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spn_springflingTitle: Spring Thaw
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Any warnings: spoilers for season nine
A note waits for Sam on the table in the main room of the bunker.
S~
Exploring two rooms on the East wing. See map if needed.
D~
Ever since they discovered the bunker contained portals to other places – Oz for Christ's sake – they agreed to leave notes, just in case. Sam crumples up the note and unpacks the groceries. Dean will check in a few hours; exploring seems to give him the space he needs right now, especially with the hunt for Abaddon in stasis.
**
Sam's stomach rumbles and he closes the demonology tome on the desk. Lore on the First Blade is scarce at best. Sam pushes away from the table, stretches and finishes off the second granola bar he'd unwrapped earlier. He loses track of time when he's researching. Huh? Seems like Dean should have popped up by now with something home-cooked. Sam knows it's a from of apology, but right now Sam's too hurt and angry to accept it. He flips open his phone – six hours since he got back. He checks a map of the bunker and heads off after Dean.
**
The first two rooms Sam checks are small and he can tell immediately Dean's not in either one, unless the bunker swallowed him whole. The third door opens and Sam gasps, the sound reverberating into the cavernous space. Sam leans against the doorjamb, can't believe what in front of him. Shelves of books extend as far as he can see. From where he's standing he can tell many of them are older than anything he's had his hands on before.
Smells assault his nose, old paper and dust. The lure is too much and although Sam can't imagine Dean staying here for long – he only does research when he has to – he steps into the room and approaches the nearest stack of books, propped up against a shelf that is too full to hold another page. Sam bends to pick up a portfolio of loose sheaf that appears to be tied with papyrus and sealed with wax bearing an Egyptian cuneiform.
Sam slips. What the hell? The room spins and his hand lands on slippery cold. Sam blinks to clear his vision, but the white fuzz in his eyes isn't from the fall, but from a room suddenly full of snow. Sam gropes for where the books and shelf should be. He slips his hands into his armpits. The temperature in the room is dangerously low already and his body heat is seeping away. He stands and attempts to determine the location of the door.
Silent thanks is given to all the training Dad put them through – counting steps, learning directions, wilderness survival – at least he can tell where the door should be even if he can't see it. Sam reaches the spot where there should be a way out, except as he turns in a circle, arms out, all he feels is frozen water stinging his hands. Sam swallows against the rising anxiety, breaths deep until his heart slows and takes ten steps in each of four directions. Still no door.
Now he panics, “Dean.” It's all instinct, to call out for his brother and maybe Dean got caught in here too.
He waits and yells again, louder, a pitch higher. “Dean.”
“Sammy?”
“It's Sam.”
Dean hollers again and Sam yells back, their version of Marco Polo, until Sam can make out a blurred shape in the whirlwind of white. Dean gradually comes into focus and all thoughts fly out of Sam's head as he gets a good look at Dean. His brother is half naked, jeans slung low on his hips, revealing a strip of black boxer-briefs and sharp hipbones. His arms are wrapped tight around his torso and his teeth are chattering loud enough Sam can hear it from a few feet away.
“Quit staring at the goods, Sam. Let's get out of here.”
Shaken from his reverie of Dean, whose muscles look like he's been lifting more than whiskey and beer, Sam is flooded with suspicion and questions. “I'm guessing this room didn't look like a library when you came in.”
“Can we save the twenty questions until we're out of here. Kind of freezing to death.” The words are almost stuttered out.
Sam takes off his flannel shirt and tosses it to Dean and Dean comes a few steps closer. The snow isn't blowing anymore; it falls in soft spatters and the wind has disappeared.
Dean slips Sam's shirt on, nestles into it and covers his hands with the sleeves. “I'm guessing this is where you entered the room?”
Sam nods. “Yeah, I paced ten feet in a grid, but still found nothing.”
“Well, let's do twenty. You take that half,” Dean points behind Sam, “and I'll take this side. Make a circuit to the left.”
Sam turns and begins counting off paces. He's less than half way when the wind kicks up and the snow starts swirling. He trudges on until he hits twenty. When he turns the snow has once again obscured Dean from his view. “Dean?”
“Check. Go to the next point.” Sam trudges to the left. The snow is building up and Sam worries how much of this Dean can take before frost bite sets in. Sam's toes are numb; Dean's are bare.
