Devilc's Den 2.0

T-Day: Grading Hell Theatre

2009-11-24T22:19:00Z

I posted a rather lengthy reply to Cereta's call for Thanksgiving and your favorite characters, so I thought I'd share it here, since I'm counting it for mini-nano.

DCU

The annual JLA-JSA Thanksgiving day dinner is always a big to do. It's all in good fun, but there's always a certain amount of trying to prove you're also "super" in the kitchen.

Batman, as always, is paranoid and cranky, but he brings 6 of the best Pumpkin pies that will ever cross a person's lips. And, for all that he acts like a damn barbarian 75% of the time, Hawkman turns out a mean Pecan pie -- he claims to have baked it in the coals of his forge, but Ma Hunkle swats his ass with a spoon and mutters something about no smelting in the kitchen.

And then there's the mashed potatoes and the turkey and the stuffing and the yams, all done with Ma Hunkle supervising -- she doesn't care how super you think you are. It's her kitchen.

Best of all, though, Courtney thinks, is that unlike the Teen Titans, there's no kiddie table where the JSA is concerned.

---

Jack Knight's made a life for himself on the west coast, but for thanksgiving, he always goes back to Opal City and to the celebration thrown by the O'Dares. Sometimes The Shade shows up, sometimes he doesn't. But his Raspberry Cordial is always there. Anyhow, this year Teddy's old enough to really appreciate stories about his grandma and grandpa, so Jack takes him to the museum.

---

In exchange for 3 cases of the finest beluga caviar, plus his grandma's teacakes recipe, Creote finally convinces Bruce Wayne's snooty and incredibly stubborn Butler, Alfred, to tell him his secret technique for the perfect moist and juicy Thanksgiving Day Turkey and he got the legendary Pumpkin pie recipe as well. Alfred claims that they won't turn out right unless "made with love," but he doesn't know that Creote's cooking for Savant.

---

To Connor's immense delight, Ollie admits that the Tofurky Gravy is really delicious, equal to anything made with pan drippings.

---

Given everything that's going wrong in the known universe, Sodam Yat finds the idea of Thanksgiving deeply meaningful. His fellow Lanterns from 2814 take him hopping from house to house to house and he feels like he's going to burst. The JSA-JLA party was the biggest, but the gathering at Green Arrow's house, complete with a father-son debate about something called Tofurky, was the one he enjoyed the most.

Marvel

It's not that Matt Murdock hates the smell of delicious food being cooked, it's that it can get really overwhelming when nearly every oven in the neighborhood has a turkey roasting away in it.

Danny Rand raps on his window early in the morning and suggests they go down to Central Park instead. They get hot cinnamon-sugar almonds and candied pecans and they stroll along the trails, Danny quietly describing the things he can't see, and Matt wonders if Danny has any idea what the sound of his voice is doing to him. But mostly he appreciates the smells of cool damp earth, and the sleeping grass, and the last leaves ... of course the turkey smell threads through all of that. And the smell of Danny.

His gifts allow him to read people pretty well, but Danny's better than most at controlling what his body reveals.

It's getting so Matt's going to have to ask him a direct question.

---

In an effort to please Rictor, Shatterstar watches the food network every spare moment he has in the month leading up to Thanksgiving. Everything except the potatoes ends up getting horribly, horribly charred (the potatoes end up cold and gluey) when Rictor decides that it's time to head straight for dessert. All in all, Shatterstar considers the whole thing a roaring success.

Friday Night Lights

Jason never did much at home when he was a kid on Thanksgiving except eat his mother's cooking and watch football games with his dad and Tim. Now that he's older and would like to help Erin, he really regrets that he's mostly just underfoot in her kitchen as she bustles around. Next year they'll have the money to have it remodeled so he can cook safely in it, too. (This year was the bathroom.) But as Noah goes streaking by, squealing with joy, Jason scoops him up and kisses him on his chubby red cheeks. Of all the things to be thankful for in his life, Noah tops the list.

---

Tim's resigned to spending the day in his trailer, fending off Becky, when he bumps into Tami and Julie Taylor at the store a few days before. Turns out they're inviting the whole EDH coaching staff over for Thanksgiving Dinner and Tami's not going to take no for an answer.

It's freaking awesome. Tami's an amazing cook. Gracie's walking around, but she still shrieks with joy when he picks her up and plays airplane. Coach Stan's got some damn funny stories about Black Fridays down at Sears, and Matt and Julie are still Matt&Julie, and Grandma Saracen's missing a few marbles, but her snarky gossip's still the best in town.

Of course, the cook does not clean, and Matt and Julie have to take Grandma home, so he, Coach Stan, and Coach end up in the kitchen where they make a pretty good team of wash, dry, put away.

After that he and Coach and Coach Stan end up in the garage, playing a mean game of ping-pong. And then they have all have more pie and Tim just ends up stuck to the couch. He tries to get up, but he's got a full on Turkey-drunk going on, and his arms and legs just flail uselessly when he tries to get up. The last thing he hears is Tami making Coach Stan promise to hold something back for her.

He wakes up the next morning, covered in an afghan, when Gracie Belle tugs at her teddy bear (which he's been using as a pillow) and gets a handful of his hair, too.

"Left you some coffee, son," Coach says, peering at him from over the paper.

That's the best part of everything.

---

His mom's passed out in her bed, but that's pretty par for the course these days. But Vince is the man of the house and a man takes care of his family. He takes the money he made swiping an iPhone (yeah, if he gets busted, it's straight to juvie, but a man takes care of his family, and that ain't always pretty) and goes shopping. He picks up 5 Swanson TV dinners, a half gallon of ice cream, a pie, and a gallon of OJ. And when that's all done and his younger brother and sister are squared away, he heads over to DeRon's and they play Madden on the X-Box.

---

Jess half wonders if anybody in Dillon cooks their own damn turkeys, because Ray's BBQ is hopping the night before and the morning of with people picking up smoked turkeys and Daddy's special baked hams.

Her dad just half-growls, half-smiles at her and says it's money in the bank.

She tells him that this year that all he needs to do is bring home a turkey and some gravy. It's a lot like cat-herding, but she gets those little squirt brothers of hers organized, and when Dad comes home with Turkey and gravy, the potatoes, stuffing, greens, rolls, and cranberry sauce are ready to go.

The best part of the whole thing is the look of pride shining in Dad's eyes.

Fic snippit: The (Sur)real Ghostbusters

2009-11-18T22:43:28Z

Well, the other project I was pecking at got mowed down by Vlad The Impala.

This draft post will be locked after the final version is posted.

I'm setting the Supernatural Convention in Colorado and it's an 8-9 hour drive from Dillon. I assume you have seen SPN 5x09 "The Real Ghostbusters".

Mild FNL S4 spoilers in this part. Bigger ones for the series in the final product.

Tim thought he'd never be sorry that the Lions won a game -- and a road game against Larribee at that -- or to hear that Landry was the hero of the game, because he not only did he do a perfect onside kick but also kicked the winning field goal as time ran out, but as the sky at the edge of the world began to lighten, he was starting to regret it.

Victorious Landry was wide awake Landry, and, apparently, he didn't sleep all that much to begin with.

As Landry climbed into the passenger seat, he hooked up his MP3 player to a homemade adapter (an epic kludge straight out of "There, I fixed it") that worked with Vlad's ancient radio. "I don't care what they say in the podfic about the driver picking the music. In this car it's 'the golden rule.' I'm supplying the gold, so I make the rules."

"Whatever, Lando," Tim said as he put the car into drive. "Just so long as it's not all Crucifictorious, it's fine by me."

Landry gave him the stink eye. "Just for that, I'm not going to give you that bag of cheez doodles I bought for you."

"You wound me. So, what are we listening to?"

"The Supernatural books -- as read by fans. See, Supernatural is a cult fandom, so they never got enough support for professional audio books, so fans have been reading them and posting them online as podcasts." Landry pushed play. "I figure this way, you'll get to know a little about Supernatural -- I'll just be playing the good early books -- and it will all be fresh in my mind when I interview Carver. Also, I read book seven -- the hookman one."

Swell.

As the miles clicked by, Tim kept waiting for Landry to nod off so that he could shut the damn thing off and see if there was anything good on the MP3 player.

That didn't happen.

"Don't even think about it," Landry said when they got to the point where Dean told Sam about how the driver picks the music and the shotgun shuts his cakehole.

Also, Sam and his issues with his dad. Tim wanted to tell him to stop hogging the violin at least every 20 minutes. Or send him to spend a few days with Walt Riggins so that he could know what a bad father really was like. Because shooting guns, kicking ass, hustling pool, and skipping a lot of school didn't exactly sound like bad things as far as Tim was concerned. John Winchester at least cared. Although, he had to agree that watching your fiancee burn to death after a demon pinned her to the ceiling was pretty crappy, so yeah, Sam got a bye where she was concerned.

Just before sunrise, he pulled over and let the still wide-awake Landry take the wheel before he nodded off and drove them into a ditch. Tim leaned his head against the passenger side window and had the first of a series of freaky nightmares as Landry's book began.

And finally, it seemed like most of the books were read by a girl named Becky, and just based on the way that she read certain passages -- like the part in the book about the bugs where the Realtor thought Sam and Dean were a couple -- Tim could tell that she had issues. And not only that, her issues had issues.

Fic: Not Because You Should, But Because You Must (3/3)

2009-11-15T15:48:40Z

Fic: Not Because You Should, But Because You Must (2/3)

2009-11-15T15:42:24Z

Title: Not Because You Should, But Because You Must
Fandoms: Sons of Anarchy/Supernatural/Friday Night Lights
Rating: Adult
Characters: Jax Teller, Dean Winchester, Tim Riggins
Pairings: Tim/OFC, Jax/Tim/Dean
Spoilers: Assumes you're current on SOA S2.

Author's Notes: For ixchel55, because it's all her fault for suggesting "the Manwich Supreme".

There are several blink and you'll miss it in jokes for other stories I've written peppered through out, but they are not necessarily indicative of continuity with those stories.

I'm setting this about 3-4 years from where we are right now, so consider my takes on some of these characters to be slightly AU. In the giant backstory in my head, one of them in particular had his life turned inside out and upside down ... and that's hinted at.

Title and cut tags are from Them Crooked Vultures.

Thanks to tartysuz for her swift beta.

Part One

Legalese: Sons of Anarchy, Supernatural, and Friday Night Lights are copyright their respective owners. This is written as a because I felt like it gift for a friend, not for remuneration.

On Wednesday and Thursday, Jax found reasons to head out to Caracara and hang out for a few hours as Tim the incubus -- complete with horns and Darth Maul contacts -- and Midnight the succubus (her contacts were purple) took on several starlets. The girl on girl was hot just on general principles, but Tim?

Jax still had it in the sack, but he hadn't been able to aim, shoot, and reload like that since high school.

Poppers had always been a part of the porn industry and Viagra worked wonders, but aside from needing a little fluffing towards the end of the day, Tim didn't need any chemical help to get it up. True, there was less of a payload by the end of the day, but they had clever camera cuts and cream of wheat if the director felt it necessary.

The movie even had a moral/punchline at the end. Despite their demonic nature, the incubus and succubus practiced safe sex, insisting on condoms every time. In the end they were both banished when somebody tried to use Crisco for lube. Tim found that really funny for some reason. He shook his head and chortled "Christo!/Crisco!" several times between takes before whipping out his phone and texting Dee about it.

On Friday, Tim and "Stone" played two plumbers who ended up double-teaming the bored and horny housewife.

Jax went home and fucked Tara three times that night.

(And spent the rest of the weekend dreading her teasing him about which starlet had him all worked up.)

~oo(0)oo~

On Monday, after watching Tim play a football player who got lucky with three cheerleaders and the coach's daughter -- a scenario that Tim found pretty funny because, "Coach's daughter is about the only girl I didn't get lucky with in high school" -- Jax asked Tim if he wanted to go and grab a beer or something.

Tim smiled bigger than Jax had ever seen before. "Dee's pulling some overtime tonight, and I don't have a shoot tomorrow, so yeah, that sounds great."

Jesus God, he had dimples.

(Jax throbbed.)

~oo(0)oo~

As he reeled down the hall and flopped on the bed, Jax had a new set of realizations about Tim Riggins:

1) The guy could fucking drink when he wanted to.
2) Trying to hustle Tim at Pool was a good way to end up with an empty wallet.
3) Women seemed to love him just because. Jax wouldn't be surprised to find out Tim could charm the pants off a bull dyke.

Case in point -- Tim had gotten Tara to go from steaming mad to smiling sweetly (at him) in under five seconds. Hell, she seemed happy that Tim was going to crash on the couch tonight and even made him drink a glass of water and take some Motrin, "So you won't be so hungover tomorrow." Meanwhile, she left Jax to his own devices and glared at him when she stormed into the room.

With a loud groan he dragged himself off the bed and forced himself to drink two glasses of water and swallow some Motrin.

~oo(0)oo~

If his head hadn't been pounding so badly, Jax might have taken more pleasure in the fact that Tim also looked like fried shit the next morning.

That he had sunglasses on to drink coffee and nibble at a piece of dry toast spoke volumes.

"Dee's going to kill me," moaned as he ran a hand underneath his sunglasses and scrubbed blearily at his eyes. "I haven't been this hungover in years." He took a sip of coffee. "You got a great kid, by the way."

"God, I hope he wasn't too much." Jax's stomach flip-flopped alarmingly the moment he thought of reaching for toast. Looked like he was having Alka-Seltzer for breakfast this morning.

Tim smiled wanly. "It's not the first time I've been woken up that way. And it's far from the worst." He snickered at some memory.

They sat in silence for several moments, Jax mostly waiting for the coffee to kick in. And, shit, did he ever want a cigarette right now, but Tara had finally gotten him to quit a year ago. "I got a message from Opie. He found an engine for your truck."

"So, I guess I'll be giving you that 500 back?"

Jax grinned evilly at Tim.

He shrugged. "Well, it was fun while it lasted."

~oo(0)oo~

Friday night, Jax slipped out the back door at Caracara to find Tim, arms crossed, slouched against his bike.

"I'd say 'your place or mine', but your place is out of the question. Hotel or my place?" Tim leered at him through his too long bangs.

"What are you talking about?" Jax couldn't quite keep the nerves out of his voice because he knew exactly what Tim was talking about it and he wanted it as much as he feared it.

Tim snorted and rolled his eyes. "I'm not entirely stupid, Jax. You've been here every day the past two weeks that I have a shoot. You only visit my sets. That night that we got drunk, you certainly took advantage of any opportunity to get close to me -- you definitely had 'Roman Hands' getting into and out of the car. Look, I know what you want." He tossed his hair out of his eyes and fixed Jax with a direct look. "Question is, are you going to ask for it?"

Jax closed his eyes and counted to ten. "This isn't easy for me."

"Like it's a cakewalk for me?"

Right.

Jax sucked in a deep breath and forced it through his nose.

(What he wouldn't give for a smoke right now.)

"Your place," he said through a mouth that felt as dry as sand.

~oo(0)oo~

Tim parked the Buick next to a classic black Chevy Impala in the drive.

"Nice car, man," Jax said, reaching out with a gloved hand and almost gingerly running a finger over the edge of the hood. Damn, that paint was glossy, the kind of finish you only got with carnauba wax and a lot of elbow grease. "Why don't I see you driving this around?"

"Because it's Dee's car." Tim said over his shoulder as he headed for the door.

Jax froze.

"What?" Tim asked as soon as he sensed Jax wasn't right behind.

"I'm not so sure --"

Tim smiled patently. "Don't worry. It's all good, I promise. Dee knows all about you."

"Ooookay." Jax didn't quite know how this was going to work, because he wanted Tim, bad, but he loved Tara, and despite all the other wildness of the biker lifestyle, once they had gotten together for good --'til death (or 500 miles) do us part -- he'd never disrespected her by shitting in the backyard.

Tim opened the door and waved him through.

The furnishings were what Jax expected. Earthtones. Worn around the edges. Lived in. Not Martha Stewart.

The guy on the couch was not.

Tim's been saying "D", not "Dee" -- ohgod. The shock of realization jolted Jax so hard that for a split second his knees turned to jello.

Before he could react, Tim footsied the door shut, slung an arm over Jax's shoulders, and said, "He followed me home, D. Can we play with him?"

D threw back his head and laughed. "Dude," he crowed, pointing at Jax, "if you could see the look on your face right now!"

He's as pretty as Tim, was all Jax could think as the guy got off the couch and headed towards him. D had green eyes, and short hair with dark blond highlights, and other than the fact that he was a few years older than Tim, everything else about him, that almost delicate face, the way he dressed, the way he moved, that wicked glint of mischief in his eyes, it was all Tim ... or perhaps Tim was all D. " -- didn't explain that 'D' is a guy?"

Jax shook his head.

"Don't worry, dude, you're not the first person this has happened to." He held out a hand. "Dean. Dean Winchester."

"Jax," Jax squeaked, pumping it. He cleared his throat. "Jax Teller."

Tim snickered, but not meanly. "I didn't do it on purpose this time, D. It just completely slipped my mind that I never explained." Then, "Look, Jax, if you're not cool with this, you can go. It's okay. Really."

"No! I-I --" Jax's mind scrambled for words as he looked between the two of them. "I think I need to sit down."

"You do that, man." Dean beamed at him. "Find your words."

Jax's legs all but buckled as he reached the couch and he hit the cushion so hard the frame squeaked. He looked up at Tim and opened his mouth to ask, but what came out was an almost hysterical giggle.

(Oh FUCK me.)

"What?" Tim shrugged. "Like I'm going to say, 'well, I fuck pussy all day, but I go home and suck cock at night'?"

Well ... he had a point. "I can see how that might cause a few problems," Jax managed to say in an even voice before the snickers overwhelmed him.

"Caracara doesn't do gay porn, and neither do I." Tim might have directed the words at Jax, but the look he and Dean shared spoke volumes.

Finally getting a handle on the laughter that kept threatening to bubble up, Jax said, "This is so not what I expected."

"We aim to baffle," Dean replied.

~oo(0)oo~

"So ... what now," Jax said after he got off the phone with Tara, letting her know that Tim had invited him over for a few beers and he might be crashing on the couch.

"Pizza," Tim said. "I'm hungry." He paused. "What? I've been working hard all day."

Yeah, working hard was one way to put it.

Dean crossed his arms and studied them for a moment. "And how 'bout you suck Jax's cock while we're waiting for it to come?"

"Sounds good." Tim smiled as he dropped to his knees.

Jax had the weird sensation that any second now he would wake up in a hospital bed and discover that he'd passed out at Caracara and hit his head really hard on the floor or something, and Tara would be there, holding his hand and telling him he was expected to make a full recovery.

He squeezed his eyes shut and counted to ten.

When he opened them again he was still not in the hospital with a knot the size of Mt. Whitney on his head. He was still on Tim and Dean's couch with a throbbing cock in his now way too tight jeans.

It wasn't the first time he'd ever had a guy suck his dick.

(There were some high school memories that he and Hale had an unspoken mutual agreement to never talk about.)

As Tim's hands unbuckled and unzipped him, Jax scooted down a bit, lolled his head back on the top of the cushions and looked at the cottage cheese on the ceiling.

Tim didn't reach in and take him out right away, he rubbed his face over the thin cotton, sniffing, mouthing, basically cock-teasing, driving Jax fucking nuts, really. His dick had spurted a nice big wet patch on the front of his boxer briefs before Tim told him to lift up. He looked over at Dean as Tim shimmied his underwear and pants down to about mid-thigh.

Dean's eyes were like points of green fire. They burned with desire ... and with something else, too. Something calculating. There were layers to this that Jax didn't begin to understand, and he knew better to ask, because he was just passing through, a nomad.

He closed his eyes and gently carded his hands into Tim's long, slightly sweat lank hair, and sucked in a long hissing breath as Tim took him in hand and licked a long, hot stripe from root to tip.

People joked that a mouth's all the same in the dark. And they were so wrong. A guy's mouth was bigger than a woman's, and a guy's stubble chafed against the tender flesh of your inner thighs as he bobbed his head up and down, and he could take you deeper more easily than most women could, even with practice.

Jax tried to say something like, "Oh yeah, just like that," but all he could get his mouth to form was the "Ohhhhh ...." part.

His head flopped forward and he opened his eyes and ohgod Tim was putting on an obscene show. Slurping, and moaning every time he took a breath, and angling his head so that Jax's cock bulged from his cheeks and after a few seconds of it, Jax wasn't sure how much of it was for his benefit, or Dean's benefit, or because Tim was a natural showman, but fuck, it was hot, and then Tim's eyes flicked up, locked with his, and the look in them was so utterly wanton that it sent Jax from about a 7 to a 27 in a heartbeat. His orgasm caught him almost completely off guard and he barely had time to shout Tim's name and pull him away.

He didn't quite make it either. His first shot clipped the edge of Tim's jaw and hung there, oozing down into a long drip, and Jax had never seen anything so dirty-hot in his life.

With a slow, deliberate movement, Tim slid his forefinger along his jaw, collecting Jax's come and then he held it out and ... the look in his cat's eyes, it didn't ask him, it didn't tell him, it dared him.

And Jax had never backed down from a dare in his life. Locking his eyes with Tim's, taking Tim's hand in his, he guided the finger to his open mouth, closed his lips around it, and slowly pulled Tim's finger away as he sucked his own come off.

It was a test, and he could see from the gleam in Tim's eyes that he had passed with flying colors.

They paused like that, frozen in the moment, until Dean's low, shuddering, "Jesus fuck" broke the spell.

~oo(0)oo~

"You're not going to believe this, but Tim's auditioning for Caracara was my idea," Dean said around a mouthful of pepperoni pizza.

Jax nearly choked on his beer. He shot a "huh?" glance at Tim, who nodded a confirmation in midslice.

Dean smiled fondly at Tim across the coffee table. "It's like he never stopped being a teenager on some level -- hell, look at the way he's eating -- I can go as much as the next guy, but Tim here was wearing me out."

Tim flipped him the bird. "You make it sound like I was humping your leg or something, D."

Jax chuckled. "So what did you do back in high school, constantly beat off between classes?"

Tim just smirked. Busted!

Jax started to laugh but was brought up short when Tim said quietly, "I also slept around. Not to brag, but it was a lot. A lot, a lot." He paused for a moment, grinned ear to ear at some memory, then continued, "But I'm not kidding when I say that Coach Taylor's daughter is about the only girl at my high school that I didn't get up on."

Jax guffawed, "What, was she dog ugly?"

"Hell no! She was just like her mother, smokin' hot." The look in Tim's eyes grew a little dreamy.

"Great legs," Dean added.

"What?!" Tim almost sounded indignant. "You've never met her. You're thinking of Tyra."

"They went on for miles," Dean shot back. "Something like that's hard not to notice. Hello, guy here."

Tim's mouth quirked in an "Okay, I'll give you that one" smile. But then: "Julie was like a little sister to me, D. It would've been gross sleeping with her." Pause. "Even though she did have a great rack."

"Tyra wasn't hurting in that department, either," Dean said, making a "curvy woman" figure in the air with his hands, and smiling happily at the memory.

"So, you're ..." Jax began.

Dean smiled and shook his head. "Not gay. So not gay."

"But you're --"

Dean arched an eyebrow. "With Tim, yes."

Right. "So, what I'm not getting here is why straight porn?"

"What D's not telling you is I'm only doing porn in the first place to help put Sam through school," Tim explained before continuing, "Look, if I'm with somebody, really with somebody, it's just them. And ... this feels the least like cheating. Also, I try to I keep Caracara out of this part of my life as much as I can."

Dean laughed. "Except when I pick up one of his movies."

Tim just snorted and shook his head. He wadded up his napkin and pitched it in the empty pizza box before flopping back on the couch.

Dean shrugged. "Hey, it's a turn on, watching you perform."

Yeah, you can say that again. Jax thought. "So, why am I here then?" he asked. "Because you obviously don't want to fuck around, in a manner of speaking, and you can't get more Caracara than bringing one of the owners home with you."

"Because, even though there's been a few times we've agreed and picked up a girl and shared her, I've had fantasies about a threeway with Tim and another guy." Dean's eyes bored into his. "And Tim said he's fine with that, so long as he picked the guy."

There was a certain note of warning in Tim's voice even though he smiled as he replied, "I told you, I'm not sharing you with just anybody, D."

Jax swallowed hard. "So, let's all be clear here --" He did not want to get caught in the middle of a relationship. His life was complicated enough.

"It's a one time thing," Dean said.

Jax sighed in relief. "Good, because, as much as a certain part of me likes the idea, another part of me of me knows it's for the best if it's a one off." He picked at the label on his beer bottle. "Any more than that and it would feel like cheating on Tara." He smiled at the both of them. "You're not the only couple with an ... understanding." 'Cept mine usually involves keeping it out of the backyard. "But I gotta ask. What if I had said hotel?"

Tim smiled knowingly at him. "I knew you weren't going to say hotel, and I just would've told D where to meet us."

Jax smiled a little tightly, "You seem awful certain I was going to say yes."

"In for a penny, in for a pound," Tim replied mildly.

Well, yes, he had a point there.

~oo(0)oo~

Jax didn't even get off the couch before the next round started. Dean picked up the empty pizza boxes and beer bottles and headed out of the room while Tim pulled off his boots, revealing a pair of somewhat grubby white socks with holes in them. He then stood and pulled off his shirt revealing his impressive set of pecs and washboard abs.

When he's not eating or working, he must be working out, Jax noted. I wonder when he finds time to fuck and sleep.

Tim cocked his head and said, "Ready for round two?"

The words tripped over themselves getting out of Jax's mouth.

Tim crouched at his feet. "How about we start with your shoes?"

Jax's shirt went next, and then his jeans and boxer briefs. As he stepped out of them, semi-hard, at the prospect of what was to come, he said to Tim, "Why aren't you naked yet?"

Tim just shrugged and stood up, dropped his pants and jockeys and then gently pushed Jax back down to the couch, straddling his lap. The feel of his dick nestling against Jax's own was all it took to get him fully hard again, and Tim's eyes locked with his as Tim made the tiniest of teasing micro-thrusts with his hips. "Are you okay with kissing?" Jax asked.

"Oh hell yes," Tim said and swooped in, wetly claiming Jax's mouth. He tasted of pizza and beer and something uniquely himself, and fuck yes, he could kiss. Had that perfect knack of sucking your bottom lip the way that went straight to a guy's cock, knew how to give and take with the tongue, and when they accidentally clanked teeth, Jax could only laugh. Fuck, he hadn't had a kiss that thrilling, that full of mystery and wonder and discovery since the day Tara walked back into his life.

"God," Jax murmured when they broke. "You make me feel like I'm 18 all over again." And, shit, your eyes are so amber right now. Warm like honey in sunlight, and there I am, reflected in them as you look at me like I'm something incredibly precious.

The light bulb clicked on and Jax laughed in realization.

"What's so funny?" Tim asked.

Jax reached out and ran his finger over Tim's kiss reddened lips, Tim, of course, sucked it in and swirled his tongue along its length, causing Jax's breath to catch in his throat as he replied, "You make me feel like I'm the only girl in the room."

Tim shook his head as he laughed. "You're not a girl. Really, really not a girl." He slid his hands up Jax's ribcage, pausing and teasing Jax's nipples with his thumbs for a few moments, before sliding his palms the rest of the way up and over Jax's shoulders.

"I knew," Jax rasped, "that you had some special knack with the ladies -- it's why they're all so in love with you -- but I've never had it done to me before. Damn you're good."

Tim smiled easy at him. "I'm not doing some sort of hokey trick. I'm not doing anything."

"I know," Jax murmured, skimming his hands up Tim's back, feeling those firm muscles flex and coil in response to his touch, "that's what makes it so potent."

"You're not so bad yourself, Jax Teller. Right now, you've got this look in your eyes ..." Tim angled his head one way and then the other as he thought about how he wanted to explain what he had to say. "When I was a kid, my best friend, Jason, and I went to a museum. And right now, you look like Jason did when he saw the T-Rex."

"And I feel like the world's luckiest kid on Christmas morning," Dean said from the door to the hallway. As he stepped closer, Jax noticed that he had a bottle of lube in one hand and a butt plug in the other. Not a particularly large one (Jax had seen some monsters used on the set at Caracara) but a butt plug nonetheless.

Startled, he flicked his eyes back to Tim's. "Don't worry, that's not for you," Tim whispered. He arched an eyebrow in thought and leaned in a moment later. "Unless you want it to be."

"N-no," Jax stammered because ... no. Just no.

Tim closed his eyes for a few heartbeats and when he opened them again the look in them dared Jax to pass judgement.

"Different strokes for different folks," Jax replied.

Tim's answer consisted of him rolling his hips, making both their breaths catch, making Jax's cock surge and spurt another few drops of precome.

Dean climbed on to the couch next to them, opened the bottle of lube, squirted a large dollop into his hand, rubbed them together to warm it, and said, "How about you two continue with that kissing and feeling each other up thing, because that was hot."

Jax closed his eyes as Tim kissed him, slid his hands up and down that strong, yet not muscle-bound, back, tangled them in Tim's hair, rocked back as Tim rocked into him, just let the goodness of it all roll over him.

He could tell the moment Dean slid it in -- didn't open his eyes, let them have it be their thing -- he just felt Tim raise up and heard him make a soft, choked-off sort of sound, and that was that. And when Jax opened his eyes, the fire in Tim's eyes had become hotter, more focused, like the flame on a cutting torch. They both gave soft, under the breath sounds as they renewed kissing, rocking against each other, and then Dean reached between them with a warm, slick hand and closed it around both of them.

"Oh, God!" Jax heard himself gasp, and then he closed his eyes again. Not because he wanted to give them a moment, not out of shame, not out of fear, but out of the knowledge that if he caught another glimpse of the open mouthed Ohhhh of ecstasy on Tim's face as Dean pumped them (all the while giving a running monologue about how hot they both were right now, and how much he loved the fact that Tim was so fearless when it came to sex) Jax was going to shoot like a high school boy on his first hot date. And when he did shoot, it was a full-blown acid trip rush of colors behind his eyes and then a long slow fade to black during which he was only dimly aware of Tim sagging against him, panting in his ear before his heat and weight were gone and then tissues wiped and the velvety black warmth pulled him under.

He wasn't out for long. He came back to the sounds and then the sight of Tim blowing Dean on the easy chair. He stretched out on his side and watched them through slitted eyes, too wrung out at the moment to do anything else except enjoy the view.

Dean had a small pentagram tattoo on his chest that matched the one that Tim had on the nape of his neck and a brand on his left shoulder that looked like a hand print ... a few scars on his torso and across his hips, too, in stark contrast to the virtually pristine expanse of Tim's skin. They had reached the point where they were both so into it that neither of them noticed Jax.

It was obscene and beautiful and hot and a thousand other words that hadn't been invented yet, the way that Dean's hands knotted into and kept clenching in time around Tim's thick brown hair as his hips rocked in slow, easy thrusts. Dean tossed his head back and shuddered and gasped from time to time, but for the most part, he kept his gaze fixed on his lap where -- from what little bit Jax could see and hear -- Tim was putting on show to top the one he'd put on for Jax.

Tim's own hips rocked and twisted in a time of their own, the cheeks clenching and relaxing as he move, clearly savoring the feel of the plug shifting inside him.

Jax felt his pelvis grow warmer with the flood of blood to parts south, at the thought of that, felt things tingle, try to rise, but it was still too soon for round three.

Round three.

Fuck he laughed to himself, who needed Viagra when there was Tim Riggins?

Something he did must have caught Dean's attention because the next time Jax's eyes flicked up from Tim's head in Dean's lap, he found that green stare fixed on him, bright, almost feral.

Soft or not, Jax's cock somehow managed to ooze a spurt of precome as Dean came about two seconds later and Tim swallowed it all down, openly savoring every last drop and letting Dean slide out of his mouth only after he had gone completely soft.

And the look that Tim flashed him after he climbed up into Dean's lap? 100% cat that got the cream.

Jax groaned inwardly.

---

Part Three

Fic: Not Because You Should, But Because You Must (1/3)

2009-11-15T15:37:16Z

Title: Not Because You Should, But Because You Must
Fandoms: Sons of Anarchy/Supernatural/Friday Night Lights
Rating: Adult
Characters: Jax Teller, Dean Winchester, Tim Riggins
Pairings: Tim/OFC, Jax/Tim/Dean
Spoilers: Assumes you're current on SOA S2.

Author's Notes: For ixchel55, because it's all her fault for suggesting "the Manwich Supreme".

There are several blink and you'll miss it in jokes for other stories I've written peppered through out, but they are not necessarily indicative of continuity with those stories.

I'm setting this about 3-4 years from where we are right now, so consider my takes on some of these characters to be slightly AU. In the giant backstory in my head, one of them in particular had his life turned inside out and upside down ... and that's hinted at.

Title and cut tags are from Them Crooked Vultures.

Thanks to tartysuz for her swift beta.

Legalese: Sons of Anarchy, Supernatural, and Friday Night Lights are copyright their respective owners. This is written as because I felt like making a gift for a friend, not for remuneration.

"Jax," Lyla all but gasped with relief when he picked up the phone. "I need a favor. I just got a call from one of our guys, and his truck's broken down on the side of the 18 and it's got to get towed so he can get here. We're doing Midnight's 50-stud gang-bang and she specifically wanted him for the finish. We're on guy 25. I'm going to extend it as long as I can, but, there's only so long we can go. Hurry!"

"Opie's got the truck, Lyla. He and Sack are doing a repo."

"Fuck!" Lyla snapped. Then she took a deep breath and continued in pleading voice, "Can you please just pick him up and get him here? He's right next to mile marker five. It's an emergency. Please."

A porn emergency. Riiiiiight. "Will do." Jax sighed and hung up the phone.

----

The truck and the guy weren't at all what Jax expected. Most starlets and studs spent their money just as fast as they made it. Sports cars and fancy clothes were the order of the day. (Drugs, too.)

The truck was an ancient Chevy Silverado that had seen better days. The smell of burnt oil and large dark puddle underneath it didn't bode well. Jax looped the bike around and pulled up behind.

The guy leaning up against the tailgate talking on a phone had on a plaid flannel shirt, faded jeans, and a well-worn set of cowboy boots. His light brown hair was almost as long as Jax's, and he certainly had a pretty face with his lean jawline and those cheekbones. But it was the eyes intently studying him over the edge of a pair of sunglasses that captured (and held) Jax's attention as he parked his bike and walked over. Bright hazel cat's eyes. Clear, not glassy or fuzzy with drugs, the welcoming expression in them unmarred by a ~~holier~~ studlier than thou arrogance.

"Finish your shift, Dee," he said to the person on the other and of the call. "I think my ride just got here. See you tonight." His voice had just the hint of a southern accent.

"Sorry the tow truck can't make it." Jax held out his hand. "I'm Jax. Lyla sent me."

The guy started to extend his own hand, then paused. "Am I supposed to give you the real name or the porn name?"

Jax laughed. "I'll go with real."

The guy smiled. "Tim. Tim Riggins." He had a good, firm grip, and calluses that hinted at doing actual work.

Jax swung his leg over the bike and held out his spare helmet. "You been on one of these before?"

"Nope."

"Okay. Swing over. Put your hands on my hips." Tim did so, not too loose and not too tight. It was always a bit iffy when you got a noob on a bike. Some barely touched you, while others clenched down in a death grip. "Feet on the pegs. When I turn left, I want you looking over my left shoulder, you don't need to lean. When I turn right, I want you looking over my right shoulder. Other than that, just look straight ahead."

"Piece of cake."

~oo(0)oo~

"So, what's the porn name?" Jax asked, pulling up at the entrance to Caracara.

