![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
- birthdays!,
- fic,
- sofie,
- spn
Updated Fic: Sleight of Hand (R)
I love Sofie and it's her birthday, so she gets pictures:
And she also gets pimping: you all should go over and look at the fab icons she made here because, ahahah!!
Title: Sleight of Hand (Magic Tricks)
Pairing: Gen
Rating: R for creep-factor
Wordcount: 2,429 words
Notes: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
chickypooh on her birthday, with many thanks to _3amconfession for holding my hand and cheering me on. This won't make much sense without having read the first part - which can be found here - since it follows directly after. Um, also the slightest hint of het, even though it's not really het. Can I call this gen-smut? Maybe?
Two
It takes Dean two minutes to make the ten minute walk back to the motel. His legs are almost rubber by the time he slams the room door behind him, but he doesn’t waste any time barging into the bathroom and scaring the shit out of Sam.
“I don’t know how she did it,” he says, half out of breath; “I don’t know how she did it, but it’s not even February, and this is not funny.” Sam’s hand and face are both covered in shaving cream and he’s staring at Dean like maybe he’s just announced he has the plague. He looks rabid, and, ok, maybe this is a little bit funny.
“Christo,” Sam says.
“Fuck you,” Dean says.
“Ok, so it’s you. What the hell are you talking about?” Sam asks, but he seems somewhat mollified, leaning down to wash the shaving cream off his face and hands.
Dean takes the time while Sam has his head under the faucet to gather his thoughts. This is not normal, but, well, nothing they deal with on a daily basis really is. Still, what kind of demon—or whatever that thing is—has the kind of power to reverse time? All their research from the day before seems obsolete.
“I know you won’t remember this since that bitch apparently rewound time, but yesterday was today and there’s some kind of demon trying to get me to go back and fix something,” Dean says, following Sam around the bathroom as his brother combs his hair out and wipes off his face on a towel. “She keeps appearing and giving me freaking bruises. And she rhymes, dude, what the hell.”
Sam stops and gives him a long look. “You are really not good at the whole sequential story telling thing, are you?”
“Shut up,” Dean says. “Can you really blame me for being a little messed up? And how come you’re being so Zen about this?”
“Oh, I’m freaking out on the inside,” Sam assures him, voice tight as he ducks back into the main room to pull on some clothes. “Could you maybe start from the beginning, though?”
:::
They spend four hours after that holed up in the motel room, Dean relaying everything from his day before and Sam scouring the internet for anything that might help. When it comes down to it, there isn’t a precedent for this in the world of hunting—even their father’s journal doesn’t mention demons powerful enough to control the flow of time like this.
“Maybe we’re thinking about this from the wrong angle,” Sam muses, leaning his chin on his knuckles.
Dean raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“Well, what if this demon really won’t go away until you do what it wants? We obviously don’t have the resources to figure out what it is, but if we can figure out why it’s after you—” Sam pauses. “Why did you automatically think it was me she was talking about?”
“Um,” Dean says. “You’re sort of the only person it could have been, Sammy.”
“No, think about it,” Sam says, sitting up straighter against the headboard in his excitement. “I was still here, right? Then she must have been talking about someone else. If we find that someone else, we can solve this whole mystery and she’ll leave you alone.”
“You sound like Velma,” Dean says. He doesn’t even see the hit coming.
Sam’s mouth quirks smugly and he looks every inch the little brother. “I’m gonna give Bobby a call and see if he knows anything, or anyone who might,” he says. “Go get us some lunch. I’m hungry.”
“You’re always hungry,” Dean mumbles, but he shrugs into his leather jacket and picks up the keys. Curious, though, he turns a little towards Sam. “Hey, Sam?”
“Yeah,” Sam says, not even looking up from the journal.
“How do you feel about burgers?”
“Get me something with garlic or I’ll drown you in the tub.”
Dean arches an eyebrow. “Huh.”
:::
There is no way he is even going near the little Italian place they’d found the day before, so he takes a right at the corner after the motel and heads towards the interstate, hoping to come upon a store that will sell garlic bread. He has no doubt in his mind that Sam will follow through on his threat.
