This is the journal of an Ex Kick-Ass Elementary Schoolgirl

Salvage

2008-06-17T14:09:10Z

>>Salvage

TITLE: Salvage

AUTHOR: ultraviolet9a
SPOILER: for all things up to 3.16 in SPN and up to 4.10 in BSG

GENRE: gen, crossover SPN/BSG

CHARACTERS: Laura Roslin and BSG ensemble, Sam Winchester and other cameos.

SUMMARY: Would be very, very, very spoilerish.

RATING: PG13

FEEDBACK: Dude…duh.
DISCLAIMER: It’d be awesome if I owned any of it, really.

BETA: by lovely aislinamara

Solid ground. Waves rippling. Clouds travelling, wind on skin. It should have been good.

Radioactive crackle on the counter. Ruins. Wasteland.

It should have been different. Not this late. Too late.

They don’t speak.

This sight feels like the cancer eating her inside out, only in reverse. She needs to sit down.

She’s still sitting when the stranger arrives. He seems to be flying, walking, hovering over the water, across it, long hair framing him like a halo. She does not believe in saints. Has given up on the gods as well since she set foot on this planet.

But she’s still the President. And she still has responsibilities. She stands up.

Bill’s hand grips her shoulder as she moves on. The stranger holds up empty hands.

Guns are lowered.

“What are you?” she hears Bill ask. “Are you a Cylon?”

“I’m not a Cylon,” the stranger replies. His voice is hoarse and thick with the accent of a different culture.

And no, Laura’s thinking. That is no Cylon.

He could be young. He could be centuries old.

He’s got irises that bleed from white to yellow to red to black back to white again, and they sweep over them as his face contorts in agony. Then his expression eases.

“You are the ones,” he says and there’s joy in his voice. “You came.”

“The ones?” she asks. He gives her a radiant smile.

“The ones from my vision. The ones to bring him back. You’ll bring them all back.”

She doesn’t ask who. And she thinks he’s insane, a strange survivor driven mad by loneliness and destruction, a solitary hope that maybe he won’t be the only one to have lived.

Because this? This is a dead world.

“No, ma’am,” the stranger says. “This is not a dead world. It’s just a world of the dead.”

She brings a hand to her mouth, because he, whoever or whatever he is, has replied to something she has not spoken out loud.

“Don’t be afraid,” he says. Pleads. “I mean no harm. I’m Sam. Sam Winchester.”

And his eyes have turned a startling, absolutely human green.

.:::.

It was a war, alright. Not a nuclear one, no, Sam says, but a war just the same, and Laura closes her eyes in resignation. Fugitives of a ruined world seeking shelter on a wiped out planet. She’s weary. All this struggle for survival to come to this. Wasteland. Wasteland.

And Sam… whatever Sam is or isn’t, clearly his mind is broken.

Because his tale of demons and the gates of Heaven and Hell opening and the worlds clashing and destruction… maybe that is an elaborate frakked up metaphor his mind conjured up to deal with all this, with being the last man standing. Because maybe he hovers over water and his eyes switch colours like a control panel, but Laura has a hard time believing that Earth could be destroyed by one man.

She shifts her eyes to Gaius Baltar.

Or maybe not.

Still. At least it wasn’t just for a good frakking. At least Sam was trying to get his brother back when all of it backfired. Or so he says. In a totally metaphorical way.

Her head hurts.

“No,” Sam patiently says. Even crouched on the ground he seems enormous. And she knows he’s been reading her mind again. She wonders if he’s reading all of their minds as they’re standing around him. Even the Cylon minds.

“No,” Sam says again. “This is not a metaphor. None of it is. Check the readings. Smell the air. This was not a nuclear war.”

The counter did detect radioactivity. But not as much as expected. And the air… the air smells of dead sea and ruins. Of burn and sulphur.

“This wasn’t like your war,” Sam says again. “I can fix this. We can fix this. I’ve waited for so long. The vessel and the spark.”

“I don’t understand,” Laura says.

“I know,” he replies. His eyes find and look at each Cylon long and separately.

.:::.

“This is impossible,” D’anna says. “Even if what you say is true, the Resurrection Hub has been…”

“… destroyed,” Sam says. “Doesn’t matter. The knowledge is still there.”

His fingers point at her forehead.

Laura closes her eyes.

“This is insane,” she says. “Sam. Sam, listen to me. I know that you are special and I know that you believe what you say, and I know that you’ve been through a lot. Your mind is trying to cope. Please. Please, tell us what really happened to Earth.”

Sam smiles.

“Ma’am,” he says. “You are trying to save your people. I am trying to save mine. I can bind them back. I can mend them. But I can’t make flesh. The Cylons can. They have before.”

“All of this has happened before and all of it will happen again,” Leoben whispers.

“Sam,” Laura says. “Even if the Cylons do create new bodies… your people are dead. You cannot bring them back.”

“You haven’t been listening. You don’t understand,” Sam says. He gets up. “But you will. I’ll show you. I’ll have to call them.”

“Call who?”

But Sam is already taking a step back stretching to his full height and his eyes are white like clouds as he concentrates. The wind plays with his hair and his shabby clothes.

And the dead come. They swarm around them like flood, like waves, transparent figures of men, women, children murmuring words she can’t understand; they come in hundreds, thousands, covering the land around the people of the Twelve Colonies, covering the ruins, the waves, till all they can see is a moving mass of…

“… souls. We’re not different. Neither of us different. We’re all perfect in the eyes of God.” Baltar is crying.

A lot of her people are. Laura touches her face and realizes it is wet. She is shivering. Her breath comes out like fog.

And the dead murmur louder than the waves.