"Lance Pantera," Tim said as he pulled off the helmet and handed it back.

Something about the way he smirked when he said it made Jax wonder if there was some sort of private joke behind the name. "Oh. So, you're the guy."

"What guy?" Tim paused at the door and raked his fingers through his hair.

"The one all the girls are twittering about." Jax laughed.

Tim shook his head and chortled. "Man, they talk about you too," he said as he stepped in.

Jax sat on his bike for a moment and then decided Oh, what the hell. It had been a few months since he'd last stuck his head in the door at Caracara. (A) He'd been busy with the shop and Abel, (B) Lyla and Opie had it under control, and (C) Tara was plenty of woman for any man. Still, it never hurt for the President of the club to stick a nose in and make sure things were running like they should.

Lyla waved him over when she saw him. "Is he here?" she whispered in his ear, scarcely daring to take her eyes off the camera and monitors. Jax nodded. She grinned ear to ear.

Jax liked porn as much as the next guy, but somehow, seeing it get made took away some of the magic. It became even more scripted. Right now, there were two guys in line getting "fluffed" for their turn with Midnight, a pretty dark-skinned girl currently being fucked on a large bed covered in cream-colored satin. Her moans and pouts and little ohs! came right on cue and she had three cameras currently trained on her -- one capturing closeups of her face, another doing full body shots, and the third got closeups of penis in vagina. The angles at which Midnight and the guy came together, the speed at which the guys humped her, the sounds they made, the words they said ... almost none of it was left to chance.

Then again, considering the cost of running Caracara? Multiple takes and missed cues were money that came out of SAMCRO's pocket. Damn right, the action was scripted.

Jax wandered into the office, opened the fridge reserved for SAMCRO members and helped himself to a beer. He had no real reason to stick around, except that ... he wanted to see what "Lance Pantera" had that the rest of the studs in the stable didn't. Because, really, few of the male actors in porn were liked by the starlets. Most were merely tolerated. And after seeing several of them in and out of action, Jax completely understood why. They did porn because they liked sex, or rather, because they thought they were God's gift to sex, or they were sex addicts, or because they weren't good for any other thing except fucking.

A lot of them hated playing second fiddle to the girls, too.

He strolled back out to find that Lyla had called a short break between #49 and the grand finale. Tim, clad in a robe, was talking to Lyla. Jax flopped down in the chair next to Lyla's and waited for the show to start.

"... and then I think I'll roll her on her left side and get her from that angle. It's a bed and all, but I'm thinking her backside's a little tender by now. When I roll over on my back and take her with me, get ready for the money shot. Sound good?"

Jax raised an eyebrow at that ... script or no script, there was a bit of give and take in filming depending on things, but the guys she directed usually didn't tell Lyla what they planned to do. She usually told them what she had in mind and they worked out the details from there.

Lyla smiled at Tim. "Sounds good." Pause. "It looks like Jax is going to watch. Is there a problem with that?"

Jax paused with the beer bottle half way to his lips and shot Lyla a WTF?! look, because, hello? Club President and her fucking boss.

Tim grinned roguishly at Jax. His quick trip through hair and makeup had only served to enhance what was already there, meaning goddamn was he one good looking guy. "He's the boss. I'd be pretty fucking stupid to tell him no." A calculating gleam entered Tim's eye. "This has something to do with that bet you and Juice got going, right? I'm telling you, if a week of Opie glaring at me from the sidelines didn't give me a hard-off, do you think a friendly face will do it?" They both laughed and Lyla clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm going to tell Midnight the plan --" he glanced at where the crew was performing a quick touch up to her hair and makeup "-- and as soon as the robe comes off, I'm ready for action."

~oo(0)oo~

As soon as the robe came off, Jax got a very clear view of what "Lance Pantera" had that he didn't.

"Damn," he whispered, shaking his head slightly.

"They certainly grow 'em big in Texas." Lyla smirked down at him, then winked and continued in a soft voice, "It's not just the size of your pencil, hon. It's also the way you sign your name." Taking a deep breath she cried, "Action!" And a hush fell over the rest of the set.

Tim crawled on all fours across the bed towards Midnight, who wore what seemed like a genuine smile at the sight. Kneeling between her open legs, he gently reached out and stroked her with a feather light touch. "You're all red hot for me, baby," he murmured softly. And, though it was the kind of line Jax had heard a million times in porn, it wasn't stilted the way Tim delivered it. "All wet and tender. A little too much, a little too hard, and it's just not going to feel good at all, is it, sugar?"

"I asked for you for a reason, honey. You've never let a girl down."

Tim's mouth quirked in a strange half-smile. "Out of bed? Hell yes. In bed?" His expression turned from bittersweet to downright smoldering. "Never."

Midnight laughed at that, but it turned to an "Oh!" and then an "Oh, baby!" as he went down on her.

On one level, yes, it was totally staged in that both of them angled their bodies in such a way that the cameras got the best possible shots of what he was doing to Midnight with his mouth and fingers.

On another level, it was clear that Tim was totally into what he was doing to Midnight and that he was damn good at it. Midnight's "Oh, yeahs" and "Oh, babys" didn't have quite the same rote, rehearsed quality that her previous cries did.

At one point, Tim looked up, locked eyes with Midnight, made a huge show of licking his sticky chops and said, "Red blooded, All-American woman. Best taste on the planet."

And at that point, Jax got it. (A) This guy really was God's gift to sex and (B) he liked women. Really liked women.

A few years back, a starlet named Jillian had had a bit of a crush on Jax. Only, unlike the others who made a serious play, Jillian never went beyond being the friendly flirt with him. So, one night, he asked her why she still flirted with him, what did she get out of it? "What I like about you Jax," she replied, "is even though I know you're taken, you've got this way of making me feel like I'm the only girl in the room when you talk to me."

Tim had that same touch. Right now Midnight was in bed, in a room full of people, about to get fucked by a co-worker whose job it was to fuck her, and they were both going to have to play for the cameras, and somehow, Jax knew that right now Tim made Midnight feel like she was the only girl in the room.

When Tim rolled her on her side, facing the camera, murmuring, "Let's see if it's more comfortable for you this way." As he trailed a line of licks and kisses along the curve of her hip and waist, he used the cover to open the condom and slide it on. Neat, because it completely bypassed the usual awkwardness associated with stopping to put on a condom.

As he positioned himself and gently and slowly parted her lips -- both for Midnight's comfort, and for the camera -- he said, "Let me know how it feels, sugar," as he oh-so-slowly pushed in. It wasn't until he heard Midnight's "Feels good, baby," that Jax let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Tim rocked into her slow, and deep, giving her time to adjust, obviously caring that it be good (or at least not uncomfortable) for Midnight, and when he said things about how hot she was around him and what a turn on that was, and it was so much fun being with with her right now because she'd been "fucked all sensitive", and how soft her skin was and how good she smelled ... the words themselves came straight out of any one of a thousand and one porn movies, but the way Tim said them did not. Only girl in the room? Nah, more like Queen of All of the World right now. The guy had actually figured out how to bring just a touch of romance into porn.

As he sped up his thrusts, Tim licked his thumb and forefinger before using them to gently tease one of Midnight's nipples as he nuzzled into her neck. "Oh, sugar, I'm close, real close right now," he rasped.

"Oh, baby, I'm coming right now!" She let loose with several, loud, breathy cries and shivered slightly.

In a flash, Tim pulled out, rolled on to his back, taking her with, reached down and between, rolled the condom off, and together he and Midnight stroked a few times until he came in a series of hard spurts across her belly.

Right. Thank God. Cut. Because Jax was so fucking hard it wasn't funny any more.

Only Lyla didn't yell cut. The camera was still rolling when Midnight reached for the sheet to wipe her self off and Tim stayed her hand as he wriggled out from beneath her, made a big show of "mwah!" kissing her pussy twice, and then enthusiastically licked her belly clean before crawling up her body to finish with a loud smack on her lips.

"Silly!" Midnight threw her head back and laughed, pushing him away with a palm to the forehead.

He fell back on his haunches, made another show of licking his lips, and purred, "You wouldn't have me any other way, sugar."

"Cut!" Lyla yelled.

At that moment Jax knew three things:

1) Lance Pantera was going to be a big star.
2) Midnight's gang-bang was going to sell a lot of copies and make a lot of money.
3) As soon as he could stand, he was totally doing the walk of shame to the men's room and taking care of business.

Oh, and as soon as he was capable of driving, he was going straight to Tara's office, pulling her into the first room with a door that locked, and fucking her silly.

~oo(0)oo~

Jax came back into Lyla's office to find Tim, clad in a robe, sitting across the desk from her.

"Change in plan for Wednesday's shoot, Tim. We need you to play a succubus too," Lyla said.

"Incubus," he replied. "If it's a guy, it's an incubus, not a succubus."

"Whatever," Lyla said, jotting a note in her planner.

Tim chewed on his bottom lip for a bit. "Uhh ... I got to ask Dee about this."

"What? Why?"

Tim ran a hand through his hair, paused for a moment, then said, "Because Dee's got some real issues about anything connected to demons and if I just go ahead and do this without asking, there's going to be trouble in paradise." Tim pulled his phone out of the robe's pocket, and said, "Give me a second to text, here." His fingers flashed on the keys. "I take it that other than this, I'm done for the day?"

"Yep."

"Cool. I'll call you as soon as I know." Looking at Jax, Tim asked, "Hey man, can I ask you for a ride home?"

Jax blinked a bit at the request, but before he could say anything, Lyla spoke up: "If we ask one of the girls to do it, it will just cause problems. They all want a piece of him, and I can't have anybody think I'm playing favorites."

"I don't bring work home with me. It's part of the deal Dee and I made when I started this," Tim added quietly. "I mean, I can catch a cab if you can't."

"Naw, man, I get it. Tara ain't real happy about me coming out to Caracara, either."

Tim smiled. "Thanks. Give me 10 minutes to get dressed."

~oo(0)oo~

Tim didn't shower before getting dressed and climbing on the back of the bike.

Jax got hard all over again, because holy mother of fuck, Tim smelled like sex.

"We'll have your truck at the shop," Jax said as he pulled up in front of a nondescript bungalow not far from the mill. "We'll call you as soon as we know what's wrong."

"Sounds good. Thanks again."

~oo(0)oo~

The next morning Tim pulled up at the shop in a cream colored Buick Regal.

"That's about the last kind of car I ever expected to see you drive, man." Jax, said, wiping his hands with a rag as he shook his head in mock sorrow.

A bemused gleam entered Tim's eyes. Flipping Jax the keys he said, "Take a look under the hood."

"A Regal GSX Stage 3, no shit!" Juice crowed and fist pumped as soon as they all caught sight of the supercharged beast under the hood.

"And I see somebody added paddle shifters to the steering wheel," Jax noted.

Tim shrugged, hands in his pocket. "It's going to be a gift for Sam, Dee's brother. He's off at college and his birthday's coming up. Been getting around on a bicycle." Tim shuddered slightly. "Dee and I couldn't let that stand."

"But why'd you take the badging off the car?" Sack asked.

"Stealth. Without all the badging, Sam's got a wolf in sheep's clothing."

Jax laughed at that. "Sneaky. I like it." Drawing in a deep breath he shuffled his feet against the floor and said, "So, about your truck ... do you want the bad news or the bad news?"

Tim made a show thinking hard for a moment before he quipped brightly, "I'll take the bad news."

"Blown head gasket, cracked engine block, and two of your connecting rod bearings are going to go soon."

Tim sighed, raked his fingers through his hair as he studied the ground for several seconds and said, "You'd better take me over."

"I hate to say it, but your engine is shot, man," Jax murmured softly.

Tim snorted mirthlessly. "Let me be the judge of that."

~oo(0)oo~

When he saw the crack in the block, Tim leaned against the engine compartment, buried his head in his arms, and rocked back and forth a few times. His eyes were glassy when he looked up. "That's one fucking evil crack. Placement means that metal stitching would be a bitch, too. Fuck." He clenched a double handful of hair as he spun and looked up at the ceiling. Finally he said, "Okay, hook me up with a new engine."

"We'd only be able to get a rebuilt engine for a truck this old ... if we can find one," Opie rumbled.

"I get that."

"Tim," Jax laid a hand on his arm, "are you sure? I mean, this truck's awful old, and --"

"My brother Billy bought me this truck," Tim hissed. "He's dead now. Died in the fire that killed him, my sister in law, and their newborn baby. Burned down the house I grew up in, too."

"Oh shit, man, I'm sorry," Jax murmured. "I'm so sorry."

"We'll get your truck up and running," Opie said reassuringly. "We'll find a way."

Tim nodded, lips pressed into a thin, tight line. "Give me a minute to get my personals and I'll get out of your hair."

~oo(0)oo~

"Hey, you dropped something," Jax said as he saw a photo flutter out of the stack of stuff Tim carried towards the Buick. He picked up a picture of a pretty girl with big brown eyes and blue and gold ribbons in her long brunette hair.

"Lyla." There was an ocean of regret in the way Tim murmured her name.

"The one that got away?"

A bittersweet smile flashed across Tim's face. "But only after broke each other's hearts."

"Sorry if this seems weird, but to totally change the subject, how do you know about metal stitching?"

Tim smiled bitterly. "I didn't start out in porn, Jax. I used to be a mechanic just like you."

Jax felt his mouth open and shut a few times before he finally got a grip on himself.

"Yeah, really. Billy and me, we had a shop. Riggins Rigs." He shook his head sadly. "But that was a lifetime ago." The look in Tim's eyes suddenly shifted, becoming cool and almost flinty. "Okay, so I'll be going now. Call me when you get news about the engine."

----

Part Two

FNL: Kilroy Blues

2009-11-09T18:53:28Z

Title: Kilroy Blues
Rating: Teen (language)
Character: Luke Cafferty
Spoilers: All of Season 4 so far

Author's Note: Written for FNL Laundrylist Challange #36 -- 5. What's Luke's story? We've met Vince's mother, Jess' father and of course Becky's mom, but we know nothing of this star running back who popped out of nowhere. Where has he come from. Was he on the Panther's last year? How long has he been hanging with J.D.? Did Tami break up the next Jason/Tim pairing on us?

I fully expect everything I just cooked up about Luke to get jossed, but that's the fun of fanfic. Also, this means I can finally read fleurlb's take on this prompt.

Legalese: Friday Night Lights is copyright its respective owners. This is a loving labor of whatiffery, not a labor of lucre.

Luke runs fast and he's got moves and he knows this.

Last year he busted his ass and was still only JV. Try as he might, he just couldn't get Jamarcus Hall's spot, and that plain sucked, because everybody knew the Halls would be leaving Dillon come the end of June, so why was Coach Taylor wasting time developing him?

Try for Tim Riggins's spot? Pull the other one, it plays jingle bells.

But Wade Aikman had paid attention to the JV team.

And when he and Joe McCoy showed up at the Cafferty house back in May and explained that it looked like the town was going to split in to two districts, and just to be sure that Luke played for the Dillon Panthers, he should file the paperwork to switch his home address to 2268 Oakdale ASAP.

It's not like the Caffertys are piss poor and have a mile long hard luck story. Land's cheap on this side of town and you can get a 1940s two bedroom house on a huge lot with big trees that shade the house and help keep it cool in summer (and help Dad add that second bathroom down in the basement the summer you turn 10) for a price that would get you a hell of a lot less over in West Dillon. Dad explained that it's all about "Getting the most bang for the buck." Mom explained it in terms of the bible and being a good steward to those blessings granted you by the Lord.

Living in Kilroy lets them have chickens -- roosters even, if they want -- and four big dogs, and mom gets that huge vegetable garden she loves so much. (And the McCoys sure as hell loved the piccalilli and salsa she made for them.)

The ends meet in the Cafferty house. There's even some to spare.

It took all of two minutes for his parents to agree and go along with the plan (of course, they thought Coach Taylor would be leading the Panthers come fall). A big part of Luke's future rides on his earning a football scholarship -- hell it's why he spent all summer hanging out with JD McCoy, running and training. And it's paid off. He's taken his skills and talent to the next level. He and JD were going to make an unbeatable team this season. He could smell State after the first game. They all could.

Luke wants to go to college. His mom and dad have good jobs -- dad is a shift boss at the feedlot, and mom's a manager at the local Kroger -- but they've all sat down and talked about having a career. His parents do good, but they want him to do better than they did, at least have chances that they didn't. And going to college, on a scholarship, is a part of that.

They're not happy about cheating.

But they're a lot less happy about the dent that redistricting just put in Luke's future, and they're all willing to roll the dice.

It's a crappy pouring down rain day when Tami Taylor calls him over to the sidelines during practice to give him the news. A part of Luke can't believe she's doing this. A part of him understands exactly why she's doing this. He's never seen Coach Aikman so mad. He leaps into the golf cart and zooms away so fast that he nearly wrecks it as he rounds a corner on the way to the field house.

Dad shows up as always to pick him up and he and Coach Aikman talk for about 5 minutes while Luke sits in the idling truck, listening to the wip-wop of the wipers and fights back the tears.

It's a long drive home and Dad's mouth is pressed into a thin, tight line and he doesn't say a word, and that's just fine by Luke, who'd rather listen to the wip-wop of the wipers, and the plinking sound of the raindrops smacking into the truck, and the splash of the puddles they drive through. They're all such normal things, and that's good on a day when the world has turned upside down.

For the next two days, the mood in the house is like somebody died.

What sucks even more is that the East Dillon Lions have a bye this week, so there's not even a game to get psyched for, and practices are canceled for some reason, except for a special one this Saturday Night, that Coach Taylor sent Tim Riggins by to tell him about.

Luke lounges on his bed Saturday evening, mom's meatloaf sitting like a rock in his stomach, and thinks about not going.

But life isn't fair, and you can play the hand you're dealt, or you can fold and walk away.

Rufus, their grizzled bloodhound-pitbull mix comes up and shoves his head under Luke's hand, insisting on being petted.

Moving's just not in the cards. Not over football.

And if they moved somehow, they'd probably have to get rid of Rufus, and since he's a 10 year old cantankerous, half-blind old-coot of a dog, that means he'd get put down almost for certain.

Rufus slobbers all over his hand, and wipes dog snot on his shirt, and Luke laughs and skritches his big floppy ears. It's not all bad living in Kilroy. He gets up and changes his shirt. Yeah, you don't go to practice to stay clean, but he can't show up with big smears of dog snarse down his front. You never get a second chance to make a first impression.

"You going to that practice, Son?" dad asks, looking up from working on his model airplane at the kitchen table. Mom's out playing Bunko with her friends.

"Yessir."

Dad smiles at him and says, "Good. I didn't raise a quitter."

Nobody wins by folding, Luke thinks as he starts jogging through the warm September evening towards East Dillon, and not losing isn't the same as winning.

FNL: A Piece of Me

2009-10-28T20:38:29Z

Title: A Piece of Me
Pairing: Tim/Landry
Rating: Adult
Author's Note: This is a piece I wrote in 2007 shortly after S1 of FNL ended, and for some reason I never posted it. I found it tucked in an old notebook and decided oh, why not? If I had to set it somewhere in the chronology of the Tim/Landry stuff I've written, it comes between Shooting Stars and The Promise of a Man.

Legalese: Friday Night Lights is copyright its respective owners. This is a labor of love, not lucre.

Landry mentioned that his parents were going out of town for a long weekend to attend the wedding of his mother's favorite cousin in the hopes that it would lead to quality time with Tyra. In fact, he even went to so far as to clean his room -- just in case.

Of course, to quote the immortal words of John Lennon, "Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans."

Friday night rolled around and Matt showed up, minus Julie, who was over at Grandma Saracen's with Lois and Tyra having some sort of no boys allowed girls night.

Fifteen minutes after they called for pizza and threw Army of Darkness in the DVD player Tim Riggins banged on the screen door and let himself (and a six pack) in. "Hey Lando, hey Seven. Thought I'd drop by and see how it's hanging. Army of Darkness. Cool." He flopped down on the couch hard enough to make the frame squeak and took three beers out of the rings.

National wasn't Landry's favorite brand, but they were still fresh enough from the cooler that sweat beaded on them and ran down the sides. Matt glared at both of them as he quickly put coasters under the cans. Grandma Saracen was finicky about that.

He and Matt nursed their single cans, but true to form, Tim downed the rest of the six pack and all but licked the grease from the pizza box after devouring the last scrap of cheese.

When Landry put the DVD back in the case he wondered if he should give Matt the keys to his car (it's not like Landry had anything planned for tomorrow) or drive Matt home and hope that Tim was sober enough to drive when he came back, but after a few moments of weird strained silence, the clock chimed midnight and Matt said that since it was a nice night out, he was going to walk home.

Tim stood in the doorway next to Landry and together they watched Matt cut across the yard and head around the corner. Landry noticed that Tim had a sort of peculiar smile on his face. "Man," Tim said, sliding his hand across Landry's shoulder and up and around the back of his neck, pulling him in, "I thought he would never leave." He gave Landry a hot, wet kiss.

Tim tasted like beer and pizza and even though Landry's rational mind gave a hearty sigh about Tim's drinking and also said something about Tyra and um, girls, okay? Below the belt it was a different story. Landry went from nothing to full on stiffy in under two seconds, and he kissed Tim back, hard. Tim seemed like a good kisser (not that Landry's had a lot of experience) and something about the way Tim's arms clenched tight and the way he sighed when they broke for air made Landry think that he might be doing a good job kissing back.

Another voice started chattering away in Landry's mind. It liked the fact that Tim wanted him. It's Friday night and, well, guys like Tim, they had choices. Lots and lots of choices. And Tim chose him, Landry the brainiac. Only, Landry didn't think that Tim wanted him for his brains. It felt great to have some confirmation that he was, well, attractive for reasons that had nothing to do with having a beautiful mind.

"Bed?" Tim asked the next time they broke for air. His hands had been swimming up under Landry's shirt and ... Landry kind of liked the fact that Tim didn't assume, he asked.

But, it was a little weird, too. The idea of going to bed ... because it wasn't like Landry's folks were going to walk through the door and catch them on the couch. But if Tim wanted to bump and grind on Landry's bed, who was he to say no?

They kissed most the the way down the hall to Landry's room, and when they got there, Landry sat down and moved to shuck his shirt -- for some reason their shirts ended up off most times when they did this, even though it wasn't necessary -- but Tim sat down next to Landry and took off his boots before shucking his shirt and standing and dropping his jeans, revealing a wash grey set of boxers.

It took a moment for the implications of that to sink in.

They'd never actually gotten naked together.

And now? Tim was 90% there.

Tim meant to spend the night.

In bed.

With him.

Having sex.

All night long.

Landry boggled as his mind put the pieces together. It must have showed on his face because Tim looked at him, gave that crooked half-grin of his and said, "What?"

Landry felt his mouth open and shut a few times, but nothing came out. His mind just could not assemble the words.

Tim snorted with amusement. "Well?"

That snapped Landry back into action. He fumbled at the buckle of his jeans only to remember that he had his favorite combat boots on, they needed to come off and ... he'd never been naked with another person. Not even the doctor, and this was nothing like that. At least his dark blue Fruit of the Looms didn't show wear and tear quite the way that Tim's did.

It started the way it usually did. Kissing and a mutual hand job, only, this time, Landry felt all of Tim pressed up against him, could see all of Tim and ... it didn't feel strange, like he worried it might. For round two, Landry pushed Tim down on the mattress and gave him a blow job. Of course, getting Tim to speak and give any kind of detail was iffy at the best of times, but Landry jaw aching by the time Tim pulled his head away and said "Landry!" in a wierd, strangled kind of voice, felt a kind of pride at finally getting it right, because Tim did this for him and it was amazing. Landry always felt a little bad about not being able to return the favor, about being asked to stop the last few times he tried because of "teeth!" Tim didn't blow him in return but pulled Landry up as soon as he finished, and clenched his hands around Landry's ass as Landry humped against him until he shot and then sagged against Tim, panting and giggling with the sheer joy of it.

They fell asleep like that, a happy sweaty heap, and woke two more times, handjobs and grinding before drifting back to sleep. A part of Landry's brain commented on the fact that he's a mess and he's going to have to strip the bed and wash the sheets, but he told it to shut up. And, for once, it did.

The feeling of being watched woke Landry up early the next morning. Tim had his jeans half way up and a kind of happy, muzzy expression on his face as his eyes roved across Landry's body. He blushed a little when their eyes locked.

Landry stretched and smiled a little. Words were normally his best tools, but even he knew that sometimes, silence was best. He crooked a finger. Tim snickered and shoved his jeans and boxers back down.

Landry licked and nipped his way down Tim's washboard abs and teased his tongue along in lazy zig-zags between the crests of Tim's hip bones and Tim's whisper-hissed, "Jesus, please Landry" provided a huge stroke to his ego. And this time, freed from the need to get it right, Landry enjoyed giving the blow job, too.

They finished with Landry astride Tim's hips, jerking off, because Tim said he wanted to watch.

And then Tim wiped himself clean with the sheet, got dressed for real this time, and went home.

On Monday at school, they didn't say anything. Just looked at each other.

But Landry knew something now. Saw it in flash in those hazel eyes.

Tim loved him.

No, he didn't think that Tim was in love with him. Tim Riggins was in love with somebody else and had been for a very long time.

But, given what Landry had learned about Tim in these past months, he knew that Tim had plenty of teammates, plenty of acquantances, plenty of girls he fucked.

But friends?

Real friends that you shared the secret pieces of yourself with, and they still liked you anyway? (Even if they did bust your chops a bit about some of the dorkiness?)

The list of people that Tim made a place for in his heart was a short one.

And Landry was on it.

FNL: I Turn My Camera On

2009-10-22T23:42:45Z

Fandom: Friday Night Lights
Rating: Teen (language and themes)
Pairing: Tim Riggins/His Entire Address Book
Spoilers: Assumes you've seen all of S3

Author's Note: Inspired by a real life event that's had me laughing all day long.*

Also -- S4! Almost here! Snoopy Dance! Snoopy Dance!

Legalese: Friday Night Lights is copyright its respective owners. This is a labor of laughter and love, not lucre.

Since it was several hours drive away in another state, Lyla left for Vanderbilt two weeks before classes started. Tim, on the other hand, had no plans to leave for San Antonio state until he absolutely had to.

It had been four days and already he missed Lyla something fierce, missed spooning up around her and nuzzling into her hair. Early morning sunlight crept in from the edges of the blinds, rousing him further and ... just thinking about her made "Old Faithful" give that extra little throb.

Oh, why the hell not?

He took himself in hand, grabbed his cell phone, snapped the shot, wrote "thinking of you" in the subject line of the email and hit send.

And then, because his hand was there anyways, Tim took care of business, wiped himself on the corner of the sheet and shut out the bothersome sun by rolling face down into the bed.

He wondered what Lyla would send him in reply. Or, maybe she'd call. He'd like that. He missed the sound of her voice.

---

As he scrubbed blearily at his eyes, dutifully picking at the rubbery scrambled eggs Mindy had made for him, Billy loved his wife for trying so damn hard. She couldn't cook for shit and yet, she had hauled her tired, cranky, pregnant self out of bed every morning since she had taken leave from the Landing Strip and made him a proper breakfast. Because she loved him. And because Billy loved his Mindykins, he made himself eat it. Thanked her for it, too.

At least there was coffee. Mindy made a damn fine pot of coffee.

As she nibbled at her dry toast, her phone flashed, indicating a new message. Whatever it was caused her eyes to damn near bug out before she burst into gales of laughter. Before he could ask her what was so funny, Billy's phone buzzed.

And ... well, that boy down the hall always did have a PhD in stupidity.

Mindy's eyes twinkled wickedly as she crooned, "Not a word, Billy Riggins. Not a word. He'll discover what he's done soon enough. But that got me to thinking, big brother ..." She gave him a sly wink.

Billy's fork hit the plate with a clatter. He didn't have to be asked twice. Besides, he found her hard, round six-months-pregnant belly incredibly sexy.

(And, she'd called him BIG brother.)

God, he loved this woman, and as he chased her giggling ass down the hall and to the bedroom, his heart (and parts south) swelled with love for her.

---

In an effort to show that East Dillon could adequately provide for its athletic staff, the administration had gotten all of them brand spanking new fancy schmancy phones with lots of buttons. Eric Taylor couldn't understand half of how it worked, but luckily for him, Athletic Director (and Head Girl's Soccer Coach) Roberta Roberts was nice enough to sit down with him and walk him through how his "crackberry" worked.

"See, you've got a new email. So, if you push that button there, you can open it. See? Piece of -- Oh. My. God!" Her voice jumped a breathy half-octave. As she sat back on the couch next to him, fanning herself, Eric tried to close the email as quickly as possible, but the phone leaped out of his fingers, clattering to the floor.

"Shit." The once perfect black finish now had several scratches in it. He prided himself on how quickly he got it flipped to the phone call screen, but paused, trying to decide who to call first.

Bobby cleared her throat. "Eric?" She laid a hand on his forearm and frowned at him in concern. "Is this the first time you've had a student with feelings for you?"

"Former student, and no. I mean, nobody's come on to me. Or come out to me." He feverishly worked the damn ball in the middle until it spun down to the number he wanted. He punched the button.

"Hey dad!" Julie's voice chirruped in his ear.

"Hey Jules ... does your phone have email on it?"

"No, but --"

"Okay!" He hung up, heaving a huge sigh of relief.

----

The Stratton Sisters sidled up to Tim at the Gas and Go. Dottie on one side, Weezy on the other "Hey Timmy ...." They both ran their hands down his chest. "What'cha doin' later?"

"Working." He smiled vaguely at them as he reached down and around Dottie (or was it Weezy?) to grab a large bag of cheez doodles. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Damn thing had been buzzing all morning, and not Lyla's number, either. Rally girls, mostly.

"Oh ..." Weezy pouted, but Dottie said, "Okay, well, if you change your mind again, we're ready to make more memories."

"Uhh ... okay." God. Damn. Did people not get the message? He'd gone steady with Lyla for damn near a year now. He was off the market.

One of them pinched his ass as he turned to go.

Sheesh!

----

It took Landry Clarke about 0.5 seconds to figure out how he had ended up with a picture of that particular part of Tim Riggins on his cell phone.

Well, Tyra had certainly not traded down in that department when she'd gotten him. The knowledge put a grin on Landry's face, one that even Coach Taylor calling him "Lance" yet again and all the other horrors of Hell Week couldn't erase.

----

"It was a complete accident, ma'am. Yes ma'am, -- my phone's ringing, I've got anothercallcomingthroughIhavetotakeit." Tim pushed the button without even seeing who it was.

"Tim, is there a particular reason you sent me a picture of your dick?"

"Jason! Oh, thank God!"

A long pause followed. "That bad, huh?"

"Six, I'm talking to Tyra's mom about why there's a picture of my dick on her phone. How's that sound to you?"

"That's ... that's pretty damn bad. Even for you."

"Fuckin' Billy's the worst though. It's been all gay porn, all day long." Pause. "Like, enough that I'm wondering about him, y'know?"

Jason laughed. "Is Coach Taylor in your address book?"

"Six, the only reason I'm still walking the earth is that Julie Taylor's phone doesn't do email." Tim swallowed hard. "He told me that Coach Roberts used it as a chance to have a long talk with him about what to do when a student does come out to him. Apparently she even put one of those pink triangle safe zone sticker things on his office window so that everybody can see that he's 'one of the good guys.'"

Jason snickered for several moments before getting his breath back. "Y'know Riggs, there's always room on my couch."

"Thanks, Six. I'll let you know if I need it."

"Sounds good, only ... if you're coming, call, don't email. That didn't go over so well the last time you did it."

"I love you too, Six," Tim snarked before he hung up and started packing a duffel bag.

Getting to San Antonio State a few days early was looking pretty damn good right now.

----

* This person's ex-MIL (my supervisor) is also in his address book. We've been howling with laughter about this all day long.

AKB: If You Don't, You Act Like You Do.

2009-10-02T00:29:00Z

Title: If You Don't, You Act Like You Do
Fandom: poisontaster's A Kept Boy 'Verse
Pairing: Josh Homme/Chris Kane
Rating: Adult
Author's Note: Sequel to Forget Left Untold. Title is a reference to the QOTSA song Misfit Love.

Thank you to drgaellon for his excellent beta services.

And as always thank you, Poisontaster, for opening up the sandbox for us to play in.

Legalese: The following is a bit of whatiffery, set in a fantasy universe and is not intended as an accurate reflection of any particular person's actions, world view, or morals.

Time spent with Josh was unpredictable. Sometimes they had a beer and listened to the house band or whoever was playing that night at the Indigo Blue. Sometimes they played music together. Sometimes they fucked. (Okay, so that was most times.)

And sometimes?

They talked.

Weird, stilted conversations. Chris pointedly steering the topic away from anything to do with Jeff, his businesses, or the household. Josh unable to go into a lot of specific details about his activities or the whereabouts of his partner.

The absence of Damian worried Chris. Because he was, in a way, present in all their interactions, lurking below the surface like a shark whose fin hadn't yet split the waters.

~oo(0)oo~

"You ever meet a rock star named John Taylor?" Josh asked, popping a shrimp in his mouth.

Chris sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose against an impending headache. "I might have," he finally replied. "There were times when it all kind of blurred together." And sometimes I'm really grateful for that. "Why do you ask?" Because I'm not your informant and I don't want to be. He squeezed his eyes shut against a flare and prayed for the Tylenol to kick in.

Josh paused with a shrimp halfway to his mouth, looked like he was going to say something then reconsidered. "Nothing important."

Forcing his face back to calmness, Chris said, "Fishing for gossip?"

Josh smiled tightly. "Something like that." He drenched his next shrimp in cocktail sauce.

"Check the backstairs."

Josh gave him the kind of smile most adults reserved for small children. "Already have. Not a whole hell of a lot there." He sighed heavily, "The lord and lady spend half the year in England. He's still English. She's not."

"And they don't take the slaves?" Chris guessed. Taking slaves out of the Empire was a tricky proposition, depending on destination, and Taylor's non-Imperial nationality could complicate matters.

"Nope." Pause. "We think."

Like I'm going to help you bust somebody for that. Sarcasm dripped from Chris' reply. "However do they manage?"

"It's not like they're shifting for themselves, not with his record money and her fashion empire," Josh snorted. "They've doubtless got an army of wage-slaves they can fire at will over there."

"I'm sure you can find out," Chris said dryly. And I'd trade my job security for freedom to starve in a heartbeat. Wouldn't you?

~oo(0)oo~

Chris leaned over and whispered in Josh's ear, "You're sweet on her, aren't you?" as Brodie Dallie, this evening's singer at the Indigo Blue, returned to the stage for an encore. Her set had been all originals, but the encore, she explained would be classic torch songs. A perfect match, given her sultry, throaty voice.

"Jealous?" Josh smirked, but he did not take his eyes off of her. "Now shut up, I want to hear her sing."

Jealous? Chris laughed on the inside. What was the point of that? Like he had any say over Josh's affairs.

When she finished a smoky rendition of Worrisome Heart, Chris leaned over and said, "Hell, I'm half in love with her myself."

Josh barely flicked his eyes over as he squeezed a fresh twist of lime into his Corona. "Yeah? So, I'd nail her."

"You should."

"What?!" Josh gave him his undivided attention.

Chris shrugged, feigning a nonchalance he didn't feel. "Flash the badge, see if you can grab some tail."

Muscles twitched and clenched in Josh's jaw. "It doesn't always work like that," he finally hissed. "Besides, why are you trying to get me laid?"

That's a good question. "You know that when other people at Jeff's ask, I say yes, right? Hell, I even do some of the asking."

