Love makes you do the wacky.

Okay, this is waaay late, but this is for the lovely jojosimco's birthday. Which yeah, yeah, was over a month ago.

She wanted Dean napping, so she got this slice of Sam/Dean that became more schmoop than porn. And as to the title.. well, let's just say nothing is sacred with me.

Slash, angst-free (hey, it's birthday fic!), it's coffee-sized at around 2,000 words. Beta'd by the one and only mara_snh

Sam’s Very Own Norwegian Blue

I miss this writing lark. I have the outline for two fairly long Supernatural stories all scribbled ( God bless Starbucks in Baltimore:)), but no peace and quiet yet to start filling in the blanks, as it were.

So I thought a flashfic might be just the thing.. and it was! I feel much better now:))

Gen, unattached to an episode. It's just Dean having some color issues..

"It's pink."

"Dean..."

"Dude. It's pink."

Flashfic. Supernatural

A double drabble. Just because I miss writing like a limb and because I paid a deposit on my sleep debt this afternoon. This started life as a comment fic for paxlux, but I thought I could take it further so here it is. The lovely ancasta ran her beta eyes over it, and is now for her because she's not feeling well. Rest up, hon.

Gen, no spoilers needed.

******

Sense Memories

The smell of creosote was one, freshly cut grass was another. So Dean guessed they must have had a fence and a lawn once upon a time. Not that he could fit the idea of mowing grass on a Sunday with anything he knew about his life and his father, but he figured the grass must have been cut regularly to keep it down, to keep it nice. Like his mom would have wanted.

So sometimes when that sound drifted in, it would pull at his thoughts and make him swallow. If things were just right, he let it. If nothing hurt and needed fixing, if Sam was breathing safe and loud in the next bed, if coffee and salt were right there, then he would lie back with his eyes closed and see himself out there in the grass with his dad; helping, getting underfoot, even playing in the cuttings. He always breathed in deep to let the moment go all the way, though. Because if the world was still enough, then the hum and whirr of a lawn mower on a summer morning was not just his dad, but also the faint, sweet sound of a child giggling.

******