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[personal profile] mistalagan
Rating: G-R
Characters and/or Pairing: Sam/Gabriel, Dean/Castiel, Osiris
Spoilers: Through 7x04 (Defending Your Life)
Warnings: Bondage, evil fruit
Word Count: From 200-772, 2872 total
All for [livejournal.com profile] comment_fic.



Quick links:
Wanderlust (G, Sam, Dean, Osiris)
Musicians (PG, pre-Sam/Gabe, slight pre-Dean/Cas)
Pluots (PG, Sam, Dean, Castiel, Gabriel)
Sins (PG-13, Sam/Gabriel)
Monkeys (PG-13, Sam/Gabriel)
Oil (R, Sam/Gabriel or Dean/Castiel)


Title: Wanderlust
Rating: G
Characters and/or Pairing: Sam, Dean, Osiris
Spoilers: Through 7x04
Word Count: 200
Prompts: [livejournal.com profile] tigriswolf; Winchesters, “It was as if, even then, some part of him knew to journey was, would always be, our fate” (Grace Bauer)

Osiris pulls his hand back into a loose fist, looking at Sam sympathetically, as if he's somehow Sam's friend. "But don't you think that your brother dragged you back into that catastrophic mess because he'd rather damn you with him than be alone?"

Sam smirks, then stares over at his brother. Dean looks lost, won't meet his eyes.

Can't he see? Sure, Sam's had his doubts before, tried to blame Dean and everything else, thought that he could stop hunting. After the yellow-eyed demon died, after he'd saved Dean from hell, after they'd stopped the Apocalypse. He's tried that.

Even at Stanford, checking the paper for news of terrorist attacks and stock prices and college football games, he'd had to stop himself from highlighting suspicious articles. He'd kept massive amounts of salt, enough so Jess teased him about his sodium intake, ready for use. He'd leave the apartment and have to return because he'd automatically picked up a knife.

The furthest afield he'd dared to go was south to Gilroy, north to Marin, because he was afraid he'd start driving and never choose to stop.

He matches Osiris' gaze. "No. One way or another I'd have gotten pulled back in."


Title: Musicians
Rating: PG
Characters and/or Pairing: pre-Sam/Gabriel, slight pre-Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: None (AU)
Word Count: 501
Prompts: [livejournal.com profile] daria234; any slash pairing, AU where they are musicians in a major orchestra and someone secretly listens to another practicing

Sometimes, Samuel Winchester stays in the concert hall after everyone else has left. It's huge when it's full, and even bigger when it's empty - his footsteps across the stage echo almost profanely as he checks around before opening his case on the concertmaster's seat. He never looks at the balconies, though Gabriel always crouches behind the wall just in case.

If anyone but Gabriel was watching, they might think that Sam took the concertmaster's seat as part of some dream for prestige, were it not that Sam plays viola anyway and wouldn't ever be concertmaster. Actually, he picks a different seat every time - third seat cello, harp, principal clarinet. Once, he'd sat in principal trumpet, and Gabriel had crouched in the balcony thrumming with happiness, imagining himself there with him.

(The only time Sam's said anything to him was to apologize after his brother made the same stupid angel joke Gabriel gets all the time. Dean Winchester, percussion and usually timpani, and in all the classical pieces they're doubling each other so he thinks they should get along better than they do. Bu Gabriel's brother, Castiel, plays tuba right in front of Dean, and Dean keeps not-so-subtly glancing at Cas' back. It gets on Gabriel's nerves.)

It's hard to hear Sam play, outside of these little secret practice sessions. He sits fourth in the section, so he never gets any soloes. Hell, it's hard for Gabriel to even really catch a good view. Sure, Sam's tall, but Gabriel's not and the damn bassoonists are always in the way - it's be able to see Sam or be able to see the conductor, and Gabriel may not depend on his cues but he does like to have them after a few hundred measures of rest. (His assistant principal, Balthazar, is absolute crap at counting.) So he sneaks glances at Sam when they're setting up, or now, when he peeks out above the edge of the balcony to see the violist raise bow to string.

Gabriel likes to boast that he's a great kisser because he's spent so much time strengthening his lips and tongue, but there's something to be said for nimble fingers. And Sam's are definitely nimble. He finishes retuning, plays a few lines to test it out, and then launches into the third movement of Vieuxtemps' Sonata in B-flat major. (And yes, Gabriel's been researching viola pieces, because it's not like he ever paid much attention to them before he saw Sam.)