It takes some time, but eventually he comes up on a diner, and the first thing he orders is a huge side of garlic bread. He leans against the counter while he’s waiting for his food, chatting amiably with the waitress, whose nametag says she’s “Karen”.
“So, how long are you around for, stranger?” Karen purrs in a deep, smoky voice, leaning forward. Her tits are nearly popping the buttons of her uniform, and Dean takes a moment to appreciate cheap clothing.
“Long enough,” he says, even though Sammy will probably kill him. He puts on his best smile, making sure his dimples deepen just the way he knows women love. “When do you get off?”
Karen’s red lips twist up invitingly at the corner, and this is so in the bag. “Whenever you tell me to, sugar,” she says, and then, “Let me take my break, we can head out back.”
The door is against Dean’s back not two minutes later, Karen’s mouth leaving red stains on the neck of his shirt, her legs wrapped around his waist. Her nimble fingers undo his belt and unbutton his jeans before he even has time to get a hand on her ass, and she hikes up her own skirt so she can slide down on him.
“Shit,” he hisses, because, god, and she’s riding him with barely any leverage at all, just one hand on his shoulder and the other on the wall, hips rocking against him like she’s riding a bronco. It’s good – Dean doesn’t even think about condoms or repeating days, just that wet heat around him, and how it’s been too fucking long since he last had this.
Karen makes a little kittenish sound when he grips her hips with both his hands and tilts her back so he has control. “Dean,” she whimpers, but not like a prayer or a curse or in any clichéd, sexy way. He tries to ignore her, but she’s kind of on his cock so it’s hard to. “Dean,” she says again.
“Jesus, what?” he groans finally, frustrated. She pushes off him, stepping back so her face is shadowed by the building behind them. Dean’s stomach drops, something hard and cold settling in its place.
He’d never told her his name.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” he says, feeling sick. Karen steps forward, and just like Dean expected, her hand falls to wrap around his forearm. She isn’t as grotesque looking as the day before, but her blue eyes are covered by a sheen of other-worldly white and her skin is flaking.
“Certainly not kidding, my dear,” the waitress says, lips that were red curling up into a pale, painful-looking smile. “How else could I make you hear?”
“If you’d stop talking in fucking sphinx-language, maybe I’d be able to understand,” Dean spits. He’s still hanging out of his jeans, he might puke at any moment, and a dead chick just tried to fuck him to get him to listen, so he thinks it’s perfectly justifiable that he hauls back and punches Karen right in the jaw.
There’s a satisfying crunch of bone and muscle tearing, but her fingers around Dean’s arm don’t even so much as twitch. When she looks back at him, she’s trying to frown her disapproval, but her jaw is unhinged and parts of her cheek are missing. Dean gags, feeling bile rise in his throat.
“You’ll have to do this twelve more times before I will stop my rhymes. I’ve come for you to make amends, not to merely bring your end,” she says, mouth moving separately of her words. “Listen closely to the bells, Dean, to the bells. Only then will you be saved from hell.”
Dean never goes back inside for the food.
Instead, as soon as the woman fades away, he hot foots it out of the alley and straight to the Impala. His stomach makes it all the way back to the motel, but as soon as he gets the car door open, he’s hunched forward on his hands and knees, retching up his breakfast and digging his nails into the pavement. It’s disgusting and it’s stupidly childish, but when it’s over, he takes a swig of the mouthwash he keeps in the trunk and feels better.
Sam is still sitting cross-legged on the bed when Dean comes into the room, tapping away at the laptop keyboard and balancing a legal pad on his stomach. He looks up when the door clicks shut and immediately notices the sickly pallor to his brother’s skin.
“Hey, man, what happened? Are you ok?”
:::
Once Dean’s explained everything, Sam scolds him for a few minutes about the merits of not being a man-whore and enumerates all the reasons he should have known better. Oddly enough, it actually makes Dean feel better, hearing his little brother say things like, “You are such a pig,” and, “Did it just slip your mind, maybe?” and, “Tell me you at least used protection.”
