Cas isn’t allowed to drive the Impala because he crashed it.

Like, actually crashed it.

Sam once nicked the paint job when he opened the door and it hit the wall. Dean didn’t speak to him for three days- and that was after cussing him out in the parking lot of a gas'n'gulp so that everyone in a three-mile-radius could hear.

Cas crashed the car.

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They break on a mission, and Clint is a little– not a lot, just a tiny bit, like, so small it’s really immeasurable –panicky. Because he knows that this is the only way they can communicate with one another, and if he can’t hear the COMLINK when it’s wedged in his ear canal, he’s not going to be all that helpful.

Sometimes he thinks he can hear something, very faintly. But if it’s a real voice or just his imagination, he’s got no clue. So he does the only thing he can do in a situation like this. He improvises.

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Living with Cecil was moderately unnerving at first, for Carlos. He was mad for the lanky broadcaster, sure, and nothing could put him off now. He was too deep in- but one morning he was sitting, drinking coffee at the kitchen table, Cecil was pouring his own cup of coffee at the counter, in the middle of talking about how much he loved the video of a mother cat soothing its baby that was having nightmares. Carlos was half-listening, skimming through the newspaper, trying to figure out whether the articles were fact or fiction- when suddenly Cecil’s voice lost its light casual air, and became his heavy, sultry, throaty growl.

‘You will go and you will fall and you will break in two, and they will pick up the pieces and they will find you, they will take you, you have nothing you can use to hold them off, because they cannot be stopped.’ He dropped his mug of coffee and his hands gripped the countertop, his knuckles turning white. His legs suddenly buckled underneath him, and his head bowed. Carlos stood up and rushed to his side, wrapping his hand around Cecil’s arm, and turning Cecil’s slight face towards him.

'Cecil? Are you alright? Cecil?’

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I have this headcanon where

Sherlock and Lestrade met when Lestrade picked Sherlock up in a back alley trying to buy ecstasy, and Lestrade thought Sherlock was just another drug addict, but then Sherlock (who was baked at the time) started talking about how Lestrade’s wife was having an affair and starts deducing the shit out of Lestrade’s personal life, and then he starts talking about how they nabbed the wrong person for a murder a few days before, and then he throws up in the back seat and passes out

so Lestrade goes and checks after the murderer and realizes that Sherlock is absolutely right- so he goes and gives Sherlock a deal, that he can either get busted for narcotics or he can clean up his act and help the Yard out on some of their cases

and slowly but surely Sherlock starts to clean himself up and occasionally stops by Sherlock’s flat all on his own to check up on him and make sure he’s on the straight and narrow and Sherlock starts solving more cases and starts being a little more reputable, and Lestrade has never shared with anyone that Sherlock was once an addict until Donovan found his file and told everyone about it and that is one of the main reasons they hate him- because they think he’s still a drug addict

Tony doesn’t really like to talk about his nightmares. When he gets them, they’re violent and angry. He wakes up drenched in sweat and gasping for breath, clinging the sheets to his chest. After a moment or two, he’d roll back over and close his eyes. He would pretend to sleep- but he’d never again pass under into unconsciousness that night.

The other Avengers noticed. It was hard not to. Stark would get cranky, dark circles would appear under his eyes, he’d drink more coffee than was humanly healthy, and on his midnight treks to the bathroom, Clint would often pass Tony’s workroom, and see a light on underneath the door- signalling that Tony was up and thinking- at four in the AM.

Bruce was concerned. He started off subtly, by suggesting “maybe you should try sleeping pills” or “camomile tea before bed”. These ideas were shot down instantly with a grunt from Tony. Bruce brainstormed and came up with “showering before bed” and “washing your sheets more often- granted Tony you should do that anyway, those things aren’t built for three solid weeks of use”. Tony told him to stop being a “mother-hen”.

“I’m fucking fine Banner- Jesus.” He said, pouring his twelfth espresso of the morning. His hands were shaking.

Finally, Bruce came up with an idea. Tony climbed into bed one night, and after a moment, his door opened a crack. Without saying a word, Bruce climbed into bed next to Tony, tossed an arm over Tony’s side, and shut his eyes. Tony was flummoxed for only a moment- then decided to shrug it off- and went to sleep.

He had a full twelve-hours, for the first time in months.

Bruce slept in Tony’s room from that night on.

Clint doesn’t really like Christmas, honestly.