His legs start to cramp up about forty minutes later, and he shifts, bumps into a program someone left - shouldn't they have cleaned the place up? - and winces when it falls to the ground with a light thump. Sam was far enough away, though, and he shouldn't have heard it. Especially with his surprisingly loud viola right there next to his ear.

Except he stops playing, looks up, and says, "Hello?"

There's a moment of absolute silence. Sam shrugs and starts up again, and Gabriel breathes a sigh of relief.


Title: Pluots!
Rating: PG
Characters and/or Pairing: Sam, Dean, Castiel, Gabriel
Spoilers: Through 5x08 (Changing Channels); AU
Warnings: Crack crack so much crack…
Word Count: 632
Prompts: [livejournal.com profile] elfinmouse; Any, Spirits and Demons are stopped cold by salt, Leviathans are done in by borax, and Angels are repelled by pluots - an unholy frankenfruit cross of plums and apricots.

"Sam."

"Mmh?" Sam looks up, mouth full. Castiel's staring at him as if he were a stripper - that is to say, with wide, horrified eyes and a half open mouth. Just when Sam's sure that they'd gotten over the Sam-is-an-abomination phase of their relationship, too. He swallows. "What's up?"

"What - is that?"

"What's what?" Castiel nods jerkily at the fruit in Sam's hand. "Oh, this?" He waves it around, and Cas jumps back. "It's a pluot. They're good. Want some?"

"I - "

"Here!" Sam tosses a fresh one over. It hits Cas square in the chest. He yelps - full on yelps, it's the highest Sam's ever heard him speak - and disappears. The pluot sits neglected on the floor. Sam stares at it. "Uh. Cas?"

---

" - that abomination!"

Dean comes crashing into the room with takeout in one hand and a bottle of holy water in the other. "Sammy, put it down!"

Sam blinks. He's halfway through the last pluot - god knows Dean never eats fruit, and Cas obviously has issues - and sets it down carefully, so the juice doesn't drip all over the counter. "Dean, are you - "

"Hey, that's not demon blood," Dean says.

"…What? No, it's not demon blood. You seriously think - "

"Cas was going on about you eating unholy things. Have you got it hidden somewhere?" He drops the takeout and starts rifling through Sam's bag.

"There!" Dean looks up. Cas is pointing at the half-eaten fruit, an expression of righteous fury on his face.

"…Cas? That's a plum."

"It's a pluot," Sam and Cas say at the same time, and subsequently glare at each other.

"An unholy combination of two innocent fruits, made by humans playing God," Castiel continues, "my very being shudders to be in the same room."

Dean drops Sam's shirts and stands up. "Oookay, Cas. It's fruit. Look, see, it's harmless." He grabs the pluot and waves it in front of Cas, who scrambles backwards. "Seriously? Come on, no man should be afraid of fruit. Just touch it."

Castiel shakes his head. Dean scowls and inches closer before abruptly lunging and mashing the sticky side of the fruit against Cas' face, despite Sam's protests. Castiel howls.

"Getitoff getitoff getitoff," he whimpers, scraping at it with both hands. The juice runs down his face, leaving red burn marks. Dean stares.

"Wait, that actually hurts? Oh, crap, sorry - " he scrubs at Cas' face with his shirt, leaving Dean with a sticky mess and Cas cringing. "Are you okay?"

Castiel's mouth opens slightly. "I - I think I need to - " his hand reaches up to the burns on his face " - I will return." He disappears.

"You're such a jerk, Dean," Sam snaps.

"But - I - how - pluots repel angels?" He stares at Sam. "How was I supposed to - ? What the hell is a pluot, anyway?"

"Apparently an abomination." Sam looks forlornly at the crushed fruit. "I guess it could be…useful?"

---

At first they think their theory that the Trickster's an angel is completely wrong when he fails to be cowed by their fruit. Actually, he picks a pluot up and bites into it. "Mmm, tasty. Y'know, I came up with these. Best idea I'd had for a while. …Hey, why the - "

Dean lights the holy oil anyway, just in case, and Gabriel ends up informing them that archangels have built-in immunities against frankenfruits. "Dad thought it would come in handy when he was testing out his fruit of knowledge. So if you lot thought you could, I dunno, lock Luci in a ring of pluots, think again."