"And I still make Tail call," Josh replied in an icy whisper. "Your point is?"

"You know what?" Chris swigged his beer. "Forget I even brought it up."

"Oh, I will." Josh bit the words out.

Chris fiddled with the coaster. "Look, just so we're clear on what this is."

Josh guzzled his bottle dry, slammed it down and said, "Chris, I have no fucking idea what this is, or what's crawled up your ass tonight. Just so we're clear." He pushed the chair back, threw a bill down to cover his share of the tab and stalked over to the small knot of people clustered around Brodie.

Right.

Chris settled the tab and left without a backward glance.

~oo(0)oo~

He didn't head home right away, though. Instead, he drove the truck aimlessly through the Hollywood Hills, snaking up the streets and avenues, barely registering the quaint little houses and their tiny lawns, or the McMansions shoehorned on to their lots as he tried to figure out why he'd done what he'd done, said what he'd said.

(Why he was so fucking stupid as to push a man who could destroy him with a word? Except Josh would probably use a gun. It just seemed his style.)

As the clock crept past two, Chris turned onto the road leading to Jeff's estate and slammed on the brakes as soon as he saw Josh, arms crossed, slouched against the side of an unmarked black sedan. He had parked just outside the range of the external security cams at the entrance to Jeff's estate, Chris noted with some uneasiness. He rolled down the window. "What do you —"

"Get. In."

(Damned if you do, damned if you don't.)

After a moment's internal debate, Chris parked the truck also outside the range of the cameras. Because ... what if nothing happened but the footage somehow got brought to Jeff's attention? It would require Chris to answer questions that he'd rather not answer. Hell, he'd rather not even think about the questions.

He'd pushed a man who could destroy him. And honestly, if Josh wanted to get really vindictive, he could fuck everybody on the estate over. Royally.

(Time to suck up, take his lumps, and pay the piper.)

Chris said nothing, just slid silently into the passenger seat next to Josh, who gunned the engine and cut down the street and up a bumpy service road before skidding the car to a halt in a spray of sand and gravel behind a long row of houses.

In the split second as he waited for the blow to fall, Chris looked out over the valley and the rolling hills. The lights spread over them made him think of a swathe of copper and silver sequins, shot through in places with rivers of gold.

Josh's hand dug into his hair, wrenching him painfully back into the moment and then into a brutal, punishing kiss. "Don't ever do that to me again!" Josh shouted when he finally pushed Chris away, both of them panting. "Do you think I don't know what you were trying to do?"

I'm not even sure I know what I was trying to do.

(Or, maybe I do, but I'm too scared to admit it.)

Chris let out a shaky sigh as he leaned forward and rested his head on the dashboard as he searched for ~~the words to explain~~, the ones most likely to mollify Josh. Even now, staring down at what he could see of his knees, feet, and the carpeted floorboards, he could feel Josh's glare drilling into him, could picture the curdled expression on his face and the vein throbbing in his temple. Chris forced a poker expression onto his face, and as convincingly as he could, murmured, "Yeah, it was pretty stupid of me." He even managed a half-hearted smile as he turned his head towards Josh.

"I don't think you quite understand how this really works," Josh said, his mild voice belying the intensity in his eyes. "I don't think you understand who's holding the cards here, or how the game is played."

Misery threaded with panic curdled in the pit of Chris's stomach. It was a sensation he hadn't felt in years, though it had been a regular emotion, an almost constant companion, during his life several masters ago.

(Zane. Especially Zane.)

It was the feeling of inevitability. And Chris had only one response for that. "Do your worst," he hissed as he sat up, jutting his chin forward.

Josh's fingers clamped iron-hard, digging into his jaw, making Chris's eyes water at the pain. "Oh, I'm going to do a hell of a lot better than that," Josh growled just before he pulled Chris back into a kiss every bit as hard as the first. A coldly calculating gleam entered his eye. "You get laid a lot on Morgan's estate?"

(What?!)

Chris had no idea how to answer that question. This was a slave's worst nightmare, being asked a question and having no idea which of the possible correct answers would most minimize the damage. He searched Josh's eyes for a clue, and as they bored into his, Chris knew.

The truth (but not necessarily the whole truth).

Josh would be on to any lie of his like white on rice and Josh was Commerce, and not just Commerce but BIS. If Chris insulted him by lying? The consequences might be worse than telling the truth.

"How much is 'a lot?'" Chris finally asked. "If you mean like, every day? No. But enough? Yeah, I guess." I'm a former body slave, for fuck's sake. My perspective on this is doubtless a little skewed.

Josh's hands dropped from Chris's head to the waist of Chris's jeans. "But I'll bet nobody gives you this."

"Helping themselves without asking?"

Josh's eyes bored into his as he popped the button out of the hole.

"A rough and ready?" Chris still wasn't quite certain what Josh meant. "If I ask —" the words turned into a startled gasp as Josh ripped his zipper down.

"But you don't ask, do you?" Josh spoke barely above a whisper, and somehow, the words hit harder than a shout.

Chris opened and shut his mouth several times, flailing for words, flailing again for an entirely different reason a moment later when Josh's hand reached into his boxer briefs.

"Your Master sure as hell doesn't touch you this way. Jared the big stable stud is —" Josh grinned wickedly. "Well, he's just a big gentle sheepdog, isn't he? Chad with the wiseacre mouth and the stripes down his back to prove it?" Josh's fingers curled around Chris, making him gasp. "Well, he just can't keep up the act, can he?"

Chris snapped into action, seizing Josh's wrist. "Look," he said evenly, "you've read my file. You know my rep."

"Boy, do I ever." Josh chortled, low and throaty, squeezing Chris's cock ever so slightly. "Oh, you're no Jensen, hot and bothered as soon as you're ordered to bend over. You're not that kind of rough trade."

Damn right, Chris thought with more than a little flare of anger.

The glint in Josh's eyes showed that he'd caught the flash in Chris's. He leaned in even closer, breath tickling at the edge of Chris's face. "You miss that somebody would dare."

Low and raspy, the sound tumbled out of Chris's mouth, followed by something akin to a gasp, and then a heated rush as a blush stained his cheeks.

Josh cackled triumphantly as he slowly stroked his hand up and down Chris's rock hard shaft, Chris's now nerveless hand on his arm doing nothing to stay him.

With his other hand, Josh gently peeled Chris's fingers off his arm, and, still keeping the pace a tease, he whispered straight into Chris's ear, "You miss having your boundaries crossed, don't you? You miss the thrill of pushing back, of rolling the dice. 'Will it be a beating this time? Or worse? What can I charm myself into or out of?' You miss the thrill of getting away with it."

"Never got away with it," Chris gasped, feeling dazed, light-headed, almost high, "Got my share of beatings and ... other things." Other things. Yeah, that was putting it lightly.

"But all you had to do was be a good little slave and keep your mouth shut —when you weren't told to open it wide — but you didn't do that, did you?" Josh crooned low. "And you're still alive and intact. Not in a labor camp, or a med lab, or a mine. Not maimed. Not a horse. Not rotting in a ditch." Josh tightened his hand around Chris. "You'd make such a fucking agent, you know."

"On stage," Chris gasped, his whole body shivering.

"Oh, that, too." Josh agreed. "On stage, giving them your all under the lights, daring them not to love you."

Chris screwed his eyes shut, sucked in a long gasp, like a man about to drown, and said, "I push. I push back, but I've seen what happens to people who try to push back against the system, against Commerce, against men like you." Been there and had my lip split bloody because I fucking forgot myself with you and Damian.

He felt as much as heard Josh's low chuckling reply. "Yeah, you have, haven't you?" Then, "But do you know how many people I've met where it's not some sort of stupid show of bravado?" Josh gave three quick ripping jerks that sent the static crackling through Chris's body. "You — you're the nail that sticks up and those stupid bastards can't hammer you down. Can't begin to figure out how."

Chris tried to say that it was because they were stupid, or didn't care that much, or they got exactly what they'd paid for, but it wasn't like he could think right now. His hips bucked up of their own accord as Josh's hand set a staggered time rhythm that seemed calculated to drive Chris insane.

"So here's how it's going to go," Josh said, shifting, his breath no longer in Chris's ear, but teasing right across his lips, "I'm going to jerk you until you're begging to come, and then I'm taking your limp body and throwing you face down on the hood and fucking your unruly little ass the way it deserves."

Chris tried to say, "Fine by me," and "Sounds like a plan," or "You're awfully sure of yourself, Josh," but what came out was, "Ohhhh!" as Josh's thumb tickled just under the head.

Josh's laughter filled the car.

~oo(0)oo~

Chris never thought he'd be nostalgic for bent-over-the-hood sex, and yet, as Josh hauled his Jell-O-like, orgasm-blissed body out of the car, Chris stumbling from a combination of rubber knees and his jeans around his thighs as he tried to walk, he found that he kind of was.

As Josh positioned him, Chris savored the heat of the the engine through the hood. It was a modern engine, electric, a dynamo and a transmission, really, not an antique gasoline engine like some of his masters and mistresses had had — Chris had always loved those — but it was close enough: the smells of hot rubber and oil, steering fluid, and it ticked and pinged, too as it cooled. He turned his face to the side and savored the way his breath ghosted across the paint, lingered for an instant, and vanished into the night. There was something, a kind of heat-of-the-moment-ness, to what Josh was about to do to him that even post-bonfire encounters at Jeff's lacked. Perhaps it had something do with the fact that a stranger out for a middle-of-the-night stroll could chance upon them, or that somebody in one of the houses below might hear them and call the police.

When Josh finally (finally) clenched one hand in Chris's hair and guided his considerable length in with the other, Chris pushed back with everything he had, savoring the stretch and burn as Josh's bulk filled him. He would pay for this tomorrow, but right now? God, he needed it. Hadn't known how much he needed it, until Josh rubbed his face in it.

According to Josh, Chris was the third man he'd had sex with, because Tail was all female, and yet Josh had known from day one exactly what do to with it. Chris's hands clawed over the slick metal of the hood as Josh nailed him right. there. with every stroke. "Are you sure you never went to school for this?" Chris gasped as a particularly good thrust had him haffing and twitching, a fresh surge of pre-come spurting from his cock, doubtless leaving peckertracks across the hood. If Josh kept up this pace, Chris would come again real soon — and without a reach around.

"Certain." Amusement threaded through Josh's voice. "I know how to rig a bomb, though."

"You're a natural — don'tfuckingstop!" Chris rasped as Josh got him with a doubletap.

"I could say the same about you, Mr. Kane." Josh reached around and under, closing his hand almost too hard around Chris's aching cock. "Here you are, reloaded and ready to go. Such a slut."

For you? Yeah. "I think," Chris gritted out, pushing back as hard as he could, bucking forward as much as possible, "this is a chicken and egg thing."

Josh snickered.

Then buried himself as deep as Chris could take him and gave Chris's dick three good jerks, making him shoot a messy load all over the hood of the car, before he pulled out and shot all over Chris's ass and back.

~oo(0)oo~

Ass and neck (because Josh had rolled him over on the hood of the car and sucked a hickey right below the collar as he fucked Chris a second time) throbbing in time to his pulse, Chris opened the kitchen door as quietly as he could and tiptoed in. Sam would be getting up in about 15 minutes, if she wasn't already up. He might be able to slip into bed and grab a three hour nap before he had to get up and attend a video conference about the state of sales and future market strategies for the Morgan empire. Or perhaps he should just make a pot of coffee and power through the rest of the day. Maybe Sam had some pie left.

He opened the fridge. Well no, not surprising. So bed, then. He shut the door, and turned to find Jensen looming over him. "Jesus!" Chris hissed, heart rabbiting in his chest. "Make a little noise next time. You scared the piss out of me!"

Jensen stared at him for a beat, then closed his big green eyes, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache. "Jeff's not a blind man," he said, voice barely audible over the hum of the appliances.

Crap. "It's none of your business," Chris bit the words out.

"Jeff's wondering about you. He's not saying anything, but he is, and, he's going to want to talk to you. He's noticed and it's — " Jensen's tone firmed, "it's my business when it keeps him up at night, or sets him to pacing."

Chris sighed heavily and leaned his head back against the cool metal of the fridge, "It's nothing. Just me getting my ashes hauled."

Jensen stepped fractionally closer and crossed his arms. "And you think Jeff won't want to know about the hauler? You think that he's not worried about you?"

It was the utterly flat-calm delivery that set Chris's teeth on edge. He could've handled sarcasm or even a hint of reproach, but this? Fuckadoodledoo. His mouth quirked into a wry smile. "Y'know, I half wish you were still jumping at shadows. You see too much."

Jensen lifted an eyebrow. "So noted."

Right. "I'm going to bed. I've got a long day ahead of me." Chris pushed past Jensen and wearily headed to bed.

The day he was waiting for, the day he dreaded, was coming. But he was a slave, so that day was always coming. In one way or another, for one reason or another, it was always coming.

He set the alarm, pulled the sheets over his head (maybe he could delay it just a little longer, get out of the mess he'd landed himself in before Jeff had to deal with it) and crashed out.

Fic: I'm Going, You Can Come

2009-09-20T16:42:27Z

Title: I'm Going, You Can Come
Fandom: My Beautiful Laundrette
Character: Tania Hussein
Rating: Teen (language and theme)
Notes: Written for the eid_ka_chand fic challenge. Offered in loving memory of the stories my mother told about her first Eid with her wonderful host family -- she was terribly homesick and they were so incredibly loving and kind to her.

Legalese: My Beautiful Laundrette and the characters therefrom are copyright their respective owners. This is a labor of love, not lucre.

It's a clip from a BBC TV documentary about catastrophic urban fires from Rome to the present day that finally makes up Tania's mind.

During this July past, wildfires on a scale almost unimaginable to anybody in the UK raged through communities in the hills in and around Los Angeles, California -- the hills, and brush, and names like "Ojai" and "Baldwin Hills" are news to Tania, because when she thinks of Southern California, it's beaches, and palm trees, and Hollywood, and stars on the walk of fame -- and in a clip from LA TV news, this woman, shaking, barely keeping the tears and screams back behind the veneer of dignity and manners, tells the reporter how the Sheriff's Deputies just knocked on her door a few minutes ago and told her she had five minutes to get packed and get out. Behind her, the hills are washed in lurid orange flame and the wind-driven smoke that swirls around them looks almost like fog.

Five minutes. Tania rolls the notion around in her mind for days after seeing the show. Five minutes to decide what comes with and what stays and is left behind ... forever. Five minutes to plan the start of the rest of your life.

Five minutes is all she's going to get, Tania realizes one cool and rainy Sunday morning as she sits at her vanity and styles her hair for the luncheon her father has planned. Any more than five minutes, and one of her sisters will find out (and they won't keep the secret), or her mum will wander in, wanting help with something, or it will be one of her endless stream of aunties who comes through her door.

(Oh please, please, please don't let it be Cherry who finds out.)

She says almost nothing during the meal, which is completely awful by the way, because her mother and her father still aren't talking. Well, more like her mum isn't talking to her father or having anything to do with him, and everybody who knows why carries on as if the affair with Rachel never happened. It's like they're all playing a game of make believe as they gather 'round the table, only it's a lot less fun than when they were children. The fantasy is a lot more tawdry for starters and the mood is ... mercenary at best.

It's driving Tania insane, all this pretending, all this make believe.

As soon as she can, she runs for the lavatory and splashes some water on her face to rinse away the tears she lets fall only after she's clicked the lock. "I'm going," she whispers to the red-eyed woman in the mirror. "You can come."

~oo(0)oo~

Marriage to Omar looms on the horizon like the flames on those hills as the days pass. Once ominous yet distant, now entirely too close for Tania's liking, Tania's life, Tania's sanity.

(She's not going to end up on the train tracks like Omar's mum ... the auntie they never speak of. And she's not going to end up like her mum. Or, worse yet, like Cherry. Not Cherry. Never Cherry.)

The time has come.

Tania throws the closet open and her hand closes around the leather handle of her suitcase -- one she got in Lahore a few years back -- she's an old pro at packing for Holiday, and this is everything and nothing like that.

It takes five minutes to pack the essentials.

And a lifetime to regret all she's about to leave behind.

(No. That's not going to happen. It's not.)

At least she's got a goodly amount of real gold and real pearls to hock if it comes to that. If she economizes, Tania figures she can make it for at least a quarter year if there are any delays in getting Uni sorted.

~oo(0)oo~

~~Once upon a time~~ Not so long ago, really, the idea of marrying Omar seemed like freedom. Once upon a time, not so very long ago, Tania liked Omar enough that she might come to love him because she thought he wasn't like the others.

But now?

He's turned out just like the rest of them.

Except for Johnny.

And when Tania twigged on to Johnny, she thought at first it might not be that bad, sharing Omar with him. She quite likes Johnny, there's something quite cheeky about him, and they get on well. Given how he's acted since he found out that Omar intended to marry her, Johnny doesn't seem to mind the idea of sharing Omar with her, and ... unless she got it completely back to front, Johnny seems to fancy her, too.

But, if Tania goes along with it now? Why she'd just be living off of a man, and, like she said to Rachel, she doesn't like women who live off men.

(Women like Rachel, Cherry, her aunties, her mum, her sisters ... herself.)

(Because, damn her, Rachel got that right.)

Tania plants a fierce knee on the top of her bulging suitcase to force it shut, and with a loud zrrrrip, a sound that seems to echo like an alarm, or a creaky floorboard when you're trying to sneak around late at night, she gets the zipper all the way 'round.

Donning her coat and scarf, she crams a few last things in her book bag, grabs her purse and pauses a moment in the doorway, sucking in a deep breath. Her mother, her aunties, her sisters ... she's going to miss them terribly.

(Heh. Homesick already and she's not even out the door. Pathetic.)

"It's now or never, girl," Tania whispers under her breath. It's take that next step, or not. The flames are here. She can try to outrun them, or stay and be consumed.

There.

(The door clicks shut behind her.)

Done.

She tosses a lock of hair out of her eyes. She's got a train to catch. A quick glance at her watch shows there's enough time to pop in at the laundrette and see if she can't talk to Johnny and get him to come with.

(Johnny's going to find himself in a world of hurt and trouble and likely get his heart broken in the bargain if he doesn't get out now, like her.)

But, no matter what he says, Tania Hussein's got a train to catch, one that's going to take her into a brave new world.

One where she makes her own way, thank you very much.

Hurt Locker -- The Hard Word

2009-08-12T17:19:22Z

Title: The Hard Word
Pairing: James/Sanborn
Rating: Adult
Author's note: After James' mistake nearly gets Eldridge killed, James and Sanborn defuse the tension between them the only way they know how. A sequel to Day 17.

Legalese: The Hurt Locker is copyright its respective owners. This is a labor of speculation, not a labor of lucre.

As soon as they got poor Eldridge back to base, Sanborn so mad he couldn't say a word to James, so mad he couldn't look at the motherfucker without wanting to choke him, so mad he couldn't begin to fill out paperwork without describing his NCO as a "motherfucking peckerwood who needs to go back to his trailer park", he stowed his gear and stripped off his bloodstained and now ruined BDUs, throwing them in a dumpster as he headed for the showers.

He found James sitting in one of the stalls, letting the water pour down on him. James glanced up when Sanborn came in, the morose expression on his face reminding Sanborn of a tired dog, then just as quickly his head went back down. The water almost overtopped the edge of the stall. It had just the faintest hint of pink now, but a few splashes and a streak showed that it had once been a darker, redder, color. Silently Sanborn reached over and turned the faucet off.

James didn't move.

As he stepped into the stall next to James, pulled the curtain shut, and let the (blessed) hot water pound into him, Sanborn realized that James's shower had been cold, which is to say, lukewarm, and while Sanborn suspected James might have been trying to punish himself, it occurred to him then that in not going back to his quarters but instead climbing straight into the shower before the blood completely dried, James had inadvertently saved his BDUs.

Damn him.

By the time Sanborn got done with his shower -- not that he took more than seven minutes -- James was gone, leaving only a trail of wet footprints in his wake.

James didn't come to him that night.

---

To his credit, when their CO grilled them the next day about what happened, James took full responsibility for his actions. Not that the Lieutenant or their First Sergeant would go too hard on him. He'd impressed the hell out of Colonel Reed in defusing that car bomb, and everybody at division was impressed with how James had handled that firefight with the insurgents about a week ago.

(In James's report about that incident he had had nothing but praise for Sanborn and Eldridge, the kind of stuff that would help Sanborn make Staff Sergeant. It amazed Sanborn how in some places, James got it, really got it, but he completely failed in others.)

Sanborn simply stuck to the facts of the matter. They had almost caught a bomb maker a few days back. It was not entirely unreasonable to think the triggerman behind this massive explosion might be close by. Sanborn had advised against leaving the area of the blast. Yessir, Staff Sergeant James was a maverick, but he was also incredibly good at what he did.

Dismissed.

James didn't come to him that night.

---

The next day the docs pronounced Eldridge stable enough for a medivac, and, just before the doors closed on the helicopter, Eldridge -- apple cheeked, all-American, white bread Eldridge -- bitched James out. Yeah, James's quick thinking and sure shooting had saved Eldridge's life, but they had no business being in those alleyways to begin with.

Yes, Eldridge was glad to be alive. He was glad to be going home. He wasn't so glad about months of PT or a leg that would bother him for the rest of his life.

James came to him that night.

---

No whiskey. No box of wires and switches and other things that had almost killed him.

Just a knock at the door and James in a Tshirt and cammy bottoms, hands in pockets. He didn't look sheepish though. Oh no, he had his game face on.

Sanborn stood back and let him enter, shutting and locking the door before grabbing James by the back of his shirt collar and belt, hustling him to the desk and shoving him face down on it.

James did nothing, said nothing, as Sanborn sent his trousers down to his ankles, just bent his knees a bit so he could spread his legs wider.

"I'm using a condom this time." Sanborn's tone brooked no argument. It wasn't like he was at much risk of catching AIDS from James. It's that if they were going to do this? James would do it his way or not at all.

"Whatever. Just --" James waved him on.

The fact that it was a prelubed condom helped, but it still took a lot of spit, and shoving, and swearing for Sanborn to get sheathed to the hilt. Once in he pumped away like a piston in an engine, slamming all his frustration and anger into James, fucking him instead of choking the shit out of him -- not that the thought of that had lost all its appeal. Sanborn meant to go steady, to grind this out, to make James feel every inch of his anger, but once in, he found himself quickly revving to redline and coming. If there was such thing as a joyless orgasm, this was it. Relief without pleasure, but blessed relief all the same. Sanborn sagged, panting, as James clenched tight around him, not letting him pull out as he fisted himself for several more moments before coming with a soft, breathy sound not quite sigh, but not yet groan.

"Thanks, I needed that," James said when he had finished shiver twitching and unclenched enough to finally let Sanborn pull out easily.

Sanborn had several choice things he had wanted to say when James knocked on his door, but now? He'd be butched if he could remember a one of them. It felt like a reset button had been pushed. Good to go. Zeroed out. "Yeah, I guess I needed that, too," Sanborn muttered as he carefully pulled the condom off his softening cock, bundled it in Kleenex and pitched it in the basket before tucking himself in and zipping up. "You made a mess on my desk. Clean it up."

James hitched up his pants and looked at him for a moment before fishing a dirty T-shirt out of the laundry and swiping at his come.

As he flopped on his bed, Sanborn said, "You ever see that movie A Few Good Men?"

"Yeah?" James wadded up the shirt and pitched it back into the laundry.

"I'm thinking about that line about getting a blowjob from a superior officer." Because if this shit stopped tomorrow, I would hardly say that the best in life had passed me by.

James shook his head. "Nah, never happen. Well, not unless it was an emergency to keep you from fragging me on the spot, 'cause, really, what's in it for me?"

Sanborn gave him a long and level stare. "I'd say not getting fragged."

James tucked his shirt in, laughed, and said, "Ticking again already, I see."

"You're not worried." A statement of fact.

"Nah. I know how you're wired. You wanted me dead, you'd've done it two weeks ago." He shrugged and looked around at Sanborn's quarters. "I don't know how you stand having plywood over the windows. Makes me feel all closed in. Like a man in a box."

Sanborn thought about explaining about the shrapnel yet again, but something completely different burbled up inside, and he found himself throwing his head back and laughing so he wouldn't cry. James joined him about half way though, an almost identical hyena-like note of hysteria in his tone. "This," Sanborn gasped when when it ran its course and he finally got enough breath back enough to speak, "THIS is how we roll?!"

James shrugged again. "Hey, be glad this isn't day 347 or something of our rotation. Because if the Hadjis didn't get us, this certainly would."

They both laughed again until the tears ran from their eyes.

Iraq: Heat. Flies. Stench. Filth. Insurgents. IEDs.

An NCO Sanborn had fucked twice that month so as not to frag him.

Less than a week to go at this point. Days. Hours even, if that's how you preferred to keep count. The knowledge provided Sanborn immense comfort.

Less than a week to go of ~~Heat. Flies. Stench. Filth. Insurgents. IEDs.~~ Staff Sergeant William James and his brilliance and batshittery.

What else could possibly go wrong?

Sanborn clamped down on that shit. This was Iraq. Things went wrong all the time, and they wouldn't stop going wrong until the plane touched down on US soil. Fate didn't care if it was day 365 to go, or day 52, or day 1.

And yet, that niggling little voice kept whispering, c'mon, you're almost done, less than a week, what else could possibly go wrong? Over and over in his mind, like a siren song. One he longed to give into.

Self, you don't even want to know the answer to that was all he could say back.

Because, answering that question? Just laying out the ways things could go wrong because of ~~IEDs, Insurgents, stray rounds, friendly fire, clueless hadjis, equipment~~ James?

Just that could take all night.

(And even the next day.)

The Hurt Locker: Day 17

2009-08-03T21:50:40Z

Title: Day 17
Fandom: The Hurt Locker
Pairing: James/Sanborn
Rating: Adult
Author's Note: Hey, the NYT said that this was a slashy movie. Who am I to argue?

Legalese: The Hurt Locker is copyright its respective owners. This is a labor of Love, not Lucre for the purposes of exploring themes.

"Give her your sperm." The words tumble around inside of Sanborn's head like a load of fatigues on the heavy-duty cycle.

But it's not just that, 'cause there are other words added to the mix, tumbling around like a handful of rocks thrown in with the cammies to break them in, banging and clunking: "I knew you were a wild ride, Sanborn" and "Give it to me. Give it to me, motherfucker!" and above all, Don't ask. Don't tell.

Three of those four phrases are courtesy of his NCO, Staff Sergeant William James.

The first was said one drunken night, blowing off steam after they didn't get blown to hell.

One of them he's said both then and now.

The last is right now, hissed in James's cigarette and whiskey rasp as his fingers dig in to Sanborn's shoulders in the sweltering near dark as he grinds down hard on Sanborn's dick, cot frame and mattress springs squeaking slightly in time to the pounding rhythm they set as Sanborn bucks like he means to throw James off, their combined breaths haff-haff-haffing like they're sprinting away from an IED about to blow, and the words tumble and clank through Sanborn's mind in time to the rhythm of bucking and breathing.

It's almost like he's not doing this.

In that part of his mind, detached and commenting, churning away on that spin cycle of words while the other parts of him do, it's almost like James didn't show up, in boxers and a wifebeater, half a bottle of Johnny Walker in one hand, the box of things that "almost killed him" in the other, and start talking away about the construction that went into each of those bombs. It's almost like Sanborn didn't match him slug for slug and start sharing stories about the snipers and triggermen that didn't get away.

It could be anything stuck in his head, really: cadence, MRE instructions, overheard snatches of conversation, the refrain from a song.

Except even the choice of words shows how even that part of his brain can't totally ignore the fact that he's got his hands clenched on James's hips hard enough to bruise, and even those words tumbling through that part of his brain don't do much to distract from the fact that Sanborn's loving every sweet sweaty second of fucking James's hot, tight little ass, and he can feel it building in his pelvis, riding in static crackles up through his spine, feel himself surging that little bit harder as he watches James grab himself and start to milk.

Sanborn shoots blindingly hard, three times, just as the last of James's load dribbles on to his chest.

James sags, panting heavily, coughing slightly, and Sanborn feels like he's just run a mile, too.

And like that, the buzzer in his head's sounded, the laundry's done, open the door, let the words come tumbling out.

Give her your sperm -- There's no kiss, no words, sweet or otherwise to conclude this exchange of bodily fluids, just James groaning as he climbs off. Sanborn watches as James wipes his leaking ass with a towel -- that's what he gets for insisting on a bareback -- and shakily gets back into his boxers and shirt before picking up his box of mementos and slipping out the door. James leaves the bottle behind, but it's only got a swallow's worth anyway.

I knew you were a wild ride. Give it to me, motherfucker! -- If James has a little hitch in his step tomorrow, Sanborn's not going to say a word or even give him the eye. Let somebody else bring it up. (Although Sanborn wouldn't put it past James to say, mind you, with a complete poker face: "Sanborn gave me the high hard one last night" and wait for the nervous laughter.)

Don't ask. Don't tell. -- Unlike Eldridge, Sanborn has nothing he wants to tell Colonel Cambridge. And it's not like he can go up to one of his fellow sniper-spotters and tell a tale that begins: "My Staff Sergeant jumped my bones the other night. You ever have that happen to you? Great way to blow off steam, my man." As for James? Sanborn chuckles so hard the bed shakes. This is what happened because they can't talk to each other.

DADT is no problem. 'Cause this? This shit's gettin' packed away like last winter's clothes in a corner of Sanborn's mind along with all the other stuff he doesn't need right now. It's getting boxed up and stacked next to all the other stuff labeled Unless you were there at the time? You don't even know the right question to ask: the dead animals bobbing along with the other sewage in the canals; flies crawling on the bandages wrapped over stumps where limbs used to be; goats roaming the streets eating the trash; the slightly shocked look on what was left of Thompson's face once the bloody shield over it got pushed back ....

Sanborn blows a long breath out and slowly drags it back in.

There.

Day 17.

It's done. It's over.

Tomorrow is Day 16.

And if they're both lucky, they won't have anything else they need to not talk about before it gets through.

---

Continues in The Hard Word.

FNL: Three is the Magic Number

2009-07-30T17:17:27Z

Title: Three is the Magic Number
Fandom: FNL
Rating: Teen
Pairing/Characters: Tim&Matt/Julie
Author's Note: Written as a Yuletide New Year's Resolution for Setissma. The prompt was "I would be all over some Tim/Julie or Matt/Julie (or, hell, even Tim/Matt/Julie, because who isn't all over that one). First time is a plus, although I'm happy with pretty much anything. Bonus points for the whole h/c "Tim and/or Matt have fucked up lives and Julie's pretty damn good at making that a little better" thing. Extra bonus points if Tim manages to be monogamous and the good guy we know he is."

I tried hard to make it pr0nish, and the first draft was pr0ny, but ...

Thanks to poisontaster for her beta and feedback telling me more or less that the pr0n felt out of character and forced. This is a better story for your ~~guiding hand~~ foot to ass.

Legalese: FNL is copyright its respective owners. This is a story written as a gift to a total stranger, not a labor of lucre.

Grandma Saracen had a stroke about a month after Matt started at Dillon Tech.

She survived.

The resulting weakness on the left side of her body combined with her Alzheimer's meant she would need a nursing home for the rest of her life.

Her doctor told Matt about an experimental study for patients like her being run out of South Texas Medical Center in San Antonio. If she got accepted, Grandma would have round the clock care in a top nursing facility for one year, and even if she only got the placebo pill, the physical therapy and the stimulation of interacting with people would certainly help her in making the fullest possible recovery.

Coach and Mrs. Taylor, God bless them, drove him and Grandma to San Antonio for an evaluation.

He applied for a transfer to San Antonio State the day that Grandma got accepted into the program.

Mrs. Taylor asked him about going to SAS, and in the end, Matt thought she respected him more for sticking by his Grandma instead of heading to Chicago and the Art Institute. Yes, it broke Matt's heart every time she called him Joel, or got confused and frightened and threw a tantrum, or said that she was "sick of all these doctors" and was "fixin' to call a Taxi" so she could go home. It mattered to Matt that Grandma had never left him or let him down. It mattered to Matt that he could be in a place where he could check in on her as often as possible because damn if he was going to leave her or let her down.

Coach edited a little film together in case Matt wanted to try for a walk on at San Antonio and gave him Tim Riggins' phone number.

As soon as he heard that Matt was coming to SAS, Tim insisted they room together. On his way back to Rice, Landry dropped Matt off at the dorms and said something to Tim about "now that Matt's here to help you with your papers, you can take me off your speed dial" as he drove away. Tim flipped him the bird, hooked his fingers in to Matt's shirt collar and said, "C'mon Seven, we're going to see Coach Powers. Snag that tape of yours."

Matt found himself invited to tryout for both Wide Receiver and QB positions as soon as walk-ons started in August. Tim also noticed that the number 7 was free. "I hope you get that 7, Seven. I can't be bothered to learn a new one for you."

Through a work study grant, Matt got a job working at the SAS Art Gallery. He liked the idea that someday that would be his Senior Project hanging on the walls.

He visited Grandma every chance he got.

He studied hard and trained hard.

And that was that.

(Except he missed Julie.)

(A lot.)

~oo(0)oo~

"I got in to Trinity!" Julie gushed during their weekly phone call. "I got some scholarships that pay for more than half of it!" Matt had hoped she'd come to SAS and save him from the ... well, not exactly horrors, but more like the (mis)adventures of rooming with Riggins, but hell, if a place like Trinity University (or even St. Mary's) had offered him a full scholarship instead of a partial, he would have chosen them, too. Not that the Fine Arts department at SAS sucked ass or anything.

The good thing was, at least it meant he'd be seeing Julie on a regular basis as soon as Fall Semester started. Maybe he could get her to come over and help Riggins with his papers ... and listen to him bitch at her about how Landry was better at reading out loud than Matt was. (Matt had thought he was going to get out of reading to Tim ever again the night he pulled out Goodnight Moon and made a big production of reading it to Tim and tucking him in. Nothing doing. He came back the next afternoon to find Green Eggs and Ham, The Cat in the Hat, and Horton Hears a Who waiting on his bed. Landry, whose idea it was to try Goodnight Moon in the first place, suggested he try Brokeback Mountain next and see what happened. Matt hung up on him.)

Oh yeah, weirdly enough, Tim was kind of serious about school. He'd never be a stand-out athletic scholar, but he applied himself a hell of a lot more than he had back in high school. "I can't believe I'm seeing Tim Riggins actually interested in classes," he joked one afternoon when he came home to find Tim chipping away at a Psych assignment.

"Maybe it's because they teach you things that are new and interesting here, instead of the same crap over and over again, like they did in High School."

Outside of Math? Matt didn't remember High School being like that. "I dunno," he said with a meaningful glance at his Calculus book, "I'm almost nostalgic for a 100 problem quadratic equation worksheet right now."

"Speaking of quadratic equations ..."

Crap.

(Well, at least he wouldn't be reading several chapters out loud to Tim.)

~oo(0)oo~

"Seven, you are scrubbing the tile with a toothbrush."

"Julie's coming over tonight. I can't let her see this!"

Coach and Mrs. Taylor had driven Julie down last weekend and helped her get moved into her room at Trinity. And, yeah, they had an amazing time going out to dinner, and to the riverwalk, and a million other things, and through every moment, Coach had had a gleam in his eye. A gleam that said he knew exactly how much Matt wanted to spend some quality time alone with Julie this weekend and that would happen over his dead body. Hell, Coach had even insisted on inviting Tim along on Sunday, just to pour salt on the wound. The only good thing that had come out of that was that Matt now had several potentially useful and embarrassing photos of Tim being all coochie-coo with Gracie Belle (who howled like a banshee when Tim handed her back to her parents at the end of the day). He smiled at the memory of Tim with a wailing toddler clinging to his legs.

