there's a fire that burns

i've moved!

Fri, 20 Apr 2007 05:25:47 GMT

ALRIGHTY, KIDS...I OUTGREW THIS JOURNAL, AND CREATED A NEW FIC JOURNAL OVER AT: mtfizz CHECK IT OUT IF YOU'RE SO INCLINED!

what happens when the lights go out

Tue, 10 Apr 2007 01:34:49 GMT

what happens when the lights go out
pg
gen
I don't own 'em.
Josh gets up the courage to ask Drake something he's been wondering about for a while now.
So, we all want to know what happened to their respective parents. We don't (yet *crosses fingers for upcoming episode*), but I like to play around with things. I honestly believe that there's a reason the way Drake is the way he is with girls. This is my take. And, yeah...I wanted it to be a quiet, intimate (not sexual), moment between the boys...

what happens when the lights go out

Josh doesn’t remember the last time he and Drake were stuck in a room together, with nothing to do, for this long. He’s not counting the time Tiberius trapped them in Mrs. Hafer’s bathroom, or the time they got locked in that monkey-eating freak’s closet.

He’s thinking about just the two of them, in their room, the power out, lightning and thunder continuing into the opaque dark of night outside their windows. That kind of alone.

They sit, facing each other, on the couch, Josh’s legs tucked under himself, Drake’s knees pulled up to his chest, his chin resting upon them, a comfortable silence enveloping the room when the thunder isn’t rattling the glass loose.

A Saturday night, Josh doesn’t have to work, and Drake had broken up with his latest girlfriend this afternoon after they’d spent the day putt-putt golfing and making sweet love in the backseat of her car. He’d cut it all off at the front door. He needed space.

Josh knew that she’d said the “l-word”.

Drake said she was too clingy.

Josh sighs, heavy in the darkness of the room. If either of them went to go get candles, at least he could read or something. But there’s something on his mind. Something he’s been meaning to ask his brother for a good long time now.

“Why do you do it?” he asks, not wasting a second, not sparing a breath.

Drake looks up, dark eyes twinkling in the flash of lightning that cuts across the sky, his face a mixture of shock, confusion, and amusement. “Well, Josh, because it makes me feel good,” Drake chuckles.

Josh groans, rolls his eyes, and looks at Drake like he’s just turned his stomach inside out. “Not that. Why do you leave them? All of them?”

Drake shifts, obviously uncomfortable. No one’s ever really called him on it. Not even ex-girlfriends who had accepted the excuses and seen him only days later with a new girl on his arm.

Drake shrugs, lowers his head again, and mumbles an “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do, Drake. You know why you can’t stay with them. You know what makes you want to ‘cut and run’. In fact, you’re the only one who knows.”

Silence settles between them again, only broken by the gurgling thunder and the patter of rain on the roof.

Josh waits. Waits for the moment that his brother, the revered and renowned ladies man that he is, will confess what makes him tick. The reply comes sooner than Josh ever would have guessed.

“I’m afraid,” Drake says in a meek voice.

“Of what?” Josh scoffs, admittedly unbelieving and first.

“Being left.”

Josh laughs out loud for a split second; sees the hurt look on Drake’s face, and immediately cuts himself off. “Drake, these girls love you. All of them.”

“For now.” Josh can’t believe he’s never seen it before, the way Drake looks at this moment – like a child. A frightened child. “He loved me, too. For a while.”

Josh almost doesn’t catch it. And it takes him a minute to really process what Drake just said. Takes him longer to put the pieces together.

“Your dad,” he nods, watching Drake’s shoulders hunch in a rare bout of vulnerability.

“He left us, Josh. After years of telling us he loved us, he left. Never came back. Never will come back. End of story.”

“You’re afraid everyone you love will leave you?”

Drake nods minutely, and, in the darkness, it’s harder to see than it was to hear Drake’s admonition only a few moments ago.

Josh thinks he gets it now. Doesn’t need to go into particulars, just knows. That’s something special they share. They just understand one another.

Josh wonders if Drake will ever move beyond his fear. Will ever give himself wholly to any one person. He doesn’t yet realize that he just may be the one that Drake will be brave for.

He doesn’t reach out to his brother, doesn’t scoot closer, just smiles, in the darkness of their room, soft and sweet, and, in a quiet voice, vows, “I’ll never leave you, Drake.”

drakehandporn

Tue, 10 Apr 2007 00:59:03 GMT

the touch of your hand (drives me wild)
hard r
drake/tori
I don't own 'em
Drake and Tori spend an afternoon alone in Drake and Josh's room...
madeitsimple wanted drakehandporn...and here it is. She wrote me beta notes, but I got lazy...so yeah, there are tense problems, but...*shrugs*

The touch of your hand (drives me wild)

They lay on the couch together, afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows above he and Josh’s beds, the television droning on in front of them, both fighting off sleep. It was a lazy afternoon, school had seemed endless, and now they were the only ones in the house.

Drake had known when he’d asked Tori to come over that everyone would be gone. They usually were this time of day. Her head rested on his shoulder, hands tangled with his at the small of her back, where her shirt rode up, exposing just a bit of warm, tanned skin.

His fingers, rough from the strings of his well loved guitar, stroke softly on her palms. Calloused fingertips leave invisible, intricate patterns and ghosting touches, soothing her into warm security.

His hands slip from hers, skim to the waistband of her skirt, fingertips sneaking beneath it. Her hands fall to the side, trailing under his shirt, up toward his chest, her hands soft and smooth against his bare skin.

She sits up, straddling his waist, his shirt pushed up by her knees, his hands falling from where they were exploring the soft curve of her ass.

His fingers snake under the hem of her skirt, eyes locked on hers, moving her panties aside and pressing a single coarse fingertip to her smooth skin. She lets out a soft breath, her lower lip trembling.

He finds the bundle of nerves with practiced ease, running the pad of his thumb slowly over it and watching her eyes clamp shut in pleasure, smiling to himself. He traces slow, small circles around her clitoris, moving his free hand to hold her hips still as she begins to move against him.

A mischievous grin that Tori can’t see crosses his lips as he slips a single finger inside her, a gasp escaping her before she bites her bottom lip between white teeth.

He knows just how to curl, just how to touch, just where to put the pressure, and before he knows it, he can’t hold her hips still anymore as she grinds them into his, against the denim of his too tight jeans.

Instead, he moves the hand not between them to her breast, massaging the way he’s learned so well, tracing her hardened nipple through the fabric of her polo.

Her fingers tangle in the faded red fabric of his shirt, the action pulling the almost non-existent sleeves over his freckled shoulders as he changes the pace of his stroking.

He feels her legs begin to shake around him, her hips stutter, and, seconds later, her walls clench around his nimble fingers. Breathless, she collapses atop him, his fingers still inside her, drawing out what little is left of her orgasm.

He smiles and smoothes her hair with his free hand, waiting for her breath to even and her trembling to stop. Yeah…he’s really good at this.

craig/eric...it just had to be done...

Tue, 10 Apr 2007 00:55:00 GMT

while the moon shines down on our love
pg
Craig/Eric (Drake & Josh)
I don't own 'em...
Eric wants to do something special for Craig.
madeits and I just couldn't understand why everyone talks about Craig and Eric as a pairing and then never writes it...so...I think you know where this is heading...

while the moon shines down on our love

He’d planned it all out. They’d go down to the beach, middle of the night, down on the sand, when no one could see them, could spoil what they have. He’d take his old boom box, bring their song. And they’d dance the night away, right there, with only the moon and stars to watch.

Eric wasn’t normally the romantic. It was more like Craig to come up with ideas like this. To do sweet things like leaving notes, sending secret flowers, or just taking Eric’s hand in the middle of a movie at the Premiere.

Tonight Eric was going to show Craig just how much he felt for him. Was going to prove that he was worthy of Craig’s love. Even if he questioned it himself, some days.

He’d surprised Craig with the invitation, after Chemistry, before English, as they walked the halls, shoulders and elbows brushing every now and then, but inconspicuous nonetheless. No one had a clue.

Craig had been curious. Had asked if they were going to a movie, or maybe just dinner and then watching old kung fu movies and Eric’s house after. Eric had just shaken his head, a smile planted firmly on his face as he pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose.

As darkness fell on San Diego, and Eric pulled up to Craig’s house in his mother’s Oldsmobile, he could feel the excitement in the air. Even if it was just coming from his own anticipation.

Craig had piled into the car, planted a quick kiss on Eric’s cheek, and buckled his seatbelt, all before asking where they were going.

Eric just smiled once again, said it was a surprise, and looked into the rearview mirror as he pulled back out onto the street.

The windows were rolled down, letting the warm, fresh spring air float throughout the car. Every now and then, Eric would glance over at Craig to see him holding his hand out the window, letting the breeze caress his skin.

Eric could see that Craig was confused when he finally stopped the car and turned off the ignition.

The moonlight shone bright and clean on the sand, the waves dancing under its gaze.

“Ready?” Eric inquired, grabbing the boom box and blanket from the back.

Craig nodded, didn’t know what to say, and carefully exited the vehicle.

Eric, boom box and blanket in one hand, took Craig’s thin fingers between his own as they traipsed across the sand.

About twenty feet from the water, Eric set the stereo down, laid out the blanket, and slipped out of his shoes and socks. Craig followed, still looking dazed.

“What is all this?” he finally asked.

Eric shrugged. “I just wanted to do something nice for my…boyfriend.” The word was still a bit foreign for each of them.

That’s when he hit play on the CD player, and their song wafted out over the sand and the sparkling ocean water.

Craig smiled, carefully removing his own shoes and socks. “Our song,” he cooed, as Eric held out his hand.

Craig took the offer, and followed Eric out to a patch of soft sand. Eric pulled Craig into his arms, holding him close as they began to sway to the music.

“Now I can check another thing off my list of things to do before I die,” Craig sighs contentedly, his head on Eric’s shoulder.

“What’s that?” Eric implored, eyes closed and cheek pressed to the top of Craig’s head, his curls creating the perfect cushion.

“Dancing in the moonlight,” he giggled as the song played.

Eric laughed with him as the song hit the chorus “Everybody’s dancin’ in the moonlight, everybody’s feelin’ warm and bright. It’s such a fine and natural sight. Everybody’s dancin’ in the moonlight.”

“You’re a dork,” Eric smiled. “Do you like it?”

“It’s perfect,” Craig says, voice soft. He lifts his head from Eric’s shoulder and kisses him sweet and chaste on the lips. “And so are you.”

i want me some crazy!steve sexin'...

Sat, 07 Apr 2007 00:57:57 GMT

let it out
steve/lucy
nc-17
I don't own 'em
In the end, they both get what they want.
So, if you don't know of my love for Crazy Steve...well, everyone should know about my love for Crazy Steve! Apparently madeitsimple and I are the only fangirls who see the potential he has. And what hot sex he is! So, this is for her. And because, well, if you want something done right, you do it yourself instead of waiting for someone else to do it...and suck...
not beta-ed

let it out

Drake’s little outburst – that was meant to serve as distraction – had worked momentarily. After the original commotion in the kitchen had settled, the girls each went their own way, Carly – the current girlfriend, after all – probably to track Drake down.

Lucy lingered in the foyer, watching the action. She knew most of Drake’s friends. Knew that some of these people were only mere acquaintances.

It was disappointing to say the least that the rain had prevented them from leaving. Streets flooded, and all they could do was sit here and complain about it. Especially after the crank for the television broke.

That’s when she saw him: standing next to the mantle, staring forlornly at the tiny TV, obviously lost without it.

He had to be close to twenty. A few years between them, but since when had a couple of numbers stopped anybody?

Lucy had always been a confident girl. She knew how to take care of herself. That’s what had scared Drake off. But who needed Drake Parker? She had her sights set on someone completely different now.

All she had to do was saunter past him. She knew well enough that it would be all it took. And she wasn’t wrong. Her short jeans skirt had caught his attention immediately.

She swayed down the hallway, her catch not far behind. When she reached the door to the downstairs bathroom, she turned, nearly knocking him over with surprise.

“Hey,” she smiled sweetly. “Can I help you?”

She’d seen how socially awkward, even inept, he was earlier. That’s probably why she was impressed that he’d even gotten the hint. The first words out of her mouth were definitely a surprise, though. “I hope so,” he grinned devilishly, invading her space and pushing her backward, completely into the bathroom.

She couldn’t help but let her smile grow, and turn a bit more mischievous.

This wasn’t going to be one of those “let’s-have-mad-hot-sex-and-then-become-boyfriend/girlfriend” kind of encounters. Those were Lucy’s favorite.

The minute the door clicked shut behind him and he deftly turned the lock, she was on him, hands roaming between the bright red vest and the pale blue button down, her lips attacking his in biting passion.

Hands on her sides, he lifted her onto the vanity, between the pair of sinks. She tugged his shirt out of the waistband of his pants while he pushed her miniskirt up and over California sun-kissed thighs.

Her breath caught briefly in her throat when he tugged at her panties, dragging them down over her legs in one swift motion. Following what seemed to be a trail, his hands roved under her shirt while his tongue explored her mouth.

Her fingers fumbled blindly at his belt as his lips moved to her neck, her jaw, nipping, sucking and kissing hot paths on her skin. When his belt finally came loose, they both reached for the button on his black slacks.

In a matter of seconds, he was pushing inside her, pants and boxers pushed down to his knees. She stifled her moans in the collar of his shirt as he thrust in and out, muscles flexing sharply, strong hands holding her in place on the counter.

She could feel her muscles tensing, could feel her body going boneless, as his breathing changed, became more and more ragged, and his pace lost any rhythm whatsoever. Her hands roamed against warm skin underneath the back of his shirt, running blunt nails down the middle of his back, leaving marks that she could see in her mind’s eye. She’d done it to so many before him.

It was as her walls clenched around him that he achieved his own release. As though she’d pulled it from him.

He let his head rest over her shoulder as their breathing evened out, chests rising and falling against one another. As he pulled back and out, she smiled up at him, a bit more jaded now than before.

He cocked an eyebrow at her as he pulled his pants and boxers back up, tucked his shirt in, and buckled his belt. All in silence.

He was nice enough to help her down off the vanity and didn’t stare when she slipped her panties back on underneath her skirt.

Nothing was said as they left the room and each went their own way in the hallway.

Sometimes, she just needed to let it all out.

D/J/Motown = sweet, sweet love

Fri, 06 Apr 2007 01:25:05 GMT

ain't too proud to beg
pg -- only for slashy kissing, and, you know, boy love...
I don't own anything you recognize...
Drake's been stupid. Josh waits for an apology...but he'll take what he can get.
~690
Just a little ficlet I wrote. It stemmed from watching this video and having an extremely fun conversation with madeitsimple and listening to too much oldies. Obviously, as well as not owning Drake or Josh...I don't own the song, as I was born too late, too white, and too female to be a part of The Temptations...*tear* Oh, and this is complete fluff...

ain’t too proud to beg

A Saturday afternoon all to himself. Something Josh Nichols never had. It meant peace and quiet. And listening to whatever music he wanted.

He had a mix CD that Drake wouldn’t go anywhere near. And it was times like this when he broke it out. Relaxed on the couch in the living room, the smell of fresh popcorn wafting through the house and the novel he’d started last week tucked under his arm, Josh swayed to the lovely melody. “Stand By Me” had always been a favorite.

It almost made him sad. What with the fact that he and Drake had been at each other’s throats again this week. Over something stupid and petty, just like always. Josh knew that he couldn’t stay mad at Drake, and he knew that, in some strange, twisted sense, Drake needed him too much to stay away long.

But, when Josh had woken that morning, Drake was already gone from his bed. Josh had missed the warmth that Drake usually provided late at night. And the feel of Drake’s lithe little body pressed against his side. He’d just wait it out, though. Josh wasn’t caving this time. And it was going to take more than just a simple ‘I’m sorry’ this time, as Drake had sworn – with words Josh hoped he didn’t mean – that he would never speak to Josh again. And that, in fact, Drake’s hatred outweighed his love.

Josh wasn’t sure he could believe it. Not the way Drake let his name escape on breathy moans in the dark of night behind closed doors.

As “Stand By Me” came to an end, Josh popped another fluffed kernel of corn into his mouth and turned the page, waiting out the two seconds between the songs. The first few drum beats of “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg” brought a smile to his face.

And then he saw it, out of the corner of his eye: Drake Parker, in those tight little jeans, a black t-shirt under his favorite pin-striped blazer, dark aviator glasses covering his eyes, and in only his stocking feet, sliding into the foyer. Yes, sliding. Ala Tom Cruise in Risky Business…only so much hotter.

But it wasn’t just the sight of Drake that took Josh’s breath away. It was when he began to sing along to the words, in his most breathy, blues-ed out voice. Josh could only barely hear him over the stereo, but the mixture of the sweet Motown tones and Drake’s almost too rock’n’roll to be right voice was beautiful.

Josh’s smile grew when Drake sauntered into the living room, what Josh imagined was his best 1960s swagger, wiggling his hips at all the right moments.

The way Drake moved was reminiscent of a scene in some movie Mindy had once forced Josh to watch with her. The way he threw himself against the wall nearest where the stereo rested on the mantle, the way he swung his hips and shook his head to the beat. It was all so…not Drake. And at the same time, it was him. All him.

“If I have to sleep on your doorstep, all night and day, just to keep you from walkin’ away,” Drake crooned, dropping to his knees in front of the couch, and pulsed his hips forward to drag himself back up from the hard wood.

Josh couldn’t help but chuckle, and sat forward, elbows braced on his knees as Drake continued to dance around the room. He didn’t miss that every time the lyrics said ‘girl’, Drake appropriately omitted it.

The whole thing was about as sweet as Drake Parker got. At least in Josh’s opinion.

Finally, on the last chorus, Drake crawled onto the couch, where Josh sat sideways, and forced himself into Josh’s lap, tearing the sunglasses from his face. He lowered his voice, bringing his face within inches of Josh’s, allowing his brother to look him in the eye and know that, in some way, this was all an apology.

Josh took it. And as the last notes of the song faded away, pressed his lips to Drake’s in a sweet kiss.

we only fight so we can make up | NC-17

Wed, 04 Apr 2007 06:13:46 GMT

we only fight so we can make up
d/j
nc-17
pwp -- well, sort of...
I sooo don't own them...
This is all for madeitsimple again for being the bestest ever! And I was craving d/j porn...so here!
not beta-ed

we only fight so we can make up.

Josh hears Drake pull in the driveway. Hears the front door slam, and the echo of angry footfalls on the stairs. He decides to mind his own business. That’s what Josh has learned to do when Drake’s in a bad mood. Wait it out.