Damn. They'll have to come up with something new to do with the crates they've got in the back seat.

Zachariah goes down easy.


Title: Sins
Rating: PG-13
Characters and/or Pairing: Sam/Gabriel
Spoilers: Through 5x08
Word Count: 351
Prompts: [livejournal.com profile] kijikun; Sam makes Gabriel feel all seven sins.

Envy.

He watches Sam and Dean interact, sometimes, not quite perfect but still devoted to each other, and feels the sharp sting of the knowledge that he will never again have such a brother; if only Michael had been a little more like Dean, if only Lucifer had been a little more like Sam.

Gluttony.

He can't really help but sneak glances at Sam from time to time, but when Sam catches his eye he immediately looks away and gulps down his chocolate shake in three seconds flat; he waves over the waitress to order another, and pie for good measure, and doesn't look at Sam for the rest of the evening.

Greed.

He has all the power he needs, and with it he can snap up wealth and all its trappings - but he wants more, and so he turns to the one thing he can't get - no, hasn't yet gotten.

Wrath.

He could extinguish the pitiful creatures with a thought, but he wants them to hurt, so after Sam's tucked away safe and sleeping he returns to the empty house and drags them out of the sleep of the not-quite-dead; they try to run, and beg, and plead, but he can hear nothing but Sam's screams, and doesn't even laugh at the terror in their eyes.

Lust.

Finally, finally, they fall into bed - he mouths searing kisses along Sam's clavicle, gropes along the back of his thigh, arches up smoothly at the feel of his hands; from that burning need, a blasphemy flits across Gabriel's thoughts - that he would give up heaven all over again for this.

Sloth.

Angels don't need to sleep, but when he wakes up next to Sam all he wants to do is drift off again, anchored close by the man's warm body.

Pride.

When they walk, he's always got an arm wrapped around Sam somewhere - inching further and further down until Sam slaps him away, usually - and if he swaggers a little more than usual, well, who else can say they've got someone quite so perfect who's all their own?


Title: Monkeys
Rating: PG-13
Characters and/or Pairing: Sam/Gabriel
Spoilers: Through 5x08
Warnings: …monkeys. Voyeuristic monkeys? With wings.
Word Count: 772
Prompts: [livejournal.com profile] loveinstars; It's all fun and games until you piss off an archangel/Trickster and he breaks out the damned flying monkeys.

Calling Gabriel an undersized monkey with wings had probably been a mistake.

They're tiny - like, three inches tall - and yet somehow manage to screech loud enough to drown out Dean's rock music. There's twelve of them, and they climb on him and pull his hair and eat his food and have goddamn flying monkey sex on his head, and Dean laughs at him before realizing that he's going to have to deal with them too. Castiel keeps making abortive glances at Sam, flicking his eyes away rapidly whenever Sam meets them. Thankfully, no one outside of their little group can see the monkeys, but that doesn't help much when their marks think Sam is crazy because he's suddenly waving his hands around and swiping at thin air.

Gabriel, on that fateful day, had tilted his head at Sam, snapped his fingers, and disappeared. Sam had thought that was the end of that - the archangel would go off and sulk for a couple days and be back in Sam's hair by Wednesday. That was how it always went, after all.

This time, Sam had turned back to his laptop and found the monkeys sitting on it. Staring at him with their black monkey eyes. Chittering.

He looks them up. They're mantled howler monkeys, and their only saving grace is that they do, in fact, sleep at night. Unless a car drives by. Or someone turns on the lights in the next room.

After a week and half, he's been officially driven crazy. He's managed to piss off the monkeys enough to get them to piss on him, and every time he washes his hair they just do it again. And again. The little fuckers are fast, too - their wings make it generally impossible for Sam to get away. They're staring at him in the shower, all lined up on the curtain rod, and he's pretty sure they're mocking him.

He gets out, dries off, dresses himself, and the alpha male sits on his shoulder and pisses on him again. He snaps, flailing around, trying to catch them and snap their stupid monkey necks.

He's out of breath, disheveled, and he's just tripped over his duffel to fall sprawling on the floor. He's only happy that Dean isn't here - the amused monkey-stares are bad enough.

"Gabriel," he growls, "get your dumb feathery ass over here. Now."

Gabriel doesn't come. He's in a glaring contest with twelve tiny monkeys. His life is terrible.