Sam raises an arm and the murmur subsides. The dead stay still. Only one breaks the uniformity and moves towards Sam, and Laura knows, just knows that this is Dean, the brother Sam scorched the world for.

“These are the souls I could salvage,” Sam says. “Do you believe me now?”

And Laura does, oh she does. This war that was waged was different from theirs, but it left this world a wasteland, too. Just as theirs has been. Just as all wars are.

But she can see it, she can see the future now all too clear, and she doesn’t need any mystical visions. All they need is fresh starts.

Because Sam has spoken the truth and now she believes him: Earth is not a dead world. It is a world of the dead.

But not for long. Not for long.

-The End.

SIDENOTE: Some of the weirdest stuff I’ve written happened cuz I woke up with the concept stuck in my head. Same here.

Howdy hi. Help, please?

2008-06-15T15:49:12Z

I've been off work since Friday (omg yei) but the last weeks have been crazybusy. And so are the days to come. And then I'll be leaving on the 18th or 19th and won't be back till the end of June and I have to-do lists and I really, really need to get everything done before I leave, hence the running around like a crazy chicken. Duck. Whatever. And hence the general absent from lj thing.

In the mean time, it is totally.not.helping waking up with ideas stuck in my head especially since I spent two hours unstucking it from my head. Or de-stucking it. Or, you know.

The point is, I've got a 1,000 word piece written. It's a BSG/SPN xover, gen, with spoilers for 4.10 bsg and 3.16 spn, so you should probably be up-to-date with both verses. Does anyone have time for a really, really quick beta? Just grammar and syntax stuff? Watch me beam at you and tell me you can resist the shiny and the I-will-love-you-forever vibes I'm sending. *nod*

ps I have missed birthdays. I know. I know. I SUCK.

jdsgirlbev, sandwich_zombie happy belated birthday! I hope you had fun and lots of cake (NOT pie) and great prezzies! *is five years old*

strawberry fields

2008-05-26T18:16:37Z

>>strawberry fields

TITLE: strawberry fields

AUTHOR: ultraviolet9a
SPOILER: for most things Supernatural, but mildly.

GENRE: het, crossover with Firefly

CHARACTERS: Dean Winchester/ Kaylee Frye

SUMMARY: Seven months in Serenity Valley.

RATING: very mild R. Just to be on the very safe side.

FEEDBACK: Dude…duh.
DISCLAIMER: Of course I own it all. Ahem. Yeah, right.

NOTE: covers spn_het_love challenge: Eating out. But is mainly a birthday fic for theladyscribe, who wanted some Dean/Kaylee love. Title taken from the Beatles’ song.

BETA: by shiny right_as_rain

He always brings her strawberries. He remembers once driving miles to find a store that’d have them red and ripe and juicy, and the way her dimples folded when she reached out for his offering like a benevolent goddess, with soft mouth and coarse hands. Smell, taste, sight, hint of strawberry, they never fail to bring her to mind. And yeah, well. Sex too. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? Strawberry, sex, sun, Serenity.

Kaylee.

.:::.

She isn’t his first lay, but she is his first love, different from Cassie. Cassie comes later, when Dean is already older and wiser (wearier) in life, and the love for Cassie runs wider than Kaylee but never as deep.

Different kind of love, because back then Dean is different and his family whole, Sam and Dad and Dean moving around towns through states over miles together, and there isn’t a big hole in him (why’d you leave me, Sam) that Cassie should plug. Whole (except for mom. He’ll always miss mom, but memories are tougher to cling to, and Dad and Sam have built bridges over that Grand Canyon that has been in him since The Fire).

Kaylee gets that, gets him, all of him, no matter what (Cassie will try later, she really will), and still she can take him apart and put him together again the way she does with the engines of the cars in her daddy’s garage.

One of the long stretches of staying put that Dean remembers, SerenityValley, almost seven full months, cuz Dad broke his thighbone. Peaceful time, ‘cause Sam stops bitching and enjoys staying in one place, and Dad has always taken pain with a frown and brooding; but he never bitches, not about that, just about how much time they are losing and how many miles, but Sam has logically pointed out how healing has to be done properly, because what good is a hunter with a limp, really? Hunters need to run because more often than not they are hunted, and John can’t disagree with that logic, even when his eyes are saying how much he’d like to bolt out of that door, into the car, down the road. Restless. Dean remembers the restlessness settling down on his father after that November day like fine mist.

So they stay in Serenity Valley. All through spring and summer, leaving with the first rains of September like travelling birds.

.:::.

Spring is cool and summer scorching in Serenity Valley. Dean remembers how the heat seemed to cling to his body, moist, heavy, almost pressing him down.

He remembers Kaylee pressing down on him, hair like a waterfall, smelling of girl and woman, of car and blue skies.

She’s the sweetest thing he’s ever laid eyes on, with a gentle heart, easy manners and the habit of leaning her head against the cars and whispering to them. Only girl he’s ever met to love cars the way he does, and she’s sweet, so sweet and gentle. He doesn’t want to get into her pants (not at first), because he thinks that if he were to have a sister Kaylee would be his pick. They don’t date, they never do, they just hang out together and sometimes, when he picks up the car to go for groceries (Dad patiently immobilized at home) he takes Kaylee for a ride too, ‘cause she loves the purr of the Impala and Dean doesn’t have to hide who he is with her, not really. Not much. They talk about cars and engines and beer and pool and how much school sucks; sometimes she talks about her mom and dad and her older siblings and when she does, Dean sucks in the life of a normal household (especially the stuff about her mom) like a dried-up sponge.