"Seven, you do know that we share this bathroom with two other guys, right?" Tim's voice snapped Matt back to reality.

Matt sighed and rested his head against the (newly cleaned, piss-spot free) rim of the toilet. Shit. It was probably going to go back to looking (and smelling like crap) as soon as one of them used it, and he wanted everything to be nice when Julie came over tonight.

Tim grinned down at him. "I'll talk to Jake and Eddie. I got your back, Seven. Always."

For all that Tim needed his hand held to actually write more than a three page paper, was a bit too casual about just hanging out in his undies, drunk dialed Lyla at least once every weekend, and really wasn't as quiet as he thought he was whenever he had "a hot date with Rosy Palmer", sometimes, it kind of rocked to room with Riggins.

~oo(0)oo~

After an evening spent at the movies with Julie, they got back to the room to find a note in Tim's bold scrawl on Matt's bed. "I'll be home by 2am. You know what to do. (And you'd better use condoms.) Tim. PS. Julie, the scented candle in the bathroom is for you. I hope magnolia is OK."

~oo(0)oo~

Just after Winter break during their Sophomore year Lyla broke up with Tim. Over the phone.

"At first, I thought he was going okay," Matt confided to Julie over lunch at their favorite hangout. "Seemed really calm about it. Accepting. Even waxed a bit philosophical about how they'd agreed it was okay to see other people, that they'd talked about what long distance relationships meant, that in his heart of hearts, he knew this day was coming and it was better to have 'loved and lost Lyla than never to have had her at all.'"

Julie cocked her head and nibbled on her straw. "How bad is it?"

Matt sighed. "Okay. You've got to believe me when I say what I'm about to say: other than her, there has been nobody."

Julie burst out laughing until she realized he meant it. "Damn." Then burst back into giggles at the sheer, mind-boggling absurdity of Tim Riggins being faithful. "Nobody nobody?" she asked.

"Nobody." And you do not even want to know how much time he spent beating off because of that. I mean, I thought I was as horny as the next guy, but no. Not even close.

"Annnddd?" Her expression shifted to something more thoughtful.

Matt swallowed hard. "He's been making up for lost time."

"I see." He could tell by her tone that, no, Julie didn't fully get it.

He took a deep breath, blew it out, and said, "Three days after, he started some serious drinking and brought a different girl home every night for a week. I'd come home from work or studying to find him and some girl -- I'd spend hours in the hallway just waiting for it to be safe to come in. Spent a few nights out there, too. Halfway through the second week, I said 'Fuck it' and just walked in and flipped the lights on, acting like he and some chick weren't right there, going at it --"

"No!" Julie gasped, eyes dancing with laughter. "What happened?!"

"She screamed, but he didn't miss a beat, just told her to ignore me."

Julie clapped a hand over her face as the light bulb went on. "That's why you've been insisting we spend so much time at my place these past few weeks. Oh God. I can only imagine."

No. You can't. Not really. "I thought it would give him the hint." Matt shook his head. "Nope."

Julie's eyes flew open. Her bangs caught in her lashes. "You mean --?!"

Matt nodded. "At least he's been going with the same girl almost every night the past two weeks. I think she kind of likes having an audience."

"Uggh!" Julie rolled her eyes and shuddered delicately. "I can't imagine that's easy to sleep through."

"It's not." I don't sleep. I lay on my side, back to them, ear plugs in, and even still I can hear. Smell it, too. And it's hard. Really hard. In every sense of the word.

"You should talk to him."

Matt snorted and rolled his eyes. "Hey, Tim, go bang her some place else, I need to sleep?"

"You do need more sleep," Julie insisted. "You look like shit. Seriously. If he's not, like, better in few days, we can stage an intervention. How are his classes going?"

"Not well. The first week he blew them off. He made it to two the second week. This week he's missed anything before noon because he's too hungover. Thank God it's not football season, or we'd be fucked."

Julie piffed air up through her bangs, which needed trimming yet again, then smiled and footsied him. "Don't worry, we'll put foot to ass."

He leaned over the table and kissed her. "Yeah, I guess we better."

"If not us, then who?"

~oo(0)oo~

As soon as he cracked an eye open, Matt could tell by the light that he'd slept through his morning English class. Shit. He had a vague memory of hitting the snooze on his alarm around 7:45, but beyond that? Nothing.

He had to piss like the Niagara. A peek through the bathroom door showed Tim at the sink, brushing his teeth, so Matt sauntered in, headed straight for the toilet, and let her rip. Normally, he'd wait for some privacy, but today? Hell. No.

Tim, damn him, didn't bat a bloodshot eye. "Have a good time last night?" he asked.

"Better than you did, even though all I did was toss and turn," Matt sniped back, shaking himself dry. Only, his words didn't have the effect that Matt thought they would. Tim's toothbrush clattered to the floor as his hands white-knuckle clenched the edges of the sink. His face crumpled as he shook with the effort of keeping it together.

"Riggs?" He swallowed. "Riggs, are you okay?"

"No, Seven, I'm not," Tim said in a squeaky little voice. "I'm really, really not."

Matt sucked in a deep breath. Now or never. Low and slow he said, "I'm going to call Julie and you are going to shower and get dressed and then we three are going to have a long talk."

"Okay," Tim choked out.

~oo(0)oo~

The talk, when it came, ironically was one of the shortest Matt ever had. In fact, he barely got to speak.

Julie entered the room, took one look at Matt (sitting expectantly, legs crossed, in the middle of his bed) another at Tim (perched on the edge of his bed, head down except for a quick glance up as Julie came in the door, legs jittering) and smiled sadly before saying, "Matt, why don't you go down to the lobby?" She held up her phone. "I'll text you when we're done."

"Huh?" he asked, but the look in her eyes said just go, so Matt did.

Thirty minutes later his phone buzzed. "all done."

Matt stepped into the room and felt a little stab of jealousy at the sight of Tim's head in Julie's lap as she stroked his hair. He felt like an asshole for even being jealous a second later when he sat on his bed and got his first real look at Tim's sniffley red nose and even redder and now puffy eyes. Okay, so that's why Julie asked him to leave. How she'd known that Tim Riggins was going to break down and cry just by looking at him, Matt would never understand. Feeling like he'd entered The Twilight Zone, he silently waited on his bed for one of them to say something.

Tim sat up a moment later, fumbled for the Kleenex, blew a prodigious amount of snot into it, wadded it up, made the across the room shot into the basket (of course he would, he's Tim Riggins, Matt thought a little sourly) cleared his throat, looked Matt square in the eye, and in a froggy voice, croaked, "Seven, I'm sorry I've been such a drunk asshole lately."

Matt gave him a lopsided grin and held out his hand as he stood up. "Hey man, been there. Done that." Only, my talking to involved Coach throwing me into an ice cold shower with all my clothes on.

Tim bear-hugged him so hard Matt felt his ribs creak.

Alrighty, then. Really, totally in The Twilight Zone.

~oo(0)oo~

Matt kissed Julie while waiting for Tim to get back from the bathroom. It had been Tim's idea to go to Six Flags as soon as finals ended, and, like with everything else they'd done together since that day, the three of them had had a fantastic time. He mentioned that to Julie when Tim took a trip to the bathroom -- that bit about the three of them always having a good time together. "Even when it's doing things like pulling all nighters to cram for finals, or driving all over God's green earth trying to find parking."

Julie tilted her head to one side and then the other as she thought about it. "Well, considering all the time he spent with Jason and Lyla? He's probably used to being the third person and knows what to do so it's not weird and awkward." She paused and added, "Unlike Landry."

Matt laughed and pecked her cheek. "Y'know, some day, I'm going to get bored with you being always right."

"Nuh-uh," she said.

"Uh-huh," he insisted.

"Matt, a slice of advice," Tim said as he came up from behind and threw his arms over both their shoulders, "just shut up and agree with Julie. I'm telling you now, she's always right."

Julie smiled at Matt -- that smile that let him know she was never going to let him live this down -- and then she whipped around, and with a loud "mwah!" kissed Tim on the cheek, which made his face flame for some strange reason.

~oo(0)oo~

"I cannot believe we are doing something as lame as taking a sex purity quiz," Tim grumbled as he flopped in the bean bag by Matt's bed and cracked open his third Lone Star, "because you two are going to score like, 95, 'Pure as the Driven Snow', and I'm going to have a negative six, 'Burn In Hell', or something."

Julie stuck her tongue out at him. "You can leave at any time, you know."

"Nah, I'm comfy right here. Get on with it." He reached out and prodded her with a toe. "Who knows, you two might turn out to be as pure as the driven sleet."

Matt worried that it was just going to be embarrassing and lame, but it turned out to be a hell of a lot of fun (Julie explaining that yes, she had written an erotic story, and then having to explain what fanfiction was and how Supernatural had "broken the fourth wall" in terms of fanfiction but that she "shipped" Dean slash Castiel, not Dean slash Sam) and games ("Have you ever had sex while fully clothed -- unzip fly, hike up skirt?" Tim: "Yes." "Have you ever had sex standing up?" Tim: "Yes, while fully clothed." "Have you ever had sex in a public place" Tim: "Yes, while fully clothed and standing up.") until Julie hit the question "Have you ever given a blow job?" ... and Tim said yes.

The silence was so sudden and absolute that Matt could hear Julie's pen hit the bed, bounce off the covers, and go clattering onto the floor.

And Tim, damn him, just looked up at the both of them with a completely flat and calm "well, what did you expect?" expression on his face as he picked up the pen and handed it back to Julie.

Julie simply said, "Oh," as she accepted the pen, took a breath, and moved on to the next question, "Have you ever --"

"W-w-wait a minute here," Matt said, stuttering like he was back in Dillon High, "Tim?!"

Tim sighed heavily, chugged half the bottle, belched, and said, "Matt, as it happens, you're the only one of my high school QBs I haven't fooled around with."

The world rocked on its axis, and a logjam of things to say got wedged in Matt's mouth. What finally squeaked out was: "Even Voodoo?!"

"Voodoo was never my QB," Tim said coldly. "He wasn't anybody's anything."

"Anybody else? Or are you strictly into QB's?" Julie's eyes gleamed wickedly.

Tim paused for a moment and grinned so hard he dimpled. "Tight Ends, too -- as long as they're named Landry."

Julie bounced on the bed, nearly jostling Matt off. "I knew it! I knew it!" she squealed, eyes sparkling with joy, and why was she so damn happy about this?

Matt had to resist the urge to pinch himself really hard to make sure that he wasn't having some sort of mega fucked up dream. Because ... Landry?! Matt liked to think that there were no secrets between Landry and him. Okay, not that he told all his secrets to Landry ... because Landry was a motormouth and sometimes let things slip. That was just self-preservation. And yeah, Landry had kept that thing about whacking that guy who almost raped Tyra from him, but ... still. (Landry?! LANDRY?!!)

"So," Julie leaned forward eagerly as she went to the next question on the page, "Have you ever --"

Tim rolled his eyes and laughed. "No, I've never fucked a guy or gotten fucked. Yes, I've given and gotten a finger back there -- both girls and guys. Yes, I've been in a threeway, but not with Landry and Tyra, and no, I'm not going to tell the details of what I've done with who. I don't kiss and tell. Much." He picked at the label of his bottle and the smile on his face shifted to something cloudy. "Look ... is this whole thing is some attempt by you to bring up the topic of having a threesome with me? I don't -- I'm done with being on people's checklists."

"You sound awfully bitter about that," Matt replied. "Must have sucked to have a wild sex life."

Heat flared in Tim's eyes, but his voice was oddly calm when he finally replied, "Yeah, Matt, it kind of did. A lot of the people I've been with didn't want me, they just wanted to say they'd been with me. And yeah, I fucked them all, and a lot of other things, too. And I even had some fun doing it at the time, because, hey, it got me off. But," he swallowed hard and closed his eyes, and his voice shifted to something soft and strained, "But I've also been with people who liked me for me. Two of them even loved me ...." His voice trailed off and the silence that followed felt like several months, not several seconds. "And yeah, God knows I spent the better part of last month trying to fuck away the pain. But I'm done with that now," he finished firmly. He opened his eyes and gave them a cool, direct stare. "And for the record, I've been done with being a notch on somebody's bedpost since the end of my Junior year."

"So, what? You're becoming monk next?" Julie asked with a pitch perfect amount of tease in her voice.

Tim smiled as he bit back on a snicker. "Well, no, I wouldn't exactly go that far."

"Good." Julie beamed. "And for the record, if Matt and I ever ask you for something like that, it will be because we want you for you, and your experience is just the cherry on top."

"What I want to know is why hasn't Tim tried to sleep with me," Matt blurted before he could stop himself.

Tim snorfled, shot him a "are you for real?" look, and said, "Seven, do you want to sleep with me?"

Matt thought about that for a moment. He liked Tim. He would even say that Tim was a handsome guy. And hey, a blowjob's a blowjob ... except if he had to give it. "No, not really."

A wicked little glint entered Tim's eye. "What about Landry?"

"Hell no!" Matt gasped, shuddering slightly at the thought.

Tim grinned at him. "Then there's your answer."

"So, does this mean that we can get back to taking the test now?" Matt asked, hoping it was the right thing to say.

"Please," Tim groaned.

"Okay," Julie announced in a slightly too perky voice, "I'll mark off several things that we now all know the answers to -- unless Matt has any bombs he'd like to drop --" she glared a warning at him through her bangs. "And that brings us to: have you ever licked someone's anus?"

Matt's stomach lurched at the thought.

Tim said, "On purpose, no. By accident, yes." Pause. "It was almost pitch black in her room, we were both very drunk, she was sitting on the edge of her bed, legs spread, and I completely got the angle wrong when I went to get things started by giving her a big stem to stern lick." He took a quick swig from his bottle and added, "And yeah, shit pretty much tastes like you think it would."

As he and Julie rolled on the bed, howling with laughter, Matt had to admit that for all of the disadvantages and (mis)adventures and TMI that sometimes came from having Tim Riggins in your life, there was never a dull moment, either.

With him, at times like this, three wasn't a crowd.

It was the magic number.

Introductio in Analysin ... (FNL-SPN) 12/12

2009-06-17T15:42:47Z

Title: Introductio in Analysin Daemonium Infinitorum pt 12
Fandom: SPN-FNL
Pairing: Sam/Tim (Sam/Tim/Dean in a few places)
Rating: Adult (Here there be smut!)
Length: 50k words

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven

Author's Note: This is the cleaned up master version of a story I began writing for MiniNano back in November 2007. Sam Winchester is racing against time to save his brother Dean's life, and he's got Tim Riggins along for the ride ... and a bit more. ;)

The plan was to finish it and post it before the end of S3 of SPN and S2 FNL -- obviously that didn't happen.

Thank you to tartysuz and ixchel55 for their swift beta.

Legalese: SPN and FNL are copyright their respective copyright holders. This work is a labor of whatiffery, not a labor of lucre.

They pulled up to Bobby's door just as the sun started sinking low in the sky, the Impala running on fumes, Sam's bladder about to burst.

"For the record," Dean announced as he stepped out of the car, "I'm just doing this so the car doesn't get trashed."

"I don't give a damn why you're doing this," Bobby said as he hustled down from the porch, sawed off shotgun in hand, "just so long as you get your ass in the house before sundown."

"Where's Tyra and Landry?" Tim asked as soon as they hit the porch.

"In their room. Working on something." Bobby sighed heavily.

Sam bumped into Tyra on his way to the bathroom. Her face looked puckered and strained and (for an aching moment) made him think of Jess cramming for a final.

(But why did she look so strained, he wondered bitterly. It's not as if she knew Dean well. His ~~impending horrific~~ potential death really wouldn't mean much to beyond the abstract ... okay, it would be a terrible thing to witness, but still.)

He shook his head, drew a deep breath and blew it out his nose. He didn't have time for that -- brooding solved nothing and he needed to focus on the here and now.

"Sam. You've got to see this," Tim said breathlessly as soon as he stepped back into the hall.

~oo(0)oo~

Sam didn't bother to even try and contain his whoop when he saw it. Granted, Dean didn't look so happy to be in it, but ...

"I feel like the Bubble Boy." He groused.

"Better here than in H-- than in a worse place," Bobby replied.

Dean tsked skeptically and then flopped into the bunk built into the side of the wall. "I can see them, you know." His voice only shook a little. "There's a whole pack of them just outside the door. Howling and whining. Their eyes ... they want me so bad." He closed his eyes.

"Nothing's getting in there," Bobby said. "Walls of cold iron, rings of salt, devils traps, and even some of that special mojo that Landry and Tyra have cooked up."

Sam had to admit he was impressed. It was a supernatural Fort Knox. "It's just for a few days, Dean."

"Yeah, and what if it isn't?" Dean swallowed hard. "What if -- would you want to spend the rest of your life in solitary?"

Want to? No. But would he if he had to? Yes. "Think of it as being a medieval monk," Sam said flatly and spun on his heel. He wasn't going to argue with Dean about this. Not now. Not ever. Dean was going to live through this. Period.

Bobby reached over, grabbed a box off the shelf, and opened it. "Wolfsbane," he said, pulling a twig out. "I want those mangy curs out of my house." Dipping it in holy water, he began using it to sprinkle the holy water as he chanted in Latin. Sam grabbed his own twig. The occasional hiss and yelp, plus directions from Dean, let them know when the room was clear. Bobby placed the twigs on the door frame. "That'll keep 'em out of here."

When Sam got upstairs he found Tim laying salt in front of the windows and doors. "Can't hurt," he said, flashing Sam a thin smile.

~oo(0)oo~

"What now?" Sam asked when they all got back to the front room.

Bobby raised an eyebrow as if to say "you're an idijt" and said, "We wait."

But Sam didn't want to wait. "What's the plan? What are we doing?"

"We're waiting," Tim spoke from his position slouched against the kitchen door. "If the stakes weren't so high, I'd reach for a six pack."

Sam sighed.

"Sun sets in a few minutes." Bobby said.

Tim murmured, "I suppose that thing about they have until midnight to claim your soul is --"

"It's an old wives tale." Sam and Bobby spoke in unison.

Tim said nothing. Just pursed his lips thoughtfully and dry scrubbed his hands.

With a muffled groan Bobby stood and headed into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with three bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon. "We might as well," he muttered. "Sometimes there's just no substitute for a cold beer." After he took his first swallow he looked at Tim and said, "Nice bit of bling there on your neck."

Tim absently stroked the left panther head with his thumb a few times, flicked his eyes over to Sam for a moment before fixing Bobby with a level gaze. "Yeah, it's a keeper."

Bobby smiled tightly and said, "So long as I don't catch you two fooling around on the kitchen table like some other idiots I know, it's all good."

And that was that. They sipped at their beers and the room grew so quiet that they could hear Bobby's old Regulator clock ticking away on the mantle.

They all jumped a few minutes later when a sharp rap came at the door. Ruby. Not so impossibly golden and perfect as on the Astral Plane, in fact she showed signs of having been in a scuffle.

Bobby nodded in acknowledgment and put a gap in the salt.

"I'm sorry," she said to Sam as soon as she stepped through.

Sam nodded. "You did what you could."

"Boy did I ever." She smiled thinly and brushed at the dirt on the front of her jeans. "Where is he? Can I see him?"

~oo(0)oo~

"Impressive," she said dryly, upon seeing the safe room.

Dean took the beer that Tim brought for him, but asked if Bobby could bring down something a little stiffer. "I think that getting skunked is the only thing that will drown out the sound."

~oo(0)oo~

"Guys, who is this?" Tyra asked a little nervously as soon as they all came back up stairs.

"It's Ruby," Sam explained, "She's --" Ruby must have flicked her eyes because Tyra and Landry jumped back as if stung. "-- not like the others. Believe it or not, she's here to help. She's tried to help me find a way to break Dean's deal."

"Really?" Landry arched a skeptical eyebrow.

"Really." Sam replied.

They sat down next to him on Bobby's battered and threadbare loveseat. Tyra shuffled uneasily and whispered something in Landry's ear. He shrugged and murmured something back. They both looked at their watches and then at the clock. She whispered again. Landry replied, loud enough for Sam to hear, "I don't know."

"Something you two love birds want to share with us?" Bobby asked.

Flustered, Tyra stammered no. The fidgeting resumed.

Tim stood up and said, "Tyra, Landry, it looks like we're in for a long night. Why don't you help me make some coffee?"

Landry blinked at that, then something resigned came over him as he stood.

Sam counted to 60 before getting up and heading into the kitchen. A quick glance confirmed that the coffee maker was on. He saw Tim, back to him, in the entry of the utility room.

"What's going on?" He had to strain to hear Tim's voice as he tiptoed across the floor.

"What do you mean, what's going on?" Landry whispered.

"Don't bullshit me," Tim hissed. "I might not have known you all my life, but Tyra's hiding something."

Sam crossed his arms and glared at them over Tim's shoulder. The first splash of coffee hissed into the pot.

Tyra muttered something under her breath and studied her fingernails. Tim didn't say anything, just fixed his gaze on her. Sam tried to do the same to Landry, but he whipped around and gripped the sink.

His voice barely above a whisper, Sam said, "That's my brother's life hanging in the balance. If there's something going on? I need to know."

"Tyra," Tim said, low and soft. Pleading.

"We summoned a demon," Landry murmured.

"You what?!" Sam and Tim gasped.

Tyra drew a deep shuddering breath, studied her hands for a moment, then met their eyes with a clear, direct gaze. "We made a bargain." She swallowed. "We found out the name of the demon with the contract."

"Do you have any idea of what --" Sam began.

"Yes, Sam, we do," Landry cut in. "We do. It's not just you Hunters in the field who face danger."

"Look," Tyra said, "we summoned her and nothing happened. We've been waiting and ... in a little bit we'll try again, or maybe -- maybe you can help us. Show us what we got wrong."

"We didn't get anything wrong," Landry hissed between clenched teeth. "We've done this enough times before to know what we're doing."

"I hope it didn't cost you too much," Tim said, voice laced with regret.

Tyra smiled bitterly. "We can't say. Part of the deal."

"Nothing that's going to bite us in the ass. We thought this deal through before we agreed and insisted on a lot of clarifications before we agreed to it." Anger colored Landry's voice. "Look, it's not like we were born yesterday."

"Which demon did you make the deal with?" Sam asked.

"Ones that are rarely active in this reality -- they call themselves Wolf, Ram, and Hart."

"This reality?"

Landry's eyes got an eager gleam in them as he drew in a deep breath.

"And there's my cue to check the coffee," Tim said, backing away from the door.

"This reality?" Sam prompted when Tim opened the cupboard above the coffee maker.

Landry gestured excitedly as he spoke. "Well, you see, all of creation, the multiverse, is kind of like a snowflake, and in each dimension --"

"Landry, hon, perhaps this isn't the best time to explain the shape of reality --"

"The perceived shape of reality, Tyra."

"Whatever," she groaned. "Look, Sam, there's more than one dimension, one reality. Just take our word for it."

Sam gave a wry smile. "Yeah, I could see how most science journals wouldn't take a proof of string theory based on the occult."

Tyra's lips quirked in amusement.

"Dean likes cream and sugar, right?" Tim asked from behind the refrigerator door.

Inwardly Sam smiled. For a guy who liked to rag on him for being all "girly", Dean liked his coffee full of cream and sugar. "Yeah." He stood back to let Tyra and Landry out of the utility room the buzzer sounded on coffee maker. "About what time did you summon the demon?" he asked as they passed.

"A few minutes before sunset," Landry replied, "Why?"

Sam's knees buckled. Tissue thin, the words fell from his lips, "That's not Ruby in there."

"What?!" Landry gasped.

But Sam was already in motion. Grabbing Tim by the arm, he hauled him towards the back door and whispered in his ear, "Get the emergency bag out of the car."

He then pulled Landry and Tyra back to the utility room. Mouth as dry as the Sahara, he whispered, "That's not Ruby, that's whoever you summoned and there's not a Devil's Trap to hold her. I'm going to put a line of salt and a hex across this door, but you have got to be prepared to move."

"But, Sam, she is trapped," Tyra whisper-hissed back, eyes alight with excitement.

"Listen to me," Landry said, gripping his arm tightly, eyes burning with fanatical urgency, "She's trapped. I just need to tighten the snare is all. I'm going to duck down the hall. I need you to keep her in whatever chair she's in. Bring her coffee. Make small talk. Sit on her damn lap if you have to." He pushed past Sam.

Her face frozen in a tight smile, Tyra whispered that they'd explain in a moment, and then helped him grab mugs and fill them with coffee. They stepped into the living room just as Tim came back into the kitchen with the bag and the shotgun.

(Shit.)

Sam looked over his shoulder and with his eyes, told Tim to duck out of sight, praying as he had never prayed that Tim would understand. Through a mouth that felt numb as wood, he spoke, "So, how do you take your coffee?"

"Black, of course." Not-Ruby smiled and winked.

Tyra, bless her, actually managed to smile back at the joke and set the cup down next to not-Ruby without spilling any.

But not-Ruby's smile twisted, turning poisonous. "Tell Tim to step into the room."

Tim did, shotgun cocked and ready.

Fuck! Whatever Landry was doing, Sam hoped it was done, or close enough because this was about to go south.

"Rock salt?" Not-Ruby laughed. "How quaint." She took a sip of her coffee. "I suppose this is where we cut the shit?"

"Did I turn two pages here?" Bobby asked, setting his cup aside.

"Yes," Landry said, bustling into the room with a sheet of paper, "But we'll get everybody on the same page ASAP." He and Tyra shared a conspiratorial smile.

"That's not Ruby," Tyra said. "Her name is Lilith and she's here for Dean."

Tim leveled the gun at Lilith.

Lilith rolled her eyes white and scoffed. "Silly boy, that's not going to stop me."

"Clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose," Tim snarled under his breath.

"Such bravado, I love it!" Lilith purred and gestured almost idly.

Nothing happened.

She gestured again, more frantically and then leaped off the easy chair, rebounding back into it almost instantly. Smoke poured out of the mouth of her host body and filled an invisible cylinder, swirling angrily for several moments before flooding back in. Eyes blazing with rage and hate, Lilith shrieked at Sam, "What have you done?!"

The steady calm of his voice surprised Sam. "I haven't done anything. Neither has Dean. I have no idea what's going on here."

"We did it," Landry said.

It was Bobby's turn to glare at Tyra and Landry, "I thought I told you --"

"Yes, you did," Tyra said. "But this is tested. It will hold."

"You can put the gun down, Tim," Landry said.

"I want to shoot her, just on general principles," Tim growled. "Also, I'm not taking chances."

Tyra circled over to him and gently pushed the barrel towards the floor. "She's not going anywhere until we let her," she said, voice clear and sweet.

With a loud bang, a thin crack opened in the plaster of the ceiling -- but it didn't extend past the diameter of the circle.

"It's not a Solomon's Seal, hon." Tyra flashed a patronizing smile at Lilith.

"Although it works on the same principles," Landry said almost absentmindedly before he collected himself. "See, there's a reason that 'in the beginning was the word.' Language describes reality. Writing and speaking words are one way to use a language to shape reality, and that's the principle that a Solomon's Seal works off of. It describes trapping a demon inside the boundaries of the unbroken circle."

Which explained, of course, why Lilith had tried to break the ceiling -- Sam had seen that trick used before by very powerful demons to break loose by literally breaking the circle.

"Mathematics is also a language describing reality. What I have here," Landry indicated the sheet of paper, "is an equation that describes a cylinder and where it is in terms of a set of geographic coordinates and it describes how a demon named Lilith is bound within it across an infinite number of dimensions --"

Bobby chuckled. "Well I'll be -- that's why you two were so all fired up about the county property maps!"

Tyra smiled tightly. "That's what we were doing all those days, Bobby. We were triangulating just about every square inch of your property."

Landry beamed at Tyra. "See, I told you that Algebra, Geometry, and Trigonometry had uses beyond just being busy work."

"So what now?" Sam asked.

"That depends on Lilith," Landry said. "If she agrees to release Dean from the terms of the deal and let him and Sam live, I'll write a new equation, one that releases her into the dimension of my choice."

"Or, she can spend eternity sitting on Bobby's old lounge chair," Tyra said brightly.

"Well, not eternity," Landry corrected. "Eventually, like the paper, it's going to crumble, but considering that this is 100% cotton rag fiber and I wrote it using Noodler's Bulletproof ink which is waterproof, fraudproof, and archival? And I've got a mylar sleeve standing by?"

"It's going to be a long fucking time," Sam said, grinning ear to ear. He stepped over to Tim and took the shotgun. "Let's see if I can't help her make up her mind." In a smooth motion born of years of practice, he leveled the gun at her and fired.

Lillith screamed and writhed in agony as the salt tore into her.

"And there's more where that came from," Sam said. "I could go all night if I had to."

"I've also got a piece of chalk," Tyra said, "If I draw a Solomon's Seal around you, we can compel your cooperation."

At a look from Bobby, Landry murmured, "I'm still working on that bit -- magimatical notation has a few limitations."

"Let Dean go," Sam said. "Call off the hellhounds and promise you won't seek revenge or retribution of any kind."

"Get real," Lilith snarled. "I'll let Dean out of his deal and go back to Hell. But anything beyond that? No."

"Fair enough." Sam said.

Landry addressed her. "So, we have a deal then. I'll rewrite the equation on the understanding that you release your claim on Dean and don't consider this a violation of any previous pacts with him."

"Yes." She snarled the word.

"And you swear this by your true name and the name of the Adversary?"

Hate twisted her mouth into something ugly. "Yes!" She lashed out one last time with her powers, but all she succeeded in doing was shredding Bobby's old chair.

"Good," Landry said as if nothing had happened. "Give me a few moments to re-do this and you'll be good to go."

~oo(0)oo~

It was almost anti-climatic. Landry hadn't even set the pen aside when thick black smoke boiled out of the body the demon had worn.

"I can't believe we pulled it off!" Tyra gasped, taking the paper from Landry's hand.

"I wonder who she was," Landry said in a hushed tone, indicating the body of the woman on the chair.

Bobby cleared his throat. "Nothing for her now but a good send off."

But Sam got what Landry was trying to say. Somebody was probably looking for this woman. But to try to give them, whoever they were, a measure of closure would cause more problems than it would solve. Tim's eyes mirrored the sentiment back at him. The world wasn't fair that way. Bobby had it right, time to start gathering the wood for her cremation.

~oo(0)oo~

Dean guffawed when he saw the piece of paper, then, a calculating glint entered his eyes. "She's still bound ... right?"

"Yeah," Landry replied. "As long as that equation is intact, she can only go to Hell --"

"Or what's left of Bobby's easy chair." Tim snickered.

"Same difference," Sam said.

"And as soon as Bobby drags that chair away?" Landry grinned wickedly. "Well ... right now she can only manifest as a column of smoke, unless we happen to have a body there for her to slip into."

"So, Bobby," Dean said, "You got a nice secure file cabinet down here in your panic room? Because, if I'm understanding this right, she's as good as permanently banished until something happens to that paper."

Landry scratched his chin thoughtfully and said, "Y'know, I never did agree to destroy or rewrite this equation. I'll fetch a mylar."

"Serves the bitch right," Dean said.

"And no more chairs in that spot," Bobby noted. "I don't want one of us being possessed, even if she can't go anywhere or do anything with the body."

~oo(0)oo~

"So what now?" Sam asked Tim as he sank into the couch.

Tim laughed he sat down next to Sam and popped the top off a fresh beer. "I say we rest up a week or two down in the privacy of the panic room --" he gave Sam a lewd wink "and then we take your dad's old truck and go Hunting -- just you and me."

Sam drew a breath to quash that notion but then hesitated. Hunting ... without Dean. It just didn't seem right, but Tim had a point. It was time for him to figure out who he was outside of Dean. "It will be a hell of a honeymoon," he replied.

Tim grinned. "I wasn't exactly thinking of it like that, but yeah." He leaned forward, fishing Sam's laptop out of the bag. "I'll see if I can find something with a heart-shaped bed or mirrors on the ceiling."

Sam laughed. "And then we can go to San Francisco."

"Y'know, a lot of people used to joke about who was finally going to get a collar on Tim Riggins," Tyra said as she strode into the room. "I just didn't think it would happen literally." She held her hands out for the laptop. "Hand it over, Riggs, I'll at least make sure you two get AAA rated places."

"So you like my torc?" Tim asked, a bit of tease in his tone.

"Yep," Tyra said, not looking up. "And when I get you booked, I'm going to see if I can find myself one just like it --" She flashed a wicked grin "-- to put around Landry's neck."

~oo(0)oo~

That night as he curled around a soundly sleeping Tim down in the panic room, Sam pondered the fact that he never thought he'd get a happily ever after, and this certainly wasn't what most people's idea of that looked like, but ....

Dean needed an extended break from Hunting, and he could help Bobby train Landry and Tyra in field work. They'd never be hardcore Hunters, but they'd need to know what to do if they had to take on a case or found themselves in the middle of one. Bobby also wanted to work with Landry on writing down and codifying magimatical notation. Sam snickered at the title that Landry had already come up with: Introductio in Analysin Daemonium Infinitorum .*

Bobby probably wasn't going to get the peace and quiet he claimed he longed for, not unless he took a vacation, and nah, he was too happy to do that.

Tim stirred and rolled over, Sam looked down to see Tim studying him with an intensely thoughtful look on his face. "No regrets," Tim said solemnly.

"None," he replied, and then, "Clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose."

Tim smiled and kissed him before closing his eyes and tucking his head against Sam's shoulder.

Yeah, so this didn't look a damn thing like most other people's happily ever afters.

But it was here and it was his.

And damned if he wasn't going to make the most of it.

----

* Yes, the title is a reference to Euler's Introductio In Analysin Infinitorum

Introductio in Analysin ... (FNL-SPN) 11/12

2009-06-16T15:39:18Z

Title: Introductio in Analysin Daemonium Infinitorum pt 11
Fandom: SPN-FNL
Pairing: Sam/Tim (Sam/Tim/Dean in a few places)
Rating: Adult (Here there be smut!)
Length: 50k words

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten

Author's Note: This is the cleaned up master version of a story I began writing for MiniNano back in November 2007. Sam Winchester is racing against time to save his brother Dean's life, and he's got Tim Riggins along for the ride ... and a bit more. ;)

The plan was to finish it and post it before the end of S3 of SPN and S2 FNL -- obviously that didn't happen.

Thank you to tartysuz and ixchel55 for their swift beta.

Legalese: SPN and FNL are copyright their respective copyright holders. This work is a labor of whatiffery, not a labor of lucre.

"What the hell kind of demon is that, Sam?" Tim whispered, awestruck as he watched their quarry cut through a lot overgrown with ragweed and kudzu.

"It's not a demon at all, Tim," Dean said almost gleefully. "My last Hunt, and at least we'll be taking on some big game -- that's a shapeshifter, a 'doppelganger' as the Germans call them. They're about as dangerous as it gets. Sneaky as all hell.

"One of them framed me for murder once, so, I've got a special kind of a mad-on for them." Dean's grin had a manic intensity to it, but it faded as he turned towards Sam. "Why so glum, Sammy? You look like the bottom dropped out."

"I thought it was a demon," Sam mumbled.

"Yeah, and what is it with you and demons lately?" Dean thumped out a tattoo on the Impala's steering wheel. "I've never seen somebody so hot and bothered to find one." Pause. "Outside of Dad, I mean."

Sam pressed his mouth shut and turned away.

"It doesn't matter why," Tim said, finally breaking the silence. "It's here. We're here. How do we deal with it?"

