2012 Hurt/Comfort Alphabet Challenge

 

 

Title: A is for Allergic

Rating: G
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: None

“Sam, you don’t even have your shoes on.”

 

Sam prickled. Dean was the one person in the world Sam hated to disappoint, but if he didn’t stand up for himself now, he might never get the balls to do it when he was older. “I’m not going.”

 

Bobby, shrugging on his jacket, froze with one arm in and one out.

 

“I’m fifteen. I’m old enough to look after myself. You don’t really need me along. Besides, I’m allergic.”

 

Dean rolled his eyes. “You’re allergic to ghosts now?”

 

Sam nodded. “Horribly. So I’ll just stay here tonight.” He had so much schoolwork and reading to do. Sam had spent the whole day digging and hauling plants for Bobby, not getting any real work done. And he could do his schoolwork a hell of a lot better sitting at Bobby’s kitchen table under the hanging lamp than he could in the backseat of the Impala by flashlight.

 

“You telling me you’d rather read than go save some innocent family haunted by a ghost?” Anger flared up behind Dean’s eyes.

 

Sam hesitated. Put like that, he sounded petty. But this wasn’t the life for him and Dean had to have known it by now. If he didn’t, he sure as hell would figure it out after this. “Dean…”

 

Bobby had his jacket all the way on now. “Quit your yappin’. Sam, if you don’t wanna come, you don’t gotta come. Just stay inside, lock the doors.”

 

Dean shook his head. “No. He doesn’t get off that easy. Dad—“

 

“Your dad ain’t here. I am. Now grab your gun, Dean, or there won’t be a family for us to go save.”

 

Dean gritted his teeth and mumbled, “Allergic to ghosts. What a bunch of…” The rest of the comment lost to the front door slamming.

 

And just like that, easier than Sam had expected, he was alone in Bobby’s house, left to his books.

 

*

 

The first half an hour, Sam couldn’t believe how productive he was. He managed to polish off his English paper and knock out most of his geometry homework. He was just starting the harder problems at the end of the chapter when he heard a chilling sound. It was a soft, sweet little “Mew?”

 

Sam jumped up. They’d been staying at Bobby’s place for three weeks while their dad was out hunting for something big, but in that time, Sam hadn’t noticed a cat running around the place. And he definitely would have noticed that.

 

“Mew.”

 

It was louder now, clearer. He looked around and his gaze rested on the window. Outside. Sam walked over, searching the yard in the dusk, not really seeing anything until he looked down. And there it was. A white little fuzzball with big blue eyes. “Get lost,” Sam said, gesturing out at the yard. The cat didn’t move.

 

“Merow!”

 

And it didn’t open its mouth when it meowed. That was pretty creepy. Maybe it was some sort of demon cat, meowing through powers of telepathy. 

 

Or maybe there were two of them. Sam saw a scruffy brown striped cat pad over to the window to sit beside the white one. They both stared up at him, like they expected something from him. “I don’t have anything for you,” Sam tried to explain. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw a smokey gray cat stalk over. And then a black one with green eyes. And a white one covered in dirt. And another black one, with white paws. And… suddenly there were too many to count. And they were all surrounding Bobby’s house. Crying at the windows. Scratching at the door and walls.

 

Sam backed up, knowing he was trapped and already feeling the itch in his nose, his eyes. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t actually allergic to ghosts. But he absolutely was allergic to cats. He pinched his nose at the bridge, but that didn’t do any good. He tried pinching his nostrils. That didn’t work either. There were just too many of them.

 

Sam didn’t know how they got in. He hadn’t opened up any of the windows or doors. But Bobby’s place wasn’t airtight. Or maybe these were demon cats after all and they could walk through walls. They swirled around his legs, purring, meowing, marking. He had to get rid of these cats while he could still think.

 

What did cats not like? Sam raced over to Bobby’s computer. It took forever to boot up and a cat jumped into his lap, rubbing against his chest, flicking its tail in his face. His breath caught, gasping over the sound of the modem dialing into the internet. He silently willed it to go faster, bringing a browser window up so he’d be ready the instant it connected. He typed a single word into the search engine, selected audio, and hit enter. He selected the first search result and hit play, filling the whole house with the sound of an angry dog barking.

 

A couple cats jumped in surprise, but none of them fled, none even walked away. Sam clamped his hand over his nose and mouth. “heff-CHUHH! EhhShuhhhh! Choo! KShooo!” The sneezes were strong, wet, his hand dripping. Water. Cats hated water.

