1 - 20 of 149 Works by Callisto
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Contrary to the expectations he knows are out there, he does not break the door down to Jared’s first thing. He’s so tired he can barely see, his ears hum with the whine of too many consecutive hours in recycled air, and he stinks of too much airplane and not enough toothpaste.
Seriously, no one deserves that.
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By the time Jensen gets to the Green Room, it’s all over. Jared’s had his shoulder reduced right there on the floor next to yesterday’s crab cakes (so much for only his fucking elbow, Daniella), Osric’s looking shell-shocked, and the big guy is up in his suite on “bed rest” for the remainder of the day. Which, yeah, that’ll work.
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Ten New Year Resolutions, As Compiled and Edited by Dean Winchester by Callisto
Fandoms: Supernatural
12 Jan 2014
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1. Show Sam where the kitchen is.
[Subject’s response: Hey, I know where the kitchen is. You don’t let me in most of the time!]
[Editor’s note: Because you track mud and move everything... What?]
[Subject’s response: Shocker. That you turned out to be the wife. Ow!]Series
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“You could come, you know.”
Doyle turned from the window, mug in hand. The vision in white had its feet up on the kitchen table and was balancing a round of toast precariously. Truth be told, a day off together and the sun shining was pulling at Doyle something rotten. But there were things to consider. They were still breaking in this new aspect to their partnership, for one. Watching Bodie play cricket – and on a Sunday no less - seemed...well, too together not to be tempting fate in some way.
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And now he and Dean were trapped in some kind of principal’s office in England in 1982, thanks to Castiel and a vindictive Zachariah.
“I understand you two are the reason 3.7 and 4.5 will have no weekends off for the forseeable future.”
A sandy haired guy, older than Bobby, and wearing the biggest glasses Sam had ever seen outside of Welcome Back Kotter was sitting behind a huge desk and addressing them. Well, Sam thought he was addressing them. It was hard to tell just who he was talking to since he never looked up from any of the three thousand papers he seemed to be signing. With a fountain pen.
Jesus.
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“Sit,” mumbles Dean, pink-cheeked and waving a whisk.
Sam sighs, resigned to being a labrador and to things being awkward. It’s not technically a morning after since all they did was spoon and share a comforter, but Sam gets the principle of the thing. Especially for Dean.
Series
- Part 2 of Down in the Batcave
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“Right. Right. Okay, then.” Dean nods a few times. Sam is in his usual sleepwear of sweats and a white t-shirt, but Dean has found dead-guy gray pajamas from somewhere and he looks very serious in them. Dean studies Sam a moment longer and then points to his bed.
Sam raises his eyebrow.
“Sit,” says Dean. As if Sam is indeed four, retarded, and maybe a pet of some kind.
Series
- Part 1 of Down in the Batcave
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‘Walking pneumonia’ they called it. Which was the stupidest thing Jensen had ever heard. Jared didn't so much walk with his pneumonia as he ‘wheeze-clutched’ with it...walls, the backs of chairs, Jensen. Whatever Jared needed he used, all the while thinking he was fooling everyone into believing he was better. He seemed to have taken that phrase of the doc’s as a fucking mantra, and was using it to justify staying upright and out of bed, because it was called walking pneumonia for a reason, Jensen.
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“Dean!”
“Hey, Sammy.” It was quiet, almost reverential, not matching Sam’s panicky tone at all. Sam’s hands went out on a reflex to stop them both from falling, and found Dean’s hips enclosed in some very soft towelling. Dean was in dead guy robe again, most definitely commando underneath, and holy shit, he smelled incredible. Something deeply spiced and very expensive.
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“Jared! Jensen! What the ever loving fuck are you two doing up there?”
Dean and Sam looked at each other, Dean raised an eyebrow and shrugged. He was pretty sure the dude down there was the one to blame for this mess. He nudged Sam, but not too hard. They were up a tree, after all. “Tell him, Padaboy.”
“Dean is braiding my hair,” said Sam helpfully.
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Sam keeps a watchful eye all day, but he can’t really do much. It’s Dean, after all, the guy who turned stoic into an Olympic sport. He sways once when they get up from lunch and Sam puts a hand out. Sam has just gotten him back from Purgatory, he’s not about to let Dean brain himself on a table in a crappy diner, no matter the flinching.
“You okay?”
Dean shrugs him off – but slowly. He also clears his throat noisily. “’Course I am. Let’s go.”
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Sam wakes up with no idea where he is. No fur or wet nose nuzzling his hand, no warm skin pressed to his, no scent of lavendar tickling his nose and making him fight a sneeze. Just empty space and the cold metal of a lamp his hand finds in the dark.
He squints. Of course. He’s not in Amelia’s bed and house anymore, is he? He’s in some no name motel again.
With Dean.
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Bodie found it in a drawer. He was looking for cufflinks when the black and white top of a curly head took his attention. He pulled the strip out and yes, there they were, doing the traditional Vs behind each other’s heads, with Doyle licking Bodie’s cheek in the last one and his own face a crinkled up comedy at Ray’s sense of the ridiculous.
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The bandages come off in October and Bodie is grateful an early winter is making its presence felt. It gives him the perfect excuse to nonchalantly toss a woolly hat at Doyle the day he goes to the hospital to collect him.
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It turns out Sam has Paroxysmal Super (Supra, Dean, Supra) ventricular Tachycardia, which, while not a heart attack, is way too long and Latin to be comforting. Dean has heard it on Dr Sexy, he’s sure. Right before the guy on the gurney gets paddled and flatlines.
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Jared is not entirely sure about this anymore. It all seemed like the perfect surprise in his head. But now that he’s here, the dogs look ridiculous, Jensen is conspicuously absent, and it is clearly way too early and cheesy for the oversized bottle of champagne he’s clutching.
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“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.”
C.S.Lewis ‘A Grief Observed’This man behind the glass was more than shot. Laid carefully out, dark hair a bruise on the pillow, he was swathed in white, tubed to the gills and surely dying. The thought of the phone call to Rachel that evening swayed her balance:. Her hand went out and found a shoulder.
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Hutch clicked his jaw shut hard, and for once in his sarcastic life, he let the moment be. He let his partner absorb the physical space that he, Hutch, still possessed, with hands now quietly resting on a wet coffee pot. He let his partner slowly realign to coffee in the kitchen. He let his partner feel his own heart beating its grateful thank-you, thank-you, thank-you through the layers of clothing somewhere under Starsky's left hand.
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"I know." He said quietly. And he did. When Hutch's lungs had been declared clear enough, what was it he had rushed round with for a 7am breakfast? Something Hutch couldn't even eat probably. It wasn't the breakfast just like it wasn't the ice-cream. It was that bad dreams and flashbacks were a bitch, and sometimes you just had to see for yourself.
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“I am so pissed at him right now, you can’t imagine. I ain’t going to lie. There were times I wished it was him with all my fucking heart. But Jesus, Sam, am I the only one who’s been paying attention all these years to the nasty shit we salt and burn?” Dean is breathing heavily as Sam uses the coffee table to get to his feet. Once he’s up, Dean stops pacing and points a finger right in Sam’s face. “Don’t you ask me to say goodbye twice. I ain’t doing it twice.”