Sometimes (in the late spring and summer, when heat starts its tourniquet pressure) they spend their afternoon on the porch; Dad with his legs resting on a chair and a pillow; Sam with a book on his lap; Dean leaning with his elbows against the steps. Sometimes Kaylee comes over, bringing a pie her mother baked (Dean will always savour it, the taste of pie that smells of mother love) and these afternoons and evenings, spent with easy chatter and even his father brightening up at Kaylee’s good mood, are carved in his memory like perfect moments.

Kaylee feels almost like family. So it comes as an absolute and complete shock when she pushes him gently but firmly against his seat, tells him that he is a freaking moron and then proceeds to do things to him with her mouth and hands that even he has hard time catching up with. It’s the best sex he’s ever had because it’s uncomplicated and surprising; surprising in how eager and open-minded, nimble and skilled Kaylee is, surprising in how easily she moves from little sister to best friend to girlwomansex, surprising in how Dean feels almost seduced and deflowered. He has to laugh at the thought and if there’s one thing that has always stayed with him in the years to come is how much laughter was shared between them.

It is again a run to the store with Kaylee along, and she asked him once again to make a detour out of town and through the fields, because she loves the grass and trees rippling in the wind. He does, too. It’s not the first time they’ve done this route, and it’s not the first time they stop to enjoy the peaceful surroundings, but it’s the first time Kaylee has him park the car just behind the trees they usually park under and it’s the first time she does things to him that no little sister would.

It’s the first time, yeah, but it won’t be the last. Not by a long shot.

When she moves away she is half-naked, sweaty and still panting. She looks at him and laughs and then she tells him to close his mouth or flies will get in and Dean realizes she’s right. His jaw is half-dropped and he sees the whole world, including Kaylee, in a different light.

“I’m parched,” she says. Dean turns to the back seat where the grocery bags are, rumbles through them for cans of coke and then they drink in long greedy gulps.

And then his hands move and find the strawberries. First ripe strawberries of the season. Kaylee eyed them and said her mom made some mean strawberry pie, and so a carton of strawberries is within reach now.

Kaylee takes it in her lap. There’s still grease on her underarm and a small smudge on the right of her neck and Dean loves it, loves her for the way her fingers hold the strawberries to her mouth, the way she closes her eyes when she tastes them. She tells him how she has summer and Dean on her tongue now, and it sends a new jolt down his groin and a clench in his stomach. Then she’s feeding him strawberries with new flecks of red on her fingers and lips, and then Dean is the one pressing down on her, taste of her mouth and strawberries and sweat exploding on his palette.

It’s a good, good summer. She’s not his girlfriend, not exactly. They never actually date. Theirs is a different bond. But, as far as Dean’s concerned, Serenity is always about summer and Kaylee and sex. And strawberries.

.:::.

After September, they don’t keep in touch. Kaylee tells him that phone calls are just a sure way of never dropping by again, and so are letters. Her eyes are shiny with held back tears, matching the first rain clouds in the sky.

And in the years to come Dean does drop by, but she’s not there. She’s on a road trip, her mother says, and Dean smiles and hands her the carton of strawberries and eats the piece of apple pie she offers and then drives away again, the miles and the road connecting Kaylee to him in a way he can’t explain. He doesn’t leave a message.

The second time he drops by, no one is there. A neighbour fills him in. Dean’s heart is thudding, thinking of everything: car crash, fire, bullets.

“Older sister got married in California,” the man says. “They’re all there.”

Dean doesn’t ask for details. He lets out a sigh of relief at his fears.

He eats the strawberries sitting in the Impala, licking his fingertips, thinking how somewhere under the sun Kaylee is happy and whole, and that is enough.

.:::.

And then come other times. Times with Cassie, and Sam away, and darker years and everything avalanching. He doesn’t drop by again and he doesn’t think about it. When it’s all over, he thinks, he can make time to catch up with her, the way he did with Lisa.

But time isn’t endless like in the summer under the trees in Serenity. Time is running out and it’s not something he can make anymore.

Still, he’s here. He has to try.

Third time’s the charm. There’s light in the windows.

He knocks on the door. When Kaylee answers it, he’s holding the strawberries in front of him as if that could explain everything. And it does, because Kaylee takes them, and in Serenity Valley, for a while, time stands still for Dean.

-The End.

SIDENOTE: This story started in a different manner and went on hold. Then I came back and wrote it anew. It didn’t take the direction I expected, really, and I’m kind of like huh, because stories are sometimes weird that way.

wave

2008-05-12T20:14:37Z

It's all good. Great. Excellent. *does a Jensen jig to not jinx anything* (<= if Jared has a shimmy, then Jensen deserves at least a jig, don't you think?)

So so so sorry for not replying back yet. Will catch up with everything as soon as I can. Which I hope will be tomorrow. (insert questionmark of dubiousness...ness... dubiosity... something...here.)

Shiny mode activate! *does more of the Jensen gig*

*smishyhug*

Bye.

Good Intentions

2008-05-05T12:50:12Z

>>Good Intentions

TITLE: Good Intentions

AUTHOR: ultraviolet9a
SPOILER: for all things Supernatural up to 3.14

GENRE: gen

CHARACTERS: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, John Winchester

SUMMARY: You wouldn’t believe me if I told you anyway. It’ll make more sense in the end.

RATING: pg13

FEEDBACK: Dude…duh.
DISCLAIMER: I own just the words and the intentions really. Rather, I suspect the Winchesters own me.

NOTE: covers found_fic_spnchallenge 32. And is mainly a birthday fic for phantomas, who wanted something with John Winchester in it. I hope you like it, love.

NOTE2: beta by cookie-sweet tiffosis.

Be happy while you’re living

for you’re a long time dead.

Scottish Proverb.