Besides, Oprah’s on, and he’s got better things to do than provoke his step-brother. She’s talking about the school she started in Africa today.

Josh tries his best to ignore Drake’s entrance. It reminds him a bit of a petulant child. A lot of things Drake does remind him of a child. But then Drake does something very un-childish, and Josh has to wonder.

Josh continues to ignore Drake as he launches himself over the back of the couch, plopping down on the far cushion.

Josh knows he’s made a mistake in leaving the remote on the cushion between them the minute he notices Drake sending a sideways glance at it.

Josh tries to grab faster than Drake. And fails.

Drake’s changing the channel before Josh can right himself again.

“Drake! I was watching Oprah!”

“So?” Drake replies tonelessly, scowling at the television. “I want to watch ‘Celebrities Underwater’.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I just want to watch TV. Is that alright with you?” Drake turns to him, and Josh can’t help but lose it. He hates when Drake gets this way.

Josh decides that it’s time to take action. Somebody’s got to teach Drake a lesson. A dirty job, but Josh is willing to take it on.

Josh throws himself at his brother, attacking him from across the couch with full force, grabbing hold of his t-shirt and ripping the collar, and sending Drake into a rage.

“Get the fuck off me!” Drake yells, pulling at Josh’s clothes, clawing at his arms, gripping fists that are wrapped in the material of his now destroyed shirt.

They wrestle like that for a while, Drake trapped under the weight of his brother, kicking and swinging like his life depends on it. It’s when he gets a sturdy footing between the couch cushions that Drake is able to use what little weight he has to his advantage.

They roll from the couch to the floor in a mess of limbs, tattered clothing, and angry snarls. Josh can feel the skin rising on his arms where Drake has scratched them to a blushing red.

Drake, with his legs on either side of Josh, grabs hold of what’s left of the collar of Josh’s own shirt and hauls him up, crushing their lips together with bruising force.

Josh’s tongue pushes past biting teeth, invading the hot, wet cavern of Drake’s mouth, exploring a place he knows so well.

Josh isn’t sure where he finds the mental and physical stability to actually start ripping at Drake’s clothing, tearing the shirt over his head, and fingers clutching at the buckle of his belt. The button on Drake’s jeans actually pops off, and Josh hears it land somewhere in the room as Drake his hauling off his shirt.

Somewhere between Drake dragging Josh’s jeans off, and Josh doing the same with Drake’s, Josh gets his balance enough to flip Drake onto his back, trapping him on the hard floor, those sinful hips wriggling in ways that should be made illegal.

The firm, warm press of Drake’s erection against Josh’s stomach is the first real sense of what’s going on that Josh gets. It doesn’t make him stop and wonder, just makes him attack Drake’s mouth with a hungry, desperate growl, Drake arching beneath him.

Josh doesn’t know what happened to their last pieces of clothing. Imagines they’re in some corner of the room, abandoned and tattered.

He feels like he’s not really controlling his body as he slips inside Drake, the smaller boy clenching around him and grasping at his shoulders.

It’s automatic, the way they move together, the rhythm they find, even the way Drake nips and sucks at Josh’s collarbone, Josh moaning Drake’s name over and over again like an oath. Or a plea. He’s not sure which.

It feels like he’s falling apart, and the only thing holding him together is Drake’s fierce embrace. Arms and legs anchoring them together.

Josh thrusts fast and hard. It’s a battle of the wills, a battle of who can be more brutal. As Josh’s rhythm falters, becomes more punishing, so do Drake’s teeth on his skin. If Josh weren’t supporting himself, he’d reach between them, wrap strong fingers around Drake’s cock and tug at it unevenly, wait for Drake to cave first.

But Drake’s beat him to the punch. Josh can feel coarse fingers brush steadily against his lower stomach. Josh contemplates looking down at his brother, knows it would be too much, and this is an argument he has to win. He knows that deep down, it’s not about who can hurt who more. It’s about the fact that it’s not all about Drake.

Josh has lost his rhythm altogether. And finally, as he’s thrusting himself back into Drake, the devious little monster clenches around him and moans breathily.

Josh freezes, shakes, shivers when Drake arches up toward him as Drake’s release coats both of them in sticky warmth.

For the first time since they ended up on the floor, their eyes meet. Nothing has to be said. They both know what this means. Drake grinds his hips into Josh’s, and Josh can’t help but lose it, his climax sweet and earth-shattering all at once.

He let’s his head fall to Drake’s chest, rapidly rising and falling with it. Drake’s head rests on the cool floor, the hand not covered in sticky come winding itself in Josh’s hair.

“Okay,” he breathes. ‘You can watch Oprah.”

Untitled fic for yas!

Tue, 03 Apr 2007 13:33:14 GMT

Untitled
gen
g
I don't know 'em...
All his life, Drake Parker had been leaving.
This is for

madeitsimple because she's made of awesome and an enabler. And she totally supports my Drake habit...which is a good thing...Oh, and this totally came to me in the middle of the freaking night while I was trying to sleep. Luckily, I keep a notebook by my bed! That said, this hasn't been beta-ed....so beware!

All his life, Drake Parker had been leaving. He'd mastered the art of walking away. All these years, he'd let people get close to him, only to be the one to let go. In most cases, it was probably sooner than he should have, but it didn't take long for him to feel smothered.

Not this time. This time he was the one left standing alone, mouth agape, a sinking emptiness in his stomach. At least on the inside.

It was the end for them. Four years he'd put into this, and now, after everything they'd been through, it was all over. His best friend, his brother, the person he loved above all else - save himself, of course - was leaving him.

For the first time in a long time, Drake Parker was at a loss. He'd never stood on this side before. He'd never been the one who had to deal with the fact that they were being left behind.

All of Josh's stuff was gone from their room. The place where his bed had stood ever since Drake had moved the drum set to the attic was now empty. Bare, that was the only word that came to mind as Drake tried to put the memories of where all Josh's things had been out of his mind.

He sat, cross-legged on the platform for his bed, guitar lying in his lap, leaning back against his mattress. He strummed mindlessly, trying to remind himself that now he'd have his life back. It would be just like before Josh and Walter moved in. Only Walter wasn't leaving.

He could hear footfalls on the stairs. He assumed it was his mom, coming to tell him it was time to tell Josh goodbye. Drake hated "goodbye".

A soft knock on the door frame, and Drake looked up, only to see Josh standing in the open doorway, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, the sleeves of the white shirt he'd layered under his maroon polo rolled up to his elbows.

"Hey," Josh greeted quietly, a sad smile on his lips.

"All loaded up?" Drake asked tonelessly.

"Yup."

"Car gassed up?"

"Yup."

Drake nodded, went back to strumming.

The silence that fell between them spoke more than any words they could have uttered.

Drake didn't even look up when Josh crossed the room. He wasn't sure exactly how to act. After all, he was new to being the "leav-ee"...he was always the "leaver"

His fingers froze on the strings when Josh set down a sealed envelope with 'Drake' scrawled neatly across the front.

"I'll call you when I get there," Josh spoke softly, shoving his hands back into his pockets.

Drake nodded, turned back to his guitar.

"Later," Josh smiled, backing out of the room.

Drake paused briefly, looked up and offered a slight wave.

Josh didn't say anything else. They both knew there was nothing to say.

The door closed behind his brother, Drake stared at the envelope by his foot. Leaning forward, he fingered the corner of the paper.

If he didn't open it, none of this would be real. At least if he didn't acknowledge it.

For the first time in his life, Drake wasn't the one doing the leaving.

Not my best work, but...

when you put your arms around me, d/j, pg

Wed, 28 Mar 2007 23:16:32 GMT

Title: when you put your arms around me
Rating: pg
Pairing: uh, drake/josh...duh?
Word Count: ~415
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, and you should know that already.
Summary: Josh remembers. And he always will.
A/N: Okay, it's sappy, it's sweet, and it's all for madeitsimple because she's...well, she asked for it, actually. To be honest, she asked for fic. I was hoping to do hardcore slashiness, but I'm in a great mood today, and I'm listening to Billy Joel's "For the Longest Time", which inspired this little ficlet...and that's just what it is: a ficLET...seriously, it couldn't be considered anything else. Thank you, and enjoy!

when you put your arms around me

Drake Parker is not sappy. He’s not sweet, he’s not saccharine; he wouldn’t even consider himself a romantic. At least not if you asked him.

His step-brother, Josh? He would say differently about the boy who’s become so much more than a brother to him.

That’s because Josh still remembers the time Drake sang him to sleep when he had the flu. And he remembers the time he got Josh out of being grounded for coming home past curfew – for the first, and last, time.

Josh still remembers the song Drake wrote him that no one else has ever heard. He can recall the time Drake wrote those beloved song lyrics on a Post-it and secretly put them in his locker.

Josh still remembers that first kiss, Drake, usually so sure of himself, reduced to a tentative child. A first-timer. Something Drake hasn’t really been in years.

Josh remembers how understanding Drake was when Josh first told Drake that he and Mindy were officially an item. Josh also remembers how torn up Drake was when Josh was finally done with him. It didn’t last long.

Josh remembers making salsa with Drake. He remembers nights of scary movies, curled up on the couch together, squealing when the not-so-scary-by-the-light-of-day monster killed off all the hero’s friends.

Josh remembers being trapped in Mrs. Hayfer’s bathroom with Drake, thinking that they should be using their time more wisely. It was the threat of someone finding them that kept those thoughts and actions at bay. But it did come up once. Or twice. Maybe three times.

Josh remembers the first time that Drake told him he loved him. Not like a brother, not like a friend, but like a lover. There was some sappy old love song playing in the background, and the reason why is one thing Josh can’t remember. All things around them were drowned out when Drake said those three little words. And it wasn’t like Mindy. Josh wasn’t scared, wasn’t worried, wasn’t confused. He knew exactly what he was feeling. And he knew he’d feel it for the rest of his life.

Josh doesn’t remember when exactly he fell in love with Drake. He also doesn’t remember what life without Drake was like. He doesn’t care anymore. No matter what’s happened, Drake can take all the bad away. He replaces it all with heart-bursting happiness the minute he wraps Josh in his arms and kisses the hurt away.

St. Patrick's Day Challenge/Series 3

Fri, 16 Mar 2007 21:53:30 GMT

Title: tradition
Rating: nc-17 and if I have to tell you why, I'm not sure you should be reading this...
Pairing: Drake/Josh
Disclaimer: No...just...no...now stop asking...
Summary: There are days when Josh thinks Drake's a mother fucking genius, too.
A/N: So, my thoughts are "It's Saturday somewhere, right?". Oh, and I couldn't help myself. This is dedicated to everyone who read/reviewed the first two, and convinced me that the third, and final had to be posted early.

tradition

Drake plays by his own rules. Everyone knows that. The only reason he took to wearing green on St. Patrick’s Day when he was young is because, well, getting pinched hurts. Like a bitch.

He wonders briefly if the spot Josh pinched earlier is red or bruised. He can’t imagine it would be, what with all the blood that Josh is bringing to the surface at his hips. Oh, and the rush to his aching erection. Yeah, there shouldn’t be a mark.

Josh laps once more at a hip bone, tongue flat against Drake’s soft skin, before he looks up at him, brows knitted, eyes curious. “Does this really count? You know, as wearing green?”

Drake sighs heavily, chuckles a bit, and thinks that Josh is the only human being who would ever, ever ask a question like that at a time like this. “Far as I can tell, the rules state that there must be green somewhere on your body. And, last time I checked, that’s still my body.” With that, and a cocked eyebrow, Drake reaches down and pinches his brother. Hard. With his thighs, which, in all the excitement, ended up on either side of Josh’s body.

Josh glares at him steadily. Drake can’t help but roll his hips, trapped underneath Josh’s chest.

“Oh, that is it!” Josh exclaims, dragging himself up Drake’s body. “You are such a smug little tease.”

Drake just smiles innocently before attaching his lips to Josh’s neck. His reward is a hard, sharp gasp. And a thrust of Josh’s hips against his own.

Even as Josh reaches for the button of his own jeans, Drake stops him, shakes his head breathlessly, and pulls Josh that much closer.

They find an easy rhythm, even through layers of clothing, denim rasping against denim, Drake’s fingers curled around Josh’s strong shoulders, Josh only barely holding himself up, Drake’s legs pulled tight around him.

The pleasure builds fast, and they come crashing down faster. Panting over each other’s skin, Josh collapsed atop his brother, Drake’s fingers softly stroking the back of his neck.

Once he’s confident enough to speak, Josh leans up to look Drake in the eye. “I like my prize,” he grins.

“Me too,” Drake smirks, voice still breathy and hoarse. “But now, I think we need a shower.”

Josh doesn’t miss the slight, suggestive raise of eyebrows. And he thinks that Drake should be declared a mother fucking genius some days, too.

“So, come Easter,” Josh begins, dragging himself off the couch. “Where are you gonna hide the eggs?”

Drake thinks, that, maybe, tradition may not be a bad thing.

St. Patrick's Day Challenge/Series 2

Fri, 16 Mar 2007 05:29:02 GMT

Title: play me like a fiddle
Rating: r - for touching, kissing, and near nakedness...oh, and the most sinfully delicious (at least in my head) hipbones.
Pairing: Drake/Josh
Disclaimer: Uh, no. I don't own anything...and I sold my soul for a beer last night, so...I don't even own that.
Summary: Josh is only willing to compete when the prize is something he really, really wants.
A/N: Okay, so I said that this series would go through the rest of the week leading up to St. Patrick's Day. Well, it's technically Friday where I am (only 25 minutes in) and I got inspired...so, enjoy. Again, dedicated to honorarymaraudr.

play me like a fiddle

Josh doesn’t like games. He usually can’t win. But, when his prize may just be Drake, all tight jeans, cute little ass, and slim hips slithering under him, he’s willing to put it all on the line. And Drake usually lets him win. Because, let’s face it: a win for Josh equals a win for Drake.

He spends an hour wondering all the places Drake could have placed his green. All the most obvious places. Then he tells Drake to strip down.

Drake laughs out loud at the thought. “You’re kidding, right? That’s so not gonna happen, brotha!”

“Why not?” Josh whines, flopping onto the couch in their shared bedroom.

“Because that’s cheating.”

“Didn’t know there were rules.”

“Well, you do now!” With that, Drake plops onto the couch next to his brother.

“Are you actually wearing any green?” Josh finally asks.

“It’s possible.”

Drake may be smooth, but Josh is not about to let himself be played. At least not when Drake’s holding all the cards. In one swift move, he launches himself across the couch and traps Drake’s nimble little body underneath him.

The high pitched gasp that escapes Drake’s mouth is like music to Josh’s ears.

Holding Drake’s head still, one hand on either side, warms palms pressed to flushed cheeks, Josh grins like a madman. “Open up,” he orders and presses inward on the hinges of Drake’s jaw, forcing it open.

Drake rolls his eyes and shakes his head. Not there.

Josh runs his hands all over his brother, Drake like a rag doll, moving every way Josh pushes. After a few minutes, Josh realizes the green is not located above Drake’s shoulders.

Sitting up on Drake’s thighs, holding him down with a firm hand to the middle of his chest, Josh clumsily pushes at Drake’s t-shirt, dragging it up, and – somehow – over his head.

That’s when he spots them. Just above the waistband of those tight little jeans. The green curves of two little shamrocks.

Drake chuckles at the glassy stare Josh gives him, running his tongue mischievously over his bottom lip.

“Oh, you’re a clever one, aren’t you?” Josh says, voice pitched low, eyebrow arched with all kinds of ideas.

Drake doesn’t move, even when Josh’s hand leaves his chest. Just watches as his brother fumbles with the buckle of the belt and then with the button of jeans that should really be ruled too sinful to wear.

It’s when those jeans are yanked down over his hips, set curled, just under his ass when Drake squirms a bit. And more when Josh’s warm, wet mouth attaches to his right hip bone and sucks. Hard.

It’s times like this when Drake thinks he should be declared a mother fucking genius.

St. Patrick's Day Challenge/Series

Fri, 16 Mar 2007 04:21:45 GMT

Title: hidden
Rating: pg - for implied boy sexiness...
Pairing: Drake/Josh
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em...but I think you knew that already. Stop rubbing it in...
Summary: Drake's wearing green...Josh just has to find it...
A/N: Okay, so this is for the St. Patrick's Day challenge over at drakexjosh . I got this idea to split it into three little ficlets, which will lead up to the end (*cough*climax*cough*) on the actually holiday this Saturday. This is the first of those three. And dedicated to honorarymaraudr for her wonderful dedication the fandom the past couple of days.

hidden

St. Patrick’s Day isn’t all that special, but there’s nothing Drake hates more than getting pinched. It starts after his shower. Josh wanders into the kitchen, Drake can hear the small giggle he elicits. Knows what it’s about.

“Hey,” Drake greets with a smile.

“Hey, bro,” Josh replies genially, still glowing with glee and anticipation. Drake knows he’s not exactly wearing the colors of the day.

He waits calmly, watches Josh check for anyone in the vicinity. “Whatcha waiting for?” he finally asks, leaning against the counter. “Everyone’s gone. To the parade, I think.”

Josh closes what little space is between them, winds an arm around his brother’s small frame, and squeezes a centimeter of Drake’s skin between his forefinger and thumb. Right at the small of his back, just underneath his tight red t-shirt.

“You’re not wearing green.”

Drake clicks his tongue. “There is green somewhere on my body. You just have to find it…and when you do, that means I get to have my revenge.”

Josh is still standing in shock, speechless with what Drake assumes is more excitement than his brother can handle, as Drake pushes out of his reach and swaggers toward the stairs, sending only one come hither glance back over his shoulder.

“A St. Paddy’s Day scavenger hunt!” Josh exclaims. “What’s my reward?”

“I’ll tell you about our reward when you find the green.”

it's not hard to fall

Fri, 09 Mar 2007 19:48:56 GMT

Title: it's not hard to fall
Fandom: Drake & Josh
Rating: pg - for implications of slashiness...
Pairing: (stupid question, but I'll humor you) Drake/Josh
Disclaimer: Of course I don't own 'em...if I did, I'd be a hell of a lot happier...and, I think, so would you...
Summary: The want is there, the desire between them. But there are rules, there are lines, and neither of them are sure they want to cross those just yet.
A/N: Okay, so I wrote this little guy for the challenge on drakexjosh : desire. Now, I've never, ever before written for a challenge, or a prompt, so I kinda had to push this sucker out. It's not great, by any means, and it turned out a lot more angsty and sad than I'd originally planned, but...sometimes I can't help where my cute little plot puppy (bad Alec!) takes me...The title and section separators (?) are from the song "Cannonball" by Damien Rice, which is beauty! Oh, and this is unbeta-ed...so all mistakes are mine, all mine!

it’s not hard to fall

**there’s still a little bit of your taste in my mouth**

Drake Parker has this habit, and, on occasion, it drives his stepbrother crazy. Drake has a habit of talking in his sleep. Only when he’s dreaming, and only – Josh thinks – when he’s fallen asleep while Josh tries to study. Which happens more often than it should.