Dean's eyes sparkled. "These things are incredibly devious and dangerous, Tim. But they've got some weaknesses, too. Time to find a hotel room and give you a crash course in Shapeshifter 101."

Because we've aced Shapeshifter 102, woo-hoo, Sam thought bitterly as he buried his head in his hands.

"Jeez, Sammy --" Dean began, but Tim cut him off.

"Leave it, Dean." Soft. Quiet.

"C'mon, Tim, you've seen how --"

"You keep picking at him like a scab."

"Tim?" Dean's expression was incredulous.

"I'm serious, Dean," Tim replied in a steely voice, barely above a whisper, that Sam had never heard him use before.

Dean whipped around in his seat, and Sam could see the anger flashing bright in his eyes. He and Tim were going to go at it, for reals, in the next five seconds. "It's demon blood, Dean! Okay?!" Sam blurted before he could stop himself. "I wanted to bag a demon so I could get some blood, get my gifts back online --"

"And what, save me?" Dean shouted back, throwing his hands up. "It doesn't work that way. I can't --"

"Shut up! Jesus!" Tim roared, startling the both of them in to silence. "Do you think Sam's just going to throw in the damn towel, Dean?" Rage made Tim's eyes as hard and bright as agates. "I've had people throw in the towel on me, and you say it, Dean, you say that you want Sam to, but believe me, you don't want it for reals. Ever.

"So, both of you, shut up. We've got a doppelbanger or whatever it's called to kill. Let's get on it and we can sort the rest out after."

Tim pulled Sam aside when Dean stepped into the bathroom of their hotel and whispered in his ear, "After we kill this thing, I'll help you hog-tie Dean and then we'll drive straight through to Bobby's."

Sam hugged him so tight he could feel ribs creak.

~oo(0)oo~

Two days later, Dean started hearing the barking. "Kind of ups our timetable on dispatching this thing."

"Maybe we should --" Sam began

Dean cut him off. "Maybe my ass, Sam. We've got a duty to -- we've got a job here and we've got to finish it."

"But, if this thing is so dangerous, how good a job are you doing to do if you're getting spooked by barking?" Tim asked. "I mean, it's not like blocking out the roar of a crowd."

"What are you getting at?" Dean didn't bother to keep the edge out of his voice.

Sam cleared his throat. "Maybe you should ride shotgun on this one, Dean. Back us up."

"In a car that's hexed every way from Sunday," Dean muttered.

"That's one way of looking at it." Tim crossed his arms and his jaw took on a mule stubborn set. "But I'm not doing this Hunt any other way. Besides, if something goes wrong, it's good to have an experienced Hunter in reserve to pull my JV ass out of trouble."

Dean snorted. "You're hardly, JV, not after what you've seen and done this past year."

"Okay, second string then."

"We do it Tim's way, or not at all," Sam said, clapping his hand on Tim's shoulder.

Dean's mouth tightened, and then he blew air up through his bangs. "You guys are mean, teaming up against me like this."

Sam allowed himself a tiny smile.

~oo(0)oo~

The vision came in the middle of the night, in the middle of a dream about eating at an IHOP, of all things ... the restaurant full of bright light and honey-colored wood shifted, folded, … away went pancakes and whipped cream and in its place came a filth-caked room, with peeling, faded greenish wallpaper and --

(please Jesus, NO)

-- Dean, shotgun in hand, taking aim at two Tims.

Sam woke, shaking, with a splitting headache. His jelly legs somehow managed to get him to the bathroom without giving out. He even got most of the puke into the toilet bowl.

Shit.

Well, Ruby was right about that. It didn't work the way he had hoped. Because it wasn't like he could protect Dean from the Astral Plane, and visions that came only in the middle of dreams? Even less useful than his gift had been the first time out.

Yeah. Shit.

He sat on the toilet and leaned his head against the cool porcelain of the sink, and waited for the throbbing to ease.

~oo(0)oo~

"You look like shit, so I got you an extra cup," Tim said as he came in with a four pack of coffee. "You look like you can use it."

"I had a dream," Sam groaned.

"Yeah, well, so did I." Dean smirked as he popped the lid off and began dumping creamer and sugar in. "Lemme guess, yours did not star hot chicks straight out of Girls Gone Wild."

Tim rolled his eyes as he set both cups and a few creamers in front of Sam. "Keep reaching, Dean. You might actually find the funny."

"It felt sort of like a vision," Sam said as he stirred in cream and sugar. After he took a huge gulp, he continued, "It was about this thing we're Hunting. About you and Tim."

Dean swallowed hard, the mockery gone from his eyes. "Tell me about it, Sammy. And don't leave anything out."

"Well, it might be nothing ..." But even Sam could hear the lack of conviction in his voice.

"It might be nothing, but it can't hurt to tell us," Dean said matter of factly. He drank his coffee and muttered something about "black sunshine" under his breath before he looked back at Sam, gaze expectant.

Sam sucked in a deep breath and said, "Okay, it went like this ..."

~oo(0)oo~

Head throbbing and ears ringing, Sam gingerly cracked an eye open and got a vague impression of a dirty room with mottled green wallpaper. He shut it again and swallowed hard against the nausea rising in his throat, the results of a mixture of dread and his injuries. The rag in his mouth made it painfully dry and it felt as if he would gag on his tongue for a moment. The stench of rotting meat and mildew that permeated the room didn't help to settle his stomach, either. Sam shifted slightly in his chair, trying to wiggle his hands, his feet, but the world seemed to spin as he moved, and without warning, the chair shifted, one leg shorter than the other, and his head lolled violently to the side because of his limp-noodle neck, and yellow and orange, the pain crackled in jagged lines behind his eyes, and his stomach lurched sickeningly in response, then, mercifully, everything faded to black.

He swam back into consciousness just in time to see two Tims facing off against each other -- the real Tim having slipped his bonds at some point in the last few minutes.

Sam's stomach clenched and curdled with renewed horror. Dean would come through that door in just a few moments and level his shotgun ....

The Tims barely took their eyes off each other as one of them drew a knife -- a wicked serrated one with a serpentine curve to the blade, the knife Dean had given to Tim. But in the next breath the other Tim dashed Sam's hopes by reaching back and drawing the same kind of knife.

The door flew open, and the sound, coupled with the awful knowledge of what that meant, hit Sam like a fist to the stomach. He retched violently behind the gag, stomach clenching so hard that vomit dribbled from his nose, choking, eyes shooting tears of pain at the acid burn of it, while Dean strode in ... and leveled his shotgun.

(Oh no, ohgod, ohplease no, not Tim.) Sam's stomach heaved yet again, sending a second flood of nearly pure acid into his throat and sinuses.

Dean's eyes rabbited between the two Tims before he shot the Tim the right, sending him flying into the wall in a spatter of blood and flesh.

The remaining Tim and Dean flew across the room, Tim with his knife in hand, and Dean with a silver letter opener, and set upon the wounded shapeshifter, stabbing and slicing until they were covered in blood and gore and it had stopped twitching.

When they had finished, Sam sagged limply in his chair, tears of both pain and relief rolling down his face, while snot poured from nose, while Tim sawed at his bonds. Throat and sinuses still stinging from the utterly vile stuff he had brought up, Sam croaked hoarsely at Dean, "How did you know? I -I couldn't --" He swallowed painfully.

"Rope burns," Dean said calmly. "The real Tim had rope burns from his escape." He looked at the mess on the front of Sam's shirt, his mouth twisting in a wry smile. "Puke out your nose? That's a new one."

"It's not a good one," Sam rasped, taking the bandanna that Dean proffered and wiping his face with it. "Water?"

"Get you some water in a minute, soon as we get back to the Impala."

The instant Tim cut the last tie around his ankles, Sam stood, wobbling on his feet as the room spun a little, and pulled him into a crushing hug, heedless of the mess between them.

"You're shaking," Tim whispered against his shoulder, but his hug back was equally intense and he trembled too. "That's quite a knock you took. You've got a knot the size of Dallas on the side of your head."

Sam smoothed his hands over Tim's hair, kissed his temple. Fuck. He was shaking even worse now, and not just because of the blow to his head. "I thought I was going to lose you," he managed to rasp. "I was so afraid I was going to lose you."

They stood like that for a few moments, hands hungrily roaming, caressing, murmuring, drinking each other in, Sam starting to feel better and stronger with each passing second, until Dean cleared his throat, handed him a bottle of water, and said that they could finish with the touchy feely stuff and help him take care of the body.

Tim flipped him the bird as Sam told him to shut up.

~oo(0)oo~

Before they got in the Impala, Sam pulled Tim aside and said softly, voice still scratchy, "I was as scared of losing you, Tim, as scared as I've ever been scared of losing Dean. You have to believe that. I ... I can't take losing both of you. I can't." His voice broke on the last words.

Tim froze, eyes shuttered over, and when he looked back, his eyes showed an emotion Sam had never seen in them before, a new kind of hope, a new kind of joy; Sam didn't know how to describe it, doubted a word existed for it. Tim said nothing, just stroked his hand through Sam's hair, pecked him gently on the lips, and climbed into his usual seat in the back of the Impala.

~oo(0)oo~

"You don't have to fuss over me," Tim said smiling and shaking his head at Sam as Sam cleaned the chafed and raw places on his wrists with a hot washcloth as a prelude to applying Neosporin. "I should be taking care of you."

"At this point, other than the Tylenol I just took and waiting for my sinuses to stop pouring snot? There's really not a damn thing to do for me. Besides, I want to fuss over you.

"Look," Sam said after a moment, "despite what Dean says about me being all girly, I'm not much for big declarations. But if you want me to say it, I will."

Tim ducked his head, and when his eyes met Sam's again, they glowed honey warm. Tenderly he trailed his finger along the line of Sam's jaw. "I know, Sam. I know," he murmured, voice thick with emotion, barely audible. "Me too."

"It's dangerous, what we do."

Tim simply nodded in reply.

"Okay then." Sam didn't know what else to say. Their eyes met and they both laughed.

"Hallmark moment over?" Tim asked.

"Yes, thank God."

~oo(0)oo~

Out in the room, Dean paced restlessly, starting and jumping several times as Sam and Tim tried to watch the evening news. "I half wish they'd just show up and get it done," he muttered under his breath. He raked his fingers through his hair. "Fuck. Two more days of this shit to put up with."

"Don't wish like that," Sam said.

Tim said nothing. He simply climbed off the bed, grabbed his backpack and started shoving things in.

It took Sam a minute to figure out what Tim was up to, but when he did, he, too, rolled off the bed, grabbed his duffel, and began loading his clothes and gear in. It wasn't until he walked over to his laptop and shut it down that Dean finally spoke up. "What are you guys doing?"

"What does it look like?" Tim replied.

"It looks like you're packing."

Sam snorted. "That would be it. I suggest you start on your stuff."

Dean gaped at them. What ...? Oh, no. Hell no."

Tim looked at Sam, shrugged, and said, "Fine." His own bag done, he grabbed Dean's and reached for a pair of jeans Dean had left lying in the corner.

Dean crossed the room as if shot from a bow. "What are you doing?!" he shouted.

"Packing your crap," Tim replied, low and slow.

"The hell you --"

But Dean never got to finish because Tim hurled the bag at Dean, catching him off guard, and then launched himself immediately after, slamming Dean across the bed and on to the floor behind it.

The sound of a short, violent scuffle, punctuated by a loud groan of pain, followed. By the time Sam reached the two of them -- not that it took him more than two seconds -- Tim had things sorted. Dean lay face down, arm bent painfully back and up, and Tim sat atop him, lips pulled back in a snarl. "Don't you fucking move, Dean. Don't you fucking move. I will break your fucking arm if you move."

Dean closed his eyes, blew out a long breath, and said, "Not break it. Dislocate --" The words broke off in a hiss of pain as Tim bent Dean's arm even more.

"And if you think you can buck me off and get it back in place before I knock your ass to the floor again? You've got another thing coming, because I will fucking lay you out," Tim hissed, low and deadly.

"Uncle," Dean said with total ill grace.

Tim eased up on Dean's arm but did not release him. To Sam he said, "Get the cuffs."

Dean's eyes flew open in shock. "You ... you're really doing this!" His voice had gone squeaky with indignation, and if the situation weren't so dire, Sam would have laughed at him.

"Yup." Tim said. "So you're going to listen.

"See, part of me says a man's got a right to make up his own mind, know when to throw in the towel. Hell, I've thrown in the towel a lot of times. I've had it thrown in for me a lot of times. In Dillon, some things just aren't meant for a Riggins, and I learned that quick.

"Didn't mean I stopped trying, though. Because a lot of times when people want you to quit, they're being wrong, or selfish, or an asshole.

"Now, I get that you can't give in on this, Dean. Get that if you try to save yourself, Sam dies. But right now, this isn't about you, it's about Sam. Sam's never going to give up on you, and it's killing him even though he knows why you can't choose to fight.

"And there's something else. Sam's never going to give up on me. Never. I get that now. So, I'm never going to give up on him, and that means I'm not going to give up on you.

"But you don't have to fight us, Dean. The deal was that you couldn't break the deal or try to break the deal. There's nothing in there about Sam or me or anybody else trying to find a way to save you.

"So here's what's going to happen, you are going to get up and get in that car. And you are going to do nothing all the way to Bobby's, and when we get there you are going to do nothing except what we tell you to do.

"And if you don't do nothing, me and Sam will make you and you will not like that. Because see if we don't stuff you in the fucking trunk." Tim took a deep breath. "Now, I'm going to get up, and one way or another, you're going in the car? Clear?"

Dean slowly got to his feet, eyes still watery from pain, glassy with rage.

"Get in the car, Dean," Sam whispered. "Get your bag and get in the car."

Dean gave a long, shuddering groan of frustration. "I can't fucking believe you got the upper hand on me, Tim."

Tim smiled wickedly and his eyes blazed with pride. "Coach Taylor always said, 'Clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose' and he was right about that." Pause. "Now, get in the fucking car."

~oo(0)oo~

To Sam's surprise, Tim barred him from the driver's seat. "You took quite a blow to the head, Sam. I'm driving. It's not safe if you do."

Dean grumbled something from his place in the back seat, but Sam couldn't make it out.

"Tim --"

"I'll make you, Sam. I mean it. You get some sleep and then you can spell me."

With a deep sigh, Sam handed the keys to Tim and climbed in the passenger side.

"You are so pussy whipped." Dean smirked at him.

Tim adjusted the rear view mirror so that Dean could see his eyes. "Want a second helping, Dean?"

~oo(0)oo~

Sam woke in the chilly dark at a rest stop in ... Kentucky. He rubbed blearily at his eyes. The last thing he remembered was the drone of the engine and Van Halen's first album just outside of the Atlanta Metro ring.

Dimly, through the glass, he heard Dean laugh about the fact that as a baby, Sam had always fallen asleep in the car and wouldn't fall asleep in a motel room until he was about two.

Tim laughed and said that as a small kid, he always used to get carsick.

Dean held out his hand. "Dude, I'll take the wheel."

"Nothing doing, Dean."

"Tim." Dean's voice rose in warning.

Tim crossed his arms and glared at Dean. "I'm not letting you do anything that that ... thing might take as you breaking the deal or trying to help yourself."

Dean tsched, exasperated. "Tim!"

"I will throw these keys, Dean Winchester," Tim spoke calmly, enunciating each word. "Now go get Sam so we can get some coffee in him and he can take his turn."

Dean gave a heavy, petulant sigh. "You really are a pain in the ass sometimes."

Tim stretched and smiled. "I learned from the master."

~oo(0)oo~

Tim made a show of graciously letting Dean ride shotgun. Sam suspected it was because he wanted the back seat to sprawl across, because he fell asleep about five minutes after they left the rest stop.

"I made him pull over because he was about to fall asleep. Told him I needed to pee."

Sam mmmnd then said, "Good thinking, but you're still not driving."

They rode in silence but for the thrum of the engine and the sound of the air rushing by until Sam said, "Dean, why don't you get some sleep?"

Dean scrubbed his hands over his face and raked his fingers through his hair. "Can't, Sammy. They're baying."

Sam increased their speed another 10 mph. Hopefully not enough to attract the attention of an overzealous member of law enforcement, but hopefully enough to buy them a few more ticks of the clock.

~oo(0)oo~

Tim spelled him shortly after dawn at a rest stop in ... fuck, he didn't even know. Still too early to call Bobby, though.

Sam whispered to him that Dean had been hearing hounds baying off and on all night.

Tim thought for a moment and asked, "Should we even be letting him out of the car?"

"I can totally hear you two talking, and yes, you should let me out of the car, because I need to pee from time to time." Dean said as he came back from the restroom. "And they won't come for me before it's time. They can't. There are rules and things."

Tim blew a raspberry at him. "Like you've never pissed in a cup."

Actually, they both had. Plenty of times. It had been one of the staples of their childhood, especially when Dad had been eager to make time.

"But what if I got to take a shit, too?"

"We'll get you some astronaut diapers," Sam replied.

Dean chortled sourly. "This isn't the time to be making jokes."

"I'm not."

Dean glared back and was about to say something else, but Tim cleared his throat. "I'm not quite so sure I like the look of those guys over there."

Sam and Dean turned their heads in time to see one of men flick his eyes to black.

Shit.

Ass crack of dawn be damned. Sam whipped out his phone and called Bobby.

"I've got an idea," Tim said to Dean, but before Sam could tell both of them to shut up, the phone picked up.

"Bobby --" Sam began as he watched Tim and Dean burst from the car, "We've got problems."

"Such as?"

"Well, for starters," he said as he watched Tim and Dean run towards the three possessed guys sitting at the table, "Tim and Dean are up to something, and I have no idea what."

A paused followed and then Bobby said querulously, "And?"

"They're whooping and laughing like loons and running around the table in opposite directions and, sprinkling something ... shit! They've got salt cans in their hands!" He sighed heavily. "I think they're trying to salt the demons in."

"What?"

"We're at a rest stop. I think it's Iowa. There are three demons sitting on a table not far from us."

Bobby chortled. "Probably not going to much more than piss them off."

Sam groaned and flipped the bird in the general direction of the bewildered looking demons. "Probably not."

Tim and Dean stormed back towards him, still laughing, shouting at him to get his ass in the car and drive.

"I'll call you when I get a moment, I think I'm about to be hitting the road." He said and hung up the phone. And only then did he realize he'd forgotten to tell Bobby about Dean and the hellhounds.

Fuck.

~oo(0)oo~

Sam let Dean and Tim celebrate for about 30 seconds before he cut them off. "So, what happens when those demons jump body, now that you've pissed them off?"

A long pause followed.

"We ... we didn't think about that," Tim said.

"No you didn't think!" Sam snapped and wished he could pull the word back as soon as he saw Tim's flinch.

"Oh, shut up, Sam," Dean replied.

"Now they're gunning for us --"

"They were gunning for us anyways, Sam. All we did was confirm that we've got to keep our eyes peeled."

"But -- oh, fuck it." His hands clenched in a death grip on the wheel.

Yeah, it was a stupid thing for them to do, but Dean was right, too. Since the demons were looking for them anyway why not put some mud in their eyes? And maybe it got those demons out of those people before too much damage got done.

Maybe.

In the back seat, Tim scrunched into the back corner, tucking his knees up under his chin. He stared silently, vacantly, out the window.

Fuck.

"I'm sorry," Sam said two hours later after he couldn't take the silence any longer. "Look. I'm just -- we're all on edge."

"Hit the brakes," Tim said.

"What?"

"Hit the brakes, slow down. There's a truck over on the frontage road. It's been driving there an awful long time, despite two chances to get on the highway, and I'm not sure I like that."

Fuck!

~oo(0)oo~

Sam sucked in a deep breath, took his foot off the gas and gently tapped the brakes until he had the needle pegged on 55.

The truck zoomed on.

"Doesn't prove anything," Dean grumbled, wincing violently at a sound only he heard.

"If we catch up to it, we'll know for sure we've got an ... escort," Tim replied with a calm that Sam envied.

"Yeah, so?"

Tim pasted a sweet smile on his face and said, very solemnly, "Knowing is half the battle."

Sam held back a snicker.

"Yeah, well, you're not G.I. Joe," Dean snapped.

"And this demon isn't Cobra Commander."

Even Dean had to smile at that one.

Brief levity aside, Sam kept an eye glued to the rear view mirror. A few times he thought they might have had a tail, but it turned out to be nothing. He hoped.

Unless of course, they were working in shifts, but it wasn't like demons to be that organized or subtle, not unless they had somebody extremely powerful over them.

Then again, the Crossroads Demon had hinted that the lien holder wasn't an ordinary demon. His stomach churning sourly at the notion -- spiking every time Dean flinched, or Tim's mouth drew in to a hard, tight line -- Sam kept the needle pegged at a steady 80.

---

Part Twelve

Introductio in Analysin ... (FNL-SPN) 10/12

2009-06-15T15:29:28Z

Title: Introductio in Analysin Daemonium Infinitorum pt 10
Fandom: SPN-FNL
Pairing: Sam/Tim (Sam/Tim/Dean in a few places)
Rating: Adult (Here there be smut!)
Length: 50k words

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine

Author's Note: This is the cleaned up master version of a story I began writing for MiniNano back in November 2007. Sam Winchester is racing against time to save his brother Dean's life, and he's got Tim Riggins along for the ride ... and a bit more. ;)

The plan was to finish it and post it before the end of S3 of SPN and S2 FNL -- obviously that didn't happen.

Thank you to tartysuz and ixchel55 for their swift beta.

Legalese: SPN and FNL are copyright their respective copyright holders. This work is a labor of whatiffery, not a labor of lucre.

They clipped the Texas panhandle -- neither Sam nor Dean saw any point in driving all the way up to Colorado before heading east -- and while Tim played cool on the outside, Sam could tell that he sweated bullets on the inside. Dean humored the both of them, keeping the needle pegged just a hair above the speed limit until they hit Oklahoma.

The next day they stopped in at a public library in Stillwater so that Sam could get access to the backfiles of the Atlanta Journal Constitution and see if he could find any further clues there. He and Dean were in the middle of following up on a story that the AJC considered a case of identity theft when Tim softly cleared his throat.

"Guys ... can I ask a favor?" He held up flier.

"I don't know, can you?" Dean weisenheimered, causing Tim to piff at him.

Tim rarely asked either of them for anything, and the hesitancy of his tone made it clear to Sam that he was about to ask for something big. "What is it?" Sam asked.

Tim handed him the flier. "Can we go to this?"

"Murderball?" Dean said as he glanced over. "Sounds interesting." He looked at Sam and shrugged.

Sam looked at Tim for a long moment. "What's up?"

Tim took a deep breath, opened his mouth, and stopped twice before he finally forced the words out, "I know a guy who plays for this team, a friend from Dillon. I ... kind of want to see him again." His voice sounded casual, but the look in his eyes was not.

"C'mon, what's a day, Sammy?" Dean clapped him on the back. "With a name like murderball, how could this be bad?"

But what aren't you telling me, Tim? Sam wondered. With a smile that he knew didn't reach his eyes, Sam replied, "Sure. Sounds like fun."

~oo(0)oo~

As soon as he got a moment away from the two of them, Sam dialed Bobby's number. "Is Landry or Tyra in? I've got a question to ask them," he said the instant the phone picked up.

"And a good afternoon to you, too, Sam," came Bobby's tart reply.

Sigh. "Sorry, Bobby. It's just -- I've got a question about Tim."

"Here's Tyra."

"Hi Sam, what's up?" Pause. And then in a lower voice. "Bobby says you sound a little freaked. And that it's about Tim. What's wrong?"

"Who does Tim know that does wheelchair sports?"

"Jason. Wait. Are you all in Texas?!"

"No."

"Okay. So, what's Jason got to do with --"

"There's some wheelchair thing going on at the local Y tonight. Tim asked to go. Said he knew a guy on the team."

Tyra hmmmnd and Sam could all but see the sad smile on her face. "Well, it could be Herc, but I don't know .... It's got to be Jason. I don't think he'd ask if it wasn't, or if he didn't think Jason would be there."

Jason Street. The best friend who broke his neck.

Tyra's voice interrupted Sam's musing. "If it is Jason, if you get a chance, tell him I say hi."

"Will do," Sam said woodenly and hung up.

Jason Street, Tim's best friend.

Sam had never had a best friend, not really. They never lived any place long enough for him to get to know anybody in more than a casual way.

He had only had Dad and Dean.

And then Jess ... but that was different. She was a lover and a friend. Same with Tim.

Something twisted in him at the idea of meeting this Jason Street. It took him awhile to label it.

Jealousy. (Worry.)

~oo(0)oo~

"Dude, it's like a demolition derby, only with wheelchairs!" Dean said excitedly in Sam's left ear as he all but bounced in his seat with glee.

"Yeah, it is that," Sam agreed as next to him, on the right, Tim alternated between bouncing in his seat, cheering the Texas team on, explaining the rules, wringing his hands, and chewing his lip with such intensity that Sam expected to see blood. Tim jumped up from the seat and almost ran to the floor when a particularly hard slam knocked his friend Jason over.

Sam laid a hand on Tim's knee. "Relax. We don't want to blow it."

Tim nodded and wrung his hands. Again.

~oo(0)oo~

As soon as the final buzzer sounded, Tim shot out of his seat and ran down the bleachers, shouting, "Hey, Six!"

Jason turned, and Sam, following hard on Tim's heels, got his first good look at him. Startlement turned into shock and then into an ear-to-ear grin blossoming across Jason's all-American good looks. "Tim?!" He raced towards them.

Dean's hand clamping down on his shoulder stopped Sam. "Let's give them a little space."

But the two of them edged closer when Tim knelt before Jason and took Jason's hands -- hands Sam could see were permanently contorted into clubbed fists -- into his and gently stroked his thumbs across the back as they spoke in hushed, urgent voices.

Seething internally, Sam played it cool and stepped just into hearing range in time to hear Tim say, "No, it's cool. I've got people looking out for me. Friends." Tim looked over his shoulder and smiled at Sam, that smile that never failed to warm his heart.

Jason smiled at him and Dean and said, "Well, that's good to hear."

Sam heard Tim draw a shaky breath, but before he could speak, a voice called out from across the court, "We ain't got all night, Sparky!"

Sam edged around to the side as Jason yelled back, "In a minute, Herc!"

Tim visibly collected himself. "So, you and Herc, still the dynamic duo?" he said softly.

Jason laughed at that. "Yeah. I guess."

A painfully long silence followed.

"So ... I guess I'd better roll," Jason finally said. "Don't be a stranger, Tim."

Tim's face crumpled as he shook his head. "I won't," he choked out.

"Tim ...."

"I miss you, Six. I miss us."

Jason sighed and ruffled Tim's hair. "I miss us, too, Riggs." He looked up at Sam and Dean, his gaze clear and direct. "Take care of him."

"We will." Dean said, jamming his hands down into his pockets and shifting.

Jason nodded at them, then leaned forward, hooking a hand around the back of Tim's head, drew him in, and whispered something in his ear. When he sat back again, Tim looked up with tear-wet eyes and nodded stoically. Jason wheeled away, paused in the doorway and waved before he disappeared.

Tim's misery was palpable as he followed them out to the car.

As soon as Dean got it in gear, Tim tapped him on the shoulder and held out his hand. Wordlessly Dean passed him the flask and Tim gulped it dry before handing it back. "It's a good thing you killed that demon who grants wishes at the crossroads," he said, his voice raw with whiskey and emotion. "Because if you hadn't, there's not a force in the world that could stop me right now." He slumped back in his seat and buried his face in his hands.

Sam drew a breath and tried to think of what to say. A look from Dean and an almost imperceptible shake of his head stopped Sam. Instead, he reached over and softly, silently stroked Tim's hair.

He wanted more than anything to tell Tim that it would be alright.

But no.

Some things would never be right, and they both knew it.

~oo(0)oo~

Tim pounced Sam as soon as they got back to the hotel room, slamming him into the wall next to the door. He followed with a bruising kiss.

"I need you to fuck me," Tim hissed, low and urgent. "I need you -- and Dean -- to fuck me so hard I can't even remember my own name."

When Sam didn't respond fast enough, Tim ripped Sam's shirt in his haste to get it off of him.

Startled at this side of Tim -- a rage and need forged from emptiness, heretofore glimpsed but never seen full on -- Sam glanced over at Dean to see what he made of this sudden change in the normally easy-going, almost passive Tim.

Dean stood open mouthed, eyes slightly glazed, transfixed. And then, his eyes looking at them -- not meeting, not seeing Sam's gaze -- Dean's hands dropped to the hem of his shirt.

"Need this, Sam," Tim whispered, almost chanting, snapping Sam's attention back. "You have to give this to me. I don't ask for much from you." He sucked at Sam's neck, " ... owe me."

It slammed into him. Shock replaced by lust. Sam ripped at the snaps at the front of Tim's shirt and kissed him savagely, making Tim gasp and moan. "Yeah, Timmy," Sam rasped when they broke for air. "For you? Anything."

Yes. For Tim.

Need and want and hurt all bound up in one Gordian Knot? Yeah. Sam got that.

Roughly, he marched Tim back towards the bed, towards the half-naked Dean. And for a split second, their eyes met, and yeah, Dean got it, too.

Because, it was either do this -- use Tim (the darker places inside of Sam burbled with glee at the thought. They had wanted this, or something very much like it, for awhile now) -- or hit a liquor store. But there wasn't enough booze in the world to fill the empty place inside of Tim.

Or himself.

Or Dean.

And all things considered, Sam would rather fuck the pain away -- or try to fuck the pain away -- although that had always been more of Dean's sort of thing. But now, doing it, and sharing it with Dean? Sam wanted it. He saw the same thing in the depths of Dean's eyes, and it caused him to screw his own eyes shut and shiver as that realization coiled through him.

~oo(0)oo~

Sam didn't bother to undress himself further. Just unzipped, pushed down, slicked his hard and seeping cock with an extra measure of spit, positioned Tim face down, and, after a couple of bad thrusts (and an awful moan from Tim) finally got himself all the way in. He set a steady pace, Tim's gritted out oh oh ohs driving him on.

But Sam had no plans to make this a quick fuck. He needed Tim to know, needed for Tim to feel this for days after. He slowed the pace down, rolling his hips slow and long and deep, finishing each stroke with a hard snap, Tim's ohs drawing out into ohhhhhhhs.

Glancing over at Dean, who watched them mesmerized, Sam took his hand off of Tim's hip and crooked a finger in invitation. Slowly, almost as if he were sleepwalking, Dean rose and, shedding clothes on the way, climbed on to the bed. Tim reached for him, already in the act of bending down to do what he normally did when the three of them joined like this -- blow Dean. Dean stopped him and instead leaned into Tim, kissing and sucking on his neck and collar bones, making Tim writhe and jerk and laugh and swear as Dean nipped at him, leaving a mark.

(Dean ... so close. Right there. Sam could smell him. Almost taste him. Almost have him.)

"Oh God yes, Dean ..." Tim gasped as Dean's mouth drifted down, lips and tongue working at Tim's nipples and Sam made a note to ask about how Tim would feel about having a piercing as Tim's hands cupped Dean's head, holding it right there, not letting him move.

That gave Sam pause, made him stop, break rhythm. He made his next thrusts short and sharp, followed by slow and deep, Tim's voice hitching as he croaked out, "Oh, Sam!" Continuing the same alternation of strokes, Sam bent his head and in turn went to work on Tim's neck and shoulders, nipping, then soothing it with his tongue, feather kisses were followed by hard sucks. When Tim finally let Dean start working his head lower, Sam reached around and tweaked and stroked and teased at Tim's tender nipples, Tim begging all the while for please more, as Dean inched his way down, Tim's entire body giving the most exquisite flutter-ripples as Dean trailed a series of hot little nips along the blades of Tim's hips.

Then came the moment Sam had been waiting for since he had had an inkling of where Dean might take this -- Dean took Tim into his mouth.

Tim cried out as wet heat enclosed him, bucking, twisting.

Sam slammed home, zero to sixty in his pace, pounding in as hard and fast as he could, fucking Tim into Dean, throwing all restraint to the winds, letting the darkness and the animal need in him take over, breaking the unspoken "no touch" rule as he snaked his hand into Dean's hair, holding his head in position as Tim clenched tightly and cried out and came, sending Sam over the edge and it felt as if it were flowing out of him, through Tim and into Dean, who choked and sputtered on what Tim gave him.

When the last jolts faded, Sam slid out, pushing Tim forward, on to Dean, and staggered, jelly legged to the chair, stripping off his clothes and watching as Tim, still unsated though he'd come as hard as Sam had ever seen, climb onto Dean and sink down, riding him, head thrown back, hair flying, mouth open and panting, while Dean bucked up, pushing back.

Slowly, exquisitely, it coiled again in Sam, started rising again. He trembled like a leaf as he drank in the sheer scope of Tim's wild and untamed abandonment, crying out again when Dean flexed up hard, jaw clenched, teeth bared, hands knotted in the sheets, coming.

Tim had gotten completely hard again towards the end, and Sam was reloaded and ready to go as soon as Tim somewhat shakily climbed off of Dean's spent body. He flipped Tim on his back, hooking Tim's legs over his shoulders, closing his eyes and clenching his teeth as he pressed in --

(because that's Dean in there now, too, making it slick)

-- sucking in ragged breaths as he fought the urge to come right now, because he couldn't stop yet. He has got to give Tim what Tim needs, has got to drive Tim over the edge and beyond.

Sam wanted to make it last, wanted to take Tim there as slowly and relentlessly as a glacier grinds down a mountain, but Tim wouldn't let him. Tim flexed back, demanding that Sam set a fast, hard pace, and they both angled so that Sam nailed him with every stroke, and Dean reached over and gently caressed the two of them, stroking Tim's thighs and Sam's biceps, the simple touch causing corkscrews to dance up Sam's spine, and finally Tim's eyes rolled back in his head as he came -- three hot jets across his stomach -- and the world exploded into technicolor static behind Sam's eyes at the sight of it.

He felt his legs start to buckle and he rolled to the side, Tim nearly insensate, sandwiched between him and Dean, who half-rolled, flailed about, and somehow got the lamp turned off without knocking it to the floor.

Sleep crashed over the three of them within moments.

~oo(0)oo~

"He looks like a debauched angel."

"Hello, Ruby," Sam said bitterly.

She snorted mirthfully. "What? It's what you've wanted from him all along, right?" She flashed him a smile that for once, reached her eyes.

Sam said nothing, just looked over and down at his sleeping form, arm flung possessively over Tim. A dull glint of light from the silver torc around Tim's neck drew his gaze and held it.

He hated to admit it, but Ruby was right.

Sleep eased the guardedness away from Tim's face, washed away the sharpness, the brittle hardness, left something very pure and open in its place.

Quite the contrast to the hickeys, scratches, bite marks and bruises -- visible even in the dim light -- that mottled Tim's flesh.

Parts of Sam tingled and thrilled at seeing Tim look so used.

But other parts of Sam remembered the ticking clock, the frustration of false leads and false hopes, the pointlessness of Ruby's games ... played to further her own agenda, whatever that was, or maybe (even worse) played just because she could.

Time to turn the tables.

"Yeah, he is a sight," Sam said, a note a smug satisfaction in his voice as he turned back to Ruby.

She smiled back. "That's the spirit."

Without warning, Sam shot his arm out, seized Ruby's arm, and yanked her hard to him. His other hand grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled back, twisting, exposing.

He bit down hard.

Stunned by the assault, Ruby actually froze for a moment before pushing Sam away and dealing a stinging blow.

Didn't matter. Sam had what he had come for.

Rich and coppery, the taste of Ruby's blood filled his mouth. He swallowed.