“It’s paved with them, you know,” John says looking at the ground, backside resting against the cooling metal covering the engine. Dean nods at Sam’s incredulous face.

“It is, Sam. I’ve been there.”

He’s right next to his father, leaning against the Impala, both like statues cut out of the same marble, from the rolled up sleeves down to the slight tilt of the head and the spark in the eyes.

The Impala is glinting in the sun, as bright as the grin Dean throws his father.

Sam’s frown is still dubious.

“You mean, like… paved?” He waves the subject away and the frown is smooth skin again. “You’re just screwing with me guys.”

He’s standing across them, legs wide apart like a big sturdy tree; he rocks on the balls of his feet as if in sync to the wind, some strange choreography that has him moving in tandem with the lush big trees around them, but every once in a while his hand moves to touch either John or Dean, as if flesh touching flesh is proof of life.

It’s warm. It’s peaceful. If they stick out their tongues they could catch the scent of summer in their mouths.

They don’t. Their eyes are locked to each other and the road stretching away, because only family and miles matter.

“No, Sam, not exactly like paved,” John says. His head still carries the tilt, and he’s looking at his younger son lopsided, all love and dimples.

“But you just said ‘it’s paved with them, you know.’ Those were your exact words, Dad.”

“Figure of speech,” John replies without missing a beat. Sam rolls his eyes.

“It’s either paved, or it isn’t.”

“It’s not like that,” Dean quietly says. “It’s hard to explain. It’s just that sometimes… sometimes in Hell you feel others. Don’t you remember?”

“No,” Sam says. “That part is a blur.”

“Their pain, Sammy. Their pleading,” John explains. “People are always trying to explain how they have good reason to do what they did and how they don’t deserve to be in Hell.”

Sam lets his eyes sweep from his father to his brother and his mouth is one clenched line.

“Sometimes they don’t deserve it, boys, but they have hell of a good reason,” John says quietly as if reading his thoughts. “Sometimes they really do. And they wouldn’t change that choice.”

“And sometimes they deserve it even if they’re the good guys,” Dean says. “It’s like dating.”

John’s head swerves to him.

“Come again?”

“Well, it’s like, you hook up with this chick and you have an awesome time but that’s about it. And the next day she shows up with flowers at your door and doesn’t understand that it’s not meant to go on.”

Sam dips his chin in the air.

“And that is relevant because?”

“Every girl has the potential to become a bouquet-carrying beast, that’s what I’m saying. Just like everyone has the potential to go to Hell. Good intentions and all that.”

“Dean?” Sam says. “Don’t do metaphors. Please.”

“Thing is,” John says shoving his hands in his pockets, “after all these hours we still haven’t got a damn clue why we are here. Or how we’re here. It’s… it’s nuts.”

“I know, Dad,” Dean replies. His eyes begin to glimmer and his voice grows more quiet. “I’m still afraid that nothing of this is real. That I’m just a djin’s soda. That everything’s fake, like that phone call. That I’m not here with you or Sam. That it’s just a dream or a Trickster.”

Sam frowns at the last word.

“What djin?” John asks. “What phonecall? What Trickster?”

“Long story, Dad. And I still think we should call Bobby.”

“No, Dean,” Sam says. “If we call, he’ll think we’re the Crocotta or something.”

Dean shrugs.

“Fine. So we’ll just show up at his doorstep and give him a heart attack.”

“And get our asses full of rocksalt,” John sighs then looks at the sky. “We’re wasting daylight. Let’s go.”

“Yessir.”

Dean moves to open the door when John grabs him by the shoulder, the other hand already on Sam.

“I don’t know how we got here, boys. Or why. And I don’t think I care either.”

The embrace lasts for seconds. It seems to last forever.

Then the Impala’s engine rumbles, and then she’s conquering the road once more.

….

The black car is getting smaller in the distance when two shapes materialize as if they’d been standing there all along, hidden and created by the shadow and the light the tree leaves are throwing.

“Let’s hope they get it right this time,” the Trickster says. “I can’t keep on making the same loop, it’s starting to get boring. If you want Azazel and Lilith out of the way, I just don’t see why you don’t do it yourself.”

“Patience, my friend,” the man replies. He’s beautiful and radiant like a morning star. His suit is a dark muted silk. “They’re learning.”

“They’re learning too much,” the Trickster chuckles. “Sam brought Hell down to get Dean back. Without me you’d be toast.”

“We’d all be toast. The whole damned world.” The man reaches inside his jacket and pulls out two cigars. One he gives to his companion; the other lights up as soon as it touches his mouth. He inhales, pure pleasure written over his perfect face.

“Why do you think The Powers That Be never interfere?”

“Evil is always more proactive?”

“Evil and good… relative terms,” the man says. “The world is defined by binaries. If you want light, you’ve got to have shadows.”

“And you can’t have shadows without the light.”

“Something like that. Tell me, Loki, why’d you let them keep their memories?”

“They’ll fade the minute the sun sets. The timeline will start again.”

“You gave them a day of joy.”

“Of confusion really. You know me. Good intentions aren’t really my thing, Lord.”

“Ah… but they are mine. Good intentions,” he muses. “Couldn’t pave my kingdom without them. At least the Winchesters got that part right.”

The breeze moves through the trees. Summer moves on. The world moves on as time starts unfolding.

Then they are gone.

-The End.

SIDENOTE: Uhm. Don’t even ask me what I was thinking. Cuz seriously? I have no fucking clue.

Dear Sammy,

2008-05-03T08:17:57Z

I know you hate being called that since I'm not Dean, but I'm pretty enough to get away with it. Probably.

