Danny's Quest
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It was definitely gone. She couldn’t feel the thrum of its energy any longer. The shield with Medusa’s head was not in Olympus anymore. By itself the news was worrying enough but with the reports of a Kanima, of all things, being sighted and her messengers talking of Poseidon being preoccupied with some new scheme it convinced her that she would have to step out from Olympus and walk the mortal realm.

The question that bothered her most was – what could Poseidon want with the shield? And if he didn’t have it, who did?

She stepped down and into a mortal form with storm gray eyes and a dark suit. The shield was hidden to her, and so was Poseidon. The Kanima appeared to have nothing to do with her situation, but it wouldn’t be wise to ignore the coming of such an ancient creature.

Beacon Hills, California, USA


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A Supernatural Haiku
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Writing is hard, said God,

And took a swig of whiskey

I feel you Chuck, dude.


Winning
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Prompts: We All Survived/Loss
Word count: 273
No warnings apply.



After everything’s over, after half of America is in ruins (but the other half is still up) and parts of Canada have become uninhabitable and the other continents are mustering up the money to feed the few million new homeless people, Sam and Dean collapse in the safe shack that Bobby’s sent them to and sleep for a few weeks.

Cas drops in sometimes and talks to Sam. He and Dean haven’t yet managed to gain back their ground, although nowadays when Cas flies away Dean wanders out and looks at the spot where he’d been and there’s something soft in the corners of his eyes.

Gabriel doesn’t come, not for a long time. Sam quietly worries that he’s gotten hurt and needs help and then, when Cas tells him that Gabriel is fine and has even stepped into Heaven again, quietly worries that he’ll never see Gabriel again.

On the first day that the sky hasn’t been too filled with dust and fog to see the stars, Sam sits outside on the porch, sprawling against the banister, waiting for Dean to get back from a grocery run. Between one blink of an eye and another Gabriel is sitting beside him.

“So this is winning,” Gabriel says, rasps out rather-- like he hasn’t spoken in a long time.

Sam shrugs, “We all survived didn’t we?” Sam and Dean were alive and Bobby was back and Cas and Jody and Gabriel and even Kevin. They were all alive.

“This is winning,” Gabriel says again, contemplatively, leaning into Sam’s chest, so he could rest comfortably and listen to Sam’s heart beat out its steady rhythm.


Patchwork Selves
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Notes: Thanks so much to my betas: jonjokeat who put my tenses in their places and schism982 who told me what worked and what was just plain self-indulgent. You were wonderful, both of you! Any remaining mistakes are mine. Thanks to my darling, weatherveyn for the lovely title.

General disclaimer applies.

My artist ziarenete13x who also cast a betaing eye over my fic is wonderful. Just go look at her pretty art! It was a marvelous stroke of luck her wanting to do my fic, and I am very grateful. I have this creepy urge to steal Zia away and bake cookies for her. She went through a lot of hassle trying to get everything done, with problems coming up in the last moment and lj messing up at the worst time, but she was valiant!  



Title: Patchwork Selves
Genre: Action-Adventure/Romance
Pairing: Sam/Gabriel
Rating: R for non graphic torture
Warnings: Non graphic torture
Tier/Word Count: 6,706
Summary: AU from S5. Gabriel's daughter Hel forces him to see that everyone will die if either Lucifer or Michael win. So he joins Team Free Will which no one at all is happy about. Then he has to face Lucifer, and his three children (Hel, Fenrir and Jorm) can only see one way of making sure he doesn't die, tying him to Sam.



On To The StoryCollapse )

(no subject)
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Prompt: Fruit

Word Count: 155

Scott loves apples and he sits in the doorway of his house and hums happily while biting into one that’s perfect, not soggy or green. His eyes are half lidded as he chews and listens for the sounds of Allison’s car. Licks between his teeth where the skin’s got stuck and the purr of the car comes closer, moving faster than the speed limit. Spits out a seed that he accidentally bit into and hears her car screech to a halt. Bites again and sucks at the piece for a moment as she slams the door shut. Chews the piece as she opens the door again and takes her bag out and laughs a little embarrassedly. Swallows and opens his eyes fully and smiles wide and happy as she runs down the road towards him and he rubs his nose against hers when she grabs him with both hands, and he asks, “Want a bite?”