He burnt the roast, because he was distracted by baking shortbread. The lights he brought for the tree in the Avengers tower don’t work. He doesn’t tell anyone that his landlord turned off the heating and water in his apartment. Pizza Dog is left alone for ten minutes and eats all of the baked goods off of the coffee table. The other tenants in Clint’s building exchange Christmas gifts, and give Clint slightly judgmental looks when he can’t return the gesture. His hearing aids seize up in the cold. 

Clint, straight-up, is really bad at doing Christmas shopping. He’s usually broke, and apart from that, he can’t ever find the right gifts for people. With a $20 self-instated cap on his presents, Christmas becomes a whole lot harder. He made the mistake of buying Kate a dress for Christmas, and waits through her tirade of “this is a maternity dress, thanks though, Barton”. He has bought Natasha hats for the last three Christmases, and she has never worn a single one of them, so he bought her gloves this year. “These are oven mitts, Clint”. Tony has everything he needs, and literally laughs when Clint hands him a gift-card to Banana Republic. Steve responds with, “Oh thanks,” when he opens the WW2 doc Clint got him. In hindsight, giving him a gift from something that he lived through was pretty dumb. Bruce doesn’t find the How To: Control Your Rage book as funny as Clint hoped he would. His last gift is for Thor. It’s one of those really furry lumberjack hats. Thor opens it, and stares for a couple seconds. Clint’s throat closes.

“I thought of you when I saw it.”

“I have no gift for you,” Thor signs, still staring at the hat.

Clint waves a noncommittal gesture that would translate closest to, “Aw naw, it’s cool”.

Thor looks up, and gives Clint the warmest smile he’s ever seen. He jams the hat on his head and envelops Clint in a choking hug.

“Good Christmas, dear friend.” He signs.

Clint decides this Christmas is one of the better ones.

Part two of my Avengers fic where Tony is recuperating from surgery and the rest of the Avengers have to look after him- which is easier said than done. Part one can be found here. I think this is gonna wind up being a three-part-er because it’s fun to write and I haven’t yet figured out how it’s gonna end so- yeah. part three

The tower was quiet. It was around three in the morning when Tony woke up and rolled over, and a low whimper broke through his lips. He felt like his chest was on fire. He reached over the side of the couch and his fingers brushed the small plastic barf-bucket. He leaned over and retched into it, his head swimming and his vision blurring.

There was suddenly a cool hand on his forehead and Tony felt his body relish in that touch, despite the fact that it was unwarranted.

‘You’re burning up,’ Steve’s voice said quietly.

Tony only managed to groan.

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so this is what happens when I should be doing English homework. I start writing Avengers fics where Tony is hurt and the rest of the Avengers have to look after him, which obviously Tony resists and you know that deep down I ship Stony despite my best intentions so yeah that might show up eventually when I write part two and part three

Steve could scarcely see over the bags of groceries in his arms as he stumbled into the penthouse and made his way into the kitchen. He called a “he-y” as he began unpacking, in case Bruce was in the living room reading, or Natasha and Clint were watching a movie, or Tony was jerking off on the sofa (which everyone had walked in on often enough). He whistled as he threw the groceries into the cupboards and into the fridge. He rubbed an apple on his shirt and grabbed a glass of water, heading out into the living room to see if he could figure out how to turn the television on.

Steve bit into his apple and went to move around the couch- then stopped dead before dropping the apple and his water glass- sending them crashing to the floor. He ran forward and fell to his knees beside the unmoving body of Tony Stark.

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Sherlock is caught between the needle and the rope.
He chuckles to himself because it’s not funny. But he chuckles because it sounds like a game of Cluedo.
Sherlock Holmes, in the bedroom, with the… What?
The needle? Or the rope?
He’s low. His supply is almost gone. Needle or rope needle or rope needle or rope needle or rope? He can feel himself starting to solidify. Needle or rope needle or rope needle or? He can feel himself starting to come back. And he doesn’t want to come back. Not now. Not when– there’s something about a chair. Something that’s upsetting him– Needle or rope needle or rope needle or rope –and it’s about a chair. John’s chair. Why is he upset over a chair?

Because it’s empty.
Oh right.