So anyway, it was your birthday yesterday and I completely forgot about it; I was pretty much hyper all day long, because I knew I would come crashing down today. Cuz my brother left, see, and I'll see him in two months again and I'm all emo now. :( And I know you are rolling your eyes right now ~~because clearly i'm infringing on your emo copyright~~ because your brother issues are definitely more serious, but. You know.

So anyway, I wanted to wish you good stuff, like getting laid once in a while (though that would be for my visual benefit mostly) or, you know, walking around naked (ahem), but I know that is no birthday wish (unless we're talking about my birthday).

So I just wish you that Kripke doesn't whump you too much. And doesn't whump Dean either. I know you love him, you see. And you can't live without him and it would totally suck if Kripke gives us a heartattack with a cliffhanger on Dean's deal ~~HEAR THAT, KRIPKE?~~ but either way... well. There's fanfic, right? What displeases us can always be changed or worked around in fic ~~and if you walked around naked some more I bet fangirls would totally facilitate that.~~

So. Happy birthday, Sam Winchester. May lots of Unicornia sparkles fall upon you and Dean.

Much, much love,
ultravee

ps I'm going to make another pie now. A savoury one, probably. A quiche, maybe. Everybody knows that talking to ~~fictional characters~~ a Winchester in combination with food is an instant shiny explosion. So there.
And Sam? If you happen to be around the neighbourhood, do drop by, and bring Dean, too. You're totally entitled to a piece of me the quiche.

just like

2008-04-26T18:32:00Z

>> just like

TITLE: just like

AUTHOR: ultraviolet9a
SPOILER: up to and including 3.13.

GENRE: Gen.

CHARACTERS: Sam Winchester and characters from 3.13 which would be a spoiler to mention, so erring on the safe side yadda yadda.

SUMMARY: Several months after 3.13. All else would be spoilers.

RATING: PG-13.
FEEDBACK: Dude…duh.
DISCLAIMER: I totally own them (in my head. Currently bled dry by a djin, see.)

NOTE: happily covers the found_fic_spnchallenge 31.

NOTE2: beta by shiny tiffosis.

Ten months after Spruce leaves them, seven months after she loses her virginity to Harry and two hours after Harry and Ed try to kill her (dead say it dead not gone just dead) Maggie finds the small piece of paper in Harry’s wallet. It’s drenched in blood (so much blood. It always ends in blood, shit and fear and blood, she has learned that by now, should have learned it long ago when Corbett delivered the lesson) and her thumb runs circles over it as she holds it in her palm. She flips the wallet back open, looks at the photo of her and Ed and Harry and Spruce and Corbett - Ghostfacers Inc., blood smeared on the plastic cover, like an omen of things to come. Of things that have come. Not an omen. A testament.

Then she picks up the phone and dials the number. She clears her throat before she speaks and forces all other noises down. When she does, her voice seems to come from far away, from a person that can’t be her. Maybe it’s not. Maybe the salt that separates between death and safety somehow distorts her reality, but her silent tears are scorching as they fall and they are salt too, and they do not lie.

One tear falls on the salt on the floor and she thinks, that’s saltwater. Like the sea. Harry always talked about getting rich and buying a yacht and drinking margaritas on a Mexican beach. Ed loved it. Secretly, she did too.

“Maggie?” Sam says over the phone when she’s done.

“Can’t leave,” she says. Her teeth are beginning to chatter again. “Can’t leave. Not like this.”

“Maggie. Listen to me. I’m just a few hours away.” She forces her breathing down to hear him. “I’m coming for you. Stay put.”

She does.

Click.

The dead line feels like a door closing.

Opposite the barriers of salt, Harry and Ed are sitting cross-legged on the floor watching her.

“You can’t stay like this forever,” Ed croons. “And you know he’s not really going to help. Why would he, Maggie? For someone like you?”

“Ed, please…” she whimpers.

“Ed, please,” Harry mocks. “Please, Ed, please. That’s how you were begging for it, bitch, and you know, you weren’t even worth it.”

She flinches.

“Come on, Maggie. Break the circle. Be a good girl. You know you deserve it. It’s your fault after all. You shot us.”

“Oh don’t be like that, Harry. We love you, Maggie,” Ed says. “You know we do. Ghostfacers all the way. Come on, Mags.”

And it feels just like Ed, and just like Harry, and she wants it so bad. So bad.

“Come on, little sister,” Ed says opening his arms. “Gimme a hug and I’ll call it even.”

“Come on, love,” Harry says. “We’re family.”

It’ll go on for hours, she knows. Hours till help comes, and she can’t leave.

First it was pleading and cajoling and lies that twisted her gut with their truth (God damned bitch, you always think that I am lying about everything, why, Maggie, why did you shoot me?), then it was threats, then it was them screaming, then it was her screaming, almost losing her mind, teeth chattering with the oncoming cold of night and fear. Then she stretched her arm and got Harry’s torn jacket, tried to throw it around her shoulders for warmth, and her hand touched his wallet. And she called.

It’s too much.

Hours of tainted words and taunting and nightmare stories from them. She hopes Sam can come in time. She doesn’t know how much more she can take of it before reality unravels around her.

“Mags,” Harry says. His voice is tender. His eyes are black.

Maggie huddles into a ball, hides her face on her knees and starts crying.

.:::.

“You did good,” Sam says.

The night should smell of oncoming daylight. It smells of loss. Salt and fire.

At least this way Ed and Harry will never get caught in a loop. They’re the lucky ones, Maggie’s thinking, she’s the one in the loop now, dreaming and waking to the same nightmares over and over again.

“You did the right thing,” Sam says. “If you hadn’t shot them, if you hadn’t trapped them in salt in time, you’d be dead. Others would be dead, too. You had no choice.”

