Nash! Sam. In the gym/training for one of those Ironman/CrossFit/ninja competitions. Dean finding out (but Sam not telling him bc he doesnât want Dean to tease), and Dean showing up the day of the competition to support and watch his little bro kiss ass!
Now, Klainey, Iâm putting this in the pile because something to do with the gym and training and whatnot is a solid premise that sparks some lightbulbs but that autocorrect has got me rolling....
Sam: âYouâve got really toned calves!â
Runner beside Sam:Â âWhat?â
Sam: âAnd your hair looks fantastic, what product do you use?â
Runner:Â âAre you trying to distract me or something?â
Sam:Â âHow do you not smell? Actually, you smell great, is that deodorant, or---â
Dean, from sidelines, yelling:Â âSAM! STOP KISSING HIS ASS AND START KICKING IT!â
A/N: Crowley leaves the little witch alone to negotiate with the Winchesters. But will his demons step out of line when the King is away?
Chapter Two; Cautious
Precious Tag List:
@klaineaholic
@roxy-davenport
How many nights had it been since he had taken her to the dark and isolated place he called home? How many days had passed since she had glimpsed daylight through the flutter of the curtains? She had barely been able to keep track of the days that blurred into nights in what seemed like a record left on repeat.
Crowley had left the night before to attempt some callous negotiations with the Winchesters. Of course, he had left the demons in charge of her capture, left them with stern orders, as she eavesdropped through the door. Orders that directed them to make sure, under no circumstancesâ that should she find the courage to attempt to escapeâ that it would be her biggest mistake.
She groaned, the palms of her hands pressed firmly against her face.
It was another morning of endless captivity. Just another morning where the sun didn't shine quite as brightly as it should. She rubbed her weary eyes, casting her blurred vision to the dormant window. Inhaling the stagnant air within her quiet room, her chest rose with a labored heave. The dust of untouched objects tickled her nose, the flecks wafting between the thin string of sunlight.
Another labored breath and she forced herself to climb out of the oversized bed. She couldn't stay in the confines of those comforters all day. Their name giving her no comfort, whatsoever.
The corridor was quiet, no guard stationed outside her door. She swallowed the anxiety that crept up the back of her throat, and cautiously stepped outside the bedroom. Looking to her left, she found no one. Looking to her right, she found the same silence. The weary woman began her journey down the long hallway, her bare feet adding little noise as she crept along. A winding staircase swept downwards, leading to an empty foyer. Again, she found no signs of the demonic guards.
It was almost more unsettling than she would have once believed.
She had become to accustomed to awkwardly walking passed at least three guards before she'd have ever made it to the stairs. But now, not a single soulless being stood before her frantic eyes. Fingertips trailed along the wooden banister, her nervous body descending the staircase.
Upon reaching the bottom of the staircase, she took a cautious moment to glance around the empty surroundings of the downstairs entry way.
"Why haven't you gotten dressed yet?" The demon's voice spoke low, startling the absentminded woman in front of him.
It was brief, the passing moment where fear coarsened through her veins, obliterating any response she thought to even fathom. A weary voice became lost within the ever growing lump of anxiety in her throat. The organ in her chest thumped against her aching rib cage, her body now tense with the uncertainty behind the demon's abrupt question.
When she took too long for the demonic being, he questioned her once more. "Are you unaware that the King has arranged for you to have more than just a night gown?"
She swallowed hard, only able to respond by shaking her head.
He pressed on with the issue. "You cannot continuously wear the same article of clothing. It is not a good image to portray, especially for someone such as yourself."
The last part of his statement left a puzzled expression upon her once nervous face.
"Come with me," he instructed, striding around her timid form.
Uncertain, she hesitated, but a look over his shoulder had her tripping over her feet to keep up with the tall demon. They climbed the stairs in uncomfortable silence. Once at the top, he came to a stop at one of the usually locked doors that lined the hallway. It opened effortlessly without the man laying a single finger upon it and he gestured for her to step inside.
Reluctant as she was, she obeyed with a tentative few steps.
Without a breath of warning, the door slammed shut behind them.
And she whirled around in absolute terror, coming face to face with the demon.
For your interesting fact post: When I drink I like to dance and drunk!me thinks she can dance really well (spoiler: she can't). So this New Year when I went to a club with a friend, a couple of black women (in their 40s maybe?) were near us dancing and they were super sweet and danced with us. One of them told me I could really drop it and get low and that's the story of how a middle-aged black woman recorded a video of me dancing using Facebook Live.
I would pay at least 2 dollars to see that. My vet school friends and I used to love to dance stupidly just to be funny. So one time on break we island hopped and did a weekend in St Martin (like a 10 minute plane ride from St Kitts) and weâre drinking and dancing like IDIOTS at a night club. People the next table over are shamelessly laughing at us and taking videos but like.... not talking to us. They think weâre so drunk we wonât notice. But weâre pretty sober weâre just idiots. And weâre laughing because we donât care what they think. And they think weâre blackout. We ended up getting pretty drunk (not me I was driving) and dancing better lol.
hi dear!! i love your tic tac toe and email fics! you're a fantastic writer and you handle anon hate with SO much grace and class. can i be added to your forever tag list? excited to see what happens next on ttt!!!