Usually, Josh can ignore whatever Drake chooses to talk about. Usually, his name is never mentioned, and Josh can find something to block the sound out with. Headphones, earmuffs, earplugs. Pretty much anything that will keep him from being distracted.

Tonight’s different. Josh sits on the couch in their shared bedroom, reading The Catcher in the Rye for what seems the hundredth time. Just for fun. He finished his homework hours ago. He just loves Salinger, is all.

It starts after Drake’s been asleep for maybe 45 minutes, curled up in the opposite corner of the couch, the magazine he got in the mail today laying splayed on his chest. The only way Josh had known he was asleep to begin with was the fact that Drake was no longer fidgeting. Another habit he has.

It begins with Drake mumbling incoherent nothings, Josh smiling faintly and shaking his head. He’s always found Drake somewhat angelic while sleeping. Because awake, he could never be mistaken for anything near angelic.

When Josh can understand what Drake’s saying, that’s when he starts to get frustrated. His favorite part of the book and Drake has to ruin it. He reads on anyhow, trying his best not to kick his brother in the shin.

When it’s his name escaping on the end of a sigh, Josh stops reading altogether. He doesn’t even try to pretend he didn’t hear it. Didn’t hear the tone it was uttered in.

Drake shifts in his sleep. Josh watches carefully, wondering if Drake’s only faking now.

A moment passes, and Josh shakes his head, thinks he may have misheard, and decides that he’s too tired to continue reading. He pulls Drake’s comforter down off his lofted bed, tosses it over him, and watches him sleep for another fractured moment.

Before he moves to his own bed, Josh leans across the back of the couch and kisses his brother goodnight. Soft and chaste, their lips briefly touch.

Josh goes to sleep smiling just a bit more than usual, some part of him telling him that he felt Drake return that small show of affection. Even in his sleep.

**love taught me to lie**

If there’s anything Drake knows, it’s to not be caught lusting after someone. It just makes you seem desperate. There are exceptions to the rule, of course. Like when a supermodel shows up at your door. That’s when you break rules: for supermodels. Not for brothers.

Drake knows he talks in his sleep. Knows it really only happens when he’s dreaming. Usually a good dream. Last night was no different.

The only huge difference is that last night, he dreamt of his brother. Not a supermodel.

When he wakes on the couch, underneath his comforter, knowing he didn’t put it there, he immediately knows something’s wrong. Something’s different than the way it was last night. Before he obviously fell asleep.

His magazine is still on his chest, he’s still huddled into the same corner of the couch, but Josh is gone. Probably to bed.

They’re at the breakfast table, Josh sitting across from him, slapping his spoon into the sea of milk at the bottom of his bowl.

Neither of them say anything, but every now and again, Drake glances up at his brother, wants so badly to ask what’s going on, but chooses not to. This may not be the time or the place.

There was never a big flashy moment when things changed. At least not for Drake.

When their parents first married, Drake merely tolerated Josh. He had to admit that it was sort of nice to have a partner in crime, but he wasn’t so sure that they’d ever really be anything more than that. Then they became best friends, true brothers, brought together by their common goal to get out of any sticky situation in one piece.

It’s not like he woke up one morning and thought I’m in love with my stepbrother. It was never like that. It just sort of gradually happened. No flash of light, no cheesy day dream sequence with tacky music, he just…knew.

And now he thinks Josh knows, too.

**so come on courage, teach me to be shy**

They share a bedroom. Personal space. It’s normal for them. To be sitting soclose on the couch, watching TV. They never think anything of it.

There’s always a line. With every hug, every touch, every shared moment between them, there’s a line that’s never crossed. That line that would change their lives forever. Anymore, neither of them are sure where that line exists. It’s been blurred in the past.

So, when Drake finds himself no longer paying attention to the television, instead wondering about said line, it doesn’t surprise him that Josh turns to look at him. It’s like when you know someone’s not paying attention in a conversation. You just know.

Josh asks what’s up, his breath warm as it ghosts over Drake’s cheek.

He knows there are no words that could truly get across what he’s feeling. The want for something more between them. So he doesn’t use them. Shrugs, shakes his head, and pays attention to the TV once more.

He knows Josh wants in, knows that Josh wants more. Somewhere deep down inside of himself, but Drake Parker breaks rules for supermodels. Not brothers.

Take the Money and Run

Tue, 06 Mar 2007 19:46:09 GMT

Title: Take the Money and Run
Rating: Anywhere from pg to adult
Fandom: Drake & Josh
Pairing: Drake/OFC, Josh/OFC, Drake/Josh/OFC, Drake/Josh
Disclaimer: I don't own Drake, Josh, or anything related to them. I also don't own the title, as it's being borrowed from Steve Miller Band's "Take the Money and Run".
Summary: It wasn't completely Drake's fault he was late that night. But he doesn't bring home just any stray.
A/N: Okay, so my plans for this one are to be epic. I'm going for huge, 'kay? So, you'll have to be a bit patient, and, since it's only my second D&J fic, I'm still working out character kinks. Sometimes I think they feel okay, other times, I think that they're completely off. That's where ya'll come in...your feedback and thoughts are key, got it? And I'll love you forever and bake you cookies! And, the reason that I've chosen to use some real life pop culture references is to keep with the gravity of this whole story...so, if that confuses you, sorry! ;)

Take the Money and Run

Chapter 1 || Nothing like a stray Labrador…

It’s not unlike Drake to be out past curfew. It doesn’t stop Josh from worrying about his brother. Even at 2 am on a Saturday morning – which would typically be early for Drake – Josh paces the floor, glad that he has today off. He’ll need to catch up on some lost sleep.

Josh remembers when Drake was given the midnight weekend curfew at the beginning of the school year. Last year, it had been 11 pm. No “ifs”, “ands”, or “buts”. The end. Drake begged for months to have his curfew moved back. Walter and Audrey never budged. Finally, in September, they gave in. And anyone who didn’t know better could have sworn that Drake had just gotten out of jail.

He was a madman. Lately, though, the fact that Josh is up – even when he does come home later than he should – worried sick about him, Drake has been careful to be in before three.

When Josh glances at the clock, sees it moving closer and closer to the fated hour when his worry will break him enough to frantically call his brother, he lets out a loud breath, trying to calm himself.

The sound of the front door sets his nerves at ease.

He rushes down the stairs, meeting Drake in the foyer, carrying something that resembles an animal. At least in size.

“Drake, it’s after two,” Josh whispers, frustrated. “I thought you were going to try to get in earlier.”

“I did,” the other boy says through gritted teeth, hiking whatever he’s carrying up with an arm. “Move, I’ve got to get upstairs.”

Josh follows, only two steps behind the entire way, in the dark. Both of them could make this trip in their sleep with a blindfold, both hands tied behind their back, and their ankles bound and still make it in one piece.

It’s not until the light from their shared bedroom filters through the doorway and over Drake that Josh sees just what he’s carrying.

“What the hell?” He can feel his own face contort in shock and awe. “Drake, that’s a girl.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Drake sighs, and Josh can practically hear his dark eyes rolling.

Josh checks the hallway to make sure they weren’t followed – Megan has a horrible habit of doing that – before he closes the door to their sanctuary, and turns to Drake, still appalled, and watches him lay the obviously unconscious girl onto the couch.

“Drake, you know that, normally, I wouldn’t question what you choose to do with your own Friday night, but may I ask why you brought an unconscious girl home with you?”

Drake looks up at him like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “I found her in an alley,” he shrugs. “Thought it’d be the right thing to do. Shouldn’t you be proud of me?”

“Drake! This isn’t a stray Labrador! This is a girl!”

“You’ve said that a couple times already…almost like you know more about them than I do. Which we both know isn’t true.”

Josh takes a breath, tries not to lose his patience. “Drake, somebody’s gonna come looking for her. What are you going to tell them?”

“Well, whoever they are, I hope it’s not the assholes that beat her up.” Drake is far too calm for this. Josh is about to lose his head and strangle his brother. And then what Drake just said registers.

“What?” he asks, leaning forward just the slightest, as though he hadn’t actually heard.

Drake motions for him to come over to the couch, where the mystery girl lays, Drake’s jacket from earlier curled around her, her hair, long dark waves, marring her face. “She was unconscious when I found her. I was alone, and when I got her into the light, I noticed just how bad she was. I thought at first maybe she was just a junkie, passed out from too much coke. She doesn’t have any drugs or paraphernalia on her. I checked. But she does have plenty of bruises. And the blood that was fresh on her face and arms when I found her is caked on and dry now.”

Josh nods through most of it, but stops, waiting for Drake to finish before saying, “You know the word ‘paraphernalia’?”

“What can I say? Law & Order is on every night about the time you start studying and my night gets boring.”

Josh just shakes his head, looking down at their guest again. “Do you think we should clean her up?”

“I tried when I first got her into the car. I wiped her face down with a t-shirt I found in the back seat –“

“That was mine!”

“I’ll buy you a new one,” Drake shrugs. “I couldn’t get all the blood off anyway.”

“Maybe we should just get some sleep, take care of this when we’re rested and she’s awake.”

Drake nods, and they part, each heading for their separate sides of the room. Josh, already in a pair of flannel pants and a sweatshirt, pulls back the blankets on his bed while Drake proceeds to get out of the clothing he’d worn for the evening and into some pajamas.

“Josh,” Drake says, stopping mid-movement, a single pant leg caught around his knee. “What if she wakes up while we’re still sleeping? She’ll be scared.”

“So stay up. I just know that I need sleep.”

Drake nods, finishes changing, and heads to the couch, flopping onto the end the girl doesn’t cover, her knees bent so she actually only takes up about half the couch anyway.

--------------------------------

It was supposed to be just like any other gig…just like any other night that Drake spent out. He was just going to party it up a little bit after he finished their last set, and go home. He might’ve been on time, too, if he hadn’t come across her.

There’s an alley next to the club they played. He can’t actually remember now if it had a name. The club, that is.

The sidewalk was wet from the rain that had gently poured itself out on the city all day, and the copper streetlights shone off it like the lights of a carnival ride, rays shooting in each and every direction.

He still can’t say what made him look down the alleyway to begin with. He was just walking to the lot he’d parked in. It was only a block and a half away. But something told him to turn his head, to look down the dimly lit passageway. The only light, attached to the side of one of the other buildings, was right above a dark lump. He didn’t have to think twice to know exactly what that lump was. Something told him that it wasn’t just garbage or a sleeping stray.

He doesn’t know how it happened. His feet carried him to the car, and he was on autopilot bringing it back to parallel park next to the alley’s opening.

She lay a crumpled mess on the concrete, hair fanned out from her head, her arms and legs pulled inward as though she was trying to protect herself. A canvas backpack lay only a foot away. Her face was bloody, a lip split, and what looked to be a broken nose. He could see dark red stains seeping through the sleeves of her shirt, the dirt on her army green cargo pants, and the grease on her sneakers.

Shrugging out of his jacket, he quickly wrapped it around her, pulling her body toward him and trying to wipe blood from her face with his bare hands. It wasn’t helping. Her breath was shallow, but there, her heartbeat strong but erratic.

It never crossed his mind to take her to the emergency room. Or even to call the cops. He’s not exactly fond of hospitals or police.

The only thing he could think to do was get her home. Get Josh to help out, and wait. Wait for her to wake up and tell him that she was okay, that she was thankful for his help, and maybe offer a trade for his heroic deed. He hadn’t really had a good lay in a month or so. He could use it.

-------------------------------------

Drake dozed off a couple times during the few hours before dawn. Whenever he realized that he was sleeping, began dreaming, he’d forcibly wake himself up. He thinks it’s this special power he has. To have that much control over himself. He’s damn proud of it, too.

When dawn does come, he’s awake, watching some nameless infomercial on mute – so as not to wake Josh – head propped on an arm on the back of the couch, occasionally glancing at the girl across from him. He wishes she’d wake up. He’s found himself wondering several times throughout the last few hours whether or not he’s done the right thing. He thinks that if she wakes and tells him that everything’s fine, he’ll feel a lot better.

When she does stir – for the first time since he hauled her up off the concrete in that dark alley – Josh is in the shower. It’s just her and Drake, and something inside him turns over. A dark cloud of nerves and anxious worry floating through him.

She doesn’t make a sound, just stretches her entire tiny body, shivers a bit, and cracks her eyes open. Even from here he can see that they’re as green as the grass outside in the middle of June and big as most little kids’ would be with those glasses thick as glass bottles. She doesn’t look at him, doesn’t move, probably scared.

“It’s okay,” he says in a soft tone, staying right where he’s at. He doesn’t want her any more scared than she already is.

“Where am I?” Her eyes dart around the room, stopping on him only briefly. “And who the hell are you?”

“My name’s Drake Parker. I found you unconscious in an alley downtown last night. I brought you back to my house to make sure you were okay. How do you feel?” He feels disjointed, like he’s missing something.

She sits up, visibly winces from the pain that comes from moving, uses both small hands to pull the hair back out of her face, and now he can see the full extent of facial damage. Her lips are swollen and caked with blood, a dried streak trails from under her nose to the corner of her mouth, and he can see her right eye is swelled and purple.

“I got the shit beaten outta me. How do you think I feel?” she seethes. She pulls her knees up to her chest, wraps her arms around them, and looks up at him with suddenly soft eyes. “But, thank you.” Her voice is quiet, timid, and he can’t help but smile.

“You’re welcome.” He pulls both of his legs underneath him, offering her his brown comforter, which she gladly takes. “What’s your name?”

“Abilene. You can call me Billie.”

“Can I call you Abby?”

“No one calls me Abby.”

He nods. “What happened last night?”

“You mean before you found me?” He nods, stays silent. “I stole some money from a couple drug dealers. They weren’t exactly happy. Hunted me down and beat me into unconsciousness. Though, stupid as they are, they probably think I’m dead.”

“Why’d you do it?”

“Needed the money. To eat.”

------------------------------------

Josh is glad she’s awake when he returns. He didn’t sleep well, but tried not to let Drake know. He doesn’t want Drake thinking that his brother isn’t 100 percent behind him doing the right thing. Even if Josh thinks the right thing would have been to take her to a hospital.

He hears her say that she stole some money – drug dealers, he thinks – and that she needed it to eat. He looks over at the couch, can see how thin she is, not to mention the fact that she could probably stand a shower right about now, too.

“Do you have my bag?” she asks Drake. Josh doesn’t think either of them have noticed that he’s even in the room.

“Yeah, it’s in my car. I couldn’t carry you and your bag and my guitar all at once, so everything but you was left in there.”

“Oh.”

Josh watches as they continue to talk, as Billie – he hears Drake call her – explains that she moved from Portland only two months ago, but hasn’t been able to find a place to live. She says she grew up a bit of a trouble maker. Stealing cars, money, anything to get by. Josh wonders exactly what that kind of desperate life would be like.

Drake listens the entire time, much to Josh’s surprise. Josh watches, listens, still shocked by the fact that Drake hasn’t made one move on this girl yet. The surprise that is, he’s more moved by the fact that Drake is actually listening at all. He almost looks like he understands exactly what this girl is saying. Josh doesn’t think he’s seen his brother carry on an intelligent conversation that lasted more than five minutes in all the years he’s known him. At least not with anyone who wasn’t Josh.

“Do you guys want something to eat?” Josh asks, moving toward the couch.

It’s obvious neither knew he was there. Drake starts, and Billie crouches and covers her head – obviously a reflex.

“I could stand to eat. How ‘bout you, Billie?” Drake smiles across the couch at her, offering some form of comfort as she eases back into a fully sitting position.

She swallows hard, nods, eyes still wide with fright. “I could – I mean, I probably should, um, shower first.”

“Good point. Mom and Dad are gone for the day. I’ll show you where the bathroom is.” Drake moves to stand when Josh clearing his throat stops him. “What?”

Josh looks from his brother to Billie. “Do you have a change of clothes in your bag?”

She doesn’t meet his eyes. “No. Just a jacket.”

“Well, here,” Drake begins, standing a striding over to the dresser. He pulls out a pair of clean jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt. “You can wear these. And we can get rid of what you’re wearing. I don’t know if blood comes out all that well.”

“I’ll work on them,” Josh sighs. “After your shower, that is. And you’re, you know, fully dressed.”

Billie smiles up at him, her bright green eyes twinkling in the light from the windows. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she says in a quiet voice, standing and following Drake out of their room.

Josh thinks Drake finally did the right thing.

watch my heart beat in the hollow of my throat

Mon, 05 Mar 2007 05:10:59 GMT

Title: watch my heart beat in the hollow of my throat (or one more way to know i love you)
Fandom: Drake & Josh
Rating: PG/PG-13ish
Pairing: Drake/Josh (as if there's any other...)
Summary: They both know that, someday, they'll be saying goodbye...
Disclaimer: Ha! If you think I own them, you obviously haven't seen my bank statement lately...
A/N: Okay, so it's my first D&J fic, and, I'm not gonna lie, I do much better with angsty seriousness than slapstick comedy. Personally, I was surprised that I had this in me to begin with. But, I love the idea that, eventually, they'll have to live their own lives, part ways, and that they should cherish what they've got left...so, this is what I get out of that...
Words: +/- 600...sorry, didn't want to ruin it with too many...

watch my heart beat in the hollow of my throat (or one more way to know i love you)

Quiet. He cherished the quiet. Could hear the sound only of his own breathing, mixed with that of his brother as they lay silent and still.

Neither of them had spoken since they heard the front door close downstairs. It was times like this they realized just how much they didn’t need anyone but each other. They were whole only when they were together. Though they’d be hard pressed to admit it.

They knew that this would eventually come to a close. That they’d have to move on, move out, and stand tall, each with their own footing and no one there to catch them. It was only a matter of time.

Laying here, hands clasped between them in a silent oath of loyalty and love, they didn’t have to think about tomorrow. Or the days after. All they needed was right here.

Drake could feel Josh staring at him. Always knew when his brother was looking, when he wasn’t, and could tell from the heat of his gaze what exactly was going on in that overfull head of his.