"Oh Sam ... Sammy ... that's not going to work quite the way you expected it to." Emotion colored Ruby's tone. Sam couldn't quite place it. In a human he would have called it regret, but Ruby wasn't human, she was a demon, and demons lied and played games with you and kept you from what you really needed to do to save your brother's life. Sam saw it clearly now.

"Goodbye, Ruby." He jumped for his body, jolting awake so sharply that it roused both Tim and Dean to sleepy mutterings.

Compulsively, Sam swallowed, tasting ... nothing.

~oo(0)oo~

Morning went about as well as it could, all things considered.

They all stank like hell.

Tim couldn't move without wincing, and just swinging his legs to sit up put a hitch in his breath.

Dean wouldn't look him in the eye. "You're trying to take me places I can't -- I won't go, Sammy," he whispered when Tim tippy-toed away from them and into the bathroom.

Sam bit back on replying that it took two to tango and that Dean had willingly -- very willingly -- participated last night. Also, considering that Dean was hellbound at the moment? Worrying about sin seemed pretty silly. In for a penny, in for a pound.

(The world was falling apart, and a fight with Dean wouldn't accomplish a damn thing.)

Tim, fresh out of the bathroom, and always quick to pick up on a shift in Sam's mood, came to the rescue. "Sam," he croaked, shuffling over, "I think I might need some help taking a shower."

~oo(0)oo~

"No wonder Bobby thought you were an incubus," Sam joked after they both got into the bathtub and pulled the curtain, because, in spite of what had happened last night, and the fact that he was sore and marked up all over, that part of Tim was up and raring to go.

"Get used to it," he said over the roar of the water when they broke for air. "Phoenix spoiled me. I got used to having you every morning. It's good to be back in action, and on the road again, but I kind of do miss having our own room."

Yeah, Sam kind of missed it, too. He kissed Tim slow and gentle by way of reply, then soaped him up, fingers touching as tenderly as possible, jerking almost as much as Tim did at some of the damage he and Dean had inflicted. Damn. He'd find a way to make this up to Tim. "Turn around," he said, and, cradling Tim against him with one arm, he reached a soapy hand down and around and slowly, leisurely -- savoring every sound, every shudder -- stroked Tim to completion, holding him up when the post-orgasm Jello legs hit.

By then the water had started turning cold, and as Tim tried to return the favor, Sam kissed him tenderly on each shoulder then shushed him with a peck on the forehead. "I can wait, Tim."

Tim blushed and ducked his head, his hair flopping in front of his eyes. When he looked up again, Sam could see something in their amber depths, burning to come out.

Tim sucked in a huge breath, sputtered, and started over. "So, me and Jay? You -- you're not instead of Jay. Never instead. Ever." Tim trembled underneath his hands. "I just --"

"I know," Sam replied, brushing Tim's hair back and cupping his jaw. "I know."

Tim drew in a long breath, held it, let it out. "Dean's going to be pissed at us -- using up all the hot water."

Sam smiled. "We've got him outnumbered."

Tim nodded once and smiled back. "Yeah. Outnumbered."

~oo(0)oo~

Dean swore at them about the lack of hot water, but before long they were in the Impala, heading towards the greater Atlanta area, in search of Sam's last, best hope for a demon.

----
Part Eleven

Promethius Unbound, SPN/SGA Sam/Ronon

2009-06-13T00:19:19Z

Title: Promethius Unbound
Fandom: SPN/SGA
Pairing: Sam Winchester/Ronon Dex
Rating: Adult
Author's note: Blame it on delibby and tartysuz. This is a sequel to Promethius Unchained, and is also written for Pr0n Battle 8. Prompt: Ronon Dex/Sam Winchester, groove, wax, cut.

Legalese: Stargate Atlantis and Supernatural are copyright their respective owners. This is a freely given gift in response to a challenge, not a labor for profit.

Woolsey makes Sam sign for the package when it arrives, right there in the mess. Regulations, you see. And when it comes to Sam, Woolsey is ~~by the book~~ all about the book. "For good behavior," he informs Sam as he caps the pen.

"What is it?" Ronon asks.

"No idea." Sam eats a few more bites of chicken and says, "Probably my personals."

Ronon lifts an eyebrow.

Sam sucks in a deep breath through his mouth and blows it out his nose. He picks the table knife and uses it to slit the seal on box.

~oo(0)oo~

The knife is a wicked looking thing. A bone handle hafted to a long, grooved blade with an edge that became serrated half way down. There's something engraved on the fuller, too, but it's not in any language that Ronon knows. It makes him shiver just to look at it.

Aside from that blade, his "personals" as Sam calls them aren't much to look at: a cell phone, a worn leather bound organizer that Sam says is his father's journal, a white envelope with a few photos in it.

It's not a lot to represent a life, then again, it's not like Ronon has a whole lot left from his days on Sateda. Only, Sateda's just a gate away -- not that Ronon's inclined to visit -- and that's not the case with Earth. What's more, part of the deal that Sam made to spare his brother's life was a promise not to return.

Sam spreads the photos out, studies them for a split second, and is about to return them to the envelope when Ronon asks if he can see.

The first photo is small, creased, faded. A happy young couple on their wedding day. Ronon presumes these are Sam's parents.

"She died when I was six months old."

The next is about the size of Ronon's palm. The man from the first photo, grizzled now, and careworn, has his arms slung over two boys. Behind them is a glossy black motor vehicle. Ronon instantly recognizes Sam, rail skinny and all coltish awkwardness from his first growth spurt, hair too long and in his eyes, like he's trying to hide behind it. Dean Winchester's not at all what Ronon thought he would be -- he's got an almost delicate face and he's blonder, too. His hair is military short, and for all that he's got fine bones in his face, there's no mistaking the set of that jaw.

"I was 15," Sam says.

The third photo is also small, a formal portrait of a young man with sand colored hair. A school photo most likely.

"Adam, my half-brother. He's dead." Something about the timbre of Sam's voice tells Ronon that there's a whole world of things left unsaid in that statement.

The final photo is also the size of Ronon's palm. Sam's beaming, all dimples, dressed in a long sleeved button up shirt with a collar and clean pants (both are the kind you press) and he has his arms around a tall, stunningly beautiful woman in a dark blue dress. Her head is tossed back as she laughs and she's got a lush looking mane of long blonde curls.

Sam's eyes darken and his mouth tightens into a thin, bitter line. "Jessica."

"Bad breakup?"

"She died. Murdered." And again, Ronon knows Sam's leaving the most important parts unsaid.

Sam chews his lip musingly for a moment before reaching for the photo. "A whole 'nother life. A completely 'nother life."

Ronon swallows the last of his juice and thinks about his life on Sateda. "I understand."

Laughter dances in Sam's eyes as he says, "I was studying to be lawyer, you know. Like Woolsey."

Ronon chokes on his reply, because .... Because.

~oo(0)oo~

He finds Sam sitting cross legged on the floor of his room two nights later. Ronon knows that none of the items in his room have been touched. They've never talked about it. They don't need to. Ronon just knows that Sam doesn't snoop.

Ronon has no idea how Sam picks the lock, and he knows Sam doesn't have a pass key. The security footage never shows anything useful, either.

But this is how it is between them since that night on that planet a few months ago. Sam shows up in his room, or corners him in an out of the way place and they do, or they don't, depending on Sam's mercurial moods.

(Mostly they do.)

The knife sits on the floor about three feet in front of Sam, blade towards him, hilt towards Ronon. An offering.

Ronon slings his gear in its usual place before crouching down and placing his hand over the hilt. Not grasping, just touching. "I take it you want me to have this."

Sam smiles at him, but it doesn't light his eyes. "Yes. I had - I'm afraid you might need it some day."

Ronon nods and picks it up. It makes him uneasy, this knife does, but it is incredibly sharp, and the deep serrations on the lower half of the blade are more than just for a cut that will lay flesh open to the bone -- they're also good for trapping and deflecting and opponent's weapon.

He spins it like a top, and flips it in the air a few times, and each time he catches it, each time the handle falls into his hand, it's a right thing; it feels like an extension of his arm. In other words, the balance is exquisite. He'll have to have a sheath custom made, but that's no issue, some of Teyla's folk are superb leather workers.

Ronon opens his foot locker and makes a show for Sam of carefully wrapping the blade in an oil cloth before setting it inside. (You'd think that fucking like they do would have made them familiars. No. It's brought a kind of odd formality and ritualism to their relationship, but Sam seems to welcome it. And in its own way, it's incredibly intimate.) Ronon fishes around and pulls out a small bone charm a child gave him once and offers it to Sam. "On Sateda we had a custom," he says, "if somebody gave you a knife, you gave them a coin or a small gift back so the knife couldn't cut your friendship."

Sam laughs with pleasure as he takes it. "Thanks." Then, in a grave voice, barely above a murmur, he says, "There's not another knife like that in the universe, Ronon. Guard it with your life."

"That's a charm against Wraith. Not that you need one." More like the other way around.

Sam studies it for a moment before slipping it into a pouch on his belt. "You never know." Pause. "There's something else I need to ask."

Ronon shrugs. "Ask."

"I want you to get a tattoo." Sam pulls down the neck of his T-shirt to reveal the small geometric design on his upper chest. "It's a hex ... against things far worse than the Wraith."

Ronon's not exactly eager to go back under the needle, but if this is what it takes to humor Sam -- skittish, half-crazy, Post Traumatic Stress (that's what they say), wakes-screaming-from-dreams Sam .... If this is what it takes to earn another measure of Sam's trust, then it will be a small price to pay. "Sure."

Sam gives an immensely relieved sigh and there's only the barest pause before he springs to his feet and tackles Ronon to the bed, eyes twinkling with mischief.

Finally! Ronon grabs a double fistful of Sam's hair and kisses him, hard. He then rolls them over, and sits up, straddling Sam's hips, pulls off his shirt and sends it flying.

Something amber flickers in the depth of Sam's eyes. "Think you've turned the tables on me then?"

Ronon laughs. "Only because you've let me."

Sam's hands reach up and he claws at Ronon's chest with his fingertips, leaving a line of pinkened stripes in his wake -- not scratches, not nails, not yet -- making Ronon gasp. "Yeah, there is that." And Ronon can't help but groan a little under his breath when those hands go to work on his belt buckle. "But that's not what you want, is it?"

Ronon bites his lip and shuts his eyes as Sam's finger teases along just under the waistband of Ronon's pants, which are tented something fierce now. He sucks in a deep breath and blows it out slowly. "Not today." He opens his eyes and locks them with Sam's. He's not ashamed of who he is and what he likes.

Sam shuts his eyes and Ronon feels him shiver. "Get off of me and strip," he says in a throaty growl that's all command.

Ronon's knees feel like gelatin as he steps on to the floor and slowly, methodically, removes his boots and socks, then unbuttons and unzips, eases his pants and undershorts off and steps out of them. Sam never once opens his eyes, just keeps breathing in and out, rhythmically, but somehowRonon knows Sam's cataloged and savored every move he's made.

Wraith-fast, Sam's off the bed and behind him, one hand lifting the dreds off the back of Ronon's neck as he sniffs deeply, the sound of it and the feel of cool bursts of air along the nape of his neck make Ronon throb and he's got to close his eyes to keep it all in. Unbidden, a sort of keening sound starts in the back of his throat as the air becomes hotter and humid, and Ronon can tell that Sam's opened his mouth slightly as he sniffs, like an animal does when it wants to savor every last nuance of a scent. He feels the briefest most delicate lick there a split second before Sam shoves him face down onto the mattress, kicks his legs apart, and twists one handful of hair to the edge of pain.

It's a moment Ronon's dreaded as much as he's wanted it.

"Ronon?" And although it's phrased as a question, Sam's voice even rises a bit at the end, it's not. It's really not.

He replies in the loudest, clearest voice he can muster over the blood hammering through his veins. "Yes, damn you."

Sam's answering chortle is low and throaty. "Oh, I was damned a very long time ago." Ronon hears him unbutton and unzip.

There's a slurping sloppy noise that can only be the sound of Sam spit-slicking his fingers. There's only the barest touch of their of cool wetness before Sam drives them in and begins a methodical pistoning. It's too much and not enough and Ronon's jittering with both dread and anticipation and he struggles to find the barest words of "Sam" and "Oh, yes" and "Please."

The fingers leave and there's the sound of fishing in a pocket for something crinkly and then the sound of a condom packet being opened and Sam's other hand leaves his hair and Ronon hears himself say, "Fucking hurry up" and Sam answers with laughter.

The hand snakes back into his hair, tight enough to make Ronon's eyes water and his cock twitch, just as he feels the first slick probing and with a snarl from Sam, he's in and those fingers were not enough, not nearly enough.

(Thank goodness.)

Sam never has words at times like this and Ronon knows he's going to lose his own in less than a minute as Sam clamps his free hand over Ronon's hip and gives that first good, perfect I-am-going-to-hammer-your-ass thrust and Ronon rocks back against him and prays for him to find the groove because yeah, it fucking hurts, but his mind is frying because the feeling of Sam in him like this is so good and he wants better and best ASAP.

There's no reach around. There's never going to be a reach around. And the short, gasped cry that Sam makes when Ronon manages to get a hand down and around his steel hard dick speeds things along. Ronon gets in two strokes before the word whites out and it's electric pain of Sam biting the back of his neck as he shoves in hard and deep that jolts Ronon fully back into the here and now. Sam shudders against him for a few seconds, panting as his body goes slack.

Ronon lays in his own puddle of congealing wet and he silently damns the condom as Sam gives one last set of licks to the bite he just made, and pulls out, because Ronon wants to feel come leaking out of him, wants to feel used like that by Sam. He inches up on the bed, 'cause he doesn't have the strength for more, and oh yeah, he's going to be feeling this tomorrow. Ronon closes his eyes and listens as Sam strips the condom off and tosses it in the wastebasket. There's the sound of water running and the mattress sags as Sam sits next to him and cleans the bite with a cool washcloth before rubbing a little ointment on it.

He doesn't say sorry.

Because he's not and they both know it.

Sam pitches the washcloth on the floor and flops on the bed, face up, next to Ronon. "You smell like my brother, you know," he says wistfully.

What?

Ronon turns his head and looks at Sam, who's staring up at the ceiling with a far-away, almost dreamy expression on his face.

"All my life, since I was a baby, ever since that demon murdered my mother, it was me and Dean in the Impala. My first word was 'Dean'. All my life, he ...." it trailed off into a heavy, heartbroken sigh. "You smell like Dean. You smell like home."

Ronon's tongue struggles, tries to find words, but it's sticking to the roof of his mouth, feels alien, like it's coated in wax.

Sam sighs again, sits up, and slips from the room before Ronon can speak.

And really, it's just better that way.

Introductio in Analysin ... (FNL-SPN) 9/12

2009-06-12T17:27:21Z

Title: Introductio in Analysin Daemonium Infinitorum pt 9
Fandom: SPN-FNL
Pairing: Sam/Tim (Sam/Tim/Dean in a few places)
Rating: Adult (Here there be smut!)
Length: 50k words

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight

Author's Note: This is the cleaned up master version of a story I began writing for MiniNano back in November 2007. Sam Winchester is racing against time to save his brother Dean's life, and he's got Tim Riggins along for the ride ... and a bit more. ;)

The plan was to finish it and post it before the end of S3 of SPN and S2 FNL -- obviously that didn't happen.

Thank you to tartysuz and ixchel55 for their swift beta.

Legalese: SPN and FNL are copyright their respective copyright holders. This work is a labor of whatiffery, not a labor of lucre.

"What are you researching?" Dean asked as he picked up another slice of pizza.

"London Bridge," Sam replied, pausing to jot a note down.

"Is it haunted?" Tim asked, an almost pathetically eager note in his voice.

Dean drained his beer and set it on the table. "Might be." He cracked his neck. "They used to brick cats and dogs into the foundations of towers and bridges for luck back in the day."

Yeah, the last vestiges of pagan rituals, Sam thought. He leaned back in his chair, ran a hand through his hair and with careful patience said, "Dean, Tim, to get that bridge from England to Arizona, they took it apart, numbered and lettered each piece, put it in a crate, and shipped it over. And guess what?"

Dean raised a hopeful eyebrow as he took another enormous bite of his slice.

"If there had been a cat or a dog or, God forbid, a person, it would have been found! And it would've been mentioned because that's exactly the sort of juicy tidbit that newspaper reporters love to mention. There's nothing special about the bridge!"

"Then why were you researching it?" They asked archly.

"Because I was curious about it." Both of them looked so crestfallen at the answer that Sam had to laugh inside. Clearing his throat, he continued, "Not that I don't think there might be a job at Lake Havasu."

"Really?" Dean tried to play it cool, but his eyes gleamed.

Sam clicked on a tab in his browser and flipped the laptop towards them.

"Brain eating parasite found in Lake Havasu," Tim read.

"What?!" Dean grabbed for the laptop. "Man, that sucks. I was totally looking forward to getting in the water." Pause. "Wait. You ... think this is demonic somehow? Kind of like how Bobby thinks ebola is like the vampire virus, but mutated?"

"Think about it," Sam said, ticking off points on his fingers. "All of a sudden it shows up, almost out of nowhere, in a place where it's never been before, in a place that's kind of strange for it to occur, and it kills you because you got water up your nose? Please."

Tim and Dean looked at each other for a long moment.

"Well ... oh why not?" Dean threw his arms up in the air. "Been too long since we had something other than a meat and potatoes poltergeist or haunting."

Tim frowned in thought and asked, "So ... how are we going to kill it? It's not like you can salt and burn a lake. Or can you?"

~oo(0)oo~

"And sometimes it really just is a nasty bug," Dean muttered almost disgustedly as they left the trees and shade of Lake Havasu City in the rear-view mirror and climbed back into the desert.

"Still, it was good to see you spoiling for a Hunt again, Sammy, been too long."

Sam made a non-committal noise. If only you knew why I was hoping to find a demon.

"So," Dean continued, "How about you, Timmy? Have a good time, or are you pouting, too?"

The now much tanner Tim snorted and replied, "I had a good enough time. Not a fantastic one, though." A mischievous glint entered his eyes and he leaned forward, resting his arms on top of the front seat. "So, how about sharing some details on those blonde chicks from last night?"

Sam groaned and buried his face in his hands. Dean had had a fantastic time -- drank and partied all night long the entire time and surfed from bed to bed to bed. Several hickeys of various shapes and colors ringed his neck.

He and Tim on the other hand, had spent the nights crammed into a pup tent that really wasn't big enough for the two of them in a loud campground, where circumstances hadn't permitted more than two quick emergency handjobs. College students were, generally speaking, more liberal, but Sam and Tim knew better than to press their luck. And, while Tim hadn't actively chased any girls, the problem was that they chased him. How Tim had managed to stay faithful (and he had) and yet still retain his het credentials, Sam did not know. He flirted and charmed but somehow managed to send them along without pissing them off. A part of Sam had wanted to point at the torc around Tim's neck and yell, "See this? It means he's mine. Back off!" on several occasions. For his part, Sam had simply glared at any girl who too came close to him.

However, all of that meant that Sam had had precious little time and space to hike out to the more remote canyons and inlets along the lake shore and perform the rituals needed to determine what unnatural entity plagued the lake, much less try to teach Tim anything. Also, his research in the local library had turned up next to nothing, and though he followed up as thoroughly as the circumstances permitted, none of his (admittedly slender) leads panned out.

It really was just an amoeba that liked the soft mud of the more stagnant and shallow areas of the drought-depleted lake, where, thank you global warming, the sun heated the water to near bathtub temps in the summertime.

(Fuck.)

~oo(0)oo~

Sam had barely gotten into the bedroom, slung his duffel on the bed, and unzipped it when Tim shut the door, locked it, and pounced him, knocking the bag to the floor, spilling a week's worth of dirty clothes everywhere. "Jesus, Tim! Dean --"

"Rubbed it in our faces all fucking week," Tim said before kissing him hard.

Well.... Yeah, actually, Dean had.

Tim bucked against him, the bulge in his well worn jeans pressing against Sam's hipbone. "Do you have any idea," he growled, "how incredibly damn hard last week was?"

Sam cupped his hand around Tim's ass and answered with a thrust of his own. "It's been hard for me, too."

Tim sighed dramatically. "If we had had to stay there much longer I would've lost it completely."

Sam shook with laughter and pecked Tim on the lips. "Me too." Pause. "Some of those girls were mighty fine."

Tim froze and studied him. "Yeah," he said softly and swallowed hard. A split second later, though, another thought occurred to him and he grinned roguishly. "The old me would've been knee deep -- no -- hip-deep in pussy."

They both laughed at that.

The expression on his face shifting to something more pensive, Tim continued, "Don't take this the wrong way, Sam, but sometimes, I really miss going down on a girl. So I'd be looking at them, thinking about what this one or that one might taste like, what kind of noises she might make, and that would get me thinking about what it's like to go down on you. Damn that pup tent -- if it wasn't so small ...." Tim's hands slid under the hem of Sam's shirt and pushed it up and his voice turned smoky as he murmured, "Thinking about what you smell like." He sniffed deeply at Sam's chest before he planted a trail of kisses leading to Sam's nipple. "What you taste like." He sucked the nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking, wringing an involuntary ooooh from Sam. "The noises you make."

Sam burned to say something in kind, tell Tim that he had felt much the same way. That yeah, he still found women beautiful and desirable, but that his thoughts had turned ever back to Tim, and how wonderful it was that they had such honesty in their relationship that they could talk about things like this. And um, yeah, damn that pup tent. And that large happy Mormon family who sailed up the little inlet that lead to the secluded beach they were on just as he was about to give in and pin Tim (who had been going shirtless and had a streak of bright red dirt on his cheek) to the ground. "We need to get naked, right now."

Tim smirked down at him. "Dean is right. You are a master of the obvious."

~oo(0)oo~

It began with a frantic bump and grind to take the edge off. To Sam it seemed like only three strokes after their dicks met they both groaned and shot all over each other. When he caught his breath again, Sam pressed Tim back down into the mattress and began by licking the mess off his belly, secretly amused at the way he had Tim jittering and swearing softly under his breath with only a few strokes of his tongue. Slowly, leisurely, with lips and hands he worked his way back up Tim's body, lingering at all the "hot spots" he had discovered in their time together ... that line along the angle of his hip, the ticklish places at the bottom edges of his rib cage (which made Tim's stomach ripple and flutter like mad), his nipples (which Sam sucked and nipped into hard little peaks), his neck (nibbling and tonguing along the edges of the torc) ... until Tim groaned and twisted beneath him, arching in a futile quest for friction and release.

And he begged. Nothing specific. Just lay there on the faded sheets and begged Sam please, please, please, until Sam silenced him with a kiss.

"Oh God, Sam, please," Tim gasped when Sam finally let them break for air.

Sam chortled wickedly at that. "Please what, Tim?"

"You know ..." Tim whispered breathlessly, eyes glazed, before he claimed Sam's lips in another feverish kiss.

Mimicking Tim's voice to the best of his abilities, Sam said, "Please, Sam, roll us over." And he did just that, laughing back up at Tim who looked down at him, wonderingly, as if he couldn't figure out how Sam had turned the two of them so quickly. Then that slow smile spread across Tim's face, so Sam continued in drawl, "And spread 'em, so I can hammer you into the bed."

Tim jerked violently. "Jesus, Sam!" He gasped. "For reals?"

Sam shook with laughter. "Yeah, before I have a moment of sanity and change my mind."

Tim gave him an earnest gaze. "Swear to God, I'll make it good for you this time -- better than last."

Sam reached up and cupped Tim's face, then ran a finger along the rim of the torc, "It wasn't bad for me, Tim. It's just that I don't -- I'm not wired quite the way you are."

"So why are you?"

Because I want something that will leave a mark, so to speak, in the morning. Because tonight I want to lie here and let the world happen to me. "Because I'm in the mood for something different ... if you are."

Tim responded by thrusting against him.

The fact that Sam wasn't wired quite the same way as Tim didn't mean that Sam got nothing out of it as Tim carefully, methodically, prepared him. Quite the opposite. By the time Tim started pumping with two fingers in, Sam's cock was hard and leaking and he was the one hissing at Tim to please please please get on with it. Tim laughed low and throaty in reply as he slicked himself and slowly drove in.

Sam flexed and choked back a cry -- this was it. This what he needed tonight: the sensation of legs stretched and bent back to the point of strain, coupled with that unyielding hardness driven in again and again and again, tension-release, tension-release, tension-release, until a different kind of tension began to coil at the base of his spine ... and then Tim wrapped a gel slick hand around his leaking dick and Sam had no more thought, no more analysis. Pure instinct took over and his body rocked and bucked with each thrust/stroke that took him closer to the static whiteout of orgasm.

Reality slowly crept back in when the blood stopped hammering in his ears. Mostly in the form of growing awareness of Tim's sweat-slick, panting body half draped over his).

"I'm not going to ask you if you liked that," Tim murmured happily in his ear, little tendrils of breath tickle-teasing along the edge of Sam's neck.

Sam turned his head and murmured, "I'm still seeing stars, Timmy." He kissed Tim's forehead. "I might have to ask for this more often."

Tim pushed up on one arm and frowned thoughtfully down at him. "Well, okay," he said after a moment. "But so long as it's not too often."

Sam hooked a finger in the torc and tugged gently. "Greedy." He smiled up at Tim and then against his will, yawned hugely.

Tim smiled and nodded, blushing a little. "Damn right I am." He also cracked a yawn of his own, and snuggled back down, one arm draped over Sam.

"We should clean up," they both murmured in unison.

"My body feels like a wet noodle," Sam added.

"Shower and get the sheets in the morning," Tim replied.

Sam gave up the struggle to stay awake and let sleep pull him under.

~oo(0)oo~

"Hunting again, Sam?" Dean asked as he poured coffee into a travel mug en-route to the back door.

Sam found it hard to believe that Dean had kept his job this long. Well, not that he had kept it -- Dean was a hard worker. That he kept on going back to something so ... daily. Forcing his voice to a calmness he didn't feel, Sam replied, "Yeah, the bug's bit me, I guess."

Dean gave a harrumphing laugh. "And here I thought you were domesticated and all."

I need to find a demon, Dean. We've got to get on the road again because there's nothing here and time's running out. With a nonchalance he didn't feel, he replied, "Maybe I'm bored." He stretched, feeling the bones in his back crackle. "It's not like I have my studies anymore. Frankly, I'm surprised you've been okay with staying here this long."

Dean took another guzzle and picked up his keys. "I've had my reasons." He shrugged. Just before he went out the door, though, he paused and continued, "Should I give notice?"

Putting the pen down, Sam leaned back in his chair and said, "Yeah ... never thought I'd say this, but it's time to go."

"Go where?" Tim asked from the hallway, scrubbing blearily at his eyes. His workday didn't start until 10am on most days, so he didn't roll out of bed until he absolutely had to.

"We're leaving Phoenix soon," Sam said.

Tim's eyebrows lifted. He scratched idly at his ribs before he said, "When?"

"Two weeks," Dean replied. "Give notice today at work."

Tim blinked at that. "Where to?"

"Wherever the Hunt takes us," Sam said.

Tim ambled over to the fridge, poured a glass of orange juice and chugged. "Cool. I hope it's someplace with a beach. Like Florida. Or maybe even New Orleans." He lifted a knowing eyebrow. "Mardi Gras."

"That's the ticket!" Dean said.

So much for wanting to hit the San Francisco bay area, Sam didn't bother to rein in his groan. "Mardi Gras," he replied, biting the words out, "has come and gone. This is business."

They blinked sheepishly at that. "So, we'll just do our own thing," Dean said and finally headed out the door.

Muttering a calming mantra under his breath, Sam set back to researching and jotting down notes on what he found as Tim fixed himself a giant bowl of Wheaties.

"You go through so much milk, we ought to buy a cow," Sam joked. "Or get you in a 'got milk' ad."

Tim smiled and shoveled in a huge spoonful of cereal. "So," he said, speaking around the food in his mouth, "we really going to New Orleans?"

Sam hated to crush the hope in his eyes, but that didn't stop him from saying, "Only if I find something legit."

~oo(0)oo~

"It's amazing how much crap you accumulate by settling in one place," Dean grumbled as he started sorting through several piles of stuff in an effort to get everything down to one bag. "I had forgotten. It's been ... decades since I stayed in one place long enough to have stuff."

With a note of wry amusement in his voice, Tim said, "So, I guess we're giving Goodwill back most of the stuff we bought from them?"

Dean snorted at that. "More or less."

Sam looked at Tim and smiled sourly. "Welcome to my childhood."

Dean gave a loud ahem.

"Our childhood," Sam amended. "At most, we stayed a year in the same place. But whenever Dad declared it was time to move on --"

"Or if we had to leave town in an extra hurry --"

"Which we frequently did, you grabbed the essentials and left the rest."

Tim nodded and chewed his lip in thought as he pondered the items spread out on the table before him: two extra hoodie sweatshirts, a belt, his running shoes, a battered copy of Of Mice and Men -- not something that Sam had ever seen him reading -- and a CD Walkman.

"Keep the CD Walkman," Sam whispered in his ear. "We can get one of those tape to CD adapters and bring Dean in to the world of music made after 1994."

"I heard that." Dean shot a mock dirty glare at him.

But to Sam's surprise, Tim's mouth quirked in a half-smile as his hand reached for the book, stroking the cover for a moment.

"Something special about that book?" Sam asked.

Tim nodded. "It's ... one of my last pieces of Dillon. It's -- Landry read it to me. It's the first book he read to me." Sam got the impression from the way that Tim said it that there were layers of meaning behind that statement. Just when he thought he had gotten to know Tim ... that's when he found out how much he didn't know about Tim. "It was in the backpack I took the day I left Billy. I didn't even realize it was still in there, not until after. It .... I don't remember him doing it, but Bobby must have grabbed my backpack out of the truck when he pulled me and Landry out. Or maybe it was Landry, or even me who grabbed it." He sighed heavily and ran his hands through his hair. "It's not like I'm going to --"

"Mail it back to Landry," Dean said.

Tim nodded absently and continued, "I mean, I know it's just a book and ...."

"It's not just a book, we get that." Sam swallowed hard and continued, his voice a little raspy, "Sometimes, things are all you have --" He couldn't force the words out. (Jess. Dad. Mom. Maybe Dean.)

"We didn't have a lot of things growing up," Dean spoke softly. "Just people. Just each other. But sometimes, the things are all you have left of the people who are gone."

Tim peeked up at them through his hair. "Like your dad's truck."

"Yeah." But Dean had to clear his throat to continue, "It, and his journal, are pretty much what we have left of him."

Tim nodded yet again, and didn't say anything for a long time after. Later that day he handed Sam three envelopes to mail. The thickest one was priority mail to one of Bobby's dropboxes and contained a lump the size and shape of a paperback. The others were letters with Dillon, TX addresses.

"I still have some people left," Tim murmured in answer to Sam's unasked question. "Growing up, me and Billy didn't have a whole heck of a lot, but I always had Billy."

Tim didn't volunteer any information about Jason Street, and something about the way his eyes lingered on that envelope told Sam that if he asked, Tim's answer would tell him everything and nothing at all.

~oo(0)oo~

"So, you're going mobile again? I was wondering when that would happen." Bobby's voice sounded faintly amused.

"Yeah. I think I found something strange going on in the outskirts of Atlanta."

Bobby hmmned and said, "I'm of half a mind to join you myself. I've never been as mobile as you guys, but this has been as long as I've ever stayed at home since I started Hunting.

"But, I've got the lovebirds still trooping hither and yon on my property -- they're not quite field ready yet, though I've been working on that -- but I've got the feeling that if I decide to take a week away, Landry will get it into his mind to start experimenting again, and who knows what kind of hell he and Tyra will raise."

Sam laughed. "Well, it's not like he's trying to summon demons or something."

Dead silence.

"Holy shit!"

"Yeah," Bobby said in a sour voice. "I thought the boy had more sense than that, but despite the fact that the Mad Scientist and Lil Miss Trouble have been shown a few case file photos of why you don't go summoning demons for fun and games, the temptation to tinker might get the better of them -- again."

Sam heard the sound of a door slamming open and excited voices in the background.

Bobby groaned under his breath before saying, "Well, speak of the devil, they're back, and it looks like they're busting to tell me something about my property lines again."

"My dad's truck still running?" Sam asked.

"Humming right along." Pause. "Only this time, it's Tyra having the Chilton's Manual read to her."

Sam chortled at that image. "See you later, Bobby." And please, please, please don't come to Georgia. My plan will be fucked for sure if you do.

---

Part Ten

Introductio in Analysin ... (FNL-SPN) 8/12

2009-06-11T15:40:58Z

Title: Introductio in Analysin Daemonium Infinitorum pt 8
Fandom: SPN-FNL
Pairing: Sam/Tim (Sam/Tim/Dean in a few places)
Rating: Adult (Here there be smut!)
Length: 50k words

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven

Author's Note: This is the cleaned up master version of a story I began writing for MiniNano back in November 2007. Sam Winchester is racing against time to save his brother Dean's life, and he's got Tim Riggins along for the ride ... and a bit more. ;)

The plan was to finish it and post it before the end of S3 of SPN and S2 FNL -- obviously that didn't happen.

Thank you to tartysuz and ixchel55 for their swift beta.

Legalese: SPN and FNL are copyright their respective copyright holders. This work is a labor of whatiffery, not a labor of lucre.

"I think we should stick around for a few weeks," Dean said when they hit the greater Phoenix sprawl.

Budget Suites here we come, Sam thought darkly.

"Y'know, get a home base, give Tim some more schooling in the tricks of the trade."

That sounded like more than a few weeks, actually. So perhaps not a Budget Suites, but maybe a double wide, or even a house (in a sketchy neighborhood, of course). Sam looked over at Dean and raised an eyebrow.

"Maybe even get a job."

"Now you're pushing it," Sam deadpanned. He glanced over his shoulder at Tim, who hadn't said much of anything for the last three hours and seemed content, for now, to watch the great swathes of stucco covered tract housing roll by. However, Sam wouldn't be surprised if Tim could repeat the key points of what he and Dean had said several days from now. He was good that way.

They pulled over in a Flying J to get the lay of the land. Truckers were gossips, and perhaps there was something going on here, or maybe a few cities down the road. Tim idly glanced at a local paper's listing of places for rent.

"What's that?" Sam asked, pointing to an ad in the wanted section. "They seem to be paying pretty good for cleaning services."

"That's because it's crime scene cleanup," Tim replied, reading the fine print.

Dean reached for the paper. "Let me see that. You know, it might be a good way to see if there's anything going on here in town and this place starts at ... holy shit, $17 an hour!"

"They probably background check you," Sam countered. "We need to stay off of Big Brother's radar."

Dean glared at him and said, "I'm still going for it."

Inwardly Sam seethed. It was a useless, stupid risk that Dean was planning to take here ... primarily because he wasn't planning on being around to deal with the fallout. "Fine." Sam bit off the word.

"I'm going to take Tim if he's interested. He needs to see how ... things can get."

Ice formed inside of Sam. He didn't want Tim seeing how ugly things could get, didn't want him to have to learn how to turn his humanity on and off, even though the rational part of him knew it was something Tim needed to learn. But it was no use arguing it right here, right now. He sighed in defeat. "Okay."

"What are you planning?" Tim asked.

"I'm going to see if the local library is hiring, or maybe a bookstore."

"That's Sammy for you," Dean snorted, "always about the books."

~oo(0)oo~

Tim's career in crime-scene cleanup lasted three weeks and ended with a particularly brutal case, that according to Dean, was a shotgun suicide which had gone undiscovered for a week or two in a heated house, and in the mean time, the person's cats had gotten hungry.