(no subject)
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River twirled her torch and briefly wished she had more time here, but the locals had a lot of red tape and apparently a former convict who had been incarcerated for murder didn’t get VISA extensions. Who would’ve guessed?

She ran her fingers over the bag (well, it was a bag the same way the Pacific Ocean was a pond) and couldn’t help grinning as she thought about the microfilms she had recovered from the site. She’d shake them under Dr. Smith’s nose, the old bat- he had said she wouldn’t find anything and that the world was all mined out.

Her fingers ran into the distinctive bump of her diary. It had been months since she’d seen him. There were whispers of things, of storms coming every place she went to. Soon she would see him again, and no doubt she’d once again be left disturbed and half-destroyed when he ran away.

No doubt, she would see his face and that manic grin and that bow tie and be unable to resent him. Because it was worth it, every moment that she was with him, in that moment, it was enough.

Not a Fairytale.
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Fairytales were for other people. Sam hadn’t needed Dean telling him; he knew long before he was twelve that fairy tales didn’t fit his life. Dean had just helped him figure out that it was a horror story.

Dean was dead now. Lucifer had resurrected him more than once, as many times as it took for Sam to stop screaming, stop banging at the inside of his own mind- the walls of his prison. The only thing that hurt anymore (a pinprick compared to the devastation he used to be able to feel) was that Dean would never know that Sam hadn’t said ‘yes’ of his own volition; that he had been tricked into this. He wouldn’t have betrayed Dean- not like that.

The only thing that felt remotely good anymore was when the Trickster visited. Now that Sam was thoroughly broken, Lucifer didn’t hang around in him too often. The Trickster came sometimes, talked with him, yelled at him, cursed him and his self righteousness. Kissed him, and put tendrils of his power in Sam’s mind to stroke the raw, bleeding insides (not repair him, he was beyond repairing. Just to dim the hurt for a little bit) and stroked his hair.

So when Sam figured out that he still had one way of defying Lucifer, and maybe, just maybe give the world another chance, he did everything else he needed to but stood at the last step waiting for the Trickster. He never did get the chance to say goodbye to anyone else, to Dean or Bobby or Cas or Dad.

He kissed the Trickster goodbye and walked away, eyes closed so he could pretend he wasn’t doing this. Just before he took the final step, his eyes flashed open to see the world he was leaving behind (broken, barren and all his fault) and he thought he saw the Trickster make an aborted movement; as if to stop him, or hold him. Then he fell into the pits of Hell to be torn apart into so many pieces that even the Devil and all his demons couldn’t put him back together.

Quick Fic Amnesty
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1. Prompt: Fashion Statement.

It wasn’t enough just to make a statement. Anyone could make statements. That asswipe Stinson could make a statement. As long as you put in a couple of French words and referred to the degradation of life in modern times the magazines would praise you to Paris and back. Dejan paced around the room and wished he could run his hands through his hair but it would disarrange the artistically profound unbrushed look it had taken him so long to create.

No, this needed more. Dejan swore and tossed all the black-and-whites into the nearest bin. He had copies of course, carefully kept in his files. He wanted to create the next revolution in fashion. He wanted his name murmured in posh accents in London and Milan and Paris. Not New York of course, New York was passé now. All of America was passé.

He raised his head as the models stepped in, some six or seven; tall and skinny, some dark and some pale. His eyes went half-lidded and he stilled. The models rearranged themselves in his mind to shadows and half shadows and the most contemptuous of them stood in the middle, curly brown hair let free and brown skin highlighted by the artificially harsh light over her head. His mind stripped away what was extraneous, flowery hats and pretty (pretty, the still conscious part of his mind spat out in disgust) jewelry gone.

The straight, angular black and white and grey clothing remained and sashes of bright color hurled almost randomly over them.


2. Prompt: Enough

The Twelfth Dancing Princess:

And so she dances the night away. Her sisters have gone now that the spell is broken. The prince who discovered them dancing every night has taken her eldest sister away to his own kingdom with their Father’s blessing, fierce and beautiful Clarimond whom she will see no more and she dances her grief away.