“Can we stay like this forever?” Josh spoke quietly, as though any sound would shatter this moment.

“At least until one of us has to pee,” Drake shrugged. He never liked to make the moment feel tenser than it was. It was his way of dealing. He knew that Josh constantly thought about what would happen when there were no ‘tomorrow’s for them.

“I was being serious.”

“I know.”

When the room fell silent again, Drake closed his eyes, pictured the two of them like this on the floor of an empty apartment in New York. It’s what he wanted for them if real life didn’t get in the way. But who was he kidding?

“Do you think anyone knows?” Drake couldn’t help but smile. Josh had a problem with just being.

“Do you have to constantly talk?”

“Sorry.”

Drake rolled onto his side, took his had from within Josh’s, and propped his head on a bent elbow and cocked hand. “Does it bother you?’

“What?” Josh asked, tilting his head just enough to see Drake from where he was, at the opposite end of his brother’s body.

“Would it bother you if anyone knew?”

“I don’t think so. I guess I never really thought about it. You?”

“I would hope they’ve got better things to do with their time and energy.”

“That’s very mature of you, Drake,” Josh half-joked.

Drake cocked an eyebrow, his eyes alight with a playful glimmer. “There are a lot of very mature things about me,” he purrs, rotating his entire body on a single bony hip, head level with Josh’s chest.

“You’re not funny. Or sexy.”

“You’re a bad liar.”

“What are you gonna do about it?” Josh always pushed. And Drake rose to each and every challenge. It’s what they did. And what they would continue to do.

Drake didn’t say a word before closing the small space between them and pressing his lips to Josh’s in a firm kiss.

Drake could only feel Josh’s lips on his, and his brother’s hand buried in his shaggy hair, holding him where he was in an attempt to make the moment last forever, and his heart hammering in his chest, throbbing in the hollow of his throat. It felt like he was dying. And a part of him was.

He knew that each and every kiss, touch, hug, moment with his brother, best friend, and lover was like the first of their long goodbye. He hoped they’d be saying goodbye for the rest of their lives.

Like Never Before and Never Again (1/?)

Wed, 14 Feb 2007 15:16:12 GMT

Title: Like Never Before and Never Again
Rating: NC-17 (Note: this is overall)
Pairings: Dean/OFC
Disclaimer: Seriously, do I have to tell you again? You know they aren't mine...
Summary: There's a huge part of Dean's past missing in his memory. Only Sam remembers what happened. There was a girl, a shapshifter, and bloodshed. But again, Dean can't remember any of it.
A/N: Here we go again. This is dedicated to elanurel for the wonderful beta as well as being an inspiration for this story. Seriously, I owe all of this to her. And Kripke, I guess.
Be aware that in this first chapter, the italics are present day. It's the best way I could come up with to differentiate between now and the past. Thank you, enjoy...

Like Never Before and Never Again

Chapter One || Never Remember

Sam’s glad Dean doesn’t remember.

Glad that his older brother isn’t plagued with the memories of a girl he once knew, a girl he professed his love to long before Cassie came along - a girl who was smart, ambitious, and had mastered the art of sarcasm like any good Winchester would. A girl who wanted to travel the world, who never got her chance because of a monster that took on any manifestation but it’s own. Still did to this day. Had taken his brother’s face a while back.

Sam remembers. He’s not sure why Dean doesn’t, just knows that it’s for the better, and that, maybe, that right there is proof that there’s a higher power out there looking out for the good in the world.

What surprises Sam the most about the fact that Dean doesn’t remember her is that Dean never forgets anything. Dean still remembers how many times he cooked Sam mac and cheese for dinner when they were kids. Can tell anyone who listens exactly what to do in the case that they’re haunted by a poltergeist. Can reference by memory alone almost any entry in their dad’s journal. That’s the Dean he knows, the Dean that he can deal with.

He can’t even mention her without Dean cocking an eyebrow, wondering for a moment if he recognizes the name, and then going blank, at a loss. Sam knows that it’s better Dean doesn’t remember. As tough as he knows Dean is, Sam wouldn’t want him experiencing what he went through with Jess. Doesn’t think someone as good as Dean – in the long run – deserves to hurt that badly.

Still, Sam can’t help but wonder what life would be like if she’d lived. Sam, at only sixteen, could even recognize the love he had for her. Not Dean’s; Sam wanted her to be a part of their family. Sam thought that, maybe, just maybe, she could help him make his case for college, help him convince Dad and Dean that it was the right thing for him. That he wasn’t cut out for hunting. She would have had his back on that one.

He wonders if she would have sent him a postcard from all the places she would have gone, if she would have even thought of him while she was there. If she and Dean would have gotten married, and Dean finally would have been able to stop running from whatever it was that he denied he was trying to avoid. If she could have given their family a sense of normalcy.

Sam still has nightmares about watching her die. Still wonders if he could have done anything to stop it at that point. Wonders what form the monster that killed her took while it was raping and beating her. He can still smell the blood on his hands, still remember how the tears burned against his cheeks, and how Dean had gone numb, how he’d forgotten so quickly afterwards. Sam can remember thinking that it was some spell that had his brother at a loss when he thought of those months. He knows now it’s not a spell, but hasn’t yet explained what it is.

Sam wonders if things would be different if Dad had been there, if Dad had even known about her. If Dad had ever been in the right place at the right time for his sons. Now Dad’s gone, too, and Sam doesn’t regret that as much as he regrets losing her. It was his first taste of ‘We can’t save everybody’, and he’s still reeling. When he’s not thinking about how he lost his own love. It’s when he compares Jess to her that he wishes that he could forget like Dean. Wishes he could just retreat into some dark place, where only the here and now exists.

Instead, he’s left with feeling like a failure. For Jess and Sylvie. He’d chuckled nervously when she’d told him the story of her name. “Named after a depressed poet who stuck her head in an oven,” she’d laughed. To this day, whenever Sam sees a copy of The Bell Jar, he loses his breath.

He remembers being awed by her intelligence. Remembers wondering why in hell she’d fallen for someone like Dean. He remembers the way Dean’s eyes would glaze over when she’d talk about Egypt, Ancient Greece, and Mesopotamia the way Dean talked about Wendigos, ghosts, and demons.

He can still hear her laugh when he’s not thinking about it, the way she did when he and Dean told her what they were really all about, what they were really looking for. Can still see her face go pale when she realized they weren’t joking, and that they needed her help. Most girls would have run for the hills. She sighed, looked them both in the eye and said she was in. Sam still finds her blind faith and acceptance strange, but Sylvie was like that. She was a mystery, and always will be to him.

As many times as he goes through those memories, he can never truly find a hole, find a place where things took a turn for the worse, a moment that could have miraculously changed the outcome. And yet, he still ponders, still spends sleepless nights wondering if there was anything he could have done…

Fort Collins, Colorado. A nice, somewhat quiet for its size, college town. Feels new and fresh, and yet, just like every other town they’d stopped off in for the last fifteen or so years. Sam’s not sure where Dad’s gone to, and Dean won’t tell him. Also won’t let on why Dad doesn’t think Sam can stay by himself this time, either.

He remembers when they let him stay alone the month after he turned thirteen. Dad and Dean chasing a werewolf across Pennsylvania, and little Sammy left by himself in run down cabin in the woods. He’d never wished more that summer break would have waited a little longer.

When Dean walks in that night, after spending a day trying to find a place to work while they’re holed up here, his eyes are alight, and Sam knows something’s up. Sam knows he’s not going to like it, either.

“I got somethin’, Sammy,” Dean grins at him, and that grin, Sam knows it, and it makes his skin crawl.

“A job?” It’s always better to play stupid with Dean, hope that maybe he’s just in an off mood, and his mannerisms are taking on new meanings for the first time in – what Sam assumes is – an entire lifetime.

“No, stupid, a case,” Dean scoffs, spinning the kitchen chair around and flipping one leg over the side, tossing a newspaper onto the table. “Five girls have disappeared from the campus library in the last two months.”

“So? Sounds to me like some psycho serial kidnapper.” Sam tries his hardest to brush all this off. Maybe if he doesn’t respond to Dean’s ideas, they’ll just go away.

“Dude, they were found a week later, beaten, raped, and killed, in their own apartments. You telling me that no one noticed the dead girl rotting in a pool of her own blood? Every landlord they’ve interviewed says that they checked their apartments the day the missing persons was filed. And, get this, Sammy: they all lived in the same building.”

“Great Dean, so it’s the landlord, in the boiler room with the knife. You win.” Sam’s not in the mood for this. “Dad says we’re just supposed to sit tight, wait for him to get back, right?”

Dean rubs a hand over the back of his neck, eyes on the tabletop and leg bouncing nervously. “Well, yeah…but, Sam, he’d be proud of us, man! Finding our own job? And besides, I’m in charge. That means you do what I tell you, doesn’t it?” And there goes that grin again.

Sam sighs heavily, all teen angst and wishing he could disappear and maybe reappear to find himself a part of a normal family. “I guess.”

“Good,” Dean nods, slamming a hand down on the table. “Get your stuff, we’re heading to the library.”

In the Company of Gods (1/?)

Tue, 13 Feb 2007 14:38:50 GMT

Title: In the Company of Gods
Rating: uh...right now, pretty soft R, but it could get worse in coming chapters
Fandom: Supernatural/Angel: The Series crossover
Characters/Pairings: Dean/Sam, Lindsey/OFC
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em.
Summary: He's supposed to be dead, and he's not letting anyone catch him now...
A/N: Okay, so I played around a little with stuff, give me a break. I explained it all within the fic and, well, you'll find out for yourself. Obviously, Lindsey isn't dead...well...I guess...maybe...Oh, and the title belongs to me, but the chapter title (Chapter One) comes from the song "Corn Fed" by Shannon Brown.

In the Company of Gods

Chapter One || Nothin’ But Country on the Radio Dial

It’s been over a year since he left L.A. Just as long since he’s started running. He’s supposed to be dead, and he’s not letting anyone catch him now. When Angel explained it all, in that letter, he hadn’t believed it. Didn’t know what to think. He wasn’t sure he deserved another chance. Then Lorne had pulled that gun, and he might as well have been pounded full of bullets. After the smoke had cleared, for just that moment, when Lorne said goodbye, gave him the letter from Angel, and the address to reach a loyal ally, he entered a haze. And he’s been lost in it ever since.

He found Arely a day or so later, as hell rained down around him, and he hoped he was doing the right thing in running rather than joining in the fight. But Angel had been right; if he’d have gone back, fought alongside his mortal enemy, it would have been hell raining down on him for being a traitor. So, he packed Arely in the truck Angel had given him to replace the old beater he’d owned most of his life, not really knowing what made her an ally or why he had to take her with him, and set L.A. in his rearview mirror and never looked back.

Nebraska in the middle of June is nothing to write home about. Field after field of corn, wheat, and milo by the mile, empty back roads and air so thick it could choke a vampire. Which, as Lindsey well knows, is impossible.

Arely’s next to him on the bench seat of the old Chevy, bare legs poking out from cutoff denim shorts, stretched with her feet sticking out the open window, propped on the passenger’s side mirror, white wife-beater ruffling in the wind, golden blond hair flowing in waves from under his old straw cowboy hat, brown eyes closed as she sings softly along with the radio, an old country song he knows in his bones, fingers tapping unconsciously against the steering wheel.

He hadn’t known it then, but Arely was worth her weight in gold. She’s small, but what Lorne and Angel hadn’t told him, was that she has power. He’d only met Illyria once in Wolfram and Hart before what he assumed was the Apocalypse came down on them. She was harsh, ill-fitting in Winifred Burkle’s body, and downright freaky. Arely is everything Illyria was and everything she wasn’t. A goddess in some dimension or other, an ancient being of unparalleled proportions, Arely could bring down the world around them with a single word – but she likes it too much.

In a body more human than most you find in L.A., Arely blends in like it’s her business. Which was probably why she came to mind in the first place as the ally to send along with Lindsey. They only stopped for food and sleep, sometimes spending a few days in a roadside motel in a town that didn’t warrant being on the map, hustling up some money on games of pool. When they couldn’t find a good game, Lindsey did day work where he could, for farmers who couldn’t afford to pay someone else who wouldn’t work near as hard as Lindsey. That was always something he’d been good at – work.

As normal as Arely is, Lindsey knows that’s not always the case. In her original form, she’s just as striking as Illyria, if not more. Of course, while Illyria seems riddled with evil, Arely glows with a light of goodness. And Lindsey still can’t quite believe that they’re on the same side. But, Angel had been right. Any trouble Lindsey’s come up against, Arely has been there, ready to fight for him. He thinks that means more to him than anything else.

He doesn’t notice the big, black, muscle car until it’s nearly on top of them. Before he knows it, they’re passing him like he’s standing still and Arely’s sitting up in her seat, whistling low at the fast disappearing overcompensation for someone’s obviously lacking masculinity.

“Nice wheels,” she says, southern accent thick as molasses. He’s still trying to figure that one out.

He just laughs, focuses on the road, and turns up the radio just that much more. This part of Nebraska, all you’ve got to pick from is George Jones or pork bellies. He’ll take the former.

“Dean, I really do think you should slow down.” Sam’s not nervous. Dean always drives like this when he’s agitated. But Sam knows it’s his own fault this time.

“When I find out where you hid my tapes, I’m gonna kill you,” Dean seethes, knuckles white around the steering wheel. “Fuckin’ country music.”

“We could always listen to crop prices.” The look Dean sends him is enough to make him cower back in the seat. He’s wondering why in hell he hid the tapes in the first place. Figures he’ll remember once Dean finds them and won’t turn down Metallica enough for them to talk, or Sam to concentrate.

By the time they pull into the parking lot of another cookie-cutter roadside motel in a no-name town, Sam is sick of the silence, broken only by the rumble of the Impala. He knows he’s in for it, but knows also, that Dean won’t spring until he knows Sam’s not on guard. Keeps him on his toes.

Dean all but drags him into their room once it’s rented, throws him onto one of the customary beds, and proceeds to pace.

“Sammy, you don’t understand. There are two things in this world that will drive a man like me mad: little brothers and country music.” Sam’s not sure he’s ever heard his brother so – distressed.

“They’re under my bag in the back,” he sighs. He knew full well that Dean wouldn’t think to look someplace so…right there. Dean looks in all the places that someone else would hide something. A real hiding place.

When Dean disappears out the door, a shit-eating grin plastered on that too-good-looking face of his, Sam knows what’s coming tonight. And he can’t help but smile to himself.

Lindsey doesn’t miss the big, black, muscle car the minute they pull into the parking lot. He knows Arely sees it, too. Hears her laugh over the radio, shoots her a death glare before she reminds him with a look that he should be minding his P’s and Q’s. She is a goddess, for crying out loud. And she could probably snap him in half if she really wanted to. But then she’d fail her mission. That was something she would not put up with.

“I’ll go in and get us a room,” he says softly, ignoring the urge to shove her against the door. Jokingly, of course.

She shakes her head at him, slips her brown suede cowboy boots on before he can even slam the door, and follows him into the lobby. He should’ve known that she wouldn’t let him out of her sight. But something about that is comforting, too.

Few words are exchanged as he reserves them a room, under the name Charles Gunn, pays cash, and takes the key. Arely doesn’t leave his side, smiling at the old man behind the counter that tells Lindsey she knows all about him. She has that power, that effect. Illyria was an ancient demon who wanted respect and adoration, but Arely’s a goddess. Lindsey learned long ago that she’s omniscient, and no one can keep anything from her.

Arely piles into the truck next to him, a sad smile on her face as she gazes through the plate glass windows of the lobby at the keeper. “He’s been through so much. Lindsey, do you know what it’s like to lose everything?” Her voice is soft, no more accent, just the way it’s meant to be, all knowing, and yet, without the ability to truly feel anything.

He nods. “Yeah, I’ve got an idea,” he replies, shifting into reverse and pulling the truck around the front of the motel. Arely watches him carefully, almost like Illyria would, wanting so badly to know exactly how he feels.

“I’m sorry,” she offers, but he knows that she doesn’t really know what she’s apologizing for. “Angel knew what he was talking about, though. And he gave you more than your fair share of chances, Lindsey. At least you took this one.”

“Yeah, at least I took this one,” he agrees, wishing to change the subject, not quite knowing how. “C’mon, let’s get settled and get some grub.”

She smiles at him as he throws the truck into park and reaches for the door handle. He grabs both their bags from the back while Arely heads into their room. The black muscle car in the parking spot next to them doesn’t go unnoticed.

“What the hell is a Nix?” Dean grumbles across the table.

“Ancient Scandinavian demon. Lures women and children to the water to drown them. Kind of like a siren in Greek mythology.”

“Great. You know, I’ve never really been a lover of water, Sam.”

“Yeah, well, we don’t pick ‘em, we just kill ‘em. Just remember that, Dean,” Sam leans back into the bench on his side of the booth as he watches people go about their business around them, oblivious to what’s happening to their little town. A few drowning ‘accidents’, and few are questioning it. Even less have noticed that the same thing has happened every eighty years since the town was settled in the early nineteenth century.

Sam turns, out of habit, when the bell over the door rings, notices the couple that walks in, but doesn’t really think anything of them. They look like they fit in perfectly around here. An all-American little blond girl in cutoffs and cowboy boots and a guy with hair long enough to be thought rebellious by all four old men sitting at the counter, but his work worn jeans, dark blue shirt with mother of pearl snaps, and own pair of nearly worn through boots make him passable for this part of the country.

It’s the way they’re received that’s got Sam’s mind working. Everyone gives a casual look to the good ol’ boy, but the girl, she seems to command attention. Sam swears he can see her glowing, even in the dim, greasy light.

“Sam, let’s go!” Dean’s close to yelling, which he knows better than to do in a place like this – it’ll do nothing but draw attention to them. “We’ve got work to do.”

He nods dumbly, wondering at why his brother hasn’t got an arm around the pretty little girl yet, even as she walks by and sends him a regal but flirtatious smile.

Back at the motel, Dean’s got him shoved tightly against the desk that’s attached to the wall, one leg between both of his almost before he can close the door. A flat hand at the middle of his back holds him down on the over-treated, cheap wood even as he lets his free hand roam over Sam’s ass, which Sam very well knows belongs to big brother, but that doesn’t keep Dean from saying it over and over again in a gravel torn voice.

Sam’s not sure he feels bad a while later when his body convulses in orgasm. Sure, he’s saying Dean’s name with every breath, like a prayer, but it sure isn’t his older brother he’s thinking about.