“Can we just for a minute forget about me being a,” Dean makes quotes in the air, “‘man-whore’ and focus on the fact that she said something about me going to hell, possibly with bells on? I kind of thought that was important.”
Sam sends him a nasty look over the laptop screen. “Repeat it again, word for word,” he says.
“Listen closely to the bells, only then will you be saved from hell,” Dean quotes, watching Sam’s pen as it scratches everything down along the margins of a piece of paper. “I don’t know what she’s talking about, bells. I haven’t heard any.”
Sam’s eyes narrow at something on the laptop screen. “Maybe that’s the problem,” he says, musingly. “You’re supposed to be hearing these bells – they’ll save you somehow, but you’re not listening.”
“Ok,” Dean says, nodding, and then, “What?”
“We definitely need alcohol,” Sam says, shoving his huge feet into his boots and lacing them up. When Dean stays stock-still where he’s sitting on the bed, Sam reaches over and biffs him over the back of the head. “I went to college, y’know.”
“I kind of always thought you were the geek sitting in the corner with his ecology text book,” Dean admits.
“Well, sometimes,” Sam allows. “But the other times, I was the guy sitting in the corner with a girl on my lap. Go take a shower or something, man. You stink.”
“I love you, too, little brother.”
“I mean it, Dean,” Sam says as he puts on his jacket and zips up. “I’ll explain everything once you have a little Jack Daniels in you and you don’t smell like stale old person.”
He’s out the door before Dean can think up a scathing enough come back, so Dean sighs and drags himself into the bathroom for what is one of the strangest showers he has ever taken. Even holding the soap bar in the other hand doesn’t make it feel any less like extended déjà vu. By the time he’s done rinsing the suds out of his hair, he really wants to throw something at the shower head in the hope that maybe it’ll just explode and drown him.
Instead, he calmly gets out of the stall, dries himself off and changes into clean clothes. Sam’s waiting for him with two huge bottles of Jack when he comes out.
“Is it my birthday,” Dean asks sarcastically, “or am I just this lucky?”
Sam rolls his eyes. “I see your sense of humor is still intact,” he says. “Sit down and drink up. You’re gonna need it.”
:::
They get plastered – no, that’s too kind. They get completely shit-faced, even though it's not the best idea they've ever had, and Dean can’t even stand up because the ceiling keeps trying to squish him like a little tiny bug, aren’t ants cool? Ants can carry so much weight and never have to worry about it, ‘cause they’re so strong and stuff.
“Focus, Dean,” Sam says, poking him in the side. “C’mon, man, pay attention. M’trying to teach you something.”
“I hope it’s not math,” Dean mumbles. “I hate math.”
“Jesus, Dean, I shouldn’t have let you have so much. C’mon, think, think. That woman…thing,” Sam says. “She’s after you, remember? And the bells? You gotta listen for the bells.”
Dean groans because the ceiling is just waiting for him to stand up, he can feel its beady little light fixtures staring at his back. Well, he won’t give it the satisfaction. He is a Winchester and no ceiling is a match for a Winchester, damnit.
“Tell me in the morning, Sammy,” he says in his fighting evil voice. “I’ve gotta show this ceiling who’s the boss of this castle. Or something. I don’t remember, just tell me in the morning ‘cause I’m gonna pass out.”
“Shit, Dean, no, stay awake,” Sam yelps, scrambling over the space between their beds. “This is important!”
But, yeah, so is the ceiling, duh. Dean doesn’t really even give Sam another thought, just lets his hand curl happily under his pillow and his mind shut down.
Three
The first thing Dean thinks when he wakes up for the third time on January twenty-fourth is not “Oh, shit, what did I do?” but “Ow, my brains”. He stumbles out of bed and into the bathroom, trying not to hurl anywhere that isn’t the toilet. He makes it just in time, kneeling on the hard tile and swearing on his dick that he’ll never drink again.
“Dean?” Sammy asks, all sleep-slow and quiet by the bathroom doorway. He rubs his eyes, looking confused. “What’s wrong?”
“I hate alcohol,” Dean moans into the basin of the toilet. “Why did you let me drink so much?”