All Sam knew was that Tim, who had been increasingly distant and sullen recently, staggered into their crappy house down by the train tracks one morning at 3am, reeling drunk. Sam patiently wiped his mouth with a clean washcloth between bouts of puking, eventually forced some aspirin and water down Tim's throat, and left him curled up around the toilet. Then he fired up the coffee pot and sat in one of the ratty orange vinyl kitchen chairs, waiting for Dean to show. When he did shortly after 5am (smelling of cigarettes and whiskey, marked with hickeys) and explained what had happened, Sam calmly told him that Tim was not going back to work with him.

"Ted gave us the next two days off. He'll be better after the shock's worn off."

"He's not going back. I can tell you that now."

Dean shrugged. "Ted's gonna miss him."

"Fuck Ted sideways!" Sam hissed. "Open your goddamned eyes, Dean. This job, it's killing him. He can't do it, Dean. He's not cut out for it." You're not the one having to deal with the look in his eyes. You haven't noticed, but he's starting to drink again, starting to need to."

"He's got to --"

"He can learn it some other way!" Sam roared, slamming his fist on the counter hard enough to crack the worn laminate.

~oo(0)oo~

Ted turned out to be a good guy, yes, he would miss Tim, but he could see that this job wasn't the right thing. However, he had an idea of what might be -- Disaster Masters house cleaning.

"How'd it go?" Sam asked when Tim returned from his first day on the new job.

"You wouldn't believe the crap that some people let pile up in their home," Tim said a voice that bordered on awe. "I mean, Billy and me were never neatniks, but ...." He shook his head. "This old guy had four junker TVs sitting in his front room, buried under piles and piles of paper and clothes and just stuff. I mean, he must have had a forest's worth of magazines in there. We've got his front room pretty well cleared out, and the guest room, and the kitchen, too -- lots of mummified food in there -- but ... daaamn."

Sam studied him for a moment then handed him a cold soda. "Yeah. I've read about people like that." Pause. "Do you know what happened?"

Tim gave him a sad half-smile. "His wife died a few years back. He told me all about her as I was sorting through his things. They have a son, but he lives in New Zealand." Tim shrugged. "I think he mostly just needs somebody to listen to him. I know he'll probably just go back to pack-ratting, but at least he'll keep his place a little while longer." He sighed. "It's all we can do."

"Yeah, you can't fix the world." Sam scrubbed tiredly at his eyes.

"No, you can't." Tim guzzled the bottle dry. "You just embrace the suck and find a way get through."

"You're a good listener, probably why that guy picked you to open up to." Really, you are, and I still can't tell you all about Dean and how scared and angry I am. But maybe you know all that. You're good at picking up on the things that people don't say, Tim.

Tim cleared his throat and said, "Um ... I've been making notes, you know, writing down some ideas like you said to, so that --" he pulled out the small Moleskine that Sam had gotten him a few weeks earlier. "I took --" he sucked in a deep breath "I took down the address of that -- the bad job. Something about that place just gave me the creeps before I even went in. Everybody mentioned that, too. We all felt creeped out."

"It's not a bad idea to do a little of our kind of clean up after a suicide. Sometimes, we find things," Sam said forcing his voice to remain steady.

Tim glanced back down at the notebook. "Her name was Marlene Ahlquist."

~oo(0)oo~

Three nights later -- Dean was working an extra late shift -- Sam packed a bag with the basics and they boarded a crosstown bus. Four transfers. Tim muttered something about how nice it would be to have a car of his own again. Sam didn't have the heart to say that they probably wouldn't be here more than a month or two more, so no need, really. Instead he said that yeah, he missed having a car, but that he also missed the excellent BART system from his days in the Bay Area.

"Are we ever going to go there?" Tim asked. "It'd be neat to see the Golden Gate, cable cars, and Fisherman's wharf."

Sam snorted, and hurt flashed for a brief second in Tim's eyes. Shit. "I wasn't laughing at you. I was laughing at the fact that I was there for almost four years and still didn't see a lot of it." He glanced up at an ad on the ceiling and continued, "I'd like to go back to the Muir Woods -- ancient giant redwoods. There's a stand of them across the bridge. Jess and I took a trip there once."

Tim picked a hole just over the knee in his jeans. "Do you think a case will ever take us there?" he asked. "Because ... before this, before you guys, I never really saw anything. Dallas for State and a jaunt to Mexico with Jason, but mostly? Just the roads between Dillon and the teams we played."

Sam looked him in the eye. Such hope in those ever shifting hazel depths. Still. "Well, I can't exactly say that I had a great childhood, but yeah, one of the good things that came out of it was that Dean and I have seen every state in the lower 48."

"Like all those places you see in movies and TV?"

"Anything in particular you'd like to see?"

Tim flashed a brilliant smile. "Well, we'd better wait on the Alamo. But how about Grand Canyon, or some of that Civil War stuff?" He pursed his lips in thought. "Is any of it, you know --"

"Been taken care of years ago."

His face fell. "Oh."

Sam laughed inwardly at the disappointment in Tim's tone. "And every now and again, there's one that you leave behind. Deadwood, for instance, has a ghost, but he's a protector."

"Really? Cool."

~oo(0)oo~

The spirits who inhabited the 1950's ranch-style house where Marlene Ahlquist killed herself were anything but benevolent protectors. Fortunately, they weren't particularly powerful, but living in a house with them polluting the psychic atmosphere had probably pushed that poor woman over the edge. Sam felt sure that if he did a history on the property he'd find a long chain of violence and misery.

Sam felt a certain thrill as Tim calmly stepped up and held the spirits at bay with a few well timed blasts of rock salt while he took care of the rest. When they had dispelled them with a salt and burn of a lock of hair they found tucked in a closet, Sam took out his pocket knife and carved a few small hexes in the doorjambs and windowsills to prevent anything from moving back in. The house probably wasn't going to get more than a day with the Merry Maids and a repaint before it got put back on the market, so at least the next occupants had a good chance of protection.

They boarded the bus back to their side of town giddy and twitching with suppressed emotion. But Sam could see it in Tim's eyes -- the pride of a job well done.

The bus's route took them past the noise and lights of a street fair near the university. Seized by a whim, he tugged at Tim's arm. "Let's go."

~oo(0)oo~

He saw it resting on a bed of velvet while Tim stood in line a couple of booths over, getting them horchatas.

He decided to buy it when he noticed the blue stones in the eyes. "How much?"

"Two fifty. It's a one of a kind piece. I don't normally do pieces like this -- don't know what possessed me to give it a try."

Sam winced when he heard the price, a whole week's paycheck for him, but it was just ... he ran his finger over the elegant spiraling twist worked into the metal. "I'll take it," he replied, reaching for his wallet.

The booth's owner unpinned it and handed to him. It had a surprising heft. "It's surgical stainless with 18k gold on the wire inlay. So, it's not going to rust or anything. The eyes are iolites. Do you need help getting it on?"

Sam grinned. "It's not for me. It's a gift for him." He pointed at Tim.

"Boyfriend?"

Sam swallowed hard. "Yes." His voice was squeakier than he'd like.
A smile. "You make a nice couple. I hope he likes it."

~oo(0)oo~

Tim's eyes grew huge when Sam showed it to him in the bedroom after they got home. "What is it?"

"It's a torc. The Vikings and Celts wore them."

Tim turned it over in his hands a few times, brow furrowed in puzzlement.

"It goes on your neck."

Tim shot him a slightly miffed look. "I figured that. I'm just ... I don't know what to say. I .... Why?"

Sam reached over and ruffled Tim's hair, longer now, and darker, almost his color at the roots because of winter and long days indoors. "Because I thought you'd dig the panthers. Because ... it will look good on you. It fits you somehow."

"So, how do we get it on?"

"I'm not one hundred percent certain, but I think it goes like this," Sam took it and pulled gently.

Because of the high steel content, it took a little muscle, but they finally got it flexed into place, the snarling panthers facing each other just across the notch at the base of Tim's throat. He rolled his shoulders a few times, adjusting to the weight of it.

"It's kind of heavy, but I like it." His eyes flicked down and to the side before darting back up and meeting Sam's shyly through his long bangs. "It feels ... permanent."

Sam put his finger under Tim's chin, tilting his head up and kissed him tenderly. When they broke, he said, "Yeah, I like the idea that you can't just slip it on and off anytime you like." His voice turned smoky, "It looks good on you. I want to see you wearing it." He left "and nothing else" unspoken.

Tim's eyes blazed almost amber with sudden heat. "Yeah."

~oo(0)oo~

He looks like a statue come to life, Sam thought as Tim stepped out of his jeans and into a shaft of moonlight that happened to slip past the blinds. He even thought he saw a brief twinkle from the stones in the panthers' eyes.

With barely more than a word than "Let me," Tim stripped the clothes from Sam, worshiping each inch of revealed skin with his eyes, and then pressed him to lie back on the covers as he licked and kissed his way down to Sam's cock, which he sucked to an aching hardness before he rolled on a condom and rode him long and slow, Sam lying still (because Tim kept his hands pinned to the bed) and it seemed like he was floating ever upwards on waves of pleasure and he wondered what he had ever done to deserve this.

(You fell in love, stupid.)

When Tim got close, he released Sam's hands, and Sam grasped him, pumping in time to Tim's rocking, his other hand steady on that lean hip, grasping. Three hard downward jolts and Sam came, bucking up hard, eyes rolling back in his head, sending Tim over the edge, collapsing onto him, panting, both of them now slick with sweat and semen.

Utterly spent, Sam barely managed to pull out and get the condom off and into the wastebasket, before sleep pulled him under. His last thought was that he fully expected Ruby to show up and make some I-told-you-so remark about having "collared" Tim.

Instead, he woke the next morning to find Tim already gone to work and an envelope with his name on the nightstand.

It contained the results of some tests that Tim had been required to take in order to get his job doing crime scene cleanup.

Negative for Hepatitis A, B, C.

Negative for HIV.

Sam hit the internet and found a place to get himself tested.

~oo(0)oo~

Christmas came and went without much fanfare. It had never been a big holiday for Sam and Dean, and it held bitter memories for Tim. The days had settled into a rhythm by then. Work. Train. Eat. Sex. Sleep. (Research ways to get Dean out of his bargain.)

Sometime in March Sam had to admit that things had fallen into ... a sort of cozy domesticity. Certainly not the usual kind, but the closest to it that he'd ever get.

The most exciting thing that happened was a phone call from Bobby in February. Apparently Landry had figured out how a Seal of Solomon worked.

"I think it might be possible to construct something like that on the fly; Landry's made a pretty good case for it. So, you know when --" Bobby cleared his throat. "For, you know."

"Yeah, but how do you plan to test that theory?" Sam hated to sound like a killjoy, but he didn't want the agony of false hope.

Bobby had sighed, and Sam could all but see him scratching under his cap. "Yeah, there is that .... When the time comes near, you bring Dean up here. We can keep him safe."

"That's what I was thinking. Only, he's not going to go willingly."

Bobby snorted. "Then bring him kicking and screaming." Then. "I'll have Landry email you that explanation of his. You might find it useful."

"Thanks. I'm working on something, too."

(Something so scary I can't really admit it to myself.)

~oo(0)oo~

Things went downhill when April rolled around.

The clock was ticking, and Dean suggested that they go to Lake Havasu for spring break.

"We're not college students," Sam pointed out.

"So?" Dean shrugged. "It's not like they're checking student IDs at the beach or something."

And then Tim took Dean's side. "You need to live a little, Sam. Lately, you've been all work and no play."

That stung. "No play?" Sam said in a quiet voice. "Yeah, we can do that."

Tim looked at him and sighed heavily then turned to Dean and piffed air up through his too-long bangs.

Dean slung an arm around Tim and said, "Well, Tim and I are going to go. I've been meaning to spend a bit more time with him. Show him a few more things."

"Fine." Sam spat the word.

Tim shrugged and headed to the couch, sprawling on it before he turned on ESPN. He looked up at Sam.

Sam turned and went to the bedroom, closing the door.

~oo(0)oo~

"No play, remember?" Sam rolled on his side, away from Tim, when he came to bed and kissed him.

"What?"

"I'm a dull boy."

Tim let out a long breath. "You have got to be kidding," he said after a moment.

"Oh, I'm serious."

"But ..." and Sam could picture the hurt puppy look on Tim's face, "sex isn't play. It's ... sex."

He had a point, but Sam had vowed not to cave. "I'm a dull boy."

"Have it your way," Tim grumbled and turned over.

They still woke up snuggled together.

~oo(0)oo~

Sam knew that Tim had a stubborn streak, it was one of the ways he was like Dean. Only, he had no idea of the extent to which Tim could take things.

The cramped conditions on the road, plus the fact that they lived in an all guy household meant that casual nudity or near nudity was an everyday fact of life. Only, somewhere along the way, Tim had figured out the difference between showing and suggesting, and for the past few days, he had been in full on tease mode.

Take today for instance, as Tim ambled out to the kitchen table for breakfast clad in only the torc and a pair of blue sweatpants riding so low that by all rights they should be down around his ankles. Was Tim using double stick tape to keep them on? Try as he might, Sam couldn't tear his eyes away from those lean hips as he swallowed hard ... that drawstring dangling down, the line of cloth not more than barest millimeters above ....

Oh, fuck him.

(Yes, please!)

No, wait, un-fuck him.

Dean, of course, found the whole thing hilarious. And made sure he got digs in at every opportunity.

Inwardly Sam cursed the fact that it had been his idea to teach Tim poker as a way for him to learn how to not show his every emotion on his face. Because, it was working. All those barbs and innuendos, and Sam had no idea what Tim was thinking, other than a chortle at one of Dean's better zingers.

Sam muttered something about Tim sleeping on the couch.

Dean laughed.

Tim's eyes momentarily blazed like a tiger's before he visibly clamped down on his emotions. "I don't think so, Dean. The only way that's going to happen is if Sam puts me there himself, and if he tries that? Well, he's going to have an interesting time of it."

Sam's rage shifted into slow burn.

Tim finally looked at him, and, arching an eyebrow, continued, "Remember back when you asked me about places I wanted to see? I think Lake Havasu is one of them."

"It's a waste of our time and our money," Sam replied as calmly as he could.

"No more than sitting around here all week," Dean cut in. "'C'mon, Sammy, it's sunshine, and beer and girls -- well you two can at least look at the hotness -- and fun. You do remember what having fun, some real fun is?"

"Fuck you," Sam whispered as he stood up.

When Tim came to bed that night, the stubborn set of his jaw dared Sam to start something.

And for a crazy moment, Sam considered it. But Dean had been teaching Tim a lot during the past few months, and while Sam felt certain that in the end he could still take Tim, he had the sheer height and muscle mass, they would probably trash the house and bang themselves up pretty badly in the process.

With an angry huff, he turned away from Tim.

~oo(0)oo~

They both woke up in the middle of the night snuggled together, tangled in the soft, wash-faded sheets. Happy for just that split second. Then the look in Tim's eyes grew flinty.

"Am I not enough for you?" Sam whispered after several moments of soul searching. "Is wanting to go to Havasu about wanting some sort of open relationship?"

Tim blinked at him, startled. "What?! No. But ... it's not like we haven't had Dean along several times. Like every time after a big Hunt."

"That's different."

Tim sighed and flopped on his back. "Sam, you're the only person I've ever ... barebacked. Going to Havasu it isn't ... it isn't about that. But I thought that us not -- I thought it meant something." Pause. Then, in a small voice: "Do you want me to go with a girl? Do you want us to --"

"No!" Sam gasped.

"Then what?"

"Why do you want to do this? Why are you encouraging Dean?"

Tim shot him a look of pure incredulity. "Because Dean needs it! You think you're carrying a load? Try being Dean. Try really thinking about it, Sam. Do you know why we've been here so long? Because Dean's saving money for you. He knows you're going to be a wreck for awhile after --"

"He's not going to die!" Sam hissed.

"You don't know that," Tim said softly. "Yeah, we're going to try. We're going to try everything in the book, 'clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose' and all that, but it doesn't -- sometimes you don't win, Sam. You just don't." Tim gave a soft half-smile. "Not that I'm giving up on Dean or that I'm not going to help you every way I know how when that day comes."

Sam inched over and put an arm around Tim, pulling him close. "When did you take my side?"

"From day one. What did you think?"

Sam's mouth opened and closed several times, but he couldn't make the words come.

"He's your brother, and ..." Tim drew in a shuddery breath, and in a voice that quavered ever so slightly, continued, "I know how much you love him. What -- what he is to you."

Sam groaned and scrubbed a hand across his face. "That 'dull boy' remark hurt. It's not easy, you're right about that. Dean's always looked after me, looked out for me. It's always been me and him against the world. Even when we were fighting. But I've always been the responsible one, the good boy, and he's always been the rebel and most of the time? That's okay.

"But I don't like having it held against me, like it's a bad thing. Because this last year? Somebody's got to keep this thing on the rails. And --" Sam's throat tightened. "And I just can't --"

"You say he's the rebel and yet, you're the one who left the life your dad had all planned out for you and stood up to him. You're also the one with the boyfriend," Tim said as he smoothed Sam's hair back and kissed him tenderly on the forehead.

(And then clung tight and urged him on, whispering "It's okay," and "I know, I know," when Sam grabbed him and tried to fuck the pain away.)

~oo(0)oo~

The sun beat down upon a small valley ringed in by steep red-brown mountains. He stood on a playa that in the wet months probably held an inch or so of water, but right now was a shimmering white salt hell.

"Ruby," Sam said as he turned around. "Long time no see."

She was dressed in her typical All-American style, including a jean jacket with leather fringe that looked new and a pair of cowboy boots. Sam wondered if she wore what she wanted here, or what she happened to have on in the real world, because he wasn't bare-ass naked, and either his subconscious had created the jeans and T-shirt he wore, or she had dressed him. But he doubted that. The predatory gleam in her eye made him pretty sure that she'd love to see him in all his glory.

Ruby smiled at him, studied him for a moment, and said, "It's not like I can pull you here at will. You have to be ... in the right frame of mind."

"What, edgy and pissed?"

"Something like that. It gives me something to latch on to." She cocked her head and studied him again.

Sam shrugged. "And here I thought deep inner serenity was needed for astral projection."

Her laughter reminded him of wind chimes, thin and silvery. "This isn't the usual kind of astral projection." She smiled again, her teeth seeming somehow too white and sharp, and continued, "I see you've collared him."

"I was wondering when you'd show up and say something like that." He didn't bother trying to keep the smirk out of his voice or off his face.

Ruby paced a figure eight in the dry lake bed they stood on. The sun had baked the ground so hard that it almost sounded like walking on cement. "You two are so different -- it interests me. You make such a show of wearing your heart on your sleeve, and he keeps his light under a bushel. It's what draws you to him, you know. You crave that light, that warmth. Something to counter the dark, cold emptiness within." She laid a hand on his shoulder and leaned in. "Does he know how afraid you are of yourself?"

"I am not!" Sam shouted, infuriated by her too-sweet tone.

(Furious at the truth.)

"Not what?" Tim asked muzzily, from his face mashed into the pillow position.

"Nothing. Just a dream," Sam muttered.

Fuck. He didn't know what sort of game Ruby was playing but he'd had enough of it.

Time to level the playing field, he thought grimly. He had an idea of how he might do it, but the problem was, how to accomplish it without letting Dean and Tim in on it.

Tim rolled over and snuggled into him. But Sam did not relax as he idly stroked Tim's hair, and sleep did not come.

---

Part Nine

Walking the Longest Road, Terminator Salvation, Marcus/Blair

2009-06-10T18:57:21Z

Title: Walking the Longest Road
Fandom: Terminator Salvation
Pairing: Marcus Wright/Blair Williams
Rating: Mature (sexuality and themes)
Author's Note: Written for Pr0n Battle 8. Prompt: Blair Williams/Marcus Wright firelight, warmth

One of the things I liked about Terminator Salvation is that it didn't go to the woman fucks man because he saved her life place. That, after that utterly harrowing experience, the both of them just shared bodyheat and a campfire on a cold night. (Even though lighting the fire was stupid!) I know that part of pr0n battle is to well ... but I wanted to explore why Marcus didn't and yet still have eroticism in the story. I hope it works.

Legalese: Terminator Salvation is copyright its respective owners. This is a response to a fan-run challenge, not a labor for profit.

It's incredibly fucking cold after the sun goes down. Not, like see your breath cold, but it somehow feels blue-black cold despite the lack of snow, and Marcus' teeth are on the edge of chattering. Blair shifts in her sleep, burrowing into his shoulder, and though she's a woman grown, something about the firelight makes her look much younger.

The flickering light takes Marcus back to his teenaged years of too many beer-blasts and bonfires on the beach, of all those girls, of getting hooked on the rush that came from a bump of crank. Of those times he woke up because the tide was lapping against his toes while a girl's body pressed warm against him. (Sometimes, more than one girl's body.)

It's been so long since he's known that feeling -- a body sleep-slack against his.

He shuts his eyes and remembers one night in particular ... a few beers, a bong load or two, so late it was early, pulling down a girl's neon-floral print bikini bottom in the firelight and just tasting her, tasting her crazy, before rolling down the condom and plunging into the hilt.

It's fucking frigid out here and Marcus is incredibly grateful for every stitch of clothing, what little heat comes from what's left of the fire, and the way that Blair's body slots into his inside his coat.

He remembers a bass heavy dance beat and a few lines of a song from his childhood, " ... be warm in your coat/I might like you better if we slept together/I might like you better if we slept together/But something in your eyes says 'maybe'/Well, that's never/Never say never."

It's not that Marcus doesn't want to. He does. It's been years. And Blair's the kind of woman he liked best back then -- brassy and tough, the kind he could reach for, but never seem to hold.

But.

She didn't offer.

And maybe a part of her wants to -- from his life before Marcus knows all too well the complete steel-dick/wet-between-the-legs adrenaline rush that follows an ALMOST.

His hand to God, he wants to have her down in the firelight, licking her nipples into stiff little peaks while he teases his fingers across those delicate, slick little folds, and have her hand (or her mouth) on him, teasing back.

And.

Once upon a time, he would have played that angle, pressed her because he was a nice guy and had saved her instead of just leaving her to them.

But Mr. Nice Guy died back in 2004.

And he doesn't know how or why, but he's got a whole new lease on life, a completely fresh start.

The fire crackles and gutters. Blair mumbles and shifts again and Marcus can feel her breath on his neck and wishes it was the prelude to her latching on and necking him like a lamprey as he throbs in his pants just thinking about it.

He's not a Nice Guy.

He's That Guy.

And it's infinitely better this way.

Introductio in Analysin .... (FNL-SPN) 7/12

2009-06-10T15:40:09Z

Title: Introductio in Analysin Daemonium Infinitorum pt 7
Fandom: SPN-FNL
Pairing: Sam/Tim (Sam/Tim/Dean in a few places)
Rating: Adult (Here there be smut!)
Length: 50k words

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six

Author's Note: This is the cleaned up master version of a story I began writing for MiniNano back in November 2007. Sam Winchester is racing against time to save his brother Dean's life, and he's got Tim Riggins along for the ride ... and a bit more. ;)

The plan was to finish it and post it before the end of S3 of SPN and S2 FNL -- obviously that didn't happen.

Thank you to tartysuz and ixchel55 for their swift beta.

Legalese: SPN and FNL are copyright their respective copyright holders. This work is a labor of whatiffery, not a labor of lucre.

Tim didn't waste much time when he got in the room. Simply started shucking his clothes and turned around a few times. "See, no cuts." He glanced down at a spot on his ribs. "Shit. That's going to be one hell of a bruise." He looked up and the molten heat in his eyes turned Sam's mouth cottony dry.

"I guess this is where I exit, stage left," Dean muttered, his eyes flitting over to Tim several times and then just as quickly away.

Tim cocked his head, looked at Dean and then Sam, and then looked back at Dean and said, "You don't have to. You can go if you like, or stay if you like -- if Sam's good with it." He looked back at Sam and lifted an eyebrow.

(I will always be good with it, and he knows it somehow ... that's the trouble.)

"But ... you and Sam ..." Dean began, but it was weak.

Tim smiled at him. "It's fucking Sunday night in a one-horse town. You're a friend in need." Tim's gaze zeroed in on the bulge in Dean's snug jeans.

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "A friend with privileges."

"Yeah. Sometimes."

Dean nodded and started undressing.

Tim laid on the bed then rolled on to his side and looked at the both of them. After a moment of hesitation, Dean joined Tim on the bed, facing him. Sam watched, mouth suddenly gone sandy dry as they reached for each other.

"Sam?" Tim asked after a moment.

"I-I ..." Sam couldn't put the words into his mouth. "You two ... so hot ... I ...."

Tim laughed, but Dean paused, and Sam could see the doubt gathering in his eyes.

Sam took a few hesitant steps forward. He couldn't speak. He ....

Part of the reason he rarely went looking for a girl after a Hunt stemmed from the fact that it was too raw, his need. Right now he wanted to pounce on Tim and pound him through the mattress, just grab him and drill right in. Use him.

It frightened him. It always had.

And what if they saw it? Saw how massive and raging and unrefined it was? Saw the beast lurking just below the surface? Because, really, he was this close to losing it. That was the worst fear, really. Having somebody else see what he was on the inside.

On autopilot, his fingers moved, undressing himself. Sam climbed onto the bed and tucked in behind Tim, and at the first touch of heated flesh to heated flesh, need roared back, drowning out the voice of fear.

"I want you to put your leg over Dean's hip," Sam whispered in Tim's ear, as he pressed his fingers to Tim's mouth, and it was manna to his soul when Tim gave a knowing, throaty chuckle and sucked them in. He dropped a few kisses on Tim's shoulder.

Dean caught his eye, his look questioning.

"He likes this a lot, what I'm going to do. You'll see."

A truth borne out when Tim groaned a low, rumbly "Ohhhhhh Sam" as the first spit-slick finger pressed in. Sam couldn't contain his own hiss as Tim moaned and clenched around him as he slowly stroked it in and out. "So good, just like that," Tim whispered.

"Take care of Dean," Sam said back, guiding Tim's hand down, careful not to touch Dean, but it thrilled him to the core all the same to be the one closing Tim's hand around Dean's cock.

(All of Dean, none of the guilt.)

He continued to thrust his finger in and out of Tim, who stroked Dean with the same rhythm. Sam shifted up on his elbow, the better to see the expressions on their faces: Dean, eyes closed, mouth open slightly, breath panting out in little puffs; Tim, eyes cat-like slits, a dreamy smile curving his full mouth.

Dean's hand reached down, heading for Tim's cock, but Sam stayed it, causing Dean to start. "No. Just me." Sam said.

"Oh Sam, that's just not fair to the poor guy," Dean laughed and reached once more.

Sam stopped him. "No."

(Mine.)

"Whatever, man." Dean snorted. "He's your boyfriend."

Boyfriend --?

No, not ... well, yeah, actually.

Tim whimpered as Sam sped up. "Please, Sam," his whisper was papery, "I've got to -- you can't just -- I need more."

"Shh." Sam smoothed a lock of hair back from Tim's forehead and drove a second finger in. Tim's eyes screwed shut as he gasped in pleasure, his cock twitching and giving a fresh spurt of wet.

"Sogood sogood sogood, " Tim panted with each breath, body twitching, almost breaking rhythm on Dean. Sam drove in harder and deeper than he'd ever done before and Tim all but convulsed. "OhGod! Do that again!" he yelped. "Like that!" he half-chanted snapping his hips to meet Sam, when Sam found a rhythm.

Sam reached under and around and ... Tim was so hard and so ready--

"Please, please, please," Tim begged

-- Sam drove in deep one last time, crooking his fingers, and smiled when Tim cried out and arched and bucked and came in his hand.

A few moments later, Dean who had been thrusting to meet Tim's hand, groaned and shot, half in Tim's hand, half on Tim's abdomen. "What about you, Sam?" Dean said, after he stopped shaking and got his breath.

Sam didn't respond to him, just looked Tim in the eye, asking -- no, telling him what he wanted.

A long pause followed and Sam could see the struggle in Tim's eyes. Finally he swallowed hard and gave Sam a barely perceptible nod. Sam climbed off the bed and one-handedly fished Dean's wallet out of his jeans, opened it and took a condom out. "Put it on?" he asked, handing it to Tim.

He sucked in several deep breaths when Tim got it out of the package and rolled it down Sam's length. Sam kept his gaze firmly fixed on the indifferent painting of a western landscape over the bed for several heartbeats after; he didn't dare look down at Tim, it would all be over if he did. When Tim removed his hands, Sam's eyes flicked over to Dean, who wore a certain sleepy satisfaction, as if it were an everyday thing to see his younger brother naked, achingly hard, and about to fuck another guy. Part of Sam laughed inwardly at that. Dean had never seen him do more than give a few kisses to a girl, utterly acceptable public displays of affection, and here he was getting ready to .... And he didn't feel the least bit shy about it, didn't mind that Dean watched. He wanted Dean to see.

Clearing his throat he bent and whispered in Tim's ear, "I, um, hear it's easier on you if you're face down."

Tim nodded, the look in his eyes distant, closed off.

"Are you really cool with this?" Sam asked.

(Oh please don't let him change his mind. Not now.)

A long sigh. "Yeah ..." Tim rolled over.

Tim's come had cooled and gone a bit goopy in Sam's hand, but it was all he had to use, so he slicked himself with it, knelt between Tim's spread legs, gripped his hips, and pulled up a little, positioning him, and then guided himself to the entrance. He paused for a beat and then pushed slowly and firmly in. It was harder than he would have liked, the push he had to give to get in --

(So clenched, so tight, not like a woman, which gave a gentle grip from root to tip, but a tight ring of muscle around the base ... different, but good all the same.)

-- and caused Tim to shut his eyes tight and pant through clenched teeth, and reach out for Dean, taking his hand, gripping it tightly for a moment before relaxing.

"We still good? Sam asked. Because he would stop if Tim said to, but oh how he wanted this. It was doing things for him deep in his soul. Tim, mule stubborn, blue collar, raised to be a "man", Tim letting him have this, giving it to him, taking Sam deep inside. An act that was probably scarier to him in some ways than the monster they had just faced down. Sam trembled with the intensity of what it meant to him.

Tim blew out a long breath and opened his eyes. "Just ... give me a moment to adjust."

"Tell me when."

Tim took another long breath, held it a beat, and pushed it out. "Okay."

Sam gave his hips a twitch.

"Oh, Jesus, Sam ... that's ... you have no idea what it's like. No. Idea." Tim's voice grew breathy.

Sam counted to three and began with a slow, gentle stroke, watching the reactions play across what he could see of Tim's face. He switched to faster and deeper, went short and sharp, then switched back to long and slow and deep, drinking it in, the expressions of wonderment and pleasure, watched as they turned to ecstasy, made them ebb and flow, and watching it all on Tim's face added to it for Sam, Tim's pleasure becoming his pleasure, too.

And Dean's, Sam realized, when Dean, who kept his eyes firmly locked on Tim's, brought his hand up and tenderly brushed a lock of hair back from Tim's forehead. The two of them sharing something in the look between them, an understanding that Sam only caught a glimpse of -- it wasn't meant for him, wasn't about him -- but it showed him a new bit of Dean and a new bit of Tim, but he knew one thing for certain, the look that Tim had given Dean was not the same as the one he had given Sam that day in the truck. That was his and his alone and he felt thrilled to know that.

But it wasn't all pure and chaste and profound revelation. This was still sex. And Sam could see Dean coming up again, and he had an inkling that Tim had gotten hard again, too, so he shifted his weight back, tugging up on Tim's hips, Tim's slightly frustrated mutter confirming it.

"No making a wet spot on the bed," he growled.

They all laughed.

Dean had gotten fully hard again, ready to go, and Sam --

(Dear God, he wanted.)

"Blow him, Tim," he rasped. "I want to see you --" The words choked off as Tim's body shook at the idea of it, and clenched down hard around him.

Meanwhile, Dean wasted no time scrambling for the head of the bed.

The sight of his eyes rolling up behind fluttering lashes as Tim took him in was just too much for Sam, who grabbed Tim's hips and slammed home three times hard and came so hard the world turned staticky around the edges.

When his heart stopped hammering in his ears, Sam shakily pulled out and in a fog he stripped the condom from his rapidly softening dick. He paused for a moment to enjoy the sight of Tim and Dean before climbing back on the bed and making Tim lift his hips. He reached around from behind, one hand hovering at the ready as he jerked Tim mercilessly hard and fast -- the way he liked -- and Tim gave a muffled, throaty sound and spilled in his hand a split second before Dean gave a sharp, "Oh, fuck!" and pulled out of Tim's mouth, coming in long, hard spurts all over his own belly.

Dean crawled back down to face Tim who had rolled back on his side (and laughed as Sam wiped his hand clean across Tim's chest and stomach).

"All sticky," Tim mumbled sleepily and happily.

Sam crawled up behind Tim and reached and fumbled the light off, glad that they had cranked the heat upon getting into the room, because he could already feel sleep pulling him down, and suspected that they were all too physically and emotionally spent for anything else at the moment.

~oo(0)oo~

He found himself sitting in an ornate and not very comfortable chair. No ... something this massive could only be called a throne. Above him stretched a roiling, sooty looking sky, and --

"Better to reign in Hell, right?" Ruby said.

Groan. "Hello, Ruby," Sam said, trying not to grumble too much.

She stepped in front of him and gave an impish grin. "What, don't like the digs?" She gestured and continued, "In Azazel's plans --"

"Azazel's plans don't matter anymore." Sam stood and ran a hand through his hair. "So ... can we go someplace else?"

"Maybe."

Before Sam could reply, they blinked into a large hall with a huge ... mirror ... in it. Sam knew somehow that that this was still Hell, or at least the Astral Plane of Hell, but gave up arguing the point with Ruby. There might be a reason she had chosen Hell for this meeting, something that would help Dean.

Her eyes were black pools when she looked at him again. "There's a lot of power in that throne, you know."

Whatever. And a lot of headaches, too. Besides, what was he supposed to do as the King of Hell? Storm the gates of Heaven? Spend the rest of eternity watching his back more like. "I know," he replied evenly, crossing his arms and lifting an eyebrow at Ruby, urging her to continue.

"This is the looking glass. Come see."

Sam found himself taken aback to see the three of them in that Colorado motel room, curled tightly together against the encroaching chill, still on top of the bedspread.

Ruby placed a hand on his shoulder. "You'd have him stand at your side, wouldn't you?" she purred. "The left hand side, of course. Dean would be your right hand man. You'd collar him, too, I think."

Sam looked over and snorted scornfully. "Not really into bondage."

"Sorry, that's not quite what I meant. I meant as a way of letting everyone know that he's noli me tangere." She tapped her lips thoughtfully. "Would you keep him naked? Little enough in Hell that's pleasing to look upon, and he's like an ... objet d'art, isn't he?"

Sam liked the idea so much it frightened him. "Why are we having this conversation?" he asked coldly.

Ruby shrugged delicately and pushed a lock of her impossibly perfect hair back. "Because it's been a little while since we last spoke, and because I thought you might want a glimpse of the other paths your life could have taken, still might take."

"It's gone, the demon blood. So, no."

She continued as if he hadn't spoken. "You're trying to mark him as yours -- that's why you like to come on him."

Sam smiled icily at her. "You make me sound like a dog pissing on a tree."

"You humans are ruled by instinct more than you like to admit." Her laughter was bell-like ... and cold. "All those grand notions and lofty ideals, but still, at the heart of it, you're slaves to your little meat suit impulses."

"And yet, your kind hop into our little meat suits every chance you get."

