#set during s2

[juneookami]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Wrote more smut inspired by @bornfreakdraws art, come get y’all ot3 juice!

Belmont Hold shenanigans, just smut with feels and some fluff.

Maybe *now* I can finish... one of my 20 wips??? Please, brain???

[glitteringconstellations]

a prayer for you, a prayer or two

A (very late) birthday fic for everyone’s very best Blue Boyo, Lance! 

a prayer for you, a prayer or two

It starts with a conversation.

“Catholic? I thought that all of our Paladins were humans.”

“Oh, no, Catholicism is a religion. You know, worship of a deity, belief in a creation mythos, that sort of thing. Lance grew up with a super devout family. Never missed Sunday Mass at the Garrison. It was his way of staying connected with home so far away.”

It starts with a conversation, and ends with Keith trying to bring Lance a tiny piece of home, so very far away from home.

Read more on AO3

[juneookami]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

For the “village” prompt for Trephacard Week.

Oh look, it’s me, going completely off the wall with a prompt again. Just roll with me, alright? Have some poly feels, have some Belmont feels, have some poetry. Not mine, tho. I can’t do poetry.

[juneookami]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

For trephacard week prompt 2, “music”

Cus Sypha sings and I’ll die on this here hill.

[nottherealdean]

Deancest December: marks, scars, & tattoos

A dozen tiny differences that they could pin down through scars—meaning hundreds more they wouldn’t think to compare—and everything that mattered was still the same. It figured, Dean thought, that even in another universe the same shit happened. His mom died, bleeding and burning; his dad sold his soul while Dean was bleeding inside and dying, then died instead and Dean had to burn him. If a butterfly was supposed to be able to cause a storm with the right flap of its wings, then how come he had to look at all these flutterings laid out across his other self’s skin, and yet see the same grief and anger in his face?

Dean pressed his thumb against the pale triangle scored into one of the other Dean’s knuckles. It was the first difference he’d noticed, after something had gone wrong on a cosmic scale and they’d stumbled into each other in the same haunted building. Their reactions had matched up, too, both pairs of brothers reluctant to holster their guns even after mutual shallow slices with identical silver knives. The car parked outside had also looked unchanged, or close enough he couldn’t tell the difference without holding them up to check. Even the room number at the hotel they drove to was the same as the one Dean had paid for that afternoon. His key, when he’d lingered in the doorway to test it and to give himself a chance to check out the room before entering it, fit the lock perfectly. It was that little, unfamiliar scar he saw later, that was the first evidence that they weren’t true duplicates.

Sam—his Sam—had left with the other Sam to finish checking the building for remains, while Dean had gone with his own double to dig through burial records. Attention wandering from page after page of newspaper, Dean had stared at the hands scrolling through the microfilm. He’d reached out, putting his own hand side by side with the other Dean’s for comparison, and after a startled moment the other Dean had spotted it too.

“Got it about two years ago,” he’d said. “Breaking into this creepy family crypt—”

“The one with crying angels all over it?” Dean had interrupted.

“Yeah. My crowbar slipped,” he’d answered, frowning at the memory, while Dean dimly recollected the bar skidding off the smooth marble of the tomb, his fist narrowly missing the sharp corner of the doorjamb. He had been about to say so, when his phone buzzed with a text from Sam. They had found the bones, and salted and burned them.

The drive back toward the hotel had turned into a catalogue of scars and current bruises, lining up mismatches as best they could remember into slight variations in angle, timing, and luck. When they ran out of places they could compare while Dean was driving, they had pulled into a dark, weed-filled lot behind a junkyard and gotten to the marks on their chests and backs. From there they’d kept going, and then, almost seamlessly easily, gone even further.

Now they were sprawled on the backseat, wedged against each other to fit, under a blanket haphazardly dragged over them. Dean rubbed his other self’s scarred knuckle again, as the rush of euphoria faded. Anger was creeping back in, muted enough by the relaxed tiredness of his body and the buzz of throwing himself so thoroughly into his own pleasure that—alone with himself—he opened his mouth and let some of it out.

“He didn’t stay on the phone for you either, did he?” Stubble prickled his shoulder as the cheek leaned against him shifted. “When he called the nurses’ station to see if the demon was holding up his end of the deal.” His other self tensed, a stiffening of muscles that Dean felt all along his body, pressed together as they were. He took that as a no. “He knew he was dying. He knew he was going to Hell, and he still hung up when they told him the good news. Didn’t say a damn word to me before he left.” It was a small thing, compared to hocking his soul to buy Dean however many more exhausting years, but that should only have made it easier. One last moment—John’s voice over the quiet hiss of static—but even in a parallel universe it didn’t happen.

His other self slid his hand out of Dean’s grip, turning it so he could interlace their fingers. “His goodbyes were always hit or miss.” His voice was hesitant, emotion held back but leaking through anyway.

“For the last one, he could have made an effort.” There were only trivial, pointless changes, mapped out in the misalignment of scars, in a history of moments that hurt a little more, or a little less, or the same but in another place.

“I’m just saying.” He squeezed his arm tighter around Dean. “Maybe it’s better he didn’t.”

“And what, end with nothing? Him just—just disappearing?”

“I’m not saying it’s good, but… it’s a better way to finish than some of the things he could’ve said.” The words were heavier than they should have been, filling the dark interior of the car with emptiness and the growing certainty that there was a real difference, one that mattered, but he didn’t want to tell him, and Dean didn’t want to know.