Sam finishes the first corner of the grid they're walking and turns to the direction Dean should be in. The wind whips his hair into his face and the snow lashes his cheeks. He calls out for Dean; no response. He yells again, louder. The wind whips away the sound and for the first time Sam is afraid. His body jolts, fear stuck in his chest.
He doesn't think, training kicking into action and heads in the direction where Dean should be now. There must be some luck left for him. As he runs, the wind drops and the snow becomes sprinkles. In less than two minutes he's able to see a Dean shaped lump in the snow.
“Stupid, stubborn, son-of-a-bitch.” Sam crouches down, shuts off the part of his brain screaming in fear, and puts his hands to Dean's neck, feeling for a pulse. His pulse is strong so he hasn't been out for long.
Relief surges through Sam and he's light-headed for a minute. That's when he notices; Dean's warm; Sam's hands are warm where he's touching Dean. It doesn't make sense, but nothing else about this situation does either. Sam runs his hands over Dean's body, checking for injuries. He ends at Dean's feet. Dean's feet are a work of art, kind of like the rest of him. The bones look delicate, narrow hills under thin skin. Sam bends Dean's knees and cradles his feet in his hands. He runs the pads of his thumbs from the crook of the big toe up to Dean's ankle and back. Dean's feet are icy, but there's no sign of frostbite. Sam repeats the caress even though he has no excuse but the pleasure of touching.
“Kinky, Sam.” Dean's voice is as crusted as the ice around them, fractured and sand paper rough. It send shivers down Sam's neck, but he let's go of Dean's feet and rises to his own.
“We should keep looking.”
The snow has almost died down, a spare flake or two dropping from the gray sky above, and no matter what direction Sam turns, all he sees is an even expanse of virgin snow.
Sam turns back to Dean and puts out his hand. Dean clasps Sam's hand and they both gasp, snap apart and take a step back.
Dean's eyes are wide. “Did you – ”
“ – feel that?” Sam finishes the sentence.
They both reach out again, palms forward. When Sam's hand meets Dean he feels that same frisson of heat pulse up his arm and his hand is warm where his skin meets Dean's. Green eyes, wide with shock stare back at him. Dean's hand shifts, circles Sam's wrist and slides up to his elbow, a trail of heat singeing skin in it's wake. When Dean reaches the start of Sam's t-shirt he stops. Sam uses his free hand to push the sleeve of his shirt up past Dean's bicep and mirror the clasp Dean has on him. There's still warmth, but it isn't that sharp heat of before, just normal body heat, although Sam imagines he can feel the Mark of Cain pulsing against him, a few degrees warmer than the rest of Dean's skin.
“Well that's weird.”
Sam tilts his head, his face scrunching into an expression Dean would call a bitch-face. “What part of this isn't weird?” Sam asks. In fact, thinking about it, Sam becomes aware that he's warmer everywhere. He says as much to Dean.
“Yeah, me too.” To prove his point Dean hooks a foot around Sam's ankle, under his jeans, and rubs his toes over Sam's calf.
It shouldn’t be hot, that playful touch, but a bolt of lust slams into Sam and he let's go of Dean, jumps back, looks at the snow as if it holds the answers to all life's riddles. Sam's cold again. He doesn't know if it's a change in temperature or the loss of contact.
“Huh?”
Sam looks up from his contemplation of the snow. “What?”
Dean takes several steps away from Sam; the wind kicks up and flurries of snow start falling. Dean takes several more steps back and the snow falls heavier. Sam is chilled through and Dean rubs his palms together to generate heat.
Sam suddenly gets it. He strides toward Dean, closing the distance and the snow stops, the wind stops and the bite goes out of the temperature. When he reaches Dean, Sam is warm all over, but not as warm as he gets when he pulls Dean close, Dean's legs slotting between his own, bodies touching knee to thigh. Sam twines one hand around Dean's neck, the other he presses to the small of his brother’s back. Every point of contact is blazing.
Dean's taut under his touch and his eyes are aimed straight at Sam's chest. “Dean.”
Dean looks up then. It's all belligerence, jaw tight, eyes cold, “What?” Before Sam can answer Dean surges up, hands raking through Sam's hair and kisses him. It's not the battle Sam expected, but coaxing, soft presses and a pull of his lower lip. It's Dean's tongue sweeping across his lips begging for entry. Sam realizes the groan he hears is his own as he opens to Dean. It escalates into hungry, open mouthed kisses, Dean's tongue wrapped to his, hands everywhere until they both pull back gasping.