The garden of diamonds is left behind, never to be seen again, she dances in joy because it hurt her eyes with its cold, sharp perfection. She twirls around so that her skirt rises around her and the squirrels in her garden come under them and then jump away surprised when the skirt comes down and they are left in darkness and it seems to her that they dance with her so she dances in play.

Princes come and ask for her hand and she dances around them, fleet-footed invitations to catch her until they cry, enough.

Her old nurse comes and weeps at her torn shoes and her callused feet and begs her to bathe them and pleads, enough.

Her sisters come, impatient Cacilie to her room and clever Frieda with her pets and stubborn Gerde to her garden and quiet, watchful Athala at odd times and all the rest but Clarimond and say, each in their own tone, enough.

Then her Father sees her dance in Court and commands in terrible tones, enough.

Still she dances because they don’t know, cannot see that it will never be enough, that her heart overflows and so she dances the days away.



3. Prompt: Purple Stain

“Won’t work,” Zoputa drawled out, from her place leaning against the doorframe.

Chipo ignored her and focused on the purple liquid in her glass bowl. She tried again, and again. She could feel herself becoming exhausted.

“It won’t work. You’re an innie, not an outie.” Zoputa said, frustration bleeding through into her voice now. Chipo was sure that any moment now she would force Chipo out and slather Chipo’s hands with one of her own concoctions. Probably pebbly mud and bark, those worked best for Zoputa.

She closed her eyes and tried again and once more, the power flowed from every part of her to her fingers like the damned innie she was; instead of flowing from the elements she had gathered. Her eyes blinded with the power she lashed out with those cursed hands and heard the soft clinking of breaking glass. She felt arms surround her and knew it was Dele come home at last who murmured that it was alright, everything was alright.

Chipo remembered every time someone had looked at her in disgust for having magic but not the holy magic that would have connected her with the Lady. She couldn’t forget. Her eyes opened, the blur of power was gone and she could see the purple staining their worn rug.

Her eyes blurred again, but not with power.

Challenge #26b: We Need More Cowbell - Part 2
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Title: Untitled
Word Count: 255
Rating: PG
Original/Fandom: Supernatural.
Pairings (if any): Sam/Gabriel
Warnings (Non-Con/Dub-Con/etc): None
Summary: Between reaching out to touch and the moment of touching, there is an infinite second.
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Between reaching out to touch and the moment of touching, there is an infinite second. In that one second Gabriel can remember the whole of his existence and everyone he has ever loved seems to briefly stand before him before they leave him again.

His poor, deluded siblings who still wait endlessly for a Father who has forgotten them; brave, clever Sigyn who had known his truth and protected him and dried his bitter tears; fiery Kali who had showed him yet another new world and had laughed with him in giddy joy at the beauty of it, he had loved her truly and she may even have loved him in her turn.

He doesn’t love Sam, not quite. There is resentment here, and admiration, and some fascination. There is instinctive disgust, because Sam is tainted by Hell and had even submitted to the taint and there are times when the stink turns Gabriel’s stomach. There are also other feelings he flinches from acknowledging. There is, as always, the frustrating desire to touch. Love may come if he touches; it’s the one thing that’s held him back.

Even through the distance the stubborn glow of Sam’s humanity has warmed Gabriel’s shivering heart but Gabriel’s tired of rationing himself to morsels when he’s starving. He’s tired of sneaking around like a child who doesn’t want to take his lessons; or a thief at his daily drudgery.

He imagines telling Sam, ‘I think I could love you,’ and there is the freedom of honesty in the words.


Challenge #26: We Need More Cowbell - Part 1
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Title: Untitled
Word Count: 104
Rating: G
Original/Fandom: Supernatural
Pairings (if any): pre-slash Sam/Gabriel
Warnings (Non-Con/Dub-Con/etc): No warnings apply
Summary: Between reaching out to touch and the moment of touching, there is an infinite second.


Between reaching out to touch and the moment of touching, there is an infinite second. In Gabriel’s mind passes everyone he has ever loved, his brothers, brave Sigyn who knew his truth and protected him, fiery Kali who he loved truly and who may even have loved him in return.

He doesn’t love Sam, not quite. There is resentment here, and admiration, and some fascination. Other feelings he flinches from. Love may come if he touches; it’s the one thing that’s held him back.

He imagines telling Sam, ‘I think I could love you,’ and there is the freedom of honesty in the words.

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