“I didn’t mean to,” she says, but truth is, she did. She did. They came to kill her and there was no margin to think of anything else except afraid and survive.

“The demons?” she asks for the nth time. “Are they gone?”

“Went back straight to Hell,” Sam replies as if she hadn’t asked before.

“And Ed and Harry? They’re not in Hell, are they?”

“No,” Sam says. She watches his jaw clench. “They’re not in Hell.”

There’s something so hard and pained and wistful when he says it that her fingers reach out to his. He doesn’t push them away.

She wishes she could cry, cry at the layers and the darkness of the world, cry at her guilt and loss, cry because she knows that no other day will ever hold so much pain and terror in her life, no other day will ever follow her like this. But for now something in her has shifted and her eyes are dry, watching the paths of unfolding futures. It all clicks into place.

She can see a future where she’ll get back home and tell what happened and end up with a punch in the face and a straitjacket. Or a future where she’ll get back home and never utter the truth, and the truth will grow like cancer in her and eat her alive.

And she can see a future where she’ll never get back home, because home died with Ed and Harry and Maggie-that-was. Where she’ll ride in the black car and have Sam ride her in cheap motel rooms; where he teaches her how to take all those shadows down, because she’s just like him now; where she turns like bitter earth and all she feels is darkness and shit and blood under her skin; where all that binds her to this life is memory and the need for redemption.

She’s one of them now. The real ghostfacers. Or hunters. Or whatever they’re called. She’s one of them. Cut off from the normal world, but part of them. Part of the shadows.

And she can see it, sense it on her skin already, feel herself turn to steel and bitterness. No oncoming daylight. Scent of loss, salt and fire. Her scent. Sam’s scent.

“Dean’s gone, isn’t he?”

Sam nods.

She squeezes his hand.

“Let’s go.”

He doesn’t let go till they reach the car.

As they leave miles and lives behind them, Maggie falls asleep to the purr of the engine.

-The End.

SIDENOTE: I have no idea where this came from. Except that for some reason, I liked Maggie. And I thought, imagine if she really got caught in a hunter’s reality, the gritty, cruel reality of it. So I made her get caught. (Don’t judge me. She’s going to have Sam sex in future, that’s compensation enough for the shit I put her through, right? Right?)

Flail (spoilerfree), meme

2008-04-25T15:37:04Z

OMFG. I did miss our boys so much. HI SHOW, HI!

So much, that I couldn't resist and I took a sneakpeek (or is it sneek peak?) at the preview for next week and now i'm like OMFG!!!!!! flailyflailyflail!!!. (Worry not, this is spoilerfree zone. My tale stops at the 'flail'. )

And meme i've seen floating around.

COOL! Especially considering that I freaking hate maraschino cherries! And apparently I grunt (like John Winchester or Bobby) AND I HAVE A BLADED BASEBALL BAT! HAH! I'm awesome! I'm Batwoman! *dance of joy* (See? It is not random. My nephew was really on to something.)

meme time!

2008-04-22T21:30:55Z

I ~~spent all afternoon brooding, moping, playing zombie mansion on my cell phone and room escape games online and I am failing to do anything constructive (but i did wash my car. Go me)~~ am kinda not very hyper, therefore I am stealing memes from buffyaddict13I meme.

Based entirely on my personality (so if you've met me before, block what I really look like out of your mind), hunt down a "played by" who you think would best represent me. Reply here with the picture or link.

(Also, if you know any other fun memes, linky please. I'd shower you with sparkly and good vibes stuff. I wanted to say something else but forgot. Mashpotatobrain.)

Journeys

2008-04-17T18:20:01Z

>> Journeys

TITLE: Journeys

AUTHOR: ultraviolet9a
SPOILER: generic spoilers for all three shows, but nothing much IMHO. Except for SPN where there are mild spoilers all around up to 3.12.

GENRE: Gen. Crossover between SPN/Doctor Who/Criminal Minds. (Yes. I know. Don’t judge.)

CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam, the Doctor, Spencer Reid

SUMMARY: Conditioners. Frizz. Screwdrivers. Journeys. It’s not crack, though.

RATING: pg13
FEEDBACK: Dude…duh.
DISCLAIMER: I don’t own them. Bugrit.

NOTE: The story started here, and I was offered cookies and a spleen in return. You know me, I can never turn a good spleen ‘n cookie down. And then I thought, oooooh the prompt the dragonz suggested for her birthday works excellent here too. (What? I’m multitasking.)

NOTE2: beta by very shiny buffyaddict13. Her contribution in the Reid talk was amazing.

It is good to have an end to journey toward;

but it is the journey that matters, in the end.

Ursula K. LeGuin.

It’s strange holing up in the TARDIS, though ‘holing up’ is the wrong word to begin with, cuz, dude, the place is huge. It should have come as no surprise, not with what he’s seen, not with what he’s been through, but here he is, here both of them are, in a freaking spaceship (“Time-machine cum spaceship,” Reid said the first day and Dean wanted to throttle him), and Dean’s not even feeling the need to hum Metallica anymore. Well. At least not loud enough for Sam to hear, though the Doctor rolls his eyes or whistles along as if he knows.

Once he even patted Dean on the shoulder telling him to relax, they weren’t actually flying. They were fazing in and out as they moved through dimensions, time, whatever, and Dean had stopped humming anything. There was no spit left for that, his mouth had run that kind of dry.

And the Doctor was chuckling, and then Sam was too. Superhearing bastards.

Dean smiles.

It was about fucking time they got a break. Here he’s been, running out of time, then running into a Timelord. Whatever the fuck he is, Dean’s grateful he’s one of the good guys.

