[JMM] Don't touch me

[Cowritten with absit_omens. Dean’s not a member of the comm, but I crosspost anyway. I like having copies. Set after THIS. NSFW content and Season 4 spoilers.]

Don't touch me. Three little words that seemed to have complete power over her now. She'd been possessed by a demon, stripped of control over her body, and left for dead. Lamia tried to out her to Dean - the one man who didn't treat her as if she were fragile or damaged - after having broken her spirit. And so here she was, stripped down to the core under a blazing downpour in a crappy motel shower with her back to the wall. She'd been in there for almost forty-five minutes, broken and crying as she scrubbed her skin raw, fighting to get herself clean of all the invisible dirt she saw on her body. Eventually she gave up and slid to the floor as the water beat down on her and uneven chunks of what used to be her beautiful long brown hair littered the bathroom floor outside the shower. Lamia had broken her, and in a fit of near-psychotic breakdown she'd taken the switchblade she hid in her pants and shredded her hair because she couldn't stand the feel of it against her skin. It reminded her of too many raw wounds that had a long time to heal.

The door was left unlocked, however, and it was only a matter of time before one of the boys came in to find her - broken, raw, naked - under a pouring rain that was growing colder by the minute.

Dean was worried about her. Getting possessed was no walk in the park, and while Dean did blame himself somewhat for this -- he should have been thinking that he could have protected her. But for some reason, both he and Sam failed to think of her getting possessed, and he would take that on himself as his fault. She had been in there a bit longer than he was comfortable with, however, and after a while he felt that he should check on her. He slowly started to make his way to the door, before rapping on it lightly with his knuckles. "Anna?" he frowned. "You okay in there?"

( *** )

3603 words

[MWR] Dead Poets Society quote

[Set back while Sam was at Stanford. Backstory with two NPCs of mine, because Dean decided he wanted to have it.]

“We're not laughing at you - we're laughing near you.”

“Dean. Don’t move.”

Twenty-three year-old Dean did as he was told and froze. This was originally supposed to have been his first solo hunt, but once he got there, Noah and Gina seemed to be the experts on the subject, so he was going to let it go. They were willing to have him tag along and learn, however, which as far as he was concerned wasn’t a bad thing. He had never heard of a kappa before now, and if he had to come up against one again, now he would know what he was doing.

…He still didn’t know what he was doing.

A lot of the things they said didn’t make any sense, but then again, kappas didn’t make a whole lot of sense either. Mischievous troublemakers with an appetite for small children and cucumbers (Dean didn’t ask, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know). But he’d seen the damage the thing had done, and he was just as up for stopping it as the other two were—so when the two of them cornered him in the diner a few weeks earlier.

( *** )

1455 words

[BCM] Prosperity

[Set in the “Revenge is Supernatural” verse, which usually isn’t written on this journal, but Dean wanted a prompt and all the prompting is here, so! Sam is likely_evil, Anna is absit_omens, Bobby is maninflannel.]

Dean had his history teacher in high school that considered one of the best teachers he ever had. He was a history guy, who had been teaching for years, to the point where he knew he had tenure so he could teach however the hell he wanted, and there was nothing the school could do about it. Winkler was arguably psychotic, but when it came to everything but history, the guy knew his shit. And one of the most credible pieces of advice was when he talked about the one phrase of Spanish you needed to know if you ever traveled south of the border.

Una cerveza fría, por favor.

Dean didn’t tend to make it south of the border much—too much to do with the job—but on the few times he did, that was the one phrase he never forgot. Well, that and his numbers.

The trip down to Tijuana had been a bitch and a half with Sam in the back seat, but once they actually got here, things got so much easier. Dean had a feeling that was mostly because he wasn’t going to believe that he was actually going to get away with taking a real vacation until they actually got there. But here they were—all four of them.

Dean didn’t have a lot. He didn’t have a lot of money, he didn’t have a lot of material wealth. In fact, most of the monetary assets they did have were illegit, considering that that was part of the credit card fraud they happened to running, so Dean didn’t learn to count on a whole hell of a lot in the monetary sense. He learned to go without, and that was probably part of the reason why people like Bela Talbot pissed him off to no end—all about money, and no care for wealth that didn’t come in with a little bit of green.

No, Dean didn’t have much. But as he glanced back at the table where his family was sitting—Sam, Bobby, Anna, everyone who was important to him at the moment—and he knew that what he did have was enough. He had people who cared about him, and he was doing good. And he wasn’t dead. He really couldn’t ask for much more than that.

Well, with one small exception.

“Cuatro cervezas frías, por favor.”

396 words

In Which They Go on Vacation

Dean had his history teacher in high school that considered one of the best teachers he ever had. He was a history guy, who had been teaching for years, to the point where he knew he had tenure so he could teach however the hell he wanted, and there was nothing the school could do about it. Winkler was arguably psychotic, but when it came to everything but history, the guy knew his shit. And one of the most credible pieces of advice was when he talked about the one phrase of Spanish you needed to know if you ever traveled south of the border.

Una cerveza fría, por favor.

Dean didn’t tend to make it south of the border much—too much to do with the job—but on the few times he did, that was the one phrase he never forgot. Well, that and his numbers.

The trip down to Tijuana had been a bitch and a half with Sam in the back seat, but once they actually got here, things got so much easier. Dean had a feeling that was mostly because he wasn’t going to believe that he was actually going to get away with taking a real vacation until they actually got there. But here they were—all four of them.

Dean didn’t have a lot. He didn’t have a lot of money, he didn’t have a lot of material wealth. In fact, most of the monetary assets they did have were illegit, considering that that was part of the credit card fraud they happened to running, so Dean had learned not to count on a whole hell of a lot in the monetary sense. He learned to go without, and that was probably part of the reason why people like Bela Talbot pissed him off to no end—all about money, and no care for wealth that didn’t come in with a little bit of green.

No, Dean didn’t have much. But as he glanced back at the table where his family was sitting—Sam, Bobby, Anna, everyone who was important to him at the moment—and he knew that what he did have was enough. He had people who cared about him, and he was doing good. And he wasn’t dead. He really couldn’t ask for much more than that.

Well, with one small exception.

“Cuatro cervezas frías, por favor.”

RP for likely_evil, absit_omens, and maninflannel