to the bottom of his loafer that he takes a swig without looking up.
“I think you forgot the-” Blaine says, pushing the glass of Coke -sans rum- back across the bar. But the rest of the sentence dies in his throat. Now this he can work with.
Dean wakes up when the sun is just bright enough to cast a glow of light between the panes of their open-curtained windows.
His eyes take in the body lying soft and warm beside him; a tuft of dark hair, the curves of muscles and skin and bones, graceful hands made to hold Dean’s face between them—no longer the hilt of a glinting sword. Cas shifts, and with him come the covers as he rolls toward Dean sighing out a breath of content. When his eyelashes flutter open to greet the day, Dean is right there, taking in the flood of blue like he’s thirsty for it.
“Good morning, Dean.”
Cas presses a kiss to his hair. Dean makes a sound like defeat and comfort rolled into one, and tries a little futilely to pull his arm out from under Cas’s hip.
“Come on, I’ll make us coffee,” he offers, but like every other morning, Cas couldn’t give a care. He presses another kiss to Dean’s temple before heaving himself bodily on top of Dean, trapping all of Dean’s limbs beneath his arms, his legs, and his chest. He reaches out behind him to grab the covers and drag them over the both of their bodies until the only thing Dean can see is the yellow glow of sunlight filtering through cotton, and Cas’s face tucked tightly beneath his chin.
“It’s nice to sleep,” Cas says to his neck, drawing his arms down until Dean can feel clever fingers trailing his ribcage.
“That’s what lazy people say.”
Cas pulls up, only to drop another kiss against his mouth. He gives Dean a thoughtful, considering look, then continues kissing any patch of skin his lips can find.
“One,” he says on Dean’s nose.
“Two,” he says on Dean’s jaw.
“Three,” he says on Dean’s left eyelid.
“Four,” he says on Dean’s shoulder.
“Five,” he says on the apple of Dean’s cheek.
Dean sucks in a breath and lets that familiar feeling of Cas unfurl in his chest.
“Are you really gonna try for a hundred today?” he asks. Cas’s lips linger on the shell of his ear.
“Yes,” Cas answers mildly, like they have all the time in the world for him to lay Dean out and press kisses to his flesh—each a prayer, a salve to the wounds thirty plus years of hunting can leave on a man’s body.
And the thing is, Dean laughs, they do. They have all the time now.
Cas starts shifting down, counting out, “Fifteen,” as he brushes his lips to Dean’s chest, where a heart beats healthy and strong, safe at last. Cas smiles.
they kiss everywhere.
there are late sunday afternoon kisses in the kitchen, pressed close beside the stove while the coffee bubbles in the pot and scrambled eggs sizzle in the pan. these are languid, easy, soft — these are a bit of stubble burn and a smidgen of sleepiness
Maybe the flower child is just in Castiel; maybe he just grew up a little sideways, a little ‘different’, and that’s why he does stuff like this; Dean doesn’t know.
He found Castiel outside the headquarters in jeans and one of his old shirts, hair a mess. Standing where he was, Dean could only see his back. He was sitting down, and perched on his shoulders, like knots in a line of thread, were six tiny birds.
fic: If I Needed Someone (Glee, Kurt/Blaine)
Title: If I Needed Someone
Word count: ~17,500
Summary: BDSM AU. Kurt may be as queer as a two dollar bill, but in New York he doesn’t have to pretend to act like a proper sub on top of all of that. He can hold his head up high and make his own way through the big city without some dom holding his leash. He can be anything he wants.
Notes: Based on this kink meme prompt, though I do take a few liberties with it. I’ve also borrowed bits and pieces of worldbuilding from helenish’s Take Clothes Off As Directed and etothepii’s things you don’t tell me. So much love to zulu for the beta.
It’s not a date.
It is definitely not a date.
That’s why Mike and Mercedes are here too, saving them seats at a table for four in the middle of the cafe, not in the marginal privacy of the corner booths where they used to playfully nudge each other’s feet and smile at one another over the lids of their cups while they pretended their love was safe and untouchable from the harsh realities of the world around them.
It’s not a date.
But that doesn’t stop Blaine’s heart from hammering too hard behind his ribcage while he stands next to Kurt in line near the counter. They’ve both grown and changed since their frequent visits here before Kurt left for New York, before Blaine made a mistake, and before their untouchable love was shaken. Standing here, though, feels like they’ve taken a step back in time. If only for a moment, Blaine feels a flicker of young, hopeful love, and he reaches into his pocket to grab his wallet just to keep himself from grabbing Kurt’s hand instead and lacing their fingers together like he used to.
It’s not a date.
But Blaine’s still paying, since he was the one who offered up the idea of a Lima Bean visit in the first place. The young cashier with her hair perched in a bun on the top of her head calls out a friendly, “Next!” and Blaine takes a few steps forward, not even bothering to glance at the menu before he speaks.
“A medium drip and one grande non-fat mocha, please.”
He hands over the exact amount of cash without waiting for the total, and the cashier chirps out a polite word of thanks.