Cuz it’s the Doctor’s screwdriver that gets Lilith out of the way, and Dean thinks that makes him even with the Doctor. Dean’s saved his life, too, after all. Admittedly, from Sam, but a life saved is a life saved, right? Was kinda hard getting through to Sam, too, telling him how that was not the Trickster. Sam seemed to be tripping, a kind of cold panic radiating around him in waves, pulse after pulse after pulse, muscles clenched and eyes… Dean thinks he remembers those eyes, remembers them from a lifetime ago, when all he could breathe was the ashes of what home had been. Same eyes were on dad then, and Dean remembers, cuz he’s seen them more recently in his own mirror, after the whole dream tripping. And now on Sam, eyes of those hovering close to the edge contemplating loss and dive off. Fuck, it scared Dean. It still does.

Goddammit, till Sam lowered the Colt? Dean’s heart had stopped beating.

“Mine, too,” the Doctor had said as if reading his mind. “Both of them.”

Dean has still no idea what that’s supposed to mean. Doesn’t matter.

For now it’s all good. It’s safe. What looked like a police box from the outside actually fits his Impala inside and Dean still can’t wrap his mind around it, even as the Doc rambles on and on about timey wimey spacey wibbly wobbly stuff and dimensional transcendence. It should have sounded insane, but he actually makes sense. Much more sense than Reid whenever he goes on about the space/time continuum. Dean’s willing to take the wibbly wobbly theory any day.

Dean has no idea how the Doctor took Reid in (and it feels that way, Reid doesn’t feel like a guest at all, more like a younger and occasionally annoying sibling, the way the Doctor looks at him sometimes, all affection and sadness and… unreadability, as if he’s watching parts of himself from a distance. It’s different from the way he’s looking at him and Sam. It’s not the look of equals exactly, but it’s the look of one who knows more than he lets on.) Reid is just in the TARDIS with them, and he looks like a kid in a candy store. He’s riding the sugar-high, alright, the way he’s hovering and touching the TARDIS as if it’s the Holy Grail of Geekdom. Dean shifts his eyes to Sam, who merely shrugs.

“I really want to study your sonic screwdriver, Mr Who,” Reid says and Dean’s eyes turn to him. “I think I’ve been here long enough. You know…you know you can trust me. You’ve shown me the TARDIS basics, couldn’t I see the screwdriver as well?”

“You are not touching my screwdriver,” the Doctor says, cocking his eyebrow. He looks amused. “I’ve seen your slight of hand.”

“Whoa,” Dean says. “That sounds dirty. Should we leave you two alone?”

Reid and the Doctor completely ignore him.

“And for the last time, don’t call me Mr Who, call me Doctor. I am the Doctor, you know.”

“No, you’re just a doctor,” Reid says really slowly with the cadence of someone who’s had this conversation too many times and that with a loon. “Because for that matter, so am I, but I don’t insist on using my title the whole time, do I?” Reid considers. “Well, not all the time.”

“Actually,” Sam cuts in, “you do.”

“Oh,” Reid frowns. “But I am a Doctor.”

“Well, so am I,” the Doctor says. “In fact I am the Doctor.”

“Yes, but…”

“Oh, for crying out loud!” Dean says.

“You know, my other companions weren’t so stuck up on names,” the Doctor says shoving his hands in his pockets, standing with legs apart like an old Western Cowboy.

“I don’t really like the term ‘companion’,” Reid says. “It sounds very passive. You know I just came for the ride,” he adds softly.

“Yep, we should definitely leave you two alone,” Dean mumbles.

The Doctor shrugs.

“Fine. You’re not my companion. My companions tend to have prettier hair anyway.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?!”

“Well…”, the Doctor says and his hands move as fast as Dean’s on a gun and the screwdriver blinks blue and white, “your hair is rubbish.”

And then he starts giggling. If anyone could bottle up glee and sell it in bottles, the Doctor would have already been processed. He’s laughing with eyes and mouth and body, hands slapping his knees and it’s hard not to join along, especially once you catch sight of Reid’s head. His hair is standing around in all angles, as if he’s been caught in a storm of static.

Reid reaches with careful hands.

“Frizz,” he says. “You made my hair extra frizzy and uber-hovering. Very mature, Mr Who.”

“I pride myself in my maturity,” the Doctor says winking at Dean, who’s doubled up, still laughing, but his laughter dies out when he realizes that Sam is looking at them shocked.

“I…” Sam says. “It’ll be okay, Reid. You’ll be okay in no time. We can fix this.”

“Dude,” Dean says. “I knew you were attached to your hair but…”

“I’ll give you some of my hair conditioner,” Sam continues.

“The one that makes his hair so soft and silky,” Dean scoffs.

Sam Winchester was ready to kill anyone and anything in their path if it meant Dean harm. Sam Winchester readily accepted time and space travelling. Maybe the whole space time thingy waggled Sam’s brain cuz the same Sam Winchester is now freaking cuz Reid’s hair is like a nuclear explosion, like a dark-haired Bozo’s… and suddenly Dean gets it.

“Dude… do you hate clowns cuz of their hair?!”

Sam’s mouth is one tight line.

“Let it go, Dean.”

By God. Dean will never let that one go. Ever.

“Clowns are a creepy bunch,” the Doctor cuts in, eyes alight with interest. “The stories I could tell you…”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Sam says too quickly and Dean chuckles. “But, Spence, man, seriously, just take my conditioner. Just take it.”

“Thank you,” Reid says. “I will. But right now I’m actually more interested in how the screwdriver did that. If I call you the Doctor and not Mr Who, will you let me study it? Under your supervision, of course?”

“You don’t get laid much, do you?” Dean asks.

“Get laid?”

“You know. Sex. Chicks. You know?”