This time of the evening always leaves Lindsey feeling warm, settled. The warm oranges and pinks of the sunset coming through the open window, creamy thin curtains blowing in the breeze. He can smell fresh cut alfalfa wafting in on each gust.

There’s a baseball game on TV, but he’s not paying any attention. The newspaper’s thin, but there are some rumblings around town. A lot of deaths lately that no one can explain other than to say they were ‘tragic accidents’ and that people need to pay attention to the signs at the lake outside of town.

He can hear Ari – as she likes to be called – rifling about her things, looking for who knows what, sighing every now and again and obviously having no luck.

He cocks an eyebrow at her when she carefully bends the paper down to see his face. “Lindsey, why don’t you put that useless thing away?” she asks in a sweet voice.

“Just wonderin’ what’s goin’ on out west,” he replies, folding the paper neatly and accepting Arely crawling into his lap, legs thrown over the arm of the chair and her ass fitting perfectly in the angle between his thighs.

“If there were any news, they’d contact us, you know that.” She looks up at him, her dark eyes wide and innocent, showing her inability to truly be human – but look and act human nonetheless.

“Yeah? How, Ari? How are they gonna get a hold of us?”

“They’ll figure out a way.”

“It’s been over a year.”

“Think I don’t know that?” And now she’s defensive. Obviously, her intentions were not to argue. “Why don’t you just relax? Maybe we can stay here longer than other places. It seems quiet enough.”

“Because, Ari, you know the drill. We can’t stay anywhere too long. And there’s no tellin’ just how long ‘too long’ is.” He lays a hand lightly on her knee, stroking soft skin with his thumb. He looks down at the gap between her shin and her boot, wondering how easy it would be to fall into darkness again. He’s beginning to miss it. It was easier when he didn’t have to run from forces like the senior partners. And they had his back when the Powers That Be came calling.

“You can’t do that,” Ari sighs, and he knows that she knows exactly what he was thinking. “I won’t let you.”

“I didn’t think it was up to you. Soul, free will? Yep, got ‘em both.” He offers a big, innocent, cheesy smile just to push buttons.

“Well, golly me! And here I thought Wolfram and Hart owned your soul,” she drawls, loud and over the top. She bends her head, looks at him through eyes nearly rolled back into her head, and he sees it, just a flash of blue, crystal clear and icy, and he’s reminded of Illyria again. This is how the two ‘gods’ are alike. Apparently it was a fashion trend back in the day. Her voice dips low, powerful, and he can see her hair darkening before his eyes, “And if they don’t, well, I’d love to sink my claws into the sucker.”

He blinks, long and slow, and he knows where this is going, isn’t about to stop it. The first time this happened, it scared the living shit out of him, he was left in rumpled sheets, frozen solid with something like fear, and not sure exactly what had just happened. Now, he’s grown accustomed to it. It sort of turns him on, her going ‘goddess’ on him, the cutoffs and cowboy boots gone, leaving her completely nude in front of him without so much as a flick of a wrist, her skin alabaster and tinged with blue, her hair a rich dark brown and yet more blue. Once again, he thinks it was a trend.

When she growls, low in her throat, it’s deep and guttural, and he can’t help but follow her to the bed. She pulls him down on top of her, and now he doesn’t know where his clothes went, either. He thinks she might be saying something, but he can’t hear anything but the rush of blood in his veins. Yeah, he knows where it’s all going.

When he sinks inside her, it’s almost a relief, the warm clamp of wet heat around him, and he doesn’t know how she does it, how she manages to make him forget all the little actions that go between the big. But she does, and he thinks he loves her for it.

The only way he can tell he’s driving her wild is the look in her eyes. Something he’s grown accustomed to, something he knows to look for now. Her breath stays steady until the very end, and, when she convulses around him, her back arched in what he imagines is a perfect bow, he can’t help but gasp, her name exiting on a single deep breath, her fingers digging ravines into his skin, his forehead pressed to hers, their eyes locked in a fit of utter passion, and he thinks he sees something else there, but knows better.

By the time he comes back down, rolled next to her on the lumpy mattress, she’s back to blonde and bronze, curled against his side, her eyes a deep brown, and barely open.

He presses a kiss to her temple, pulls her closer, the comforter over them, and lets sleep come in easy breaths.

Sam wakes in the early morning sun, just like always. He finds himself in an empty bed, an empty room. Not just like always. Dean’s never awake before he is.

The sight of Dean’s open bag at the foot of the dresser, the reflection of sun off the windshield of the Impala out front through the curtains settles him a bit. He doesn’t think much more than Piss, clothes, hungry before he rolls off the bed, throwing the sheets back haphazardly. Dad had never been the type to make a bed, and that was passed on to both boys.

He throws on a pair of jeans from his bag, makes sure they don’t have any stains, don’t smell, and grabs a t-shirt to pull over his head. The morning is quiet; sun shining just like yesterday, 7:00 A.M., and the air’s already thick and sticky.

Sam stays to himself. Always has. All the way to the office, where he buys a newspaper and gets stale smelling coffee out of the vending machine. He smiles cordially to the old woman behind the counter, nodding in Midwestern fashion, and heads back to the room. Maybe Dean’ll bring breakfast back when he decides he’s ready.

He’s reading the paper and trying to put the key into the lock at the same time when he hears the click of the door next to him. He looks up to see the blonde girl from the diner, in a white button down that looks like it belongs to her boyfriend, but is probably just one of those ultra chic oversized nightshirts. She’s not wearing pants, and her hair falls in loose curls onto her shoulders.

He realizes he’s staring, doesn’t move to change that fact, just stares at the expanse of leg extending from that shirt. She’s not wearing pants, and he can see the outline of her underwear through the thin fabric of the nightshirt. When he reaches her eyes, he’s already half hard and thinking truly dirty thoughts. She’s looking back at him, smiling like she knows exactly what he’s thinking. The tingle under his skin tells him that she does know what he’s thinking. And just then, the key clicks into place, his hand turns of its own volition, and the door swings open.

The dark of the empty motel room seems to crush him as he leans against the closed door as he tries to catch his breath.

He doesn’t count the steps to the dresser, doesn’t think about dialing Dean’s cell number. He just thinks of what he’s going to say.

“Dean, I think I’ve found our Nix.”

Black Parade Masterpost

Sun, 28 Jan 2007 23:02:08 GMT

Here are links to each and every chapter! To make things easier on me...and you, of course!

Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight

The Black Parade > Final Chapter

Sun, 28 Jan 2007 22:52:24 GMT

Title: The Black Parade
Rating: M
Disclaimer: Nothin's changed, and I still don't own anything you recognize...
Summary: "Something like that," she spoke softly, stepping close to him. She pressed her chest against his lower rib cage, gazing up at him with a suddenly much more mature air about her. "I've been watching you."
Status: Complete
A/N: It's finished! As always, I'd like to thank elanurel for her lovely beta job. As I did make changes after her edits, any remaining mistakes are my own. Enjoy!

Previous Chapters: HERE

Chapter Eight

The anthem won’t explain it…

The fight was a blur. Dean ran on autopilot and hoped Sammy wouldn’t get himself killed. It was almost like he wasn’t controlling his own body. And he was a killing machine.

His eyes stayed fixed on Lila through the whole thing. He kept watch over her, worked his way toward her; when at least six bodies lay dead and bleeding, he knelt by her side. He could feel the moisture of her still warm blood sinking through his jeans as he pulled her toward him.

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay. Sammy’ll get help,” he soothed, her head in his lap as he tried his best to ignore the blood still seeping from beneath her.

“Dean,” she breathed, sounding as though she hadn’t spoken in years. “It won’t do any good. It’s over now. You have to –“

“No, no, don’t talk like that. Sammy’s here, he’s gonna get help.” He couldn’t help but notice how desperate and weak he sounded.

“Dean.” Her voice was stern as she gripped the collar of his shirt, looked deep into his eyes. “Listen to me. You have to take care of Sammy. You can’t get careless, can’t get stupid about things. You have to keep your head about you and remember that your father…he put you in charge for a reason. You’re stronger than you think.”

He nodded, trying hard to swallow past the swelling in his throat. Rustling leaves startled him, and he looked up to see Sam, dagger dangling from a bloodied hand as he approached, looking reverent as all hell.

When he looked back down to Lila, her eyelashes fanned against pale cheeks, he knew she was gone. He only hoped that her good deed would at least earn her entry to Purgatory rather than a one-way, non-stop ticket to Hell. She deserved it.

They’d burned Lila’s body that night in the woods and lit out of Massachusetts like the devil himself was on their heels.

Sammy sat, quiet in the passenger’s seat as Dean tried hard to run his memory out of his head with the stereo turned as high as they could stand it without eardrums exploding.

Dean wished that he could have done something. Knew Sam felt guilty, and realized, once again, that they weren’t going to be able to right every wrong, to save every innocent person plagued by evil or circumstance.

“She was helpless.” Sam’s voice out of the dark, between tracks on the cassette, sounded hollow, distant.

Dean immediately reached for the volume, turned to look at his brother, “What?”

“She told me her life story. She was a victim of her environment, of circumstance. The first person – or people – to tell her that she was more than the bastard child of the town whore, they were evil. They had her from the moment she walked into this world. It’s almost like someone set the whole thing into motion the minute she was conceived. And she broke out. She changed.”

“Yeah, Sammy, people are capable of that.”

Sam wasn’t listening. Barely stopped for breath when Dean spoke. “The demon said he has plans for me. If she can change, why can’t I? He obviously wants me for something. He set this entire chain of events into place to get me. If it weren’t for Lila…for you…”

“Sam, you’re not gonna turn evil.”

“But if evil can turn good, why can’t it be the other way around?”

Dean grinned wide, like he’d been waiting to say this for a while, “Because Sammy, she turned good because of me.”

Months later, and Dean’s trying his hardest not to think about the rope digging into his wrists, the gag in his mouth as he waits for Sammy to come busting through the doors. Hopes he knows enough to look for signs of a trap.

When the first explosion wracks the building’s foundations beneath him, he can feel the anger, the tears stinging through his whole body. But he knows. Something tells him that everything’s going to be okay. When the second explosion goes off behind him, it’s just anger. At Gordon being so god damned smug about the whole thing.

He can almost hear a voice near his ear, can feel a gust of breath over his shoulder. He knows she’s there, watching over them, making sure that her death wasn’t in vain. In his head, he speaks her name, and he can nearly see her smile, as real as Sammy when he loosens the bonds.

It takes all the macho he can muster not to shed a tear at the idea. He knows that Sam wouldn’t ever let him live down something so mushy, so…girly, and so he keeps it to himself and sends up an extra thought to a girl named Lila who had been on the dark side until a chance meeting with a couple of good ol’ boys who defy all matter of evil, and will someday help win the fight for the good.

The Black Parade > Chapter Seven

Tue, 16 Jan 2007 05:39:49 GMT

Title: The Black Parade
Rating: M
Disclaimer: Nothin's changed, and I still don't own anything you recognize...
Summary: "Something like that," she spoke softly, stepping close to him. She pressed her chest against his lower rib cage, gazing up at him with a suddenly much more mature air about her. "I've been watching you."
Status: In progress
A/N: Thanks again to </a></font></b></a>elanurel for the beta! So, the Latin's not exact, and any mistakes are mine, as elanurel does wonders to my work, but I'm always changing...boo me...

Chapter Seven -- Bodies in the streets…

Dean had thrown both Lila and Sam into the Impala. That was the only word for it. Sam had to admit that he was more surprised to see his brother than Lila at this point.

Sam had tried to ask Dean what the hell was going on during the trip back to the hotel. Dean stayed silent, lips pursed and eyes fixed on the road like the car would blow up if the speed dipped under 50 miles per hour. Lila sat in the backseat, gazing out the window and also pointedly quiet. Sam was starting to feel left out. He wanted in on the secret, too.

Dean snapped the minute the door to their room slammed shut behind the three of them. “Okay, Lila, now it’s time for you to spill. We’ve got what, two, three hours? I need to know how to get rid of whatever stupid evil fuck you all are working for.”

Sam stared at his brother, jaw slack and eyes wide. He’d obviously missed something. “Dean, what the hell-“

“The man with the yellow eyes.” Her voice was soft but strong. She wasn’t about to meet Dean blow for blow in this shouting match. She was determined to keep her cool.

“Great,” Dean grumbled, hand scraping over his mouth roughly.

“Someone want to explain to me what the hell is going on here?” Sam shouted into the now quiet room.

Dean and Lila looked at him as though he’d lost his mind, and he couldn’t help but smile sheepishly, knowing that his outburst was a few seconds too late.

“Lila here works for them.”

“I was a part of the cult that leads The Black Parade.”

Sam looked back and forth between them. Did they have to speak over each other like that? It only made things that much more confusing.

“Wait, the man with the yellow eyes?” Sam was a little slow on the uptake, and it didn’t go unnoticed by his brother.

“Glad to see you’re listening, Sammy,” Dean sighed, sarcasm dripping from his words. “Lila and I kind of…well, I don’t think you need to hear the gory details right now, but, now she’s changed - for the good, I guess, all because of me-“ he sent her a leering grin, “ and now she wants to help. I’m gonna go ahead and take it because just a little while ago, she wanted to take my soul and hand you over to the yellow-eyed demon.”

“But you were so nice!” Sam protested, glaring at Lila. She shrugged. “You didn’t even let on-“

“What do you want me to do? Wear a sign or something?” Her retort sounded a lot like something Dean would say. Sam hadn’t missed his brother’s snort, either.

“So, anyway, if you’re done ‘catching up’, can we please talk about how the hell we’re going to fix this?” Dean asked no one in particular. Both Sam and Lila nodded. “How do we stop it? I mean, him...whatever. We don’t have the Colt.”

“You can’t stop him. Fact is, he’s probably already gone. You think he won’t know by now that I’ve crossed over? Think he won’t know that you’re wise to his scheme? What brought you this way, anyhow?”

“Note from our dad.”

“Wait, your dead dad?”

“Yeah.”

Sam watched the exchange with disinterest, wondering if it would make any difference if he faked a vision right about now. Lila was probably right about the demon being gone, which meant that they were only dealing with a bunch of wannabe witches and wizards, anyhow, and that they should probably just get the hell out of Dodge and see if they could catch the demon’s trail.

“He left us notes like that all the time, Lila,” Dean’s voice was sharp.

“But you weren’t, oh, I don’t know…worried? That maybe he knew he was going to die, or leave you? That he wasn’t necessarily sending you here of his own will?”

“What are you saying? That the demon lured us here?” Sam was proud of himself for being able to rejoin the conversation with such ease.

Lila and Dean turned to him simultaneously. “Well…yeah, I guess. Look, all I know is that he planned on you two being here. Came and told me himself that you’d be here, and that it would all go down the way we planned. He’s got people working for him all over the place. He’ll get to you eventually,” she explained.

Sam watched Dean turn dark eyes on Lila, and, once again, he was lost. “Wait, I thought I could protect him.”

“You can, but only for so long. Like I said earlier, you’re not immortal, and the demon’s relying on that. He knows that eventually, you’ll get lazy, you’ll screw up. All mortals do - apparently me included - and when you do, he’ll be ready and waiting to take Sam.”

“Over my dead body!” Dean shouted.

“That’s kinda the point, stupid,” Lila threw back. “That’s why I was going to go ahead and get rid of-“ she stopped, eyes going wide. “They’re looking for you.”

“For who? If the demon’s gone, what’s the point in targeting Sam?”

“No, Dean, they’re looking for you! I was going to redeem your soul in a different way, for a different purpose, but they know that they need to get rid of you in order to get to Sam.” Her voice shook with each word. She’d witnessed unspeakable acts, committed them, even, and now…now she had to find a way to protect them from a set of events that she’d put into place.

“The ‘others’?” Dean asked, brave as always. “Think I can’t take care of a few more like you?”

“Not tonight. Tonight they’ll be blessed with special powers. I thought my own power would be enough to get to you - I was wrong, and that’s what did me in. Once the walk starts, they’re practically indestructible.”

----------------------------------------

“So they’ll start from the building I found you in front of?” Dean’s voice was directed at Lila, his eyes on the map of town in front of him.

“Essentially. You’ll have to wait to attack until the walk is finished, though. I’m sure that the demon is banking on you storming in two guns blazing and going for the kill in the middle of everything. He knows that’s your style, and that’s all they’ll know. Their increased power will be in place until the end of the ceremony.” Lila sat in one of the wobbly chairs at the small table that Dean leaned over with the map. Sam sat across from Lila, still slightly confused, rubbing his forehead periodically and willing it to absorb all this information.

“What ceremony?” Dean looked up from the map.

“The sacrifice to the celebration, of course.”

“Sacrifice?” Sam’s head had whipped up so quickly he wondered if he’d just given himself whiplash. “Not…not a human sacrifice!”

“They do plenty of those year round. If you could call them that,” Lila’s voice was shrouded in mystery, her eyes downcast.

“You’ve killed people haven’t you?” Dean asked, standing straight, a hand scrubbing over his face.

“You could say that,” she replied, her voice thick with tears now.

“How many?” Sam leaned forward across the table, hand reaching out for hers.

“Sam, this isn’t the time for your Dr. Phil therapy shit,” Dean growled, slamming his hand down on the table. “She’s a fucking criminal!”

“Yeah? You’ve killed, too, Dean!” Sam shouted, hand still resting on Lila’s as she watches their argument.

“Not innocent people!”

“But you’ve come pretty damn close, haven’t you, Dean?”

Dean opened his mouth, closed it right away, speechless at the accusation. Sam scoffed at him, turned back to Lila, and flicked on those damn puppy-dog eyes. On occasion, they came in handy, and both boys knew it.

“It’s okay, Lila, we’re all pushed into doing things we don’t want to sometimes.” His voice is softer than it’s ever been toward his brother, and it doesn’t go unnoticed.

“I wasn’t myself. I wasn’t possessed, though. I knew what I was doing, and that part of me, the part that loved the power, the control, wanted to do it. I was so…”

“Blinded,” Dean’s voice came from halfway across the room where he sat on the edge of one of the beds.

“Yeah,” she choked out. “Something like that.”

“It’s okay, Lila. We’ll figure all that out later. Right now, you need to help Dean and I figure out how to stop these people. If they’re killing people now, it’s only going to get worse.” Sam took his hand from hers as Dean moved toward the table and his map once again.