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for the anon who requested a fic of Fem!Dean, I hope this satisfies, it’s kinda poopy but I was rushing to finish it

Sam cries out a “holy jesus christ” exclamation when he rolls over in the morning, and sees, instead of his comatose big brother in the next bed, a girl with her face mashed into the pillow and her one knee hiked up to her stomach. She’s got a cropped, pixieish cut of chestnut brown hair that peels back to reveal her unrealistically beautiful face. Thin lips, stupidly long eyelashes, cheekbones that could cut diamonds. She’s obviously well built, smooth, defined calves peek out of the blankets, curving into small elegant feet, and muscular arms peek out of one of Dean’s Henley’s. She snores on blissfully unaware that Sam is staring at her, mildly revolted at the idea that Dean had sex while Sam was in the same fucking room.

The girl moves her head a little and then opens her eyes a tad. She smiles softly when her eyes pass over Sam and gives him a good shot of her perfect teeth.

‘Mornin’ Sammy.’ She says in a voice drugged with sleep. Her eyes contract a little and her brow furrows. 'What the-’ She pushes herself up, and suddenly cries, 'WHAT THE FUCK?’ while grabbing her breasts. Sam flushes scarlet and looks away. He can hear several “holy shit"s and "fucking hell"s, before,

'Sammy? Please tell me that it’s just those tacos we ate last night messin’ with my dreams. Tell me I ain’t…’ Sam slowly turns around, and through that feminine look of panic, despite the elegant seamless body, seated on the bed in an oddly masculine way, he can see it- those eyes that are greener than any green could ever hope to be. The colour that is every blade of grass’ envy.


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so you know how people tell little kids when there’s thunderstorms it’s just the angels bowling in heaven?

well now I can only think of Gabriel having a birthday party at a bowling alley, and Michael, Anna, and Uriel are all sitting there bored out of their trees, and Naomi is the aunt that showed up for like five minutes to give Gabe his birthday present and then leave, and Castiel is the only one actually enjoying himself, including Gabe, who is pissed off over the fact that no one knows where Balthasar is (he’s in the toilets making out with the assistant manager), and Chuck is attempting to get his bored teenangels into the game by throwing the bowling ball and shouting things like, “It’s fun kids!” and “C'mon, try it!” but Anna has already fallen asleep and Michael is texting Lucifer even though he’s not supposed to

It starts of simply enough. He’s not used to being cautious. He’s not used to feeling pain. He doesn’t understand the agony of skinning your knee, or slamming the car door on your hand, or stubbing your toe. He’s not used to moving carefully.

But then Dean realizes one day, that Cas isn’t just not used to being careful. It’s worse. He’s a klutz.

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final part to my Avengers fic where Tony was injured and wound up getting looked after. It ended kind of lamely- but there are a couple lines in here that I’m quite proud of, to be honest. part one and part two

Steve didn’t like this. He didn’t like how quiet Tony was, he didn’t like the fact that he could barely open his eyes, he didn’t like the fact that his face was still a shade of pale whitish-grey. He was worried. So he called a doctor.

‘Look, it’s not surprising he’s a little worn-out.’ The doctor responded tonelessly. 

‘He should be fine. If he starts coughing up blood then you can be worried.’ With that, he hung up, and Steve was left to worrying anyway.

Thor came into the kitchen, his face perplexed.

‘He doesn’t seem well.’

‘What do you mean?’ Steve asked.

‘He’s have difficulty taking breaths.’

‘Shit,’ Steve moved around Thor and went into the living room. Tony was asleep, but Thor was right, Tony was having issues breathing deeply. Steve started around to lift Tony’s pillow, to prop him up-

When Tony’s breathing cut off altogether.

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Carlos is starting to get worried.

Granted, he has a lot to worry about nowadays.

But this is worrying even by the usual standards.

Cecil will occasionally fade from him for a moment, his voice suddenly jerking into an ominous, hollow tone, his eyes unfocused, his posture ramrod straight. He will forecast and prophesize horrific things that either come true, or they don’t. That’s no big deal. Carlos is used to this by now.

Carlos will come home to hooded figures in their house, trying on his lab jackets and flannel shirts, and he will have to chase them out. That’s no big deal either.

The faceless old woman who secretly lives in their home will sometimes during the night, take all the cups and glasses out of the cupboards and fill them with water, then place them on the floor, constructing a sort of minefield that Carlos and Cecil have to dance around in order to get to the bathroom in the middle of the night. Carlos is used to that too.