Sam makes a tiny, indignant noise, padding over to Dean and putting a cool hand on the back of his neck like Dad used to do when either of them were sick. “I didn’t let you drink anything last night. We didn’t get in until late, remember? Are you feeling ok?”
“No, no, no, no, not again,” Dean whines, dread settling in the pit of his stomach. “Sam, what’s today’s date?”
“Um, the twenty-fourth. Why?”
And she also gets pimping: you all should go over and look at the fab icons she made here because, ahahah!!
Title: Sleight of Hand (Magic Tricks)
Pairing: Gen
Rating: R for creep-factor
Wordcount: 2,429 words
Notes: For
chickypooh on her birthday, with many thanks to _3amconfession for holding my hand and cheering me on. This won't make much sense without having read the first part - which can be found here - since it follows directly after. Um, also the slightest hint of het, even though it's not really het. Can I call this gen-smut? Maybe?It takes Dean two minutes to make the ten minute walk back to the motel. His legs are almost rubber by the time he slams the room door behind him, but he doesn’t waste any time barging into the bathroom and scaring the shit out of Sam.
“I don’t know how she did it,” he says, half out of breath; “I don’t know how she did it, but it’s not even February, and this is not funny.” Sam’s hand and face are both covered in shaving cream and he’s staring at Dean like maybe he’s just announced he has the plague. He looks rabid, and, ok, maybe this is a little bit funny.
“Christo,” Sam says.
“Fuck you,” Dean says.
“Ok, so it’s you. What the hell are you talking about?” Sam asks, but he seems somewhat mollified, leaning down to wash the shaving cream off his face and hands.
Dean takes the time while Sam has his head under the faucet to gather his thoughts. This is not normal, but, well, nothing they deal with on a daily basis really is. Still, what kind of demon—or whatever that thing is—has the kind of power to reverse time? All their research from the day before seems obsolete.
“I know you won’t remember this since that bitch apparently rewound time, but yesterday was today and there’s some kind of demon trying to get me to go back and fix something,” Dean says, following Sam around the bathroom as his brother combs his hair out and wipes off his face on a towel. “She keeps appearing and giving me freaking bruises. And she rhymes, dude, what the hell.”
Sam stops and gives him a long look. “You are really not good at the whole sequential story telling thing, are you?”
“Shut up,” Dean says. “Can you really blame me for being a little messed up? And how come you’re being so Zen about this?”
“Oh, I’m freaking out on the inside,” Sam assures him, voice tight as he ducks back into the main room to pull on some clothes. “Could you maybe start from the beginning, though?”
They spend four hours after that holed up in the motel room, Dean relaying everything from his day before and Sam scouring the internet for anything that might help. When it comes down to it, there isn’t a precedent for this in the world of hunting—even their father’s journal doesn’t mention demons powerful enough to control the flow of time like this.
“Maybe we’re thinking about this from the wrong angle,” Sam muses, leaning his chin on his knuckles.
Dean raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“Well, what if this demon really won’t go away until you do what it wants? We obviously don’t have the resources to figure out what it is, but if we can figure out why it’s after you—” Sam pauses. “Why did you automatically think it was me she was talking about?”
“Um,” Dean says. “You’re sort of the only person it could have been, Sammy.”
“No, think about it,” Sam says, sitting up straighter against the headboard in his excitement. “I was still here, right? Then she must have been talking about someone else. If we find that someone else, we can solve this whole mystery and she’ll leave you alone.”
“You sound like Velma,” Dean says. He doesn’t even see the hit coming.
Sam’s mouth quirks smugly and he looks every inch the little brother. “I’m gonna give Bobby a call and see if he knows anything, or anyone who might,” he says. “Go get us some lunch. I’m hungry.”
“You’re always hungry,” Dean mumbles, but he shrugs into his leather jacket and picks up the keys. Curious, though, he turns a little towards Sam. “Hey, Sam?”
“Yeah,” Sam says, not even looking up from the journal.
“How do you feel about burgers?”
“Get me something with garlic or I’ll drown you in the tub.”