“Like I said, you have to wait for the end of the ceremony, which will only make things harder. They’ll have expected you a lot earlier. The demon told them what to be on the look out for. There will only be five to ten that will know exactly who to look for. They’re members of the group I led. The majority of the people in the walk will be amateurs, with no real power, just like you’d expect. They’ll leave right away. They usually plan all sorts of parties for after the walk. The five to ten members that will be looking for you, though, they’ll wait around, mostly because you didn’t show all through the walk. That’s when you make your move.”

Lila’s hands shook, she held them in her lap, the sounds of weapons being checked, loaded and stowed echoed in the room around her. She tried to ignore the familiar sound of metal clacking into metal. She knew it too well.

“You okay?” Dean had grown sympathetic somewhere between finding out that she’d killed innocent people and realizing that he wasn’t all that different. He knew what it was like to be completely dedicated to duty. To follow every order you were given, and he wasn’t sure he could blame her. Her punishment for disobeying the demon would have been a lot worse than the lectures and extra training he’d gotten from Dad as a kid.

She looked up at him, dark doe eyes wide with fear and sadness, knowing that her secret was out, that she wasn’t one of them, and couldn’t ever be. The line between good and evil is a fine one, and she’d crossed it long ago. They all knew that something like that couldn’t easily be undone. She nodded, trying to smile, and failing miserably.

“You packing?” She looked around, noticed that Sam was gone, that it was just her and Dean in this too small room with too many sights and smells that had her wanting nothing more than to lick a long stripe up the column of his throat and throw herself into his arms.

She shook her head, hair falling into her face. She wondered if she looked as young as she felt. Dean chuckled, sliding his Glock pistol into the waistband of his jeans with practiced ease.

“Too much of a temptation? You wouldn’t be the first woman to want to put a bullet in me.”

“It’s not you,” her voice was hoarse, her throat dry. “I mean, I don’t want to kill you. I don’t think it would do me any good at this point. I’ll have to hand over my soul no matter what. There was no contract clause stating that once you decided to go good, you were just let off the hook.”

“But I suppose it does say ‘once you go bad, you never go back’?” He cracked a grim smile at his own joke.

“Not as funny when it doesn’t rhyme,” she mused, looking down at her hands. “But I don’t think there’s a synonym for bad that ends in ‘ack’, huh?”

“You’re right,” he answered, looking through the artillery that lay on the bed in front of him. “So why do it?”

“Repentance?” She paused, a sad smile on her face. “There’s no hope for me, Dean, but if I can help you and Sam, it might earn someone brownie points.”

He sighed, sat next to her on the edge of the bed not covered in weapons, and turned his gaze to her, a sorrow in those depths that anyone who’d never truly known him wouldn’t even know existed within him. “I don’t know much about the ‘good and evil, fight to the death or the end of the world’ thing, but I’m sure there’s still hope for you. I mean, isn’t God all about forgiveness and second chances?”

“I like to think so, but seeing as I’ve never really known him…” she trailed off, trying to make a joke of it. It didn’t work, and Dean laid a hand on hers where it rested on her thigh.

“Lila, I can’t believe that you’ve sold your soul. I mean, witchcraft doesn’t usually work like that, right? There’s got to be something you can do…or we can do.”

“Is this a softer, gentler side of Dean Winchester I’m seeing here?” She smirked, eyebrow raised.

Dean cleared his throat, took his hand off her thigh and stood up. “Dean Winchester doesn’t have a softer, gentler side. There’s just hunting mode and not-hunting mode. That’s it.”

“Right…tell that to your little brother,” Lila laughed, standing and heading for the door.

Dean watched her leave, for the second time that night. He knew she’d only gone to where Sam stood next to the Impala, to wait for him to finish getting his shit together before they took off for the wooded clearing outside of town that Lila had told them about. He hoped she was wrong about not having any hope.

It had begun to mist just as the walk started. They could hear the chants and bells from where they crouched among trees and bushes, could see the fire from their lanterns. Dean had to wonder where in hell they’d gotten antique lanterns like that. They looked like something straight out of the Salem Witch Trials.

“How long will the ceremony take?” Sam asked, leaning close to Lila. She crouched between them.

“Minutes. Like I said, they’ll have been expecting you to make your move earlier, will wonder why they don’t have the sacrifice to the yellow-eyed demon. He won’t show up because you’re not at his mercy, and when he’s not here when they arrive, they’ll simply do the closing and most of them will leave. Those with the real power will wait around a bit longer. They’ll still have hope that all will go as planned.”

“But once the walk closing ceremony’s over, they’re powerless, right?” Dean asked.

“Right.” Lila turned to look at him, her dark hair shining dimly in the dim light from the clouded moon. He was caught off guard when she moved forward and closed the inches between them, her lips capturing his in a searing kiss. He could hear Sam snicker behind her like the twelve-year-old he probably still was on the inside. “Fight hard, Dean Winchester. You’re worth more than you know.”

“Lila, what are you – “ Neither of them were expecting her to walk out in to the clearing like that, to expose herself before the time they’d planned. Sam looked at Dean, palpable fear between them. When Dean moved to join her, Sam’s hand shot out, landed flat on his chest, and his little brother sent him a death glare that froze him on the spot.

“Don’t, Dean. She’s doing what she thinks is right.”

Dean growled, low in his throat, then shook off the nervous energy coursing through his muscles and released the urge to go forward and get her. The crowd was only feet from the clearing now, their chants clear and their bells ringing through the woods.

“Oh procer of obscurum, plumbum nos ut vestri templum, qua nos dedi nostrum bodies quod ops vestri muneris.”[i]

Dean looked at Sam, an obvious question in his eyes. Sam had always been better at Latin than Dean, but now was not the time to ask what the hell the hordes of ‘practicing’ witches and wizards were talking about.

When Lila spoke, her voice was strong, “Liberi of obscurum: hic, huic sanctus locus, permissum procer of lies quod interficio audite vestri placitum futurus unus of suus.”[ii]

Dean moved closer to Sam, eyes fixed on Lila, standing before the crowd, arms outstretched as though in welcome. “I thought she was on our side,” he huffed in Sam’s ear.

“Shh…she is, but she can’t let on that she’s no longer one of them.”

“Audite nos, filia of priest, permissum Lucifer sino nos in suus muneris.”[iii] The group spoke in a unison so eerie, it chilled Dean to the bone.

Dean watched as Lila turned away from the gathered, facing a large carved altar that had been hidden between trees, now illuminated by the lanterns carried by those from the walk. “Abbas of malum, suffragium nos in addo orbis terrarum ut a novus ordo.”[iv]

That seemed to conclude the ceremony, as Lila turned back to the crowd, they began speaking amongst themselves, in English for the most part, and Lila, at the head of the group, was lost in a circle of eight or more.

When Dean moved, he was stopped by Sam’s hand on his chest once again, “Not yet, Dean, we have to wait until the others are gone.”

“Sam, she’s being questioned by the fuckers in command of this whole shindig. I don’t want her getting hurt just because there are still a few idiots around.”

“Dean, we have to wait. She said to wait.”

Dean nodded, settling back behind the trees.

As the meaningless participants left in bunches, the light left the clearing, only a few lanterns from those around Lila leading the way to where she stood. Dean and Sam couldn’t hear their voices, couldn’t see Lila among them.

When her scream rang out in the clearing, Dean jumped to action, without a plan of how he and Sam were going to take down ten crazies all on their own. All he knew was the color of the puddle gathering around Lila’s body, on the ground, as the others turned toward him, their faces cold and eyes lifeless.

[i] “Oh princes of darkness, lead us to your temple, where we offer our bodies and power to your service.”

[ii] “Children of darkness: here, in this sacred place, let the prince of lies and murder hear your plea to belong to him.”

[iii] “Hear us, daughter of the priest, let Lucifer allow us into his service.”

[iv] “Father of evil, aid us in bringing the world to a new order.”

I seek to cure what's deep inside (or Gonna take some times to do the things we never had)

Mon, 04 Dec 2006 12:04:43 GMT

Title: I seek to cure what's deep inside (or Gonna take some time to do the things we never had)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Dean/OFC, Sam/OMC, Sam/Dean
Warnings: character death, Wincest, graphic boy/boy sex
Genre: AU, Mystery
Summary: It's gonna take a lot to take me away from you...there's nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do...Dean thought his family was plagued only by demons, the supernatural, he never thought they would fall victim to mere mortals...
Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Supernatural (not for lack of trying) and I also don't own the song that this idea came from, that belongs to Toto (and I swear on all things that are holy if you make fun...*shakes fist*).
A/N: Okay, so I had this dream, and I know that there are gonna be haters, but there really was character death in my dream, and, hey, be thankful that the OFC isn't a relative, like in my dream (which was wierd). Oh, and in my dream John was alive, and Ellen was there, and since we all know how much I hate Ellen and how dead John is, well, I'm removing that part of the story as well. Then, when I was reading through the lyrics to Toto's "Africa", well, I couldn't resist those damn words that have become the title...and it kinda fits, so...you know, I had to borrow.

Previous Chapters: 1 | 2

Chapter Three: Crime

Dean can still remember the first time he heard Sammy laugh. It was the first sign that everything was going to be okay. John hadn't been the same after Mary's death, and that left Dean - at four years old - to pick up the pieces. Sure, John provided for the boys, food, shelter, did the major stuff for Sammy, but socialization came in the form of a four year old with an active imagination and no idea as to what had really happened that night in his little brother's nursery.

Sammy loved Peek-a-Boo, and Dean loved playing it with him. He vaguely remembers playing with his mother, head propped on her very pregnant stomach, watching her laugh and smile every time he jumped when her hands moved away. It was part of their after naptime routine, he thinks.

The first laugh Sam ever gave Dean was pure joy, more than a giggle, a coo, or any other sound Dean had ever heard from the little rugrat. And it warmed Dean's heart more than a lot of things to this day. That memory was something he carried with him, close to his heart, wherever he went.

The last laugh he doesn't recall so vividly. It's blurred with a lot of others from over the years, drowned out by fighting and fucking. He can remember what Sam's laugh sounded like, just not the last time he heard it. It's that way with a lot of things anymore. He can't remember the last time he woke up in bed with Sam curled around him, the last time they'd had sex, or the last time they'd taken a shower together. All the years of practiced activity just blend together now.

Kisha tells him that she knows the last time Sam had sex, and Dean's heart stops in his chest. Somehow, he knows that he isn't involved.

"When he left, he didn't know where he was going," she says in a quiet voice. "I don't think he was leaving because of you. It was him. He was frightened of himself. He wanted to know who he was, and he didn't feel he could do that while working jobs with you. I know that both of you thought you were invincible to anything that wasn't supernatural. You always thought that, didn't you, Dean?"

He looks at her, absently toying with his glass of scotch, his arms stretched long and wide across the table. "I guess. I never really thought we'd be stupid enough to get axed by just some Joe Schmoe on the street. We could defend ourselves, had learned to early on."

"When Jess was killed, Sam began to think that someone out there was playing his life like some sick joke. He loved you, but was driven back. Or pulled, whichever way you want to look at it." Dean thinks back to the night he pulled Sam out of the apartment he shared with Jess before the whole damn place went up in flames. "I know you hated the fact that he wanted a normal life."

Dean nods, eyes fixed on the shitty table top in front of him. "I wanted to protect him, to be all that he needed. He wanted more."

"But he needed you."

**

The night sky was opaque. Stars couldn't be seen for the barrier of dark clouds above. The water was dirty, almost as dirty as Sam felt. He hadn't meant to end up in Louisiana. He doesn't think about what led him here. Tries not to worry about what Dean's going through right now. He'd left him in Oklahoma, without a single hint of where he was headed. He didn't even know, so why should Dean?

"I was thinkin' you wouldn't come." The voice behind him in the darkness is gravel and sex and cigarettes on a Monday morning. Tired and old and everything Dean isn't.

"I'm not one to back out on commitments," he answers, staring out at the bayou instead of at this stranger. Why hadn't he gotten his name? How stupid could he really get?

"You think you're some kinda smartass? Think you can fuck me over, kid?"

"The fucking part I know I can do. Just, I thought I was taking tonight." He swears that one day, a quick mouth like that will get him in trouble in this life.

"Oh, you're damn right you're takin'...you little fucker, think you can get to me with a quick mouth...mouth's gonna get that sweet ass of yours in trouble, you know that?"

Sam nods as a calloused hand closes around his jaw, grease and dirt soaked fingers digging into the soft flesh of his cheeks. "But I think it'll be worth it."

He hears the button pop on his jeans, feels cold fingertips against his skin. So different from Dean, who was always warm, always soft, and always...Dean.

He hears the zipper, knows that the redneck jackass behind him's probably had his own pants undone since he came around the corner of the dockhouse.

He wouldn't be able to see anything if not for the soft, muted light of the lantern over the door. The reddish paint on the side of the building is chipping, fading away, much like he feels.

A rough hand on his half hard dick isn't pleasing in the least, and he wishes, not for the first time, that he'd been smart and stayed in bed with Dean in Oklahoma.

He can already hear BillyBob-what's-his-name panting in his ear, the hand not around his cock exploring the firm expanse of his ass and groping for his hole.

His head falls forward, chin hitting his chest, and, for a brief moment, he's back in Tulsa, curled up next to Dean, warm and loved. The sharp point of the dagger hits just below his ribcage, and all he can feel is the warmth of his own blood seeping out over milky skin.

"Fuckin' fag...fuckin' whore. Deserve to die." BillyBob-what's-his-name is gone before Sam falls to the wooden slats of the dock, his blood coating them in a red darker than the dockhouse paint ever was.

He can feel tears stinging his eyes as he rolls onto his back, eyes toward the blank sky, looking for some sort of relief from the pain. It's more than physical. He hurts on the inside, wanting to see his brother, his lover, once more and knowing that nothing will bring that about.

The last word on his lips is his brother's name, whispered like a prayer to the heavens before he blacks out.

**

Kisha describes the whole incident in great detail, and Dean can't help but cry. Sob for his brother, weep for his lover, and lament his own stupidity for not even trying to go after him.

"I'm sorry Dean. I would have given anything to not have to tell you this, but - "

"You were sent, I know," he says in a meek voice.

"He loved you. Loved you so much." There are tears in her eyes now, too, but she manages to hold herself together long enough to wrap small arms around him. "Why don't you get some rest, I'll keep watch."

He nods, wondering how someone so young, such a stranger, can understand the need to be on edge. He thinks that she's not just looking out for the cops, though. That something more is on his trail.

The Black Parade > Chapter Six

Sat, 02 Dec 2006 11:21:39 GMT

Title: The Black Parade
Rating: M
Disclaimer: Nothin's changed, and I still don't own anything you recognize...
Summary: "Something like that," she spoke softly, stepping close to him. She pressed her chest against his lower rib cage, gazing up at him with a suddenly much more mature air about her. "I've been watching you."
Status: In progress
A/N: Thanks again to elanurel for the beta!

Previous Chapters:
Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five

Chapter Six -- Do you fight it to the end?

Sam hadn’t openly worried about his brother until their father’s death, but this was absurd. He was going after him, in the dark, on foot, in a town he didn’t know and felt slightly threatened by. Damn Dean for taking the Impala.

Every time Sam thought he heard the familiar rumble of the engine, he’d turn a corner and lose it. He’d never stayed in a more confusing backwater town. He thanked all that was holy and anyone who would listen that they had chosen a smaller town outside of Salem rather than Salem outright. He’d probably lose Dean for good, there.

He was standing on a street corner, looking in every direction possible and wondering when in the hell Dean would head for the center of town, where the Witch Walk would begin. It was just after 10 pm, and Sam understood that the event wouldn’t start for at least another two hours.

As if out of nowhere, he caught the sound of the Impala again, and turned back toward the Mom and Pop store he was standing in front of, taking off around the corner, in search of his brother.

--------------------------------

She couldn’t bring herself to go in. The rest were waiting for her. She was sure that he would be there - the man with the yellow eyes. That’s all anyone ever called him. He was too evil to be given any name that could be freely spoken.

She’d committed an act of treason - or something like it.

Her plan was to affect him, to get him to do her bidding, give her Sam, and, with him, she could do great things. She hadn’t thought that the power of some force that people like her didn’t believe in would be able to bestow a mortal with such virtue.

She could feel part of herself slipping away as she stepped closer to the door that led to the dungeon. A hand on her arm stopped her from taking that final step.

“Dean,” she whispered, not having to look to know who it was.

“What the fuck was that about?” he snarled, his voice low and threatening.

“Dean,” she breathed again. She could feel hot tears stinging behind her eyes.

“Who are you?”

“I told you that already.”

He tilted his head, barely able to see her face in the shadows of the building. “Yeah, and now I notice you’re not so confident. What’s going on?”

His voice was softer now, genuine and sincere. She looked up at him with shining eyes, wondering if he could see that she was falling apart before him. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“You’re Lila, evil girl extraordinaire,” he scoffed. Her gaze didn’t leave his, and he could see that his remark hadn’t phased her in the least. “Or at least you were.”

“I was right about you, you know. You’re special.”

“Yeah, yeah, an angel sent here to protect Sammy, I got it. Not that I believe a word of your bullshit, but I’ll let you think whatever the fuck you want about me, so long as you stay the hell away from my brother.”

-----------------------------------

Sam jogged up to the Impala, a sigh of relief escaping his lungs like he’d been holding his breath for the last 45 minutes. He knew it was empty even from the opposite street corner, but it was a clue. He only hoped that Dean wasn’t in some kind of trouble.

Hands on his hips, he looked up and down the dark and silent street, wondering where his brother could have gone, and why he would leave his beloved baby alone on a dark street in butt fuck nowhere, when hoards of wannabe nasties would be leaving their dark dungeons in only a few hours.

----------------------------------

“How many times to I have to tell you? You’re not an angel. Angel’s are immortal, you’re not. You’re merely here to protect Sam. Sort of a back up for his all-important, God given guardian angel. A sort of…physical substitute. But you’ve got lots of power on your side. That’s why I can’t tell up from down anymore.”

“Wait, all because of what happened…back at the - motel?” He grinned slyly at the implication. “Wow, even after a few months celibacy, I’ve still got it.”

She glared at him from beneath lowered lashes. “Don’t get too cocky. It’s not you, it’s them,” she emphasized, pointing jerkily to the sky. “And just because I’ve had some profound revelation brought on by your - sexual prowess - doesn’t mean that the others will be that easy.”

“The others?”

She leaned in close to him. He could smell her shampoo, the scent of sex just beneath that, obviously from their encounter earlier. “You think he’s not here?” she whispered conspiratorially. “He knows that you and Sam are here. He sent me to-“ She stopped herself at his leering grin.

“Yeah, blame it on the all-powerful one, right.”

