#fakingpsychic

[nonquiegoeram]

“You’re in the wrong profession—you should be writing for the movies.”

“Oh really, And what exactly makes you think that?”

[psych-as-in-gotcha-blog]

“Were you robbed or is kinky foreplay gone wrong the reason you’re tied up?”

“I like bondage but I don’t like being stranded after the fact, so the former.”

“So unless you’re planning on anything, could you help me out of this?”

[psych-as-in-gotcha-blog]

fakingpsychic 

“I’m telling you right now, blonde would not be the right color, any color actually besides the one you have would be bad.” He stated, smiling softly at him. “Not like either one of us can’t fill in for the other, we are the same person after all.”

"You think so?" Shawn smiles a bit, a little flattered. He probably should've expected the compliment, since they looked almost identical, aside from a few minor differences because of their age gap. Still, it was nice to hear. "I kinda like yours more, even though they're almost the same. I guess it's just the age thing."

[notabluecaprice]

+1| fakingpsychic hitched a ride

So this man was a psychic? Baby made a face as he watched the man work, idly wondering if taking a hunt out in Santa Barbara without Sam or Dean had been a good idea. Sure, they were nearby for backup, but with this guy around, his job was going to be so much harder... 

[i-am-deanwinchester]

Part of Your World

animascontritum

Shawn pulled his hand back as the man stilled. “I uh..did you um..you know?” He asked, blushing beat red at the idea that he hair of a merman off. That was one hell of a thing to add to his list of weird ass accomplishments. “Nice to meet you too.” He chuckled, looking down to Dean as he moved closer to him.

“What? Treasure? Wait there’s treasure out there?” He asked, looking to the ocean. “Well..that could be interesting. No..no it’s fine you don’t have to pay me to come back.”

__________________________________________________________

Dean nibbled his lower lip and turned a matching shade of red. “Yeah,” he murmured, slipping down to attach his lips to the inside of Shawn’s thigh.

He stopped what he was doing when he heard Shawn’s response. “So..you’d just come back on your own?” The merman tilted his head and slid back up to press his nose to the human’s; he’d never learned the concept of personal space.

[theflamesthesword]

Fake It Till You Make It

Michael stands over a table bearing coffee and various condiments, staring at them with such a look of concentration that no one nears him. He’s been given this treatment for several months. Passed around the police stations like a hot potato. Here he has company. A very stern faced detective named Lassiter has thrown two files and reprimanded three people very loudly. Michael identifies with him on a deep emotional level, but dare not say anything for fear of teasing.

He forces himself to move and take a cup of coffee though he knows that it’s both unnecessary and probably bad for him. As this was his first day, he had not eaten any breakfast and coffee always gave him cramps if he drank it without food. The need to have an excuse to stay standing was stronger however than his dislike for feeling mild pain. If he could handle walking ten miles on a broken ankle with no painkillers, he could handle cramps from coffee and no food. As he poured the coffee, he fingered the Saint Michael's medallion slung round his throat. He took a breath and internally began reciting all the prayers he knew, and then attempted to translate them to Latin in his head as he poured an obscene number of sugar packets into his coffee.

There’s a commotion in the next room, beyond the doors he was hidden away behind, and while Michael was not interested by a random spectacle, another good excuse to stay standing up (and not have to face the reality of sitting at an empty desk or aimlessly pace the precinct) was welcome. He took a sip of his rapidly cooling coffee and stuck his head out into the hall, spying a rather spry looking white man talking animatedly to Carlton Lassiter.

Michael steps into the hall, watching the two of them bicker and fight, drinking his coffee with a small smile. Human interaction was always such a sight for him, no matter what it was. More often than not he found it pitiful, but fights like these reminded him of home with his brother.

The Chief of Police taps his shoulder then and makes a comment about having time to watch fools and the correlation to lack of work. She hands him a folder and tells him it’s a case with little evidence, but a great need to be off her hands.

“Take Spencer away from Lassiter for a case, will you? The two of them are going to rip each other’s heads off,” she drawls. Michael nods firmly, informally saluting with the corner of the file.

“It’ll be a good way to wet your feet, too. Being in the SBPD means dealing with our resident psychic,” she adds.

Michael nods firmly, assuming falsely she had meant to say ‘sidekick’ as a jab towards the man, and informally saluting her with the corner of the file.

She looks him over with a wary eye before leaving him to it. He only realizes then that he doesn’t know who Spencer is. McNab confirms for him that it is no other than the man arguing with Lassiter now.

Michael nods and thanks him politely, waving off any warnings about approaching the two of them. He steps right on up to Spencer, his near lame ankle showing in his stiff walk, but he still carries himself with pride and control. His hair is gelled neatly into place, his nails meticulously groomed, matching the rest of him, and his medallion resting beneath his tie, his dogs tags beneath his shirt. He stands in the typical way a soldier stands, and he’s proud to have served his country, but eternally grateful he will have to do it again. He did bad things overseas and it shows in the aging of his face.

“Spencer, am I correct?” he asks, holding a hand out towards Shawn, the folder clasped in the other.