Dean arches an eyebrow. “Huh.”
There is no way he is even going near the little Italian place they’d found the day before, so he takes a right at the corner after the motel and heads towards the interstate, hoping to come upon a store that will sell garlic bread. He has no doubt in his mind that Sam will follow through on his threat.
It takes some time, but eventually he comes up on a diner, and the first thing he orders is a huge side of garlic bread. He leans against the counter while he’s waiting for his food, chatting amiably with the waitress, whose nametag says she’s “Karen”.
“So, how long are you around for, stranger?” Karen purrs in a deep, smoky voice, leaning forward. Her tits are nearly popping the buttons of her uniform, and Dean takes a moment to appreciate cheap clothing.
“Long enough,” he says, even though Sammy will probably kill him. He puts on his best smile, making sure his dimples deepen just the way he knows women love. “When do you get off?”
Karen’s red lips twist up invitingly at the corner, and this is so in the bag. “Whenever you tell me to, sugar,” she says, and then, “Let me take my break, we can head out back.”
The door is against Dean’s back not two minutes later, Karen’s mouth leaving red stains on the neck of his shirt, her legs wrapped around his waist. Her nimble fingers undo his belt and unbutton his jeans before he even has time to get a hand on her ass, and she hikes up her own skirt so she can slide down on him.
“Shit,” he hisses, because, god, and she’s riding him with barely any leverage at all, just one hand on his shoulder and the other on the wall, hips rocking against him like she’s riding a bronco. It’s good – Dean doesn’t even think about condoms or repeating days, just that wet heat around him, and how it’s been too fucking long since he last had this.
Karen makes a little kittenish sound when he grips her hips with both his hands and tilts her back so he has control. “Dean,” she whimpers, but not like a prayer or a curse or in any clichéd, sexy way. He tries to ignore her, but she’s kind of on his cock so it’s hard to. “Dean,” she says again.
“Jesus, what?” he groans finally, frustrated. She pushes off him, stepping back so her face is shadowed by the building behind them. Dean’s stomach drops, something hard and cold settling in its place.
He’d never told her his name.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” he says, feeling sick. Karen steps forward, and just like Dean expected, her hand falls to wrap around his forearm. She isn’t as grotesque looking as the day before, but her blue eyes are covered by a sheen of other-worldly white and her skin is flaking.
“Certainly not kidding, my dear,” the waitress says, lips that were red curling up into a pale, painful-looking smile. “How else could I make you hear?”
“If you’d stop talking in fucking sphinx-language, maybe I’d be able to understand,” Dean spits. He’s still hanging out of his jeans, he might puke at any moment, and a dead chick just tried to fuck him to get him to listen, so he thinks it’s perfectly justifiable that he hauls back and punches Karen right in the jaw.
There’s a satisfying crunch of bone and muscle tearing, but her fingers around Dean’s arm don’t even so much as twitch. When she looks back at him, she’s trying to frown her disapproval, but her jaw is unhinged and parts of her cheek are missing. Dean gags, feeling bile rise in his throat.
“You’ll have to do this twelve more times before I will stop my rhymes. I’ve come for you to make amends, not to merely bring your end,” she says, mouth moving separately of her words. “Listen closely to the bells, Dean, to the bells. Only then will you be saved from hell.”
Dean never goes back inside for the food.
Instead, as soon as the woman fades away, he hot foots it out of the alley and straight to the Impala. His stomach makes it all the way back to the motel, but as soon as he gets the car door open, he’s hunched forward on his hands and knees, retching up his breakfast and digging his nails into the pavement. It’s disgusting and it’s stupidly childish, but when it’s over, he takes a swig of the mouthwash he keeps in the trunk and feels better.
Sam is still sitting cross-legged on the bed when Dean comes into the room, tapping away at the laptop keyboard and balancing a legal pad on his stomach. He looks up when the door clicks shut and immediately notices the sickly pallor to his brother’s skin.
“Hey, man, what happened? Are you ok?”