Ruby twirled and laughed again. "Touché"

Sam pressed in, glowering. "You take that hot body for a roll in the sack yet?"

She pouted. "Not since Bobby put a big old fatal bullet hole in it, no. It's a little hard to explain to potential partners."

Sam laughed.

The black in her eyes took on an ominous tinge. "Be seeing you."

~oo(0)oo~

He didn't wake, though, but drifted into a sort of nightmare about Dad finding out about him and Tim and not approving, calling him "unnatural."

But he didn't care. What he felt wasn't sorrow or fear.

Not really.

It was more like an annoyance or frustration, because he had been "unnatural" almost all his life, and, as Dad's truck roared off, he still had Tim at his side.

And that's what mattered.

~oo(0)oo~

The sound of Dean showering woke Sam early the next morning. He forced his eyes open and muttered under his breath and couldn't quite stop his hips from rubbing a little against Tim as he shifted. Yeah, the heat was on, but it was still almost winter on the high plains and the room was a little chilly.

Tim woke with a sudden jerk and groan.

"Everything okay?" Sam asked.

"No," Tim grumbled, "I slept too still all damn night."

Sam shook with repressed laughter.

"Not funny."

"Um ..."

The water turned off.

Tim slowly, stiffly, rolled to face him, smiled a bit crankily, and darted in, kissing him. "Bleh. Morning mouth."

"You smell like roses, too." Sam said with a laugh, and rolled his tongue around in his mouth, trying to get the juices flowing.

"I fart baby powder, too."

Sam snorted with mirth as he rolled to lie on his back. Oh yeah. It hurt and felt good at the same time -- he'd also slept too still. Tim draped a leg over his and idly trailed a finger down to Sam's belly button and then back up. Sam could feel him, hard and seeping against his hip. The bathroom door flew open and a fully dressed Dean emerged in a cloud of steam. He looked at them for a moment, leered, and said, "I'm going out for breakfast. I'll be back in --" he glanced at his watch "10 minutes. Should be plenty of time for you two."

They flipped him the bird in unison.

"Right." He grinned for real this time. "I'll be back in an hour. I'll get you some breakfast burritos or something to go."

Dean barely got the door shut before Tim climbed on top. "So, like 55 minutes of sex and then a shower dance?"

Sam smiled back up at him. "That sounds about right. What do you have in mind?"

Tim leaned down and kissed him. "I'm ... um ... a little tender." He blushed. "So, as much as I like the idea of climbing on and going for a ride, that's going to have to wait. "

"Yeah."

"So, I was thinking that you can get me off," he picked up Sam's hand and wrapped it around his prick, starting to thrust, "And then I'll blow you and give you the magic fingers."

"Sounds great," Sam said, gripping Tim firmly and pumping to match his thrusts.

~oo(0)oo~

"Are you sure I was doing it right?" Tim asked, between bouts of scrubbing at his teeth with the brush.

Sam rinsed and spit. The sight of Tim kneeling before him, sucking his own fingers and seeing them head there had been hot, and it had felt ... interesting, not unpleasant, but .... "Look, maybe I'm just not wired the way you are."

"Or maybe I'm not doing it right because when you do, it's ... incredible," Tim said wistfully.

Sam shrugged and tapped his toothbrush dry on the sink. "Sure."

Tim opened his mouth to say something, but changed his mind and stayed strangely silent until Dean got back. Even as he chowed down on the food he seemed reserved, even for him. When he frowned in thought several times, Sam made a note to speak to him, and pulled him aside when Dean went to the office to settle the bill.

"What's wrong?"

Tim chewed his lip, the expression in his eyes bleak. "I was thinking that ... that now I know why girls --"

(Oh shit.)

Sam decided to play dumb. "Puts you ahead of the curve, then, doesn't it?" When the look in those hazel eyes grew stormy in response to the flippant remark, he continued, voice low, urgent, "Look, Tim, I don't think of you as less, okay? You're not ..." he had to force the words out, "my bitch or something. I think of you as more because of it -- and we'll finish this conversation sometime later when Dean's not around to overhear it and roast us about it the rest of our lives."

"Roast you about what?" Dean asked, popping some corn nuts in his mouth.

"None of your concern," Sam said.

"Mighty cruel of you to just assume the worst about me."

Tim flashed him a tight smile. "We know you too well."

Dean laughed at that. Then said, "So, what do you two think of Arizona, like Sun City or Phoenix? It's warm down there, and Bobby thinks he's got a line on some hauntings. Like some ghosts who were so senile when they died they don't realize they're dead."

Well, actually, that wasn't as farfetched as it seemed. "Sounds good," Sam said.

~oo(0)oo~

Bobby called them just outside of Santa Fe. "How'd he do against the chupacabra?"

Sam groaned. "Great, except that it wasn't a chupa. A Vamp. Kate, to be exact."

Bobby swore.

"Yeah, that's about the size and shape of it. But he did awesome. Told you he needed a field trial to start shining."

Bobby mmm'd and asked, "What now?"

"Greater Phoenix area. Dean thinks he can rustle up some ghosts and we won't have to shovel snow."

"I don't have to shovel snow these days at all." Pause. "That's what Tyra and Landry are for."

Sam laughed. "So, for reals, what's up?"

"Well," Bobby sighed, and Sam could all but see him scratch under his cap. "Tyra and Landry are still trooping hither and yon. A new issue of Discover came in and it had some little article in it about this math thing called E and something that exists in 141 dimensions, and Landry's all happy about it. And he's also working on some project to do with the Seal of Solomon and Devil's Traps and Tyra's showing a real knack for picking up ancient tongues. I keep telling them not to fix what ain't broke, but ...." Bobby's complaint had no real heat to it, but actually affection. "Tyra's also good with the customers, too. The salvage and wrecking's going pretty good now that the roads are iced up. I'm going to teach her how to use the tow hook soon.

"But," Bobby's voice turned grim. "Short of summoning a demon, I am running out of ideas, Sam. I'm still working on a few leads, but they're very slender --"

"Keep looking," Sam couldn't keep the heat out of his voice.

Bobby huffed, "I will, Sam. You know that. But ... I love you boys, you know that. But I really don't like to truck with demon kind."

"I understand. It's a last ditch thing. I know." Sam forced the despair away.

They would find something. They had to.

They would. Period.

"I'll call you in a week or so."

"Thanks, Bobby. For everything." He clicked his phone shut.

"What last ditch thing?" Dean asked.

Sam raked a hand through his hair. "What do you think?"

"Goddamn it, Sammy, I told --"

"I'm not drunk enough to listen to you two fight," Tim cut in. "And I'm broke." He held out his hand. "So, pass the flask, pony up, or shut up."

"You're a rotten bastard," Dean muttered.

"That's what it says in the dictionary next to Riggins. Time you learned what that meant."

Sam snickered.

"Don't get too cocky, Sam," Tim said. "You're not getting a pass on this, either. You can pony up or put up, too, because I am not putting up with this shit."

He smiled at Tim. "I'll 'embrace the suck', promise."

Tim leaned over the seat back and whispered in his ear, "Speaking of suck ..."

Sam laughed and pushed him back down.

----
Part Eight

Promethius Unchained (SGA-SPN) Sam/Ronon

2009-06-09T20:29:47Z

Title: Promethius Unchained
Fandom: SGA-SPN
Pairing: Ronon Dex/Sam Winchester
Rating: Adult

Author's Note: Written for Pr0n Battle 8. Prompt: Ronon Dex/Sam Winchester, groove, wax, cut.

Legalese: Stargate Atlantis and Supernatural are copyright their respective owners. This is a freely given gift in response to a challenge, not a labor for profit.

Sam Winchester arrived on Atlantis in shackles and with a dark cloud hanging over his head.

Ronon didn't give a damn about what Sam may or may not have done back on earth. He didn't care that Sam had a genius level IQ, or an off the charts level of the ATA gene, or that he had some strange mental powers.

He just wanted to know if the new guy could fight.

Oh. Yes.

And, as Sam flips him over on the freshly waxed fancy wood floor of some palace they're staying in while Woolsey and Sheppard negotiate a treaty and lines his dick up in the groove of Ronon's hip, it occurs to Ronon that Sam can probably fuck as well as he fights.

He laughs on the inside in anticipation. It's not every day that Ronon finds somebody who can manhandle/beat/best him in some way, and well, when he does, it's a turn on.

Ronon knows that Sam has been dying for a chance to cut loose these past few weeks. For all of the sparkle in those clear hazel eyes, or that big dimpled smile of his, Ronon sees that Sam carries mayhem in his heart in ways that not even Sheppard dreams of.

He groans bone-deep as Sam's hands clench his ass brutally hard, and Ronon knows he's going to have bruises there -- reminding him of the feel of those big, meaty hands for days -- and that, the feel of those hands digging in, coupled with the knowledge of what's in store, sends frissons of static crackling up Ronon's spine, as do Sam's utterly abandoned, animalistic grunts and snarls as he sucks and licks and finally bites at the junction of Ronon's neck and shoulder, almost as if he's out for blood.

Ronon arches back, thrusting in time, his nails raking their own set of furrows down Sam's back as he chafes his dick against Sam's belly before finding his own sweat-slick groove and riding it for all he's worth as Sam's relentless drive takes them both to the edge and pushes them over.

It's been six months since he came to Atlantis, and there's still a black cloud hanging over Sam's head as far as Woolsey and the rest of Stargate Command is concerned. They don't trust him. They're afraid of his gifts.

But as they roll apart, sticky with come and sweat, panting, Sam catches his eye and in that moment, Ronon knows. And his own look tells Sam it's mutual.

Because, any guy who fucks as unhesitatingly hard as he fights?

Ronon's got his back.

Always.

----
Promethius Unbound.

Introductio in Analysin .... (FNL/SPN) 6/12

2009-06-09T16:09:53Z

Title: Introductio in Analysin Daemonium Infinitorum pt 6
Fandom: SPN-FNL
Pairing: Sam/Tim (Sam/Tim/Dean in a few places)
Rating: Adult (Here there be smut!)
Length: 50k words

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five

Author's Note: This is the cleaned up master version of a story I began writing for MiniNano back in November 2007. Sam Winchester is racing against time to save his brother Dean's life, and he's got Tim Riggins along for the ride ... and a bit more. ;)

The plan was to finish it and post it before the end of S3 of SPN and S2 FNL -- obviously that didn't happen.

Thank you to tartysuz and ixchel55 for their swift beta.

Legalese: SPN and FNL are copyright their respective copyright holders. This work is a labor of whatiffery, not a labor of lucre.

Maybe it was the monotony of the scenery -- endless rolling hills of winter bleached grass, long straight roads, waiting and waiting for the Rockies to finally show on the horizon -- or the fact that Tim sat so quietly in the back seat, simply watching the world drift by that you could forget he was there, but 6 hours in, Sam and Dean had an intense screaming fight about It like they hadn't had in weeks.

When they stopped for gas, still not speaking to each other, at a miserable little speck on the map in Nebraska, Tim came out of the store with a six pack.

Sam glared at him. Tim gave it right back to him, eyes as hard and glassy as agates.

Dean shrugged and said that he hoped that Tim didn't just rent beer, because the car wasn't stopping for at least another 200 miles.

"I'll just whip it out and piss out the window."

Sam saw the anger flare in Dean's eyes, but almost immediately dark amusement replaced it. "You'd better have the biggest dick in Texas and piss like a firehose then, because if you get any on my girl here, you are walking back to Bobby's." He patted the car lovingly.

Tim didn't say anything in reply, just got in and set about downing the six pack in a steady, methodical way that made Sam equally sad and angry. When he had emptied the last can, Tim silently curled up in the back seat, knees tucked up, and just stared blankly and fixedly at the seat back.

When Dean couldn't stand the stony silence any more, he pulled over at a rest stop so that he could pee and "take ten."

"Look, Tim, I know why you got the six pack," Sam began when Dean got out of earshot.

"Yeah, because I didn't have the cash for a twelve pack," Tim snapped before stalking over to a picnic table.

Sam forced himself to count to 60 before he walked over.

"I can't do it, Sam," Tim said in a flat, bitter voice. "I can't just sit there while you scream and yell the way my parents used to."

So you tried to tune us out the only way you could think of. Sam half-sighed, half-groaned and eased himself down next to Tim. He crossed his arms on the splintery, warped wood of the table, paused for a moment, and rested his chin on top of them. "You can't just drink it away." He peered up through his bangs at Tim.

"And you should stop being such a touchy bastard to Dean."

Sam snapped upright. "It's not that easy," he hissed.

Tim's expression grew mule stubborn. "Is too. Dean says what he says, and you just shut your mouth and make other plans. Learn to embrace the suck."

Sam looked at him.

A sad smile crawled across Tim's face. "I have. It's how I got through a lot." Pause. "Letting things go in one ear and out the other is pretty much what I did with Billy. Although he was right about a lot of things ... I see that now."

Sam kept his voice neutral. "That probably explains a lot about you that I never knew."

Tim sighed and dragged his hands through his hair. "Yeah, probably." He sprang off the table and headed for the men's room.

Sam waited until both Dean and Tim had exited the men's room before he took a "just in case" piss. He came back and Tim was talking almost heatedly to Dean about something. He paused a few feet away and stood quietly. If he strained, he could just make out the words.

"Stop fucking baiting Sam."

"I'm not baiting him, Tim, just telling the truth."

"And maybe we all know it already and it kills Sam inside when you say it."

"He can't deny --"

Tim flung his arms out in exasperation. "It's not denying -- " he exploded, then dropped his voice back down to its previous level, "just don't rub his damn nose in it all the time. You gotta talk to somebody about it, talk to me, okay? I'll suck it up. But I'm asking you nice, Dean. Give it a rest. Sam's not going to stop trying. He's just not. Deal with it."

"Or what?" Dean asked, slightly amused.

Tim's voice dropped a notch towards a growl. "I'll slobberknock the two of you for starters and then ... well, I'll think of something. Maybe drive back to Bobby's with whoever pissed me off more at the time stuffed in the trunk."

Sam cleared his throat.

They got in the car. They still weren't speaking to each other, but at least the worst of the tension was gone.

~oo(0)oo~

Bored and in need of a friendly voice, Sam popped open his cellphone and called Bobby.

"Landry and Tyra are out trooping all over my back 40. I've tried to tell them that I don't care if my property line is off a little, neither does my neighbor, but it gets them out of the house and gives me more time for research."

"Anything new there?"

Bobby sighed heavily. "Nothing worth sharing with you right now, but I'm working on a few things ... that don't involve cutting another deal of the kind that got Dean into this mess.

"Hmmm ... looks like they're back now. Probably going to start ransacking the cupboards and -- " Bobby raised his voice so that it would carry into the next room " -- make some hot cocoa to share." To Sam he said, "I swear I had no idea a girl could eat like Dean, but that Tyra can put it away, give Dean a run for his money."

Sam laughed.

"And then I've had to shell out for winter gear, since they're so damned determined to walk around in the cold and wet. Can't have them dying of exposure -- yes Landry, I would salt and burn your bodies. I know you'd try to be a helpful poltergeist, but you'd be a poltergeist all the same."

Despite his words, Bobby's grousing held no heat. It took Sam a moment to figure it out, but Bobby was happy.

"I'll catch you later, you seem like you've got your hands full," he said.

"Yup. And I'll keep you posted. And, who knows, my survey could be way off."

Sam snorted in laughter and hung up.

"How's Bobby?" Dean asked carefully.

Sam smiled and looked at nothing in particular. "Happy. Bitching about it, but happy."

Dean gave him a "well, duh" look and said, "Of course. It's Bobby."

"How are Tyra and Landry?" Tim asked.

"Doing fine. Landry seems to have finished that theodolite, because they're out and surveying Bobby's property."

Dean said he was in the mood for White Zombie and popped a tape in.

Nobody said anything more until they pulled into Trinidad, Colorado.

~oo(0)oo~

As they sat around the table in the midst of sandwich fixings, Sam pondered the fact that the problem with Las Animas and Baca counties was that they were incredibly rural places. Trinidad was only about 15,000 people, and Springfield, the biggest city in Baca County, had less than 2000 people. Kim and Pritchett , the two towns closest to the mutilations were little more than a gas station surrounded by a few houses. If they wanted motels they would have to work out of Springfield or Trinidad. They could sleep in the Impala if they had to, but it was decidedly cold out, below freezing at night, and certainly cramped with the three of them in the car.

This was a get in, get it done, get out kind of job.

"What's our cover?" Dean asked around a mouthful of turkey and Swiss. "Agriculture? Fish and Game? The Bureau of Land Management?"

Sam swallowed his roast beef. "I'm thinking of something a bit different, less official. Like ... college students doing a research project on the Santa Fe Trail."

Dean grumbled, "You're shitting me."

"Do you think Tim here can pass as a government official?"

Dean scowled for a moment. "No. He'd need to work on it."

"Yeah, but how am I going to learn that sort of thing? Seems to me if you blow it and get caught ...?" Tim wiped at a smear of mustard below his lip. "I mean, I can turn on the charm, but nobody here gives a shit that I'm a Panther and we went to State."

"Dad taught Dean and me by having us play a lot of poker."

"Really?"

"Yup," Dean said. "It teaches you to control what you let show on your face."

"Well, it's going to have to be strip poker, because all I've got on me is 56 cents."

Dean choked on his Coke.

"What?" Sam and Tim asked in unison.

"That's all well and good," Dean said when he regained his composure, "but you two lovebirds would be playing to get naked."

Tim shot Dean a mock scowl. "Cockblocker."

Dean flipped him the bird. "Hater."

~oo(0)oo~

"I'll tell you one thing," Dean said, looking down at the body of a sheep. "This is no chupacabra."

Tim crouched next to him, stick in hand, and pointed at the massive neck wound. "How do you know?"

"Too big," Dean said. "A chupacabra's about the size of a medium-small dog, like a Cocker Spaniel."

"Yeah, but those little fuckers can bite if they want."

Dean slipped a glove on. Tim raised his eyebrows and then looked up at Sam.

Yeah, Sam also had a bad feeling about where this was going, and it felt as if a rock dropped into his stomach when Dean held up a slender, almost opalescent looking piece of a tooth and swore under his breath.

"So, what is it?" Tim asked, taking the tooth from Dean and studying it curiously. "Some sort of snake?"

"Vampire," Sam replied.

Tim's mouth opened and shut a few times in surprise.

"Yep, they're real, and just about everything you've heard about them is wrong."

"Figures," Tim grumbled. "So, what do I need to know?"

Dean counted on his fingers. "Garlic, holy water, stakes, crosses? No good. Sunlight bothers them. Slows them down, hurts them, disorients them, but it doesn't make them burst in to flames. Dead man's blood poisons them, so it's useful when you've got to interrogate them --"

"Does a woman's blood work, too? Why do you try to capture them?"

"Dead person's blood," Sam amended. "And because they usually live in packs -- you need to find the nest and destroy it."

Dean hawked and spat. "They're stronger, faster, immortal, can see in the dark, hear a heartbeat a block a way, and have a sense of smell that puts a bloodhound to shame.

"The only way to kill them is to whack their heads off, or shoot them in a place that would kill a human with The Colt."

Tim made a rueful face and snorted.

"Vampirism is a virus," Sam explained. "If you get their blood in you, by drinking it or getting in your eyes or an open wound, you'll get infected and you'll turn." Pause. "A girl we had to put down a few months ago described it like a high you can't come down from."

Tim shrugged, "So, what's the downside? Why aren't we trying to get vamped?"

"You frenzy," Dean said low and deadly. "The craving for blood is almost impossible to control. That girl we put down? We caught her because she left a trail of bodies for us to follow. She didn't really remember killing them, either. Thought it was part of her bad trip.

"It makes you an animal, is what it does." At Sam's sigh, Dean continued, "Okay, yeah, we met this one vamp named Lenore. She and her pack had sworn off humans, but they're the one exception we know of, and they probably killed a lot of people before they stopped. But, they're not human. Not anymore."

"I don't think this is her or her pack," Sam said. "Too messy. I think they learned their lesson after Montana."

Tim circled the body and said, "I thought you said vamps eat people."

"Vamps can live on non-human blood. They just don't like the taste." Sam put his hands in his pockets and scuffed the ground in thought. "I wonder if this is maybe a newly turned vamp, separated from its maker, struggling with it."

"Might be," Dean shrugged. "What do you want to do?"

"Contact it. Lenore left me a way to get in touch with her so that we could warn her about possible Hunters headed her way, but it's roundabout."

"But how are we going to find it, or them, if you can't get in touch with Lenore quickly?" Tim asked.

"Look for ravens or vultures," Dean explained, pointing to where several circled overhead. "They always know where a fresh kill is."

Nor did it take long for the scavengers to start stepping in. Sam was barely 30 feet away when he heard the flap of wings.

~oo(0)oo~

After two days of hard work in the cold and wind -- the only good things being spooning with Tim (who liked the novelty of being held by somebody larger than him) and giving each other a quick handjob in the morning -- they finally tracked the vampire to a ratty looking isolated doublewide, that, like most things in Baca county had seen better days. A few rusting junkers were parked around it. Sam thought that the red pickup might still run, the tags on it were only slightly out of date.

It was afternoon, so the vamp would still be sleeping. A good time to enter its lair.

Dean quietly picked the lock and they crept in, guns drawn, Tim bringing up the rear. This vamp might have sworn off humans, but Sam didn't believe in being too trusting, either.

They found her in the master bedroom, sprawled across the bed.

Even in the dim light they could see it was Kate.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Sam could tell by the set of Dean's shoulders that he voted for "waste the bitch now." Sam shook his head and held up a hand, forestalling Dean, because he wondered what could have gotten her to switch to sheep and cows after centuries of positively reveling in her lifestyle. She had turned vamp and never looked back ... but perhaps now she had.

"We should kill her now," Dean whispered.

"What if she's changed?" Sam whispered back.

They locked stares, each willing the other to back down.

"Her eye just opened," Tim said softly.

Damnit. Sam took a deep breath and said calmly, "Look, I know there's bad blood between us ...."

"Bad blood?" She hissed, sitting up. Hatred laced her words.

Dean stuck his chin out and said, "So, did you kill the people who lived here?"

She glared at them for a long moment. "No." She spat the word. "It was abandoned when I found it."

Dean gave an "okay, I'll buy that" nod and asked, "So, livestock these days? What made you change your mind?"

A look of bitter rage contorted her proud features. "Navajo woman cursed me as she died."

"Oh." The word numbly fell from Sam's lips.

Slowly Kate scooted to the edge of the bed. In the light that filtered in from the hallway, Sam could now see how gaunt and unkempt she was, dressed in filthy, bloodstained clothes. Her hair hung in stringy tangles. They studied each other for several moments, her eyes filled with such loathing and contempt that Sam sighed inwardly, sensing that offers to help her find Lenore's pack would fall on deaf ears.

And while that curse may have bound her against eating humans, Sam didn't want to see if it prevented her from attacking them out of revenge.

She sniffed the air. "Who's the new one?"

"My name is Tim."

"You smell like Sam, Tim." Pause. "You his man?"

Ice formed in the pit of Sam's stomach.

Tim gave a cocky smile and coolly replied, "Wouldn't you like to know?"

She launched herself at him, fangs barred, knife drawn from the top of her boot.

Dean spun, ripping the blackout curtains from the window, brightening the room, but since it faced north, it was not enough to hurt her badly, while Sam fired, clipping her at least once, but the injury was an inconvenience at best.

She grabbed at Tim, knife slashing wildly, as he dodged and turned, bringing his own pistol up and around in an attempt to strike her, but her inhuman speed and strength were no match for him. She grabbed his arm, bent it painfully up and around, driving Tim to his knees, and placed the knife to his throat.

Never had Sam so keenly felt the loss of his gifts. Again and again and again he reached in vain for the place they used to be, only to find nothing.

Tim, however, didn't waste a moment on panic. As Kate locked her baleful, triumphant gaze on him and Dean, out of the corner of his eye Sam saw Tim reach down and back, grabbing the knife Dean had given him. In an instant he had it flipped around for left handed use, thumbed it open, and with one quick pull, he laid Kate's knife arm open to the bone. She shrieked in pain and the knife fell from her hand as Tim exploded into action, standing, snapping around, legs driving, slamming her into the wall so hard that the thin particle board cracked and buckled.

But she was still a vampire, unnaturally strong and fast. Kicking out, striking with her fists, she knocked Tim aside and scrambled for the door.

Sam and Dean unloaded several rounds, dropping her, and then pumped several more rounds into her before she could regain her feet.

Shaking with adrenaline, Tim climbed to his feet, recovered his pistol, and shot her knees out. "Do I need to hamstring her for good measure?" he asked, brandishing the knife.

"I'll get the machete," Dean said. He opened the window and hopped out.

To her credit, she fought to the end.

~oo(0)oo~

"Are you cut, Tim?" Dean asked, machete still in hand, all business.

"I ... don't think so," Tim said, looking a little pale and shaky now that the rush had worn off. He still kept his eyes still fixed on Kate's headless body, though, as if he didn't quite believe she was dead.

"Dean!" Sam hissed, appalled.

Dean's eyes bored into his, voice weary he said, "We have to be sure, Sam. We have to be sure."

Sam swallowed hard and prayed. To what, to whom, he didn't know. He just prayed.

"Did any get into your mouth? Your eyes?" Dean continued. Kate had flung blood wildly in an effort to infect them when Dean approached her to deliver the killing blow. It was a good thing they hadn't managed to give her a bloody mouth, because she would have spat it at them.

"No." Tim bit off the word. "And I didn't get any up my nose, either. I'm not going to vamp out on you." Pause. "But if I did, I'd turn you before I went looking for dinner."

Sam sighed. "That's what you like to think."

"And the idea of being vamped still isn't much of a comfort," Dean said.

To Sam, it was. He wondered if vampires still had souls.

(Probably. Damn it.)

"What?" Tim asked, still looking down at the body. "You don't want to be young forever?"

Dean shook his head. "It's a moot point -- the price is too high. You ... you stop being human, Tim. Really. And you'll spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder."

Tim looked at him. "I'm doing that now. So are you."

"In 10 years you can go back to Texas. This isn't like being a vampire from some Anne Rice novel." Dean replied.

"Who?" Tim asked.

"Somebody whose books I am never, ever, reading to you," Sam said, wondering how the hell Dean knew Anne Rice. Dean snickered at that, and Sam continued, "There's a reason we've hunted them nearly to extinction, Tim. You've never seen these things on a rampage. We have."

Tim pursed his lips in thought. "Okay, I get it."

No you don't, not really, until you've seen it, Sam thought.

Dean gloved up and went through the kitchen, looking for salt. He also took a dish towel and wiped down anything he thought they might have touched. "We'll salt her and torch this place. You two get in the car while I rig a delay that should let us get back to the highway before this thing really gets going." He pushed the front door open with his foot.

As Tim climbed into the back seat, Sam said to him, "You did good in there today. Kept your cool, didn't lose your head."

Tim guffawed and said, "I'm glad you think so, because for a moment there I thought I was going to wet myself." He cleared his throat. "But it was after I shot her, and I stood back and realized ...." He shuddered and shook his head. "So, how do I clean my knife to make sure it doesn't infect anybody?"

Yeah, it was a lucky thing that Dean had given Tim that knife. "Bleach," Sam said, "Swish it through bleach for at least a minute and then rinse it really well."

Dean climbed behind the wheel, started the car, and drove steadily, but not excessively fast down the dirt road that lead back to the highway. They were on the road and cruising towards Springfield at a steady 65 when the first black smoke became visible in the rear-view mirror.

Five minutes later, the adrenaline hit Sam. Within a minute, all of them were shaking in their seats.

It would be Sunday night and dark when they got back to Springfield. Sam didn't know what Dean had planned, but he needed to have Tim as soon as they got a hotel room. He glanced over into the back seat and saw the same thing burning in Tim's eyes. Damn. He had half a mind to climb into the back seat and get started on taking the edge off.

Dean muttered "For medicinal purposes," reached into his jacket, and handed Sam the flask.

---
Part Seven

Mirror Moves -- Daredevil/Iron Fist

2009-06-09T04:04:54Z

Title: Mirror Moves
Fandom: Marvel Comics
Pairing: Daredevil/Iron Fist
Rating: Mature

Author's Note: Written for Pr0n Battle 8. Prompt: Daredevil/Iron Fist, identity

Legalese: Daredevil and Iron Fist are copyright Marvel Comics. This story is a labor of love, not lucre.

Danny Rand once heard a joke about how kissing is what happens when two people get so close they can't see what's wrong with each other.

Well, Matt's never been able to see what's wrong with him, and they haven't kissed yet, but it will happen, because here they are, face to face, lip to lip, feeling each other's breath ghost across that soft pink flesh.

Annnd ... fuck it. Danny makes the first move. Matt's a nice Catholic boy, Danny's not, never has been. He feels the burn of Matt's ginger stubble against his own honey-blond, and Matt's wearing an unflavored beeswax based lip balm (Danny can taste and smell that), and his mouth tastes of sage and thyme and something else that Danny can only call "Matt".

He laughs a little as they part for air, half at himself for cataloging each little nuance just like Matt does, and half with the sheer giddiness of the rush -- Matt's one hell of a kisser.

"Penny for your thoughts." Matt's lips brush against his and he feels the words as hot little puffs of humid air as much as he hears them.

"That you're a hell of a kisser, but you know that I think that already by the way my heart's racing, or the way my breath hitches, or the pitch of my voice. And I'm laughing at myself for paying attention to the fact that you also have a plain lip balm on, and that you ate something with sage in it -- that I'm cataloging all these things, like you. Only in a half-assed kind of way."

Matt smiles. "That's not a half-bad job of thinking like I do, Mr. Rand."

Feather soft, Danny caresses Matt's cheek with his finger. "Like ... your stubble. You're not the first guy to give me whisker burn, but you're the first guy who ever made me notice it -- appreciate it.

"I used to think that you lived your life, drowning in sensation --"

"I do."

"That it was all distraction all the time. But now?"

"Hmmn?" Matt turns his head and sucks Danny's finger into his mouth, flicking his tongue over the tip and Danny groans as the blood rushes south and his dick twitches rock hard in his now suddenly too tight jeans. And he shivers inside because he knows that Matt knows all of that, probably could smell that spurt of pre-come, too, and he wonders if Matt's tongue is so sensitive that it can feel the individual ridges of his fingerprint.

"But now?" he says, his voice a low and breathy rush, "I'm thinking that it can be a very good thing to drown in sensation."

Matt kisses him again, hard and devouring, and snakes a hand under the hem of Danny's worn and wash faded T-shirt. Danny feels it brush over every single hair on his torso en route to its teasing a nipple to exquisite hardness. "I'd expect nothing less from the man who assumed my identity.

"It's what I like about you, Mr. Rand. When you put your mind to it, when you're passionate about something, you're incredibly through."

Danny thinks about giving like for like. Thinks about pulling the tail of Matt's dress shirt out of his trousers, and running his own hand under and up, lazily stroking his way up Matt's equally rock hard and sculpted chest, of delighting in the feel of those crisp hairs against his fingers as Matt moaned softly under his breath, of the way Matt's heart would pound, and his muscles would involuntarily flutter as Danny's hand made its way up.

Instead, he puts his hand under his shirt, strokes his way up, teases the silky hairs on Matt's forearm before finally covering Matt's hand with his. "I've got a new sensation for you, then, Mr. Murdock," he says, closing his eyes and smiling against Matt's warm, kiss-swollen lips. Danny lets loose with the thinnest trickle of his Chi. "The feeling of what it's like to be me."

New Day Dawning, Blade Trinity (Hannibal/Drake)

2009-06-08T18:55:52Z

Title: New Day Dawning
Fandom: Blade Trinity
Pairing: Drake/Hannibal King
Rating: Adult
Author's Note: Written for Pr0n Battle 8. Prompt -- Drake/Hannibal King, claim, fangs, master, secret, consort, hell-on-earth, new breed, hunter, slave, pet, fight, family, strong, reclaim, chains, broken, snuggle, hide, keep, war, decorate, pierce, tattoo, reject, sunlight.

Legalese: Blade Trinity and the characters therefrom are copyright their respective owners. This, as the author's note makes clear, is a labor of love, not a labor of money.

Hannibal King's vow to never go back lasted less than 15 minutes after Drake walked into the room where Danica Talos had had him chained as bait in the trap they prepared for Blade.

Something about the ~~man~~ vampire made Hannibal go rock hard in his pants. Maybe it was his eyes, like Blade's in a way. Full of hell-on-earth kept chained, leashed, mastered -- but only just.

"What are you looking at?" Hannibal snarled, not backing down.

Drake smiled at him, making Hannibal shiver in his bonds. Looking at Jarko, Drake said, "Talos informs me that he was once her pet."

Jarko nodded.

With preternatural speed, Drake reached out, seized Hannibal's lip and peeled it down. Finding nothing there, he looked at Hannibal's wrists, his arms, his shoulders, his legs. "Where's his mark?"

Laughing, Jarko unbuttoned and unzipped Hannibal's pants, yanking them down, revealing more than enough. "Got a big ole crush on him, I see." Jarko crooned.

"He bathes," Hannibal snarked back.

Drake stepped in close, sniffing, and it was everything in Hannibal not to recoil, but hold himself statue still as Drake's fingers teased over the tattoo, making his already iron hard dick throb and leak. He couldn't stop from jerking however, when Drake ran his index finger the length of him, gathered that droplet of pre-cum, and licked it off. "My methods of staking a claim are somewhat different," he murmured under his breath. "Leave us!" he barked at Jarko.

The last thing Hannibal saw was Drake's fangs. So, this is it, he thought, surprisingly calm.

He spun back into awareness with the salty echo of blood in his mouth, achingly hard, and all of his senses, especially smell, went to ~~eleven~~ eleventy one. "Not again," he mumbled, trying to make sense of it all.

"No, not again." Drake stood over him, naked, hard, chin streaked with blood (My blood Hannibal thought, licking his lips), eyes yellow with lust.

And Drake was on him, in him, filling him to the brim in one smooth thrust, so good, so right, just on the edge of hurt, mastering him instantly in all the ways Hannibal's most secret heart desired. (Finding and filling those places that Blade never could, never would.)

Slave again, only infinitely moreso.

No, not my Slave. Dark amusement colored Drake's voice in his mind as he pumped his hips, wringing an involuntary moan of pleasure from Hannibal. My Consort. A new breed, to wipe out the old. A Hunter who stands at my side as I fight to reclaim what is mine.

Drake's hand, hard and calloused wrapped around Hannibal's cock and stroked in time to his thrusts, milking him as he flooded Hannibal with pleasure, singing in his mind the old songs of blood and glory and honor, telling Hannibal of how he'd have the strength to walk in the sunlight once the transformation was complete, leaving him no place to hide as the old Hannibal was broken and made anew.

Spending the rest of eternity getting fucked like this while waging the secret war against the others?

And amusing me -- in more ways than one -- with your impudent tongue.

Wait, Drake liked his motormouth?!

A King is only as good as his Fool.

Oh yeah, this was going to be nothing like the old days. "Good sex makes me hungry," Hannibal managed to choke out as the synapses in his brain fried because Drake was getting him Right. There. with every stroke. "Can I eat Danica when we're done?"

Drake laughed at him, fangs barred.

Hannibal meant to say something to him about that, something like "my, what big teeth you have", but the world turned to static as he came in a hot, blinding rush.

When it was over, and he could catch his breath, Hannibal said, "Is there time for round two? Because I could still totally suck you off. Also, I'm so hungry, I could eat Jarko. You down with that? I don't want to seem selfish or greedy or anything."

Drake's rumbling chuckle told him all he needed to know.