“This doesn't fix anything you know.” The words come unbidden, but they're true. Despite the desire to throw Dean on the ground and rut until they both come, Sam's anger simmers underneath, still hurt and betrayed by Dean's actions.
Dean pulls back and makes eye contact. “Look, Sam, I know I messed up. I'm sorry.” Sam starts to pull him in, but is stopped by the press of Dean's hands to his chest. “You need to know, I'm not sorry you're alive, but I'm sorry that you were hurt. I'm sorry I lied. I know you've got no reason to trust me.”
Sam pulls back, moving away, but keeping his hands cuffed around Dean's wrists. “I'm still mad. Mostly that you lied and kept lying. I get it. You didn't know if Ezekiel would hurt me.” Sam stops, remembers his bone deep sense of despair when he saw Dean flattened in the snow. If Dean's pulse had stopped could Sam have let him go, peacefully accepted that end without making any attempt to bring him back? Honestly he'd like to believe he could, but even the idea of life without Dean is a knife searing across his heart. “I understand, but I'm still mad.”
They're both still, eyes searching the others face. Dean won't make the first move, not because he's stubborn, but because he's letting Sam call the shots. This isn't the first time they've gone down this road, but it's been a damn long time since the last time he touched Dean for anything more then sewing up a wound. Sam knows this time it means something more. Before, when they'd messed around, they could put it down to road stress, teen hormones, options open, promises unspoken just in case either of them got a chance at something easy, workable, normal. Hell, Sam had been so far into Dean as a teenager that he couldn't see anyone else, but he left for Stanford anyway. He's beaten himself up for that, wondering if Jess and Dad would be alive, Yellow Eyes dead long before his eventual end if he'd been honest enough to accept what he wanted. Now, though, they've committed to the job and have messed up enough relationships to understand the way they're entangled doesn't really leave room for anything more than casual encounters. If Sam let's Dean get close now, that's it, he's keeping him.
Sam tugs and Dean falls into him.
“You sure?” Dean asks.
“For keeps?” Sam knows that makes him sound all of six year old, but when Dean smiles at him, eyes crinkling, there's not a hint of a tease in it.
“Yeah, Sammy, for keeps.” The words are said against the corner of his mouth.
Sam turns his head, their breath mingling and he pulls Dean in tight. Fuck He'd forgotten how good this felt, the dips and curves of Dean's back under his fingers and the soft little sounds Sam licks from his mouth. Sam trails kisses across his stubbled jaw, lips tingling, and bites at the soft flesh below Dean's ear. Dean growls, pulls him tighter and rakes curled fingers down Sam's back.
Sam buries his face in Dean's neck and breaths, shivers as Dean runs his fingers through his hair, both soothing and arousing. “Damn it, Dean, want you, right now.” Dean rolls his hips, bringing their cocks together and Sam almost loses it right then.
Then Dean's pushing him back, pointing over his shoulder. “Sam, look at that.”
Not more than five yards away is a door. Sam doesn't hesitate. “C'mon. Let's go.”
Before he can move away Dean grabs his wrist. “Hold on there, tiger, don't want to piss the room off and lose that door again.”
“Dean? What were you doing in here?”
“Door, Sam, let's go.” He tugs Sam toward the door. As they pass through the doorway into the familiar hall of the bunker Dean says, “Just think of this as our Room of Requirement, Sam.”
Room of Requirement
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Any warnings: spoilers for season nine
A note waits for Sam on the table in the main room of the bunker.
S~
Exploring two rooms on the East wing. See map if needed.
D~
Ever since they discovered the bunker contained portals to other places – Oz for Christ's sake – they agreed to leave notes, just in case. Sam crumples up the note and unpacks the groceries. Dean will check in a few hours; exploring seems to give him the space he needs right now, especially with the hunt for Abaddon in stasis.
**
Sam's stomach rumbles and he closes the demonology tome on the desk. Lore on the First Blade is scarce at best. Sam pushes away from the table, stretches and finishes off the second granola bar he'd unwrapped earlier. He loses track of time when he's researching. Huh? Seems like Dean should have popped up by now with something home-cooked. Sam knows it's a from of apology, but right now Sam's too hurt and angry to accept it. He flips open his phone – six hours since he got back. He checks a map of the bunker and heads off after Dean.