Once Dean’s explained everything, Sam scolds him for a few minutes about the merits of not being a man-whore and enumerates all the reasons he should have known better. Oddly enough, it actually makes Dean feel better, hearing his little brother say things like, “You are such a pig,” and, “Did it just slip your mind, maybe?” and, “Tell me you at least used protection.”
“Can we just for a minute forget about me being a,” Dean makes quotes in the air, “‘man-whore’ and focus on the fact that she said something about me going to hell, possibly with bells on? I kind of thought that was important.”
Sam sends him a nasty look over the laptop screen. “Repeat it again, word for word,” he says.
“Listen closely to the bells, only then will you be saved from hell,” Dean quotes, watching Sam’s pen as it scratches everything down along the margins of a piece of paper. “I don’t know what she’s talking about, bells. I haven’t heard any.”
Sam’s eyes narrow at something on the laptop screen. “Maybe that’s the problem,” he says, musingly. “You’re supposed to be hearing these bells – they’ll save you somehow, but you’re not listening.”
“Ok,” Dean says, nodding, and then, “What?”
“We definitely need alcohol,” Sam says, shoving his huge feet into his boots and lacing them up. When Dean stays stock-still where he’s sitting on the bed, Sam reaches over and biffs him over the back of the head. “I went to college, y’know.”
“I kind of always thought you were the geek sitting in the corner with his ecology text book,” Dean admits.
“Well, sometimes,” Sam allows. “But the other times, I was the guy sitting in the corner with a girl on my lap. Go take a shower or something, man. You stink.”
“I love you, too, little brother.”
“I mean it, Dean,” Sam says as he puts on his jacket and zips up. “I’ll explain everything once you have a little Jack Daniels in you and you don’t smell like stale old person.”
He’s out the door before Dean can think up a scathing enough come back, so Dean sighs and drags himself into the bathroom for what is one of the strangest showers he has ever taken. Even holding the soap bar in the other hand doesn’t make it feel any less like extended déjà vu. By the time he’s done rinsing the suds out of his hair, he really wants to throw something at the shower head in the hope that maybe it’ll just explode and drown him.
Instead, he calmly gets out of the stall, dries himself off and changes into clean clothes. Sam’s waiting for him with two huge bottles of Jack when he comes out.
“Is it my birthday,” Dean asks sarcastically, “or am I just this lucky?”
Sam rolls his eyes. “I see your sense of humor is still intact,” he says. “Sit down and drink up. You’re gonna need it.”
They get plastered – no, that’s too kind. They get completely shit-faced, even though it's not the best idea they've ever had, and Dean can’t even stand up because the ceiling keeps trying to squish him like a little tiny bug, aren’t ants cool? Ants can carry so much weight and never have to worry about it, ‘cause they’re so strong and stuff.
“Focus, Dean,” Sam says, poking him in the side. “C’mon, man, pay attention. M’trying to teach you something.”
“I hope it’s not math,” Dean mumbles. “I hate math.”
“Jesus, Dean, I shouldn’t have let you have so much. C’mon, think, think. That woman…thing,” Sam says. “She’s after you, remember? And the bells? You gotta listen for the bells.”
Dean groans because the ceiling is just waiting for him to stand up, he can feel its beady little light fixtures staring at his back. Well, he won’t give it the satisfaction. He is a Winchester and no ceiling is a match for a Winchester, damnit.
“Tell me in the morning, Sammy,” he says in his fighting evil voice. “I’ve gotta show this ceiling who’s the boss of this castle. Or something. I don’t remember, just tell me in the morning ‘cause I’m gonna pass out.”
“Shit, Dean, no, stay awake,” Sam yelps, scrambling over the space between their beds. “This is important!”
But, yeah, so is the ceiling, duh. Dean doesn’t really even give Sam another thought, just lets his hand curl happily under his pillow and his mind shut down.
The first thing Dean thinks when he wakes up for the third time on January twenty-fourth is not “Oh, shit, what did I do?” but “Ow, my brains”. He stumbles out of bed and into the bathroom, trying not to hurl anywhere that isn’t the toilet. He makes it just in time, kneeling on the hard tile and swearing on his dick that he’ll never drink again.