“Like I said before, you’re expendable to them. They don’t need you. That was not part of their plan. I’m the only one that’s realized just how much you’re worth in the fight.”

“The ‘fight’? Oh please, not this good versus evil shit…I’ve been hearing this my whole life. You can’t convince me that there’s still a side for the ‘good’. I’ve seen too much of what they’re up against.”

She grabbed him behind the neck, pulling his face down to hers, and the minute their lips touched, his head began to throb with energy. He imagined this was what Sam went through with a vision.

When she pulled away, he blinked at her, his eyes empty and awestruck. “What do you think now? Still think there’s no fight left in them?”

He looked down at her, pupils blown, eyes only barely green any longer. His breath came short and fast, his chest heaving.

She winced momentarily when he grabbed her arm and dragged her down the street. She wasn’t playing for the same team any longer, and her stomach turned at the thought. The stakes just got higher.

Slow Me Down

Mon, 27 Nov 2006 06:33:18 GMT

Title: Slow Me Down
Rating: NC-17 (which I'm working towards)
Paring: Jensen/OFC
Disclaimer: I thought slavery was illegal...
A/N: (Which is also serving for my summary right now...) Okay, so I was inspired a couple weeks back, and this is what happens when I'm inspired. I posted this at my personal journal, but that's not really helpful, when this is my fic journal. I'm still not confident enough in this to post it on any communities. My version of Jen is a bit different than everyone else, but I'm also taking it from a bit of a different angle (if that makes any sense whatsoever). So, here is my attempt to put life as I'd like to live it in my hometown into words. I'd like to know what anyone and everyone thinks. Good, bad, whatever, I'll take it all. Also, this will be posted in parts, just ignore the fact that it's also split into chapters within those parts...

Slow me down...

Chapter One --

He needed stability...quiet, steady, solemn stability. He needed someone to ground him, someone - or something - to show him who he was again. Somehow he'd forgotten who he was, who he wanted to be. When he was young, he'd just assumed that he'd grow into a man of morals, a man who wasn't easily swayed by the flashiness of a life lived as someone else. When he was young, he'd thought himself a man of principle, a man who could keep his feet on the ground and his head out of the clouds. And, all those years ago, he had been. Now, he wasn't so sure.

That morning, he'd gotten into the car and started to drive. He didn't know where he was going, but that he'd figure it out when he got there. All he knew was that he had to get away from all the things in this life that made him the man he least wanted to be.

It had gotten dark hours ago,and he knew that, eventually, he would need to stop, to get a motel room and some actual food. The bronze lights on the horizon looked like the perfect opportunity. His gas tank had a completely different idea.

* * *

He isn't sure how long ago he turned onto this gravel road, but he knows that he hasn't seen more than a few farmhouses since the highway, and now, in what could most likely be considered the middle of the night in this part of the country, he is out of gas and parked on the side of the road, the passenger side of his SUV sagging nearly completely into the ditch that runs along both sides.

Gravel and pebbles crunch under his boots as he steps out into bright moonlight. The prairie wind is harsh, but warm. He assumes that's what he gets for travelling in late spring. He doesn't want to think about how biting the wind would have been three months ago.

With his duffel from the backseat over his shoulder, he heads for the nearest bright light that signals a farmhouse up ahead. He can hear the leaves of the trees rustling and a dog barking in the distance - nothing else - and he couldn't be happier.

He takes a deep breath, breathing in all the country has to offer. He thinks he's in Nebraska, maybe Kansas. Either way, he's likely to find some nice, understanding people. That's what he hopes for anyway. He has second thoughts when he turns down a dark drive, lined on either side with large, shadowy trees, a faded "beware of dog" sign hanging crookedly from one of them.

As he turns into an expansive, gravelled yard, he can see warm lights coming from the first level windows of a large farmhouse, wraparound porch included. It looked like something out of a story. He can hear soft music coming from inside the house as he steps up to the closest door and knocks on the wooden framed, screened entry. The sounds of movement and a dog snuffing his reply.

A single pup comes to the door, Pit Bull, he thinks. He looks as far as he can through the screen, but sees nothing of the pet's owner. "Hello?" he calls through the door, wondering if he could get anyone's attention.

After a few moment's waiting, he decides to try his luck around the porch and follows it to his left, looking through each window as he passes. As he comes around the back corner, he sees the sprawled form of another dog, next to a porch swing, moving slightly of the occupant's propulsion. The music is louder back here, and he assumes that the girl who sits in the swing hadn't heard him knock or yell.

"Hello?" he asks again, quietly, not wanting to startle the girl or the large German Shepherd at her feet.

"Can I help you?" she smiles up at him, curiously peering at him from where she sits.

"I knocked, but I guess you didn't hear," he smiles back, friendly and curteous.

"Oh, sorry. I figured no one would be out this way this time of night."

"My car broke down a ways down the road. I thought maybe I could use your phone. Call a tow," he explains. The Shepherd moves now, turns his head to look at him and offers a weak snarl.

"Schatzi," the girl scolds. "You'll have to forgive him. He doesn't get too worked up, but he's still protective. I guess you've just stepped a bit close. He has to get to know you first."

"Hey, Schatzi," he crouches where he stands, holding his hand out to the dog. Cautiously, Schatzi stands to explore the stranger. Eventually, the dog warms up to him and begins to playfully sniff and rub at his shirt sleeves and pant legs.

The girl smiles at the pair, laughing lightly as the visitor stands and Schatzi brings him his favorite rope. Tug of war ensues.

"About that tow," she says, getting his attention immediately, forcing him to relinquish the toy. "You won't get anyone at this time of night. Not even from the city."

"It's only a couple miles away, right?"

"Oh, you definitely won't get anything from David City, I was meaning Lincoln or Omaha, but they aren't willing to come all the way out here this time of night. You're welcome to crash here until morning, then I can take you into town and get some gas."

He looks at her skeptically. "How do you know I'm not some crazy serial killer?"

"Those types stay away from towns like this. We take care of our own, and word travels fast. Out here they'd still hang you by the neck just outside the courthouse."

His eyes grow wide, glowing dark hazel in the warm light from the other side of the windows, a look of pained worry on his face. "Really?"

"No, but we like to pretend we're that far behind. People like you seem to buy it." She laughs, Schatzi returning to her side at the sound, the other dog standing on the opposite side of the screen door, panting and wagging its tail. "Why don't you come in? I'll put some coffee on and fix you somethin' to eat."

"You don't have to do that. Really, I'm fine," he sighs, following her into the house.

She turns to look at him doubtfully. "If you came from the west, you've not been through any sort of civilization for a while. You've got to be hungry," she scoffs. He nods, and she smiles, continuing through a large living room, lit by the fireplace, a few lamps, and a hanging antique lamp.

"So, where am I, exactly?" he asks, gently placing his duffle on the floor before stepping into the kitchen.

She turns to look at him, coffee pot in hand, "David City, Nebraska," she replies, laughing lightly at the confusion etched on his face. "Yeah, I didn't think it would mean anything to you. It's southeastern Nebraska. The corner that's sort of between Iowa and Kansas."

"Oh," he replies, pulling out a chair from the oak table. "You've lived here all your life?"

"Sort of," she answers, turning back to the coffee maker and pressing 'start'. "I spent some time in LA. Aspiring actress."

"Really?" Eyebrows raised, his interest is piqued, and she smiles warmly at him.

"Yeah. Gave that up to have some peace and quiet. You're in the business, aren't you?"

He looks up at her sheepishly, a shy smile crossing his face. "Yeah. I'm Jensen - "

"Ackles," she finishes for him. "I know who you are. Have since you rounded the corner out there. I'd seen you around. An audition for some pilot that neither of us got and never got picked up. I'm Cambria. But I go by Cammy."

"That's a nice name."

"What can I say? I had a great-great-great grandmother on my dad's side or something with it. I sort of inherited it."

He watches her from the table as she moves between the refigerator and the stove, preparing something for him to eat. As he waits, Schatzi rests next to him on the floor, the other pup perches at the opposite corner, eyes on Cambria all the while. "What's her name?"

"Huh?" she turns briefly from the stove, looking at him curiously.

"The Pit Bull," he replies, gesturing toward her.

"Oh, her name's Tyler. It was my grandfather's middle name, and, well, I thought I'd carry it on," she laughs, once again turned toward the kettle on the burner nearest her body.

Once again, quiet settles over them, and Jensen wonders how long it's been since the last time he experienced a comfortable silence like this. He certainly can't recall a certain date, and thinks it may have been before he left Texas for LA.

Chapter Two --

He can't remember the last time someone cooked like that for him. Lying here, in the guest room of Cammy's huge house, he wonders if she'll let him stay for a few days. He's content around her. He likes the quiet of the country and the steady ease of the wind blowing through the trees and prairie grass.

* * *

New morning sunlight through the windows in his room wakes him, and he revels in the fact that he has nowhere specific to be and that he wasn't awakened by the shrill ring of an alarm clock. Stretching underneath sheets of pure white, he lays on his back, arms bent behind his head, staring up at the stark ceiling. He sighs contentedly, happy right where he's at.

He starts when he notices the soft music coming from the living room and the sounds of someone out on the porch.

Out the open window and below him, he can hear sobbing, sniffling, and the clink of ceramic coffee cup on glass patio table.

The sun is warm, even this early in the morning, the low fog disappearing from the fields and pastures surrounding the house. He finds Cammy on the porch swing, wrapped in a blanket, her feet tucked under her and Schatzi next to her on the swing.

"Cam? You all right?" he asks cautiously, standing behind the screen door.

He sees her wipe her face in jerky, startled movements. "Yeah," she chokes out, sniffing loudly. "I'm fine, thanks."

He opens the door, wincing lightly at the creaking of the hinges. Standing next to the end of the swing that Schatzi sits on. The large Shepherd raises his head, acknowledging his presence and giving a light snuff in greeting. "Hey, Schatz," he smiles, patting the dog on the head. "Is there anything I can do?"

Cambria turns to look at him, her eyes bloodshot and still shining with tears. Her eyes, a dark brown, are warm and grateful for his concern, but behind that is defiance and independent thinking. "I'm fine, really. There's coffee in the kitchen. Just made it about an hour ago. Mugs are in the cupboard above the sink."

He nods and disappears into the house once again. He sends up a silent prayer that she's not upset because of him.

"I'm sorry, Jensen," her voice comes as if out of nowhere - then he turns around to see her standing in the kitchen doorway.

"For what?" One brow cocked, he looks at her curiously, green eyes sparkling in the morning sun.

"Being...well, I just..." she stops, laughs nervously, and toys with her coffee mug, not knowing how to explain it. "I guess I never expected LA to reach me here, I guess."

He gazes at her, wondering why a girl like this would have left LA in the first place. Now, bathed in bright sunlight, her eyes look honey-hazel color, her dark brown hair shines, falling in soft waves around her shoulders. Her full lips are curved upward lightly with the aftershocks of nervous laughter. Having left the blanket on the porch, she stands before him in an oversized hoodie and shorts that easily show off her bronzed, toned legs. In fuzzy purple slippers, she shifts her weight back and forth, as if waiting for him to say something.

"I guess I never figured to be anywhere but LA," he responds, his voice sounding more forlorn than he'd meant.

"What are you doing here, anyhow?"

"I needed to get away. I've changed, Cam, and not for the better. I guess I thought out here, where no one can reach me, where nothing can taint me, I'd be safe from all those things that have made me who I am. I don't like who I am today." Her eyes meet his, a shared sadness in their depths.

"I think you've got the right idea," she concedes, placing a small hand on his forearm. "In all honesty, that's why I came back. I knew that I could find what I was looking for, could find who I was out here, where it all started."

* * *

"Only ONE stoplight?! You've got to be kidding!" he laughs, genuinely for the first time in months, head thrown back against the seat in the cab of her shiny silver pickup as they trek through town.

"Do you see any others?" Cammy replies, smiling at how amazed he is. "We didn't have a single drive-thru until I was in high school, and to this day, we only have the one."

"How do you people survive?" Jensen's turned serious now, his face grave, though he knows that he probably sounds incredibly naive to Cambria.

"We cook, Jen. We eat at sitdown cafes, we eat real, fresh food. I've got a neighbor across the section who raises and butchers his own beef. That's where I get most of my stuff. I don't even buy beef at the store anymore. We aren't in the hurry that you all are out there. And believe me, I know what that hurry feels like. I like it better out here."

The entire way into town from the farm, he'd been amazed at the way people waved from over their steering wheels at Cambria. Sometimes, she would admit that she didn't even know who it was that she'd just smiled warmly and returned a wave to. "That's just courtesy around here," she'd said. He wondered how many strangers she waved to a day, and how many of them carried shotguns in their trucks and cars and didn't pull them out in defense.

As they drove down main street, she would wave at people that were running errands, working, and just making the rounds, much like they were. She'd offered him a tour of town before they went to get some gas for his car, and he couldn't help but offer a giddy acceptance.

"So how does a girl from Podunk, Nebraska, end up in LA?" he asks as they enter a small parking lot - not that any parking lots in town were large by any means.

"Well, in high school, I discovered that I had a passion for acting. I'd known all my life that I wanted to do something great. When I was really young, I wanted to be a country singer, but when the acting bug bit me, it bit hard." She smiles up at him as he holds the door to the small diner open for her. She greets each waitress in the place by name, and Jensen smiles courteously, knowing that was part of the deal. As they slide into a booth toward the back, she continues her story, "Anyway, I opted not to go to college, knowing that if I really wanted to act, I should start as soon as possible. So, I packed up my car - which, by the way, was not very big - and drove out to California. I was 18 then. Four years later, I came back here, bought the land I live on now with some money I'd made acting, hired someone to help me build the house, and have been there ever since."

"And how long has that been?"

"Two years," she laughs coyly. He loved that she could do that, give laughs and smiles out so freely. He hadn't been able to do that for years. And she seemed so comfortable doing it.

"What can I get you and your friend, Cam?" their waitress asks in a light tone, standing at the edge of the table.

"Well, Leanne, I think my friend's gonna need a menu, but I'll have a cheeseburger with mayo and lettuce, onion rings with a cup of ranch and a Dr. Pepper."

Jensen tries to hold back, but laughs out loud as she orders. Cambria looks at him like he's grown a second head as their waitress disappears to get a menu and Cam's drink.

"What's so damn funny, Hollywood?" she glowers at him, both forearms on the table, her fingers entwined in an official pose.

"Where did you learn to eat like that?" he asks, still shaking with slight laughter.

"For your information, not everyone can live on saltines and dry salad, thank you very much," she responds, nodding vehemently and leaning back in her seat.

"Well, I do like a girl who can eat," he sighs, mirroring her as Leanne brings his menu. "Can I get a Dr. Pepper as well?" The waitress nods and disappears again.

"Don't make it sound like I'm some sort of pig, Jesus," Cam mumbles from across the table, eyeing him playfully.

He looks at her seriously for a moment, not sure how serious she is. "Sorry, I just...I'm not used to girls like you," he smiles apologetically.

She grins up at him, pulling her full bottom lip between her teeth briefly. "It's okay. I've been to LA, and I ate like a country girl there, too. Believe me, those girls do not appreciate that."

* * *

He watches her, standing at the barn door, leaning against the large jamb, Schatzi and Tyler playing around her, occasionally coming to her side for a playful pat. Her jeans fit her perfectly, the dark denim following each and every curve, which are only enhanced by the tank top she wears. She'd told him that she might go horseback riding this afternoon. He'd said that he was a little skittish around large animals and headed for the house. Truth is, he hasn't been around horses for years. A show like his doesn't really call for them. He wonders now if she wants him to leave.

She hadn't said anything after they put the gallon of gas from the bright red can into his SUV and drove it up to the house, just told him that she was going to do some things around the yard, maybe go for a ride later. Now, he thought that maybe she expected him to take that as a hint to leave. That was the last thing he wanted to do, so here he stood, in the middle of her dining room, peering at her through the window, wondering when she was just going to tell him to get lost.

Moments later, she retrieves the horse from its stall, and it stretches large and white in the muted browns and greys of the yard. She'd told him his name was Artax, after the horse in 'The Neverending Story' - said she was a sucker for hero horses who get sad endings. Or something like that.

He looks on as she saddles the horse up and throws herself onto his back. That's when he decides to make his move - though he's not sure why he has to go out there after she's mounted the monstrous animal.

"Cam!" he calls, and she steers the horse toward him, Schatzi and Tyler bounding across the gravel to meet him. "I want to stay...for a few days."

She smiles at him, slouching in the saddle, her hands on her thighs. "Okay," she nods as he continues to move closer. "Wanna come along?" Her eyes follow him as he explores the animal she sits atop. "I'll protect you."

He hesitates, wonders what he's gotten himself into, and then, apparently against his conscious will, he nods, and the next thing he knows, his hand is in hers and she's pulling him up behind her onto the horse's flank. Reflexively, his arms wind around her waist, and she laughs lightly, coaxing the animal into a slow walk.

"He's tall," Jensen says breathlessly in her ear, his chin resting on her shoulder as his eyes fix on the ground moving beneath them. This was not the situation he'd imagined would be the moment she found out he wasn't fearless. He was comfortable enough, but, honestly, he'd usually been on a horse in controlled situations - i.e., situations he had control of.

"He's sweet. He'd never buck," she turns her head to look at him out of the corner of her eye. "Scout's honor."

"You said you'd protect me," he scoffs. "That implies that there's something to protect me from."

"Gotcha up here, didn't it?" she grins wickedly, bringing Artax to a trot, and he tenses only slightly - apparently just enough for her to notice. "Just relax. You'll be fine."

He takes a deep breath, trying his best to relax against her. Closing his eyes, he feels the breeze rush past, the smell of grass, dirt, and gravel wisping by. He thinks back to being a kid and riding at Grandad's ranch; the freedom, the glory, and he relaxes.

Her fingers on his startle him into opening his eyes. Looking down in front of her, he sees the reigns resting against the slight curve between Artax's neck and back, and Cammy's hands on his, working nimble fingers around and between his own. Finally, he releases his death grip on her waist and lets her move him.

Leaning back into his chest, she stretches their arms out, together into the blank expanse of air on either side, putting pressure on the horse with the heels of her boots to bring him to a fast lope. Laying her head back on Jensen's shoulder, Cam closes her eyes, moving with the animal and feeling the wind whip by.

Jensen can't take his eyes off her, touched by the actions, the emotions, and the steady ease of her body against his.