"Gabriel," he tries again, "if you don't come here I'll summon Kali and tell her about your 'little thing' with the Maenads."

The monkeys chitter.

"Gabriel," he pauses for a moment, "come on, I'll - buy you candy. Lots of it. Or cake, the really fancy kind with tiny fondant flowers and tons of frosting. Or - I dunno, expensive chocolates?"

One of the smaller monkeys has crept forward and stuck its nose in his ear.

"Gabriel. I'm sorry I called you a monkey."

Gabriel's sitting on the edge of the bed with his arms crossed. There's a weird look on his face.

"No, you're not," he says, "you just want me to get rid of them."

Sam rolls over and scowls up at him. "It's not exactly proportionate retribution."

"Sure it is. You say," he puts his fingers up in air quotes, "'I swear, you're like an undersized monkey with wings', and I instruct on how I'm nothing like an undersized monkey with wings." He folds his arms again.

"…You kind of are."

"Oh, that's it, I'm - "

"I mean," Sam interrupts, "you pull my hair, and steal my food, and fly around, and try to sneak peeks of me in the shower, and when I get mad you get pissy and sulk."

"I do not."

"Is this not sulking?"

"So you're saying that the monkeys - "

"And yet," Sam says, "I'd still rather have you around than these things."

"…That's not very promising."

"You don't have sex on my head."

Gabriel leers. "I could - "

"Don't say it."

They stare at each other.

"Yeah, so, anyway, I'm not actually apologizing," Sam says.

"I should leave you here with them."

"Yeah, you should." Sam stands up. "But, y'know, I think I finally figured something out."

"Yeah?"

"All of this - literal monkey shit. You're just trying to push my buttons."

"Trying? Let me tell you, kiddo - "

"Because you're afraid. Because I push yours." Sam's leaning over Gabriel, now.

"Sure."

"You like me."

"That's an awfully large jump to conclusions."

"Really?" Sam leans down all the way.

Gabriel snaps his fingers. The monkeys disappear.

Gabriel doesn't.


Title: Oil
Rating: R
Characters and/or Pairing: Sam/Gabriel or Dean Castiel (yes, or)
Spoilers: Through 5x03, I guess?
Warnings: Bondage
Word Count: 416
Prompts: [livejournal.com profile] kijikun; Gabriel/Sam or Dean/Castiel, bondage, power and trust

There's a candle flickering in the corner of his vision, but he doesn't dare turn his head to look. He could extinguish it, probably, but even if he put out every candle in the room, he's tensely aware of - though he can't see it - the lamp burning steadily above his head. That he can't put out.

The oil drips in long, cool strands down his chest, holding him in place much more effectively than the iron chains around his wrists, ankles, neck. One wrong move, and he could set the bed ablaze, he's sure, so he keeps his eyes focused, unblinking, on the ceiling, keeps as still as possible. He doesn't breathe.

Long fingers drag viscous fluid along his arms, draw patterns in his open palms. He asked for this, he knows. More importantly, the man who is dipping his hand in the earth-tone jar and dropping oil, fingertip by fingertip, onto his stomach asked for this, and he could not deny that silent request. One part of him is mutely, blindly terrified, scratching in his mind to stop this idiocy, leave this death wish behind. He suppresses it.

When the man is done - brushing, at last, myrrh-laced oil across a smooth forehead, upon full lips, trickling down a pale neck along the curve of the collar - he'll go and extinguish the candles, one by one. He'll leave the lamp burning, but set it aside, and unlock the chains. They'll press their lips together, and soon the scent of cinnamon would run down not only his hands but breast and back and legs. They'll whisper breathless, wordless warmth into each other's mouths, press lines of pleasure across each other's bodies, and hold each other as close as an angel holds his vessel's skin, as if no one would, could ever separate them.

Now, though, two hands are holding a candle far above, letting it tilt slightly to one side, and his lover's eyes are fixed closely on his face. The wax flows to one side and pools at the edge, then drips once, cooling slightly in the air and falling sharp and stinging onto his chest. He can't suppress the shiver at the feel of heat so close to oil, not quite hot enough to burn, and his eyes flick down to meet the others, which hold a question, always hold a question, and he nods, barely.

The candle tilts once more, one more drip of wax, and his eyes flutter closed.
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mistalagan

March 2012

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