What he isn’t used to is the dark circles under Cecil’s eyes. The popped blood vessels in his eyes. The distant, vacant look he sometimes gets on his face. The jerky, terrified radio reports. The uncharacteristic, frightened mood-swings. The sudden and threatening nosebleeds. The late nights at the radio station, where he doesn’t get into bed until long past Carlos can force himself to stay awake. The random appearance of white, malicious scars on the back of Cecil’s neck.

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Avengers Fic pt1: UA (universe alteration) where Pepper and Tony are in a committed relationship, and have a child- but things go wrong very very quickly [for lovely Rachel, who is in hospital- get better soon, love]

It started with a lot of screaming. Things in Tony Stark’s life tended to do that. In fact, you could probably take your pick of screaming moments for this story to start. There was the screaming in bed- because surprisingly Pepper was a screamer (first time she did it, Tony nearly jumped out of his skin). But it was hard to hammer down an actual date, so you know, should probably start somewhere else. There was the screaming in the bathroom and then in Tony’s face on Easter morning- and for the first time in a long time that wasn’t angry screaming- but happy screaming. Tony remembered it well. Dodging the tainted stick Pepper was waving around in the air to pick her up into a hug that lasted for twenty minutes. The laughter and the screaming into each other’s faces “Oh my god! Oh my god Tony- Oh my god!”.

And then there was the actual day itself, which had a lot of screaming that was not happy screaming but ow screaming. Now, Tony had never planned on witnessing birth, but when they’d had the baby shower, Natasha had told him personally that if he wasn’t beside Pepper to hold her hand, that Natasha would make Tony shit a watermelon alone in a room with a bunch of doctors. Tony had laughed nervously, but Clint had appeared at his elbow and murmured from behind his drink, ‘She’s not kidding.’

Tony had held bombs and explosives and tinkered with missiles- but never before had he held anything more delicate than that baby girl. She was barely the length of his forearm, with a red face and a small mouth, making gurgling noises but not crying. Tony found himself breathing in gasps, trying to keep himself from crying. He was aware that there were a lot of people were in the room, doctors and nurses and the like, and that Iron Man should not have a reputation as a man who cries- but there was this small person in his arms that he’d had a hand in making. That he’d seen brought into this world.

‘She’s beautiful.’ He whispered.

‘She’s ours.’ Pepper smiled.

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So I realized I haven’t written any Sherlock fics, so I decided to write this one. It’s Uni!Sherlock, a little headcanon for how things were when he was in University.

It was mornings like these where he resented who he was. They didn’t come very often, and most of the time they were fleeting- but they occurred, and it was like being belted with a crowbar. But Sherlock would keep his head down and stare at his plate of food, ignoring the harsh whispers of the others sitting across from him.

He was scribbling out his law essay- one of the few things he didn’t mind doing, seeing as how this type of literature would perhaps one day benefit him. He knew a lot of the time professors had difficulty reading his spidery handwriting- but hell if he was going to write slowly just so they could understand. It was their job to read bad handwriting. They’d picked it.

Suddenly Sherlock was aware that he was being stared at. He didn’t look over his shoulder, just acknowledged the lack of conversation from the table behind him. Suddenly a chair creaked and was being pulled out, and Sherlock found himself some company. He glanced up to see a senior, Sebastian, smirking at him.

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‘Dean you need to get over it- honestly.’

‘I have very little to look forward to,’ He said sharply. ‘and pie is all there is.’

Sam rolled his eyes and brushed past Dean, flopping onto the couch, and flicking on the crap television. It crackled and finally fuzzed into blurry focus- Die Hard 2. Dean reached into the tiny mini-fridge, pulling out two cans of beer. He tossed one to Sam and cracked his own open with his thumb and forefinger.

Dean sat himself on the end of Sam’s bed to watch the movie, and no sooner did he sit down- did Castiel appear in the middle of their hotel room, soaked in blood and swaying on his feet.

‘Help,’ He croaked, before his legs gave way beneath him.

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It just popped out of his mouth like one of the extra deductions. There was the briefest moment of shock on John Watson’s face, like he was trying to register what he’d just heard. Sherlock actually took a step backwards, like he was trying to distance himself from the situation.

“You…” John started.
“Goodbye John.” Sherlock said hurriedly. No, this was not how he wanted to leave things, but god knew he couldn’t stay there. Not after that. So he turned and boarded the plane. He didn’t look at Mycroft, or Mary, or the guards. He didn’t look at anyone. He looked at his feet. But he could feel John’s eyes, his openmouthed stare on his back.

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