dive-motel

13x03 Coda: Unspoken Something

I’m thinking of starting a tag list for my codas, so if you’re interested, shoot me a message.  Destiel, 1k, general mopey-ness

Sam watches his brother go, completely unsure of what to say.  His grief is different than Dean’s; he’s terrified of ending up the way he did after Dean got dragged to Hell, terrified of becoming the man who’d allowed himself to grow dependent on Ruby.  So instead he represses.  Talks about openness and feelings until he’s blue in the face before he lets a single one of his own slip free.

He misses Cas and Mom, too.  It’s just—well.  He’s better at hiding it.

But there’s something in the way Dean’s voice broke on Cas’s name, something about the way he nearly crashed the car on the way back to the bunker with Jack in tow when Zeppelin came on the radio, a quiet gasp of Cas on his lips.  Something about his brother’s relationship with the angel that Sam has never quite been able to name.

Well.  There’s a lot about Dean he hasn’t been able to name. A lot about Dean he doesn’t want to name.

So instead of going after him, Sam sets about making peanut butter and jelly, trying to ignore the memory of doing just that for Cas once.  He tries not to think of what molecules would taste like.

When he finishes, he carts the meal off to what was once Kevin’s room.  Now, Jack sits curled in a small ball against the headboard, chin resting on his knees.  Sam sets the plate down on his nightstand without a word.

He can probably hear long distances, anyway, and Sam doesn’t want to know how much truth there is to what Dean had said.

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Spell It Out

Title:  Spell It Out
Square filled:  Orgasm Denial
Ship: Dean Winchester x female reader
Rating:  Explicit
Tags/Warnings: nsfw, explicit language, explicit sexual content, smut, unprotected sex, fingering, explicit dirty talk, oral sex (female receiving), some spanking, orgasm denial, dom!Dean
Summary: You and Dean are FWB, but you want more. In the heat of the moment, you ask him how he really feels. He spells it out for you.
Word Count: 1982
Author:  Dean’s Dirty Little Secret
Written/Created for @spnkinkbingo and for @dean-in-the-devils-trap for my Follower Appreciation Day Random Drabbles from the 100 Kinks List. This is #23 - Dirty Talk.
Author’s Note:  I’ve been dying to fit my favorite quote from Deadpool into a fic. I think it worked out nicely. This is nothing but pure filth. Smut for the sake of smut. Enjoy!

Originally posted by god-please-save-my-soul

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Fangs and Fairytales: Orphans                        Chapter 2

    As Masha pulled into the warehouse parking lot she glanced at the clock on the dash again.  Over forty-five minutes late.  She hated to leave Davrosh and the others waiting like this but the sight of Shannon on the ground, desperate and helpless, had nearly broken her.  As ashamed as she was to have caved in to sentiment and interfered where she knew she shouldn’t, she was even more ashamed of the intense internal debate it had taken her before doing so.  She was becoming hardened, and though she probably should have spent some time examining why, she had to set aside her existential crisis for the time being.  The hard truth was she didn’t have time for any of it right now, Shannon’s grief or her own remorse. She pushed her feelings away and got out of the car.    

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(for your gif submissions. Again, congrats on 500!)

Thank you dear! Submitted by @jpadjackles


You liked watching people. When they were unaware, you got to see all the little mannerisms and quirks and micro expressions that they wouldn’t show otherwise. Those were the details that gave you the real taste of a person. Their guard was down as they went about in their own little world. 

As a traveler, you had the fortune of a diverse range of people-watching entertainment. You didn’t bother with the upscale places, like downtown shopping centers or lounges, where everyone walked around pretending to be someone else. You stuck to the dirt and grit of the American highways, the faded two-lane roads and quirky motel dives. The truly compelling and readable people were there. 

Like you usually did, you sat outside your door in a lawn chair, pretending the weed-filled concrete walkway that went around the motel was your front porch. You had a sweaty glass bottle of coke in one hand and your phone in the other. Slumped down in the chair, you weren’t paying particular attention to anyone. It was just a nice afternoon to be sitting out because the weather was decent. 

A man did cross your line of vision, though, and he was a difficult one to figure out. He had a thick fog around his face that seemed purposeful and comforting to him and that obscured him from you. He was trying to find his room, you could tell that much, and not just by the room key in his hand and the bag over his shoulder. He looked slightly confused when he caught your eye and then more so when he realized you were watching him. 

He slowed down his walk, looked again at his room key, and then made his way towards you. No one in your experience of people-watching had approached you and you quickly became nervous. You shifted in your seat, prepared to hop up and run inside if a dangerous situation presented itself.

But the man walked past you, and inserted his key into the lock of the door next to yours. You continued to watch him. He had very deliberate movements and a weather-worn, but tough exterior. His hair didn’t fit him, not his first impression at least. He seemed very to-the-point and anti-frivolous, so you wondered what the reason for the soft, flowing locks were. 