“You know my coffee order,” Kurt quietly says beside him. Blaine glances to his left to see Kurt smiling thoughtfully, his own lips pursed in a half-smirk while he valiantly tries to keep it from turning into a full-on beaming expression. They’re not together, and it’s not a date. Staring at Kurt like he’s the sun, moon, and stars might not be the best idea—but Kurt doesn’t seem to mind today.
“Of course I do.”
sometimes i write weird little one-shots and they sit in my documents for millenniums and then i blow the dust off of them and make you all read the results. now is one of those times.
Cas threw down the pool raft and threw up his hands.
“Ok!” he yelled. “Ok, I get it! I get that we’re thirty two and people have expectations, so let’s do it, Dean!” his face was getting pink. “Fine, let’s get married! But in all honesty I don’t think that’s our problem!”
You Are Not Kissing Patria
My half of a trade with perplexingly. We both wanted Grantaire teaching a stern, determined Enjolras to kiss. This ficlet kind of ran off in a slightly wonky direction, but I tried my best!
Grantaire pulled away slowly, thrilling when Enjolras’ lips followed his for a moment, chasing the kiss. They were in Enjolras’ rooms, sitting on the floor and surrounded by maps and plans of the upcoming rally, something, Grantaire could admit, he was not overly enthused by. Thus, he had decided to educate Enjolras in the art of kissing, which he soon discovered to be easier thought than done.
On his first day of ballet, Kurt noticed that many of his classmates had these pretty skirts that puffed up around their hips. He asked one, a loud, brown-haired girl who kept practicing even when the rest of them were having a water break, what they were.
“It’s a tutu,” she said proudly, fluffing her bright red one, “and I’m Rachel.”
On his second day of ballet, his daddy dropped him off, pushing and pulling at his cap as he eyed the pale pink tutu sitting on top of Kurt’s hips. Kurt knew Mommy had to convince Daddy that Kurt could have one. But Daddy eventually smiled and chucked him under the chin, and Kurt beamed up at him before running inside the room to join the rest.
It wasn’t a fun day. Girls giggled at him, and the boys pushed him around when teacher stepped out to get a CD. They tugged on his tutus and one even made him fall on his knees. Kurt wiped away his tears quickly and tried to ignore his sore knees for the rest of the class.
On Kurt’s third day of ballet, he showed up, proudly wearing his tutu and glared at anyone who looked at him. The other kids still laughed at him and butted ahead of him in line for water. Rachel gave him a sip out of her special water bottle with gold star stickers, but she was too busy practicing to pay him any more attention.
On Kurt’s fourth day of ballet, a new boy joined their class, just about the prettiest boy Kurt had ever seen. He had shiny dark hair neatly combed into place, and sparkling gold eyes. All the girls liked him, and all the boys liked him, too.
When the teacher asked them to pick a partner for a game, the new boy smiled at Kurt and held out his hand, even though many of the others were calling his name - “Blaine! Blaine!”. Kurt was so surprised that he took Blaine’s hand. He was used to having the teacher for his partner, but not today. A shy smile crept on his face and he smoothed down his tutu.
“Why are you wearing that pink thing?” Blaine asked as they played the mirror game.
Kurt frowned and looked down, his cheeks growing hot. ”I like it.”
“I thought only girls were supposed to,” Blaine said, sounding confused.
Kurt curled up in the backseat on the way home and stayed quiet, not humming along with the radio, even when Daddy put in one of the CDs he liked. For the first time, he thought maybe he shouldn’t wear the tutu next week.
On Kurt’s fifth day of ballet, he didn’t put on his tutu.
“Where’s your…skirt thing?” Daddy asked gruffly before they left the house.
“Here,” Mommy said, handing it to him, “take it along in case he wants to wear it. Some of the kids have been teasing him.”
Kurt’s head hung low on the way to the dance school. He knew Daddy didn’t like the tutu either.
Daddy stopped the car and turned around to look at him. ”Hey, kiddo,” he said, clearing his throat, “you like wearing the tutu, right?”
“So, you wear it then. And if any of those kids give you a hard time, you tell me, and I’ll deal with it.” Kurt nodded again, a smile twitching on his lips. ”We still on for tea after supper tonight?”
“Tea and crumpets,” Kurt told him, his smile growing bigger.
When he went inside, tutu in place on his hips, he almost laughed at the sight in front of him.
Blaine had something white and red dangling from his hips, like a hula skirt. He wiggled his body, letting it twist from side to side.
“What is that?” Kurt asked.
“My tutu!” Blaine said proudly, turning to grin at some of the giggling girls. ”My daddy wouldn’t get me one like yours because he doesn’t like ballet, so today at school my teacher helped me make one and I snuck it in my dance bag. I saw some of the other kids being mean to you because of yours, so I thought we could show them it was okay together! Because I think yours looks really nice.”
“It’s pretty,” Kurt said, and he couldn’t stop from delicately touching one of the strips of material from Blaine’s tutu, “okay, let’s do it!”
Blaine smiled wider and took his hand, pulling him to go sit with some of the others. He later whispered to Kurt that he hoped their teacher would let him wear a bow tie to class one day, and Kurt nodded eagerly, thinking of which of his bow ties would best match his tutu.
He hoped Blaine would tell him he looked nice again.