**
The first two rooms Sam checks are small and he can tell immediately Dean's not in either one, unless the bunker swallowed him whole. The third door opens and Sam gasps, the sound reverberating into the cavernous space. Sam leans against the doorjamb, can't believe what in front of him. Shelves of books extend as far as he can see. From where he's standing he can tell many of them are older than anything he's had his hands on before.
Smells assault his nose, old paper and dust. The lure is too much and although Sam can't imagine Dean staying here for long – he only does research when he has to – he steps into the room and approaches the nearest stack of books, propped up against a shelf that is too full to hold another page. Sam bends to pick up a portfolio of loose sheaf that appears to be tied with papyrus and sealed with wax bearing an Egyptian cuneiform.
Sam slips. What the hell? The room spins and his hand lands on slippery cold. Sam blinks to clear his vision, but the white fuzz in his eyes isn't from the fall, but from a room suddenly full of snow. Sam gropes for where the books and shelf should be. He slips his hands into his armpits. The temperature in the room is dangerously low already and his body heat is seeping away. He stands and attempts to determine the location of the door.
Silent thanks is given to all the training Dad put them through – counting steps, learning directions, wilderness survival – at least he can tell where the door should be even if he can't see it. Sam reaches the spot where there should be a way out, except as he turns in a circle, arms out, all he feels is frozen water stinging his hands. Sam swallows against the rising anxiety, breaths deep until his heart slows and takes ten steps in each of four directions. Still no door.
Now he panics, “Dean.” It's all instinct, to call out for his brother and maybe Dean got caught in here too.
He waits and yells again, louder, a pitch higher. “Dean.”
“Sammy?”
“It's Sam.”
Dean hollers again and Sam yells back, their version of Marco Polo, until Sam can make out a blurred shape in the whirlwind of white. Dean gradually comes into focus and all thoughts fly out of Sam's head as he gets a good look at Dean. His brother is half naked, jeans slung low on his hips, revealing a strip of black boxer-briefs and sharp hipbones. His arms are wrapped tight around his torso and his teeth are chattering loud enough Sam can hear it from a few feet away.
“Quit staring at the goods, Sam. Let's get out of here.”
Shaken from his reverie of Dean, whose muscles look like he's been lifting more than whiskey and beer, Sam is flooded with suspicion and questions. “I'm guessing this room didn't look like a library when you came in.”
“Can we save the twenty questions until we're out of here. Kind of freezing to death.” The words are almost stuttered out.
Sam takes off his flannel shirt and tosses it to Dean and Dean comes a few steps closer. The snow isn't blowing anymore; it falls in soft spatters and the wind has disappeared.
Dean slips Sam's shirt on, nestles into it and covers his hands with the sleeves. “I'm guessing this is where you entered the room?”
Sam nods. “Yeah, I paced ten feet in a grid, but still found nothing.”
“Well, let's do twenty. You take that half,” Dean points behind Sam, “and I'll take this side. Make a circuit to the left.”
Sam turns and begins counting off paces. He's less than half way when the wind kicks up and the snow starts swirling. He trudges on until he hits twenty. When he turns the snow has once again obscured Dean from his view. “Dean?”
“Check. Go to the next point.” Sam trudges to the left. The snow is building up and Sam worries how much of this Dean can take before frost bite sets in. Sam's toes are numb; Dean's are bare.
Sam finishes the first corner of the grid they're walking and turns to the direction Dean should be in. The wind whips his hair into his face and the snow lashes his cheeks. He calls out for Dean; no response. He yells again, louder. The wind whips away the sound and for the first time Sam is afraid. His body jolts, fear stuck in his chest.
He doesn't think, training kicking into action and heads in the direction where Dean should be now. There must be some luck left for him. As he runs, the wind drops and the snow becomes sprinkles. In less than two minutes he's able to see a Dean shaped lump in the snow.
“Stupid, stubborn, son-of-a-bitch.” Sam crouches down, shuts off the part of his brain screaming in fear, and puts his hands to Dean's neck, feeling for a pulse. His pulse is strong so he hasn't been out for long.