“Dean?” Sammy asks, all sleep-slow and quiet by the bathroom doorway. He rubs his eyes, looking confused. “What’s wrong?”
“I hate alcohol,” Dean moans into the basin of the toilet. “Why did you let me drink so much?”
Sam makes a tiny, indignant noise, padding over to Dean and putting a cool hand on the back of his neck like Dad used to do when either of them were sick. “I didn’t let you drink anything last night. We didn’t get in until late, remember? Are you feeling ok?”
“No, no, no, no, not again,” Dean whines, dread settling in the pit of his stomach. “Sam, what’s today’s date?”
“Um, the twenty-fourth. Why?”
no subject
no subject
*jumps!*
no subject
Oh, DEAN... you really needed to listen to your baby brother! GAH!
Mel, I love you! Even though I cornered you with the Gen pairing. *shames*
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
oh, but I love this fic btw. I prolly left that out. *goofy grin*
no subject
no subject
This is such a fascinating story! Even without the wincest, I'm dying for more. Plus, this rhyming lady is driving me crazy! I have to find out what happens! *flails* Great work hun!
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
He makes it just in time, kneeling on the hard tile and swearing on his dick that he’ll never drink again.
Oh man, I've been there before. I've followed through on my life-pact for about a month now. It was BAD. I just never swore on my dick... I swore on my life.
By the time he’s done rinsing the suds out of his hair, he really wants to throw something at the shower head in the hope that maybe it’ll just explode and drown him.
You have a certain knack for that dry, subtle humor. (I don't mean dry as in bad, you know). I love that. That book I told you about? Red Sky At Morning (I think it was you)? That's what the entire book was like - so unbelievably sarcastic and they too have a drunk scene where they were in a house and everything was on angle because of an earthquake. I love it! X3
And now that I have commented on your humor - OMG THEY ALMOST HAD IT. OR SOMETHING. And the day is repeating!! I can just picture Dean waking up and that "OMGWTF?!" look on his face and that move guy's overvoice... "Will Dean ever hear the bells? Will he ever get out of the infinite loop of the twenty-fourth? WILL HE HAVE TO HAVE SEX WITH THE CREEPY DECAYING DEMON LADY AGAIN?!"
Can't you just see it?!
no subject
i'm looking forward to updates, ducks!
no subject
no subject
Oh, I can justimagine Sam wagging a finger and saying, "really, Dean, you're such a man-whore someties! Why must you fuck everythig that moves?" and so on.
no subject
Awesome!
:)
*bounce*
I love that Sam's big idea is 'get drunk'. *snerk*
And the ceiling! And ants!
Heeeeeee!
And yeah, hey, Dean - stop thinking with the downstairs brain so much!
*la*
Good stuff!
no subject
I don't know what the fuck is going on with creepy-lady, but desperately want to find out.
Sam calling Dean a man-whore was priceless.
And yeah, not as much het as necrophilia...? :P
no subject
Even though I have no idea why Dean's having his very own 'Groundhog Day' experience I am so glad there's more ....
Soon would be great ... sooner even better!
When can it be January 24th again?
no subject
no subject
Yay! You wrote more. \o/ I love you already.
What does February have to do with anything? O.0
“Christo,” Sam says.
“Fuck you,” Dean says.
Lmao, best lines ever!
Still, what kind of demon—or whatever that thing is—has the kind of power to reverse time? All their research from the day before seems obsolete. Dean, you are such a drama queen…do you not understand that you have eternity to work it out, lmao. The days will just keeeep repeating.
He tries to ignore her, but she’s kind of on his cock so it’s hard to. BWAHAHAHA I LOVE YOU, OKAY?
Great descriptions of the half dead girl and oh MAN WHORE. You so win with this fic. Look at you over there winning!! I love that they get drunk, but the fact that Dean woke up with a hang over really surprised me. I wasn’t expecting that little twist. It’s like, the things he does carry over, but the day restarts? That makes this all the more fantastic. I love that you went there. And was it a competition to see how many times you could make Dean vomit or something? Heh. And I loved the ending. Can’