He’s gesturing wildly in the air. He doesn’t think he can handle another case of virginity so soon.

“I have an IQ of 180 and you’re talking to me about…about girls? I mean women?” He looks flustered, then he frowns at Dean, crosses his arms, and leans against the control panel. “And by the way, that’s a totally offensive term.” He turns back to the Time Lord, ignoring Dean. “So, doctor. Do we have a deal?”

The Doctor rolls his eyes, but seems pleased, as if somehow he’s won a war.

“Fine,” he says, grabbing Reid by his shoulder and manoeuvring him to a table with wibbly wobbly machinery. “I’ll show you how the bloody thing works.”

Soon both are engrossed in their work, Reid’s hair floating around like a weird halo, or, you know, a clown wig.

(“Dude,” Dean whispered to Sam that night day whatever in the quarters given to them when it was all done and explained and the cards laid out. “Everything I ever said about your hair? I take it back. There are people with uglier haircuts than yours.”

Sam rolled his eyes and then both collapsed into sleep that felt like centuries.)

And yeah, Reid is a totally different story. Dean thinks that Reid is the way Sam would be if he didn’t have the beneficial influence of Dean Winchester in his life. From where he’s standing? Sam’s owing him big time, cuz dude, Reid’s dress code? Dean clicks his tongue against his teeth. And yet there it is. If you ignore the weird shirts and chequered sweaters and actually manage to focus on the guy, what you see is not what you get. There’s that edge again, IQ laced with eccentricity and sadness. It’s strange, but Reid reminds him of Ash, like two sides of the same coin.

Dean lets out a sigh. He misses Ash. He wished he hadn’t died. He wished that no one had died, because that’s been the story of people caught in the Winchester trail. Victor, Nancy, so many more names to add to the list, but he can’t change that. He bites down the thought, forces it to take earlier paths.

Now, the Doctor, Dean’s willing to admit, has style. It takes cojones to wear those striped suites, the sneakers, the accent and that sort of hair and get away with it.

And, Dean thinks, leaning back and feeling the worlds around him fade in and out, it’s great being able to think silly thoughts without agony consuming you. It’s great watching your brother hover near the Doctor and the kid listening to the lecture on the screwdriver with shoulders unclenched, less burdened.

When you run out of time, it’s great finding a place that is timeless, a place where time isn’t a river to drown you, but water parting around you as if you’re separated by a safe warm force field looking at you with eyes full of mischief.

And yeah, he misses Bobby like hell. Misses his world and the road and the hunting. But here they are safe. Here the hellhounds can’t find them. Here he doesn’t always have nightmares. Here he knows (cuz the Doctor promised him) that the timeline can be meddled with and wrongs can be righted. Soon.

Soon.

But not just yet.

Journeys aren’t always measured in miles and the road isn’t always asphalt. But here’s Sam and the Impala and new friends and a future. And that’s a road trip, alright.

Dean doesn’t need more than that.

-The End.

SIDENOTE: pdragon76’s prompt was ‘I want a happy Dean’. Hope you like it, doll. *smish*

HELP! HELP! HELP OH YOU SHINY PEOPLE.

2008-04-17T15:33:25Z

Uh... remember how I promised

buffyaddict13 and tiffosis(and another shiny person that shall be unnamed yet cuz it includes her birthday prompt too OMG YEI i'm going for surprise here, though i'm lousy at it) i'd write a xover that includes SPN/Dr Who/Criminal Minds including frizz shampoo screwdrivers and god help me i have no idea what else? Or...uhm... maybe you don't remember it cuz maybe i haven't mentioned it, BUT. The point is.

Uhm. God help me, I have written it.

Beta help pretty pretty pretty please? It's only four and a half pages long (ca 1900 words) and the thing is, grammar and syntax aside, it'd be awesome if you knew who Spencer Reid and Dr Who are, cuz the thing is, I don't know them that well and i'm kinda... uhm. Insecure about them. And... anything really.

HEEEEELP! *weeps*

OMFG

2008-04-07T17:42:00Z

This is like... like showing up to a party after the party is finished and the floors are sweeped, but come on. There are too many shows and I can't keep up at real time and yadda yadda and what i wanted to say is that OMFG. BSG.

I've only reached 2.07, and the thing that stuns me most is that usual factors aside, like ok, Helo is smokin' hot ,and so are Kara and Six and i don't even swing that way, and the music cinematography blah blah, and how much i love the references to ancient Greece, cuz hello, cultural background here, but the thing that stuns me most is that, no matter how much i love pretty much all characters, witha special fascination for Starbuck and Helo amongst others, I love the Old Man and Laura Roslin most of all. Watching them fills me with peace. I love the fact that it's not about pride or ego or whatever, they're just trying to do what is best for the human race and when they frak up they find a way to fix it. Or try to anyway. I love that Adama knows when to step back and i love that Laura with her easy smooth voice and the steel inside her doesn't budge. I love that tango they got going. Not as a pairing, more like forces of nature. I love how quietly they speak, how tired they are yet they're still standing.

Does that make sense?

Also, please do not spoil me. I know i'm way behind and late to the party, but hey. I got my best dress on and my dancing shoes. Must be counting for something.

((so say we all))

ps my plot donkeys are very quiet in their stable. They're watching me with big eyes and saying nuh-uh, we don't want to go for a ride just yet. It kinda sucks, but it's their stable.

This is the journal of an Ex Kick-Ass Elementary Schoolgirl

Salvage

Howdy hi. Help, please?

strawberry fields

*wave*

Good Intentions

Dear Sammy,

just like

Flail (spoilerfree), meme

meme time!

Journeys

HELP! HELP! HELP OH YOU SHINY PEOPLE.

OMFG

wave