Relief surges through Sam and he's light-headed for a minute. That's when he notices; Dean's warm; Sam's hands are warm where he's touching Dean. It doesn't make sense, but nothing else about this situation does either. Sam runs his hands over Dean's body, checking for injuries. He ends at Dean's feet. Dean's feet are a work of art, kind of like the rest of him. The bones look delicate, narrow hills under thin skin. Sam bends Dean's knees and cradles his feet in his hands. He runs the pads of his thumbs from the crook of the big toe up to Dean's ankle and back. Dean's feet are icy, but there's no sign of frostbite. Sam repeats the caress even though he has no excuse but the pleasure of touching.
“Kinky, Sam.” Dean's voice is as crusted as the ice around them, fractured and sand paper rough. It send shivers down Sam's neck, but he let's go of Dean's feet and rises to his own.
“We should keep looking.”
The snow has almost died down, a spare flake or two dropping from the gray sky above, and no matter what direction Sam turns, all he sees is an even expanse of virgin snow.
Sam turns back to Dean and puts out his hand. Dean clasps Sam's hand and they both gasp, snap apart and take a step back.
Dean's eyes are wide. “Did you – ”
“ – feel that?” Sam finishes the sentence.
They both reach out again, palms forward. When Sam's hand meets Dean he feels that same frisson of heat pulse up his arm and his hand is warm where his skin meets Dean's. Green eyes, wide with shock stare back at him. Dean's hand shifts, circles Sam's wrist and slides up to his elbow, a trail of heat singeing skin in it's wake. When Dean reaches the start of Sam's t-shirt he stops. Sam uses his free hand to push the sleeve of his shirt up past Dean's bicep and mirror the clasp Dean has on him. There's still warmth, but it isn't that sharp heat of before, just normal body heat, although Sam imagines he can feel the Mark of Cain pulsing against him, a few degrees warmer than the rest of Dean's skin.
“Well that's weird.”
Sam tilts his head, his face scrunching into an expression Dean would call a bitch-face. “What part of this isn't weird?” Sam asks. In fact, thinking about it, Sam becomes aware that he's warmer everywhere. He says as much to Dean.
“Yeah, me too.” To prove his point Dean hooks a foot around Sam's ankle, under his jeans, and rubs his toes over Sam's calf.
It shouldn’t be hot, that playful touch, but a bolt of lust slams into Sam and he let's go of Dean, jumps back, looks at the snow as if it holds the answers to all life's riddles. Sam's cold again. He doesn't know if it's a change in temperature or the loss of contact.
“Huh?”
Sam looks up from his contemplation of the snow. “What?”
Dean takes several steps away from Sam; the wind kicks up and flurries of snow start falling. Dean takes several more steps back and the snow falls heavier. Sam is chilled through and Dean rubs his palms together to generate heat.
Sam suddenly gets it. He strides toward Dean, closing the distance and the snow stops, the wind stops and the bite goes out of the temperature. When he reaches Dean, Sam is warm all over, but not as warm as he gets when he pulls Dean close, Dean's legs slotting between his own, bodies touching knee to thigh. Sam twines one hand around Dean's neck, the other he presses to the small of his brother’s back. Every point of contact is blazing.
Dean's taut under his touch and his eyes are aimed straight at Sam's chest. “Dean.”
Dean looks up then. It's all belligerence, jaw tight, eyes cold, “What?” Before Sam can answer Dean surges up, hands raking through Sam's hair and kisses him. It's not the battle Sam expected, but coaxing, soft presses and a pull of his lower lip. It's Dean's tongue sweeping across his lips begging for entry. Sam realizes the groan he hears is his own as he opens to Dean. It escalates into hungry, open mouthed kisses, Dean's tongue wrapped to his, hands everywhere until they both pull back gasping.
“This doesn't fix anything you know.” The words come unbidden, but they're true. Despite the desire to throw Dean on the ground and rut until they both come, Sam's anger simmers underneath, still hurt and betrayed by Dean's actions.
Dean pulls back and makes eye contact. “Look, Sam, I know I messed up. I'm sorry.” Sam starts to pull him in, but is stopped by the press of Dean's hands to his chest. “You need to know, I'm not sorry you're alive, but I'm sorry that you were hurt. I'm sorry I lied. I know you've got no reason to trust me.”