Then he looked at you and politely smiled. “Looks like we’re neighbors,” he said, tucking the key into his pocket and pushing his door open slightly. 

He didn’t have to say anything to you. Normally motel patrons shuffled about with their heads down, more worried about how they were going to pay for the next night of their room than with who was their neighbor. That’s when the hair matched up with his personality. It came together with the smile and the soft kindness you saw in his eyes and you realized that this man was probably one of the best you’d ever meet. 

“It sure does,” you said, “I’m Y/N.”

He stuck his free hand out to shake yours. “I’m Sam.”

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I’d watch the hell out of an ep in which Sam and Dean go to a bar and get drunk and shoot pool, hustle the locals and drink most under the table, then walk back their dive motel with their arms slung around each other’s shoulders singing Highway to Hell and laughing like idiots.

mayimandsheldontbt requested: “I was wondering if you could write one about Shamy going on vacation together or Sheldon meeting Mrs. Fowler Amy’s Mom for the first time in person.”

Thanks for the prompt.  I decided to make them go to visit Mrs. Fowler.  Can I just say, as a fic writer, that I wish they would give Mrs. Fowler a first name?  I don’t want to name her.  Anyway, I hope you enjoy the story.  (This one got a little long on me.  Sorry.)

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I believe in a lot of things that make the other math majors give me dirty looks. I believe in unconditional love and total freedom and the mutual exclusivity of the two, I believe that knowledge is infinite and empathy is as well and that every romantic entanglement I’ve ever had has been profoundly affected by my Venus Mars Square. I believe that God might be the omnipotent ruler of the universe judging every decision we make or he might be the impersonal boss who’s off screwing his girlfriend in the almighty equivalent of a dive bar slash shady motel and leaving his deadbeat assistant, who wishes he was paid in something besides ambrosia and nectar, to watch over things. I believe that the world is all chaos and we rely on sheer dumb luck more than we like to be aware of, and that we have to do our utmost to never lose faith in ourselves but ultimately lie back enjoy it because it’s going to happen to us anyway.

In certain ways, the physical is simple. It’s human to feel carnal desire and it’s mortal to give into it, “The sweetest submission, drinking it in, the wine, the women, and the bedroom hymns.” But it’s empty because it can’t sustain us forever. All the gold and the guns in the world can’t make up for the warmth of a woman’s flesh, and the warmth of a woman’s flesh can’t hold a candle to the woman herself. There is holiness in worshipping a human being but there is far more power to being an equal of whom we worship. Maybe that’s what love is at the end of the day, acquiescence to mutual ownership and we obsess over the potential of love to such a degree because we want so badly for it to be real but it so very rarely is. The reason we keep doggedly flirting with people we don’t even like, and repeatedly listening to all the songs which try to reassure us that love really exists despite infinite evidence to the contrary, and behind drinking so much that we can manipulate ourselves into feeling something resembling love, is to escape the hollowness. We have everything we could ever want, the golden nails and the lace and the skin of all the pretty girls and the pretty boys, but we want more than that, we crave the sanctity that eludes our hedonism for whatever reason and to unearth the holy while immersed in the conglomeration of the profane.

“Bedroom Hymns” is about sex and religion, the physical and the sentient and the abandon of enforced morality to human ecstasy. Sex is like death; it’s either a formidable entity to be healthily feared or it’s lionized as the ultimate goal of life, and neither extreme is accurate or healthy. The French call the orgasm “le petit morte”, the little death, because it’s supposedly the ultimate mortal sin, and Dante himself deemed the second circle as the place for those “carnal sinners who subordinate reason to desire.” But, the question behind “Bedroom Hymns” is, how is succumbing to something so primal a betrayal of any kind?

“I’m not here looking for absolution/Because I found myself an old solution” because denouncing sex as ultimately “unholy” is paradoxical since the prophets themselves weren’t remotely chaste, and moreover, the desires and activities of consenting adults in the privacy of their own bedrooms resolutely aren’t of anybody else’s concern. Of course, the converse is also false, since sex itself isn’t inherently holy because it’s a personal choice to be made by individuals of their own volition. Some people can have casual sex with no emotional repercussions, some people associate sex with love, some people will never have sex in their lives, and nothing is more or less valid or deserving of respect. It’s as ancient and modern and as holy or unholy as you want to think of it.  

But love. Love is never easy. Love is selfish, love is angry, love is ugly, love is beautiful and tender and can tear you apart and put you back together such that you forget you were ever broken in the first place. Sometimes, love isn’t even enough because we, perhaps unfairly, possess an undying yearning for togetherness and a tie to each other beyond romantic love- a craving for something more than physical attraction and shared interests, the belief that destiny is taking care of us, wrapping us in a blanket and protecting us from the harshness of the world. I don’t even know if it exists for me since I have a habit of bringing out the worst in what could otherwise be love, but if I give up the blind optimism in its existence, then the world will be even bleaker than it already is, and ergo, I’m blatantly disinclined to abandon that faith.