*Blushes a furious shade of red* âGraceâ and âclassâ are rarely the words people use to describe me. It is usually ânerdyâ and âdorkyâ *Giggles* THANK YOU so much for your kind words Darling! âThe Emailâ is my baby! It was my first series and as many as I write, Iâll never fall out of love with that one.
I do hope that you like the last two chapters of Tic tac toe! :) Thank you for wanting to be on my forever tags, Iâll add you right up :) Keep being awesome! Have a great day/ night! :) :*
To be truthfully honest Nash, Iâm a big fan of your smut writing. Give me mooooooore! #naaaaaaash
Well such an endorsement from the smut peddler, I do declare, be still my loins heart. đ I told somebody recently, Iâm decently comfortable skirting the line like I did in this one, so perhaps shall revisit doing something in this vein in the future. And folks, is there any greater compliment from a reader than âmoooooreâ?!? Tee-hee-hee. I thank you much for the pass-a-long and taking time to leave me a note.
For your 300 challenge â something cringeworthy per your request (blame it on the examples you gave): warm wet hairball (I have cats and I love them but they are gross sometimes so I thought I'd share the joys of cat-parenthood)
[ETA: a keep reading this a.m., because wine made me post without doing so last night, Iâm sooo apologizing. I also need to start giving the flurps titles. -N.]
LITTER
It was summer, and underground bunkers donât circulate air as well as one would think, though it is unclear why one would think this at all, but these are important facts to know, as Sam was practically sweating through his thin, form-fitting t-shirt whilst reviewing some old case notes, which is what he does for fun, making him somehow more attractive, despite the occasional sweat droplet dropleting off the tip of his nose and hitting the paper, flurping up the ink.
He shook his damp hair away from his face, executed with teenage-Bieber fan precision, and here is what his mind was chewing on: Â
Dean had an interesting relationship with curses and spells and just attracting shit in general, but thinking back, Sam was amazed at the animal thread running through it all, and there all the evidence was, spread out in front of him on one of the heavy, solid, dense, rich-in-tone library tables, where he sat looking over his notes in pondernance, broodingliness, all those perfectly cromulent things one would be whilst looking hot, being hot, all hunched over a nice, long, sturdy, buffed-to-a-shine library table.
Dean had gotten way too involved with hellhounds on more than one occasion, then there was the dog thing, a situation - all things being equal - which Sam did not find all that upsetting, as he felt he owed the canine world a few, which will not be detailed too carefully neither here nor in his mind, because though Sam was good at many things, he was exceptional at forehead creasing and denial.
He stripped off more and more pieces of clothing as the hours ticked by, desperately trying to cool off, because he had to focus.
This wasnât about him.
Dean was turning into a big olâ, six-foot-and-change, paw-licking, furniture-scratching, litter-box-using - also not going to be detailed here, though kiddie pools and bulk litter buys at superstores are wonderful things, Sam learned - meowing, fur-growing, moments-from-tail-having pussy.
Cat.
So it was that whilst Dean was engaging in his new favorite pastime of trying to lick himself, interspersed with flicking litter all over the bathroom, Sam made the decision to contact a witch - a fact his witch-despising brother never had to know, as far as he was concerned - because there was no way he was going to be able to concentrate, not with all the sweating, and the heat, and how at this point, he was hanging out of in his boxers, though he did throw on a little something when the witch arrived.
She was pretty hot, too, both in temperature and appearance.
Thank heavens for that firm, rock-hard, rigid, takes-a-lickinâ-and-keeps-on-dickinâ tickinâ library table, because it wasnât long before Sam and the witch were doing research of a different sort upon it, and it wasnât long after that before it was Samâs turn to be on bottom (you heard me), and not that Deanâs back-arching and hissing from under the war room map table wouldnât have tipped him off, but he knew for sure that Dean had been aware of his witchcrafty plans when he rolled onto what can only be described as the marinated-in-85-degree-room-temperature product of a six-foot-and-change angry catâs hack.
This post has been sponsored by wine. Wine: how Nash turns your prompts into something beyond the pale. Find boxes of wine in bulk at your local superstore, just two aisles down from the kitty litter, take a left at the kiddie pools.
This is Sparta, @klaineaholic - hope this kicked you into a pit of giggles.
[PS- Nash Note: Time out - several of those words above arenât real words. Please donât use them in fics. Ever. No matter how much Iâd love it in my bitchy black heart. Are you hearing me? Donât think about that whole table thing - I need you to remember those arenât words. Well. One of them is a made-up word that I didnât make up, but I did use it incorrectly. Stop thinking about sweaty Sam and library table euphemisms. I can hear you - stop it, I said. Time in.]
* ~ *The hell is this about?* ~ *See Nash REALLY Write* ~ *
SUBMISSIONS CLOSEDâŚ. I mean, unless itâs super-killer.
(And no more âsweetheartâ, as pleased as I am at that apparent Pavlovian response at the sight of my name.)
Drink that vino, Nash, I feel you babe. â¤ď¸ My question for you is: what the fuck is up with birds? They have beady little eyes and they shit everywhere like the world is their toilet. Who gave them the right?
[nods] Birds are assholes. #why Nash says shitbird