Sam pulls back, moving away, but keeping his hands cuffed around Dean's wrists. “I'm still mad. Mostly that you lied and kept lying. I get it. You didn't know if Ezekiel would hurt me.” Sam stops, remembers his bone deep sense of despair when he saw Dean flattened in the snow. If Dean's pulse had stopped could Sam have let him go, peacefully accepted that end without making any attempt to bring him back? Honestly he'd like to believe he could, but even the idea of life without Dean is a knife searing across his heart. “I understand, but I'm still mad.”
They're both still, eyes searching the others face. Dean won't make the first move, not because he's stubborn, but because he's letting Sam call the shots. This isn't the first time they've gone down this road, but it's been a damn long time since the last time he touched Dean for anything more then sewing up a wound. Sam knows this time it means something more. Before, when they'd messed around, they could put it down to road stress, teen hormones, options open, promises unspoken just in case either of them got a chance at something easy, workable, normal. Hell, Sam had been so far into Dean as a teenager that he couldn't see anyone else, but he left for Stanford anyway. He's beaten himself up for that, wondering if Jess and Dad would be alive, Yellow Eyes dead long before his eventual end if he'd been honest enough to accept what he wanted. Now, though, they've committed to the job and have messed up enough relationships to understand the way they're entangled doesn't really leave room for anything more than casual encounters. If Sam let's Dean get close now, that's it, he's keeping him.
Sam tugs and Dean falls into him.
“You sure?” Dean asks.
“For keeps?” Sam knows that makes him sound all of six year old, but when Dean smiles at him, eyes crinkling, there's not a hint of a tease in it.
“Yeah, Sammy, for keeps.” The words are said against the corner of his mouth.
Sam turns his head, their breath mingling and he pulls Dean in tight. Fuck He'd forgotten how good this felt, the dips and curves of Dean's back under his fingers and the soft little sounds Sam licks from his mouth. Sam trails kisses across his stubbled jaw, lips tingling, and bites at the soft flesh below Dean's ear. Dean growls, pulls him tighter and rakes curled fingers down Sam's back.
Sam buries his face in Dean's neck and breaths, shivers as Dean runs his fingers through his hair, both soothing and arousing. “Damn it, Dean, want you, right now.” Dean rolls his hips, bringing their cocks together and Sam almost loses it right then.
Then Dean's pushing him back, pointing over his shoulder. “Sam, look at that.”
Not more than five yards away is a door. Sam doesn't hesitate. “C'mon. Let's go.”
Before he can move away Dean grabs his wrist. “Hold on there, tiger, don't want to piss the room off and lose that door again.”
“Dean? What were you doing in here?”
“Door, Sam, let's go.” He tugs Sam toward the door. As they pass through the doorway into the familiar hall of the bunker Dean says, “Just think of this as our Room of Requirement, Sam.”
Room of Requirement
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no subject
Date: 2014-04-15 05:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-15 08:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-15 09:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-15 10:56 am (UTC)Love this. Such a nice idea : ) x
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Date: 2014-04-15 11:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-16 09:43 am (UTC)The boys could really use a fix it right now, and this works perfectly :)
“For keeps?”
“Yeah, Sammy, for keeps.”
*happy sigh*
Also, the bunker having it's own Room of Requirement is a brilliant idea!
no subject
Date: 2014-04-17 08:30 am (UTC)Dean pulls back and makes eye contact. “Look, Sam, I know I messed up. I'm sorry.” Sam starts to pull him in, but is stopped by the press of Dean's hands to his chest. “You need to know, I'm not sorry you're alive, but I'm sorry that you were hurt. I'm sorry I lied. I know you've got no reason to trust me.”
Sam pulls back, moving away, but keeping his hands cuffed around Dean's wrists. “I'm still mad. Mostly that you lied and kept lying. I get it. You didn't know if Ezekiel would hurt me.” Sam stops, remembers his bone deep sense of despair when he saw Dean flattened in the snow. If Dean's pulse had stopped could Sam have let him go, peacefully accepted that end without making any attempt to bring him back? Honestly he'd like to believe he could, but even the idea of life without Dean is a knife searing across his heart. “I understand, but I'm still mad.”
Since it seems that Show won't give us this simple thing, thank heaven for fic, eh? Thank you for this!
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Date: 2014-04-18 10:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-18 10:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-18 08:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-20 05:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-20 07:55 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2014-04-27 12:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-27 01:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-27 02:31 pm (UTC)