Chapter Three --

He'd gone into town to get dinner. She'd called in an order to the cafe, and he'd offered to go get it. Now, as he steps into the house, he can hear the beginning of the storm behind him. Dark clouds had loomed overhead all day, and now they were going to empty themselve upon the land. Cam had been excited all day. Said she loved rainstorms.

"Cam, I'm back!" he calls, continuing through the living room to the kitchen, Tyler at his heels.

"Oh, hey," she smiles, breathless, stopping in the middle of the dark wooden staircase, her long dark hair pulled into a messy bun at the back of her head, her face flushed, and her chest rising and falling in time with her short breaths.

He looks at her, eyebrow quirked in wonder. "What exactly were you doing?" he asks, walking into the kitchen, now followed by Cam, Schatzi, and Tyler.

"Uh, just cleaning up some things upstairs. How much do I owe you for dinner?"

"Nothing," he laughs, pulling styrofoam containers out of the paper bag one by one.

A crack of thunder sneaks into the silence, and he looks at Cambria, excitement in her sparkling coffee-colored eyes. "Let's take dinner out on the porch," she smiles, grabbing a container, a bottle of beer, and speeding off toward the back door.

Jensen laughs, grabbing his own food and drink, and follows at a leisurely pace.

Sitting cross-legged on the swing, Cam has already started in on her food. Her beer sits open on the glass-topped table next to the swing, as if waiting for her to take a swig - as if she hasn't already.

He settles himself on the floor in front of the swing, Schatzi resting comfortably next to him while Tyler lounges on the dog bed a few feet away.

The smell of rain permeates the air, lightning cutting through the clouds and stretching from the prairie to the clouds miles away. Sitting here, watching the rain, Jensen thinks about the last week that he's spent here with Cambria. They'd spent countless days just lounging around the house, going into town only for groceries and short trips to the bar or cafe. He reveled in the slow calm of the countryside, loved the mornings they would spend watching the sun make its way into the sky from the comfort of the porch, coffee steaming in mugs that she'd gotten from her grandparents who'd passed away years ago. When they went riding, now she saddled up Artax for him and got Scout for herself. Scout was a beautiful Palomino, younger than Artax, and more graceful than any other animal he'd ever seen. Her name came from one of Cammy's favorite books, "To Kill a Mockingbird". Sometimes he'd stop in the middle of the pasture and just watch Cam and Scout take off in front of him.

A few days ago, she'd taken him out riding and shown him the lake that rested far from the road, in the middle of her land. She stripped down to her boxer briefs and tank top and dove in. He followed in his boxers. He hadn't felt that relaxed in years, knowing that there was no one there but the two of them. No one watching, waiting for him to do something - anything.

His cell had run out of battery days ago, and he opted not to charge it. There couldn't be anything that important going on that couldn't wait a few days. Then a few days had stretched into several, and he hoped that they could stretch into weeks.

"How long do you plan on staying?" Cam's voice breaks the silence, the rain seeming to quiet so he could hear her.

"I don't know," he answers without turning to look at her.

"I know that you let your cell run out of power. Don't you think anyone's worried about you?"

"I don't care."

She stares at him - he can feel her heated gaze on his skin - and he wonders if she's kicking him out. "That's not fair to your family. What about your friends? Does anyone know you're out here?"

"They've probably noticed that I'm not in LA. I just sort of got in the car and drove. Didn't have any plans for where I wanted to end up."

"Jen, I know that you want to be invisible, but there've got to be people out there who care about you, who want to know that you're all right," she sighs, taking a long drink of beer.

He looks up at her incredulously. He hadn't seen her on the phone to anyone since he'd gotten here and she hadn't said anything about her family living around here - who was she to tell him how to live his life? "What about you?" he shoots up at her. "I don't see you talking to family at all, letting them know that you're all right."

She glares at him, hurt and betrayal in her eyes, electric as the lightning. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"What, the perfect country life wasn't so perfect for you? What happened, Cam, they all felt betrayed when you left for LA, they don't care about you anymore?" Touched by a twinge of guilt when he sees the tears well up in her eyes, he doesn't stop. "Tell me about it, Cambria. Tell me how none of them care about you anymore, how none of them want to hear from you. Or has this whole life you live been a lie? You didn't grow up here, you're family's somewhere else, assuming you're dead, or lost forever, and you just refuse to call them."

She winces, his voice hitting her like ice, tears rolling down flushed cheeks. "Shut up. You don't know anything about me," she chokes out, standing from the swing, knocking what's left of her food to the ground, her beer bottle shattering against the wooden slats of the porch.

Without another word, she storms into the house, letting the screen door slam behind her.

Jensen sits in silence. Alone now, the dogs had followed her into the house, obviously offended as well by his sudden outburst. Pulling his knees to him, he leans his forearms against them, head bowed in distinct shame. How could he have said those things to her? Here she was, doing nothing but nice things for him, and he throws it all away because she's worried about what his family is thinking right now, how worried they are. Such an asshole.

Slowly, he stands, leaving what's left of his own dinner on the floor, and slinks into the house. It feels like it takes forever to get to her bedroom door, and, once there, he hesitates before knocking.

"Cam? I'm sorry. That's was really...really fucking stupid of me. I just - it's been a rough year...or so. I...look, I just wanted to say how sorry I am. I'm going to pack up my stuff and get the hell out of your hair, because I wouldn't blame you if you said that you never wanted to see my face again. Thanks again for all you've done for me."

He turns to head down the hall to the guest room, but stops when he hears the door creak open.

"I never told you about my family because I don't have any." Her voice is small and meek, she looks at him through a small opening between the door and the jamb, her bangs falling over her face haphazardly, tears still making trails down her cheeks. "They're all gone."

"What do you mean?"

"My mom left my dad when I was little. I haven't seen him since. My mom had help from my grandparents raising me. When I was ten, she was killed in a car accident. My grandparents took me in. Before I graduated high school, my grandfather died of natural causes. Three years ago, while I was in LA, living the dream, my grandmother passed away. I was too busy working to come back for the funeral."

Without thinking, he goes to her, pushing the door open and wrapping her in strong arms. She collapses against him, sobbing into his button down shirt, clinging to him for dear life as he smoothes her hair and lays light kisses and soft apologies to her forehead.

* * *

The rain splatters against the mud rhythmically. Jensen strokes Cam's hair soothingly, her head in his lap, her breathing had slowed a while ago, and he assumes she's sleeping.

She'd accepted his apology. Said it was partly her fault for wanting to keep it to herself. He said he didn't blame her. It's got to be tough on a girl as sensitive as she is. As...caring, wonderful...any number of adjectives of that nature would describe her. Jen could see himself staying with her for the rest of his life, living out his days here on the farm, maybe they'd raise cattle, sheep, a family...but he hadn't been completely honest with her.

She shifts again, subconsciously pulling her legs closer to her body to conserve heat. He'd noticed it was cooling off. He leans over to see if she's still sleeping, and she is. He smiles and gathers her into his arms, cradling her against his chest as he carries her into the house.

Her breath is warm, her head resting between his shoulder and neck. She murmurs against him, her arms instinctively wrapping around him, her eyes occasionally opening to slits, not really looking, but seeing him nontheless. He manages to get her up the stairs and then pushes open her bedroom door with the toe of his boot. Somehow, he makes his way across the dark room to her bed and lays her atop the covers, a homemade quilt serving as a comforter.

At the end of her bed, an afghan is folded neatly, and he pulls it up around her as she mutters more incoherent thank you's. As he turns to leave, her small fingers wrap around his wrist.

"Stay with me," her voice is breathy and her slight southern accent is heavier now, sleepy and warm.

He nods, knowing she can't see it in the dark, and she slides toward the center of her large bed so he can crawl in behind her. He curves his body around hers, the steady movement of her back against his chest soothing him into a daze. He swears, in the moments between dozing and falling, he hears her say that she wants him to stay forever. He hopes it wasn't a dream.

* * *

He can't even remember what day it is. As he lay here, Cam curled against his chest, her steady breathing ghosting across his bare skin, head tucked under his chin. Around midnight, he'd gotten warm and decided to shuck is shirt at a moment when Cambria wasn't huddled right next to him. Now, as the beginnings of dawn light begin to spread over his golden skin, he sighs at how real this all is. He runs fingers through soft, long locks, and tries his damndest to remember what goddamned day it is.

He smiles when Cam shifts against him, humming breathily, long, dark lahses gently caressing him. When he pulls away far enough to look down at her, she's smiling up at him. "Mornin', sleepyhead," he teases, ruffling her hair playfully.

She leans up on an elbow enough to see out the window next to the bed. "I'm sorry for sleeping in," her voice is sarcastic and relaxed, "It's only dawn, for crying out loud." She rolls her eyes, swinging bare legs over the opposite side of the bed.

Before they'd gone back out to watch the rain, she'd put on a navy, long sleeved thermal shirt and a pair of shorts that made her legs seem longer than physically possible for a girl of only five feet two inches. He watches her pad around the bed in its entirety, eyes lit with amusement. "Yeah, well, who's gonna cook me breakfast if you're in here sleepin'?"

"Very funny, jackass," she tosses back, slipping into a pair of over worn jeans. "But you're on your own for breakfast. I have chores to do."

"I could help." He's propped up on an elbow, sheets perfectly rumpled at the bend of his waist.

She looks at him, her eyes following the long lines of his torso. "Not like that, you can't," she laughs and heads out the door.

Minutes later, while she's filling a thick plastic bucket with water from the pump, he strolls out across the yard, Tyler on his heels, now in a long-sleeved button down, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, jeans, and a pair of workboots he's had for years.

"Hey, took you long enough," she smiles up at him, leaning down to pick up the full bucket.

"Yeah, well, I didn't really know what to wear for chores," he replies, shrugging. He follows her to the barn, where she waters each of the horses and tosses in a quarter of a bale of hay to each of them. She turns to look at him, eyes bright as the sun is growing outside. "What day is it?"

She laughs lightly, nodding and walking out the door once again. "Saturday," she calls over her shoulder. "Which means that we've got plans tonight."

"We do?" he calls after her, jogging out of the barn and following her up to the house. "What kind of plans?"

"A friend's band is playing at a bar in town. I go see them every now and again. Thought maybe I'd get you drunk and take advantage of you," she jokes. On the porch, she stops, turning to face him, the sunlight cutting across her face. "What kind of music do you like, Jen?"

"All kinds," he shrugs. "What kind do they play?"

"All kinds," she answers, turning and heading into the kitchen.

Strike a Violent Pose

Sat, 25 Nov 2006 23:34:45 GMT

Title: Strike a Violent Pose
Rating: Probably PG-13(ish)
Characters: Dean (no pairing)
Disclaimer: Ya'll know that they belong to Kripke...
Summary: Dean hates high school. That much is obvious. Doesn't stop his teachers from trying to 'mold his mind', which is a bunch of bullshit. He's not like the others, but he knows more about killing someone than they do - no matter how big they talk.
A/N: So, apparently, I'm being attacked by my freakin' plot puppy (Alec), who won't leave me alone! Or maybe it's just because MCR's "The Black Parade" is just that great. You don't have to be a fan of the band to enjoy this. The title for this piece is from their song "Teenagers", which is a great song and says so much about our society and how we deal with out of control kids. I suggest that if you haven't heard it already, do! It's amazing! Anyway, on to the fic-ness!

They're gonna clean up your looks
With all the lies and books
To make a citizen out of you
Because they sleep with a gun
And keep an eye on you son
So they can watch all the things that you do

Dean hates high school. That much is obvious. Doesn't stop his teachers from trying to 'mold his mind' - as well as a few other things - which is a bunch of bullshit. He's not like the others, but he knows more about killing someone than they do - no matter how big they talk.

It must be a midwestern thing: the violence without the violence. He swears, the threats he hears in the hall every morning before first period would be serious shit anywhere but in buttfuck Iowa. His first day, he'd already been threatened with death and mismemberment at least eight times before lunch, and he doesn't even know these people.

The next day, his english teacher tells him that he should ask his father to take him shopping. The torn jeans and worn out t-shirts apparently don't fly in this part of the country. He returns on his third day in a white button down and black slacks. He didn't know the stupid fuck would call his father, who then went berserk. Dean never thought John cared about how the boys looked. Some days, with Sammy growing like he did, they were lucky if the younger Winchester's jeans reached the top of his socks. And here was Dean, now, looking like he'd just walked out of coat and tie night at the local Sizzler. This was fucked up.

Two days later, John took him out to the woods, back in worn out jeans and threadbare t-shirt, hunting the freaky creature that had been killing people from this godforsaken place. Dean had commented, at one quiet point while on watch that it really wouldn't hurt anyone to let their fuzzy friend just finish the job. Dean couldn't see anyone really being a sacrifice around here. They were all pretentious, small town assholes who couldn't tell their dicks from a hole in the ground anyway. John would be doing the world a favor.

That had gotten him a cuff to the back of the head, even if John knew he was right, there was no room in their life for teenaged angst.

The day before the Winchesters left town, Dean had left for school in torn jeans and a t-shirt he'd had for as long as he could remember, slipping into his father's old leather jacket and tucking his favorite Glock into the waistband of his pants. It was only for protection - or so he told himself.

By that afternoon, the Winchesters were no longer welcome in Ossian, Iowa, and were forced out of town and probably the school district.

Dean had thought John would rip him a new one. Down the road, John had cranked AC/DC in the Impala and it was once again the Winchester boys on the open road, looking for trouble instead of waiting for it to come to them. John patted his eldest on the back with a smile, "Made 'em pay, huh?"

Dean smiled and nodded, fingering the gun that lay in his lap.

The Black Parade > Chapter Five

Sat, 25 Nov 2006 02:02:25 GMT

Title: The Black Parade
Rating: M
Disclaimer: Nothin's changed, and I still don't own anything you recognize...
Summary: "Something like that," she spoke softly, stepping close to him. She pressed her chest against his lower rib cage, gazing up at him with a suddenly much more mature air about her. "I've been watching you."
Status: In progress
A/N: Thanks again to elanurelfor the beta!

Previous Chapters:
Prologue | Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four

Chapter Five - I’m just a man, I’m not a hero…

She wasn’t tall, but her legs seemed to go on for days under that skirt. Dean didn’t remember slipping into her, pushing her against the wall, and now all he could think about was how beautiful she was.

She’d have said the same thing about him. And the devil himself would have agreed. Of course, speaking at all was different when Dean-fucking-Winchester had you pinned to a wall, moaning and squealing like an animal.

It went something like this:

“I’ve been watching you.”

He looked at her quizzically, green eyes still guarded. “Like what you see?” he asked in a playful tone.

“You could say that. Your soul, Dean Winchester, has become a bargaining chip, and I think you know it.”

His face fell as though he’d been hit with a two by four. She raised an eyebrow holding back a laugh, not able to hold in the smile. He grabbed her wrists, roughly, his fingers going all the way around, and pinned her arms to her sides.

“What are you talking about?” he snarled, eyes cold and vicious.

“I’m talking about the fact that the power I have would be substantially increased if I were the one to trade it in - trade you in. You see,” she grins wickedly, twisting deftly out of his grasp. “Lucifer knows that your soul is supposed to be his. And, well, as a servant to the demon that killed your mother, Sam’s girlfriend, and so many others, I thought it would be a nice touch for me to retrieve it.”

“What is it with demon girls? They just can’t stay away, huh?”

“Oh, Dean, I’m no demon. I’m human, just like you, like Sam. I just happen to have more power in the world. And, something tells me that you’ll be spoiling my little get together tonight. I was hoping that with you out of commission, maybe your brother would be too weak to go on with your heroic plan.”

“You’re a - witch?” His laugh is harsh, stark in the emptiness of the room.

“Something like that.”

He thinks back to the shtriga in Fitchburg. “Prettier than the last one I met,” he scoffed, strong arms crossing over broad chest, watching her move about the room in strong, fluid movements. “So, tell me, are you here for me? Or Sammy?”

She turned dark eyes on him, her smile gone, a mournful note in her eyes as she looks him up and down. “They think you’re expendable. You know that? They think it’s all about Sam. I know differently,” she whispered the last, eyes flitting to the heavens.

“Oh, honey, if you think I’m an angel, you might want to check my priors.”

“That’s not quite what I meant. You’re here to protect Sam. Most likely from someone like me.” She crossed the room, reaching out to him, her voice suddenly gravel and smoke, full of lust, “I’m much more interested in you.”

And he doesn’t remember a whole lot more after that. Knows that the crash of her lips against him was like water to a dying man. It’d been so long. He hadn’t felt the same since John had passed on. Sacrificed himself for his son. And now, Dean knew why women just weren’t as important.

They tend to be a distraction.

Lila slid down the wall, slipping off of him, pushed him back to the bed and climbed into his lap. His jeans and boxer briefs were around his ankles, and she clung to him like he was the very air she survived on.

She rode him hard and fast. He had little trouble keeping up. He smiled to himself, It’s kinda like riding a bike, huh?

She was panting against his neck, his groans right next to her ear, and before he knew it, he was fisting tight hands into the soft sweater she wore, his body convulsing with pleasure, her walls clenching around him, milking him dry.

When he finally came down, he looked her in the eye, and he could swear she was a different person. He looked at her curiously, hands tight on her shoulders. “Lila?” he asked.

A silent tear escaped, rolled down her cheek. He caught it with his thumb before it reached her full lips. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and he had a strange feeling that she meant it. “You have to get Sam, and get the hell out of here, Dean.”

She stood, straightened her skirt, and strode toward the door. He spoke her name several times, unable to move from the edge of the bed.

Outside, as she made her way out of the motel parking lot, she wondered if they knew that nothing could get past Dean-fucking-Winchester.

----------------------------------

When Sam returned, Dean was still on the edge of the bed, nothing moved other than his jeans around his waist. Head in his hands, he looked like he’d just been hit by a truck.

“Everything okay?” Sam asked, setting the case of beer and the Styrofoam container of food he brought back for Dean on the table near the door.

“Hmm? Yeah,” Dean answered, distracted, barely lifting his face from his hands.

“What time should we head downtown?” Sam, his shoes left at the door, padded over to the other bed, sitting across from Dean and looking his brother over carefully.

“I don’t care, man. I’m gonna shower,” Dean replied, standing from the bed and heading to the bathroom.

Sam watched his brother go, wondering what could have changed nervous, gung ho Dean into this person who doesn’t care about the job. He wondered briefly if it had anything to do with the memory of his trip with Dad to this very place.

He doesn’t hear the bathroom door open, just barely sees Dean cross the room in front of him for the door. He does notice the blood red cross on the back of his brother’s arm, just below the rolled up sleeve, and wonders how in the hell he got that in less than an hour and where in hell it came from.