Sam got up, the cat on his lap flying off and landing on all fours. “hehfkutchh!” He got to the kitchen sink, turned on the faucet, pulled out the nozzle, aimed it at the horde of cats, and pressed the lever. Nothing happened. The sprayer was broken. Damn it. Sam pressed his nose into his shoulder. “hehChoo! hahhShooo! heffKITChhuhh!” He cupped his hands under the running water and scooped it out. Water landed on the cats who reeled back a little. But then they charged forward, hissing and spitting and swiping with their claws out.

 

“Damn it!” Sam jumped up on the counter beside the sink to get away. There were some cats there was well already, but the mad ones were all still on the floor. More streamed in through the door, though. And his eyes were watering from burning so much. “hit-CHOO! Choo! hehShoo! hehkShuhhh!”

 

Okay, so driving the cats away wasn’t working. So the question was, what were they doing there? What did cats like? Milk? Fish? Unless they were after the chocolate milk in the closed fridge or the cans of tuna fish downstairs, that wasn’t it. But why now? What had changed? Dean and Bobby were gone, but unless one of them were wearing an anti-cat amulet, it couldn’t be them. The only other change were all the plants downstairs they’d brought in that day. Plants that Bobby had taken out of some witch’s house. Some of them had to be catnip. Dread and understanding rushed through Sam.

 

He sprung off the counter, eyes closed, and felt lucky to not land on any of the cats. Sneezing freely, he ran across the kitchen and bolted for the cellar. Cats were scratching the wooden door, and he almost wasn’t able to pull it open against the little cat bodies trying to go forward. “hetchhoo!” He stumbled down the stairs, twisting his ankle but not caring. “hehKshoo!” Cats were on his heels, almost underfoot. “ehhhh-HEPTCHOO!”

 

Sam had a lighter in his pocket. Dean had drummed that into him and even though Sam had been planning on spending the night inside at Bobby’s, he still had it. Sam flicked it on and suddenly wished he’d thought to look up these plants on the internet before coming down here. “hehhh-SHOO! HEKTISHHHHH!” But there wasn’t time. He’d have to burn them all. Sam touched the lighter to one and, a second later, there was strangled howl. Followed by another. And another. “heh-Tchhh! Chooo! Heh-hehh-hehKUSHH!” The plants all went up in flames. The cats cried and ran, scratching at themselves to get out. And Sam, sniffling, itching, sneezing, found the fire extinguisher to douse the flames before they could spread to the rest of the house.

 

*

 

“Sammy! Wake up!”

 

Sam lifted his head from the couch cushion, blinking up at Dean through burning red eyes.

 

“You have a good evening relaxing and sleeping while Bobby and I went and ganked a ghost?”

 

Sam could barely breathe. His nose was all stuffed. His head felt heavy, the pounding in his sinuses taking over. He’d cleaned up the ashes in the cellar, the water on the kitchen floor, and the other things the cats had knocked over. He’d double-checked all the windows and doors. Then he he’d collapsed on the couch, sneezing until he’d fallen asleep. “No,” he whispered, voice scratchy.

 

“Maybe next time you’ll man up and come with us then. ‘Cause you’re not really allergic to ghosts, are you?”

 

Sam shook his head. Satisfied, Dean left. Sam turned his head, stifling a sneeze into the couch cushion.

 

 

 

Title: B is for Bronchitis

Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean

 

Sam came awake to find Dean kneeling on the bed, straddling him. “Dean?” His voice was scratchy, rough. “Whatcha doin’?” He wheezed around the hopeful words, and it felt like every breath he took wanted to trigger a cough in him.

 

Dean brandished a thermometer strip, grinning. “Don’t mind me. I’m here to take your temperature, Sammy.”

 

Sam coughed hard, deep, as if trying to cough something up. But he couldn’t sit up, not with Dean sitting on him. So he coughed, just like he had been coughing for more than a week now, ever since the cold he’d come down with had morphed into bronchitis. He managed to clear his throat and quiet the cough. “But I haven’t had a fever for days.”

 

“Doesn’t matter. I’m going to take it again to be sure it hasn’t come back.” He leaned forward, pressing the strip to Sam’s forehead and holding it there with thumb and forefinger. They both silently began to count to ten. But Sam felt another cough lying in wait. And Dean decided to take advantage of the fact that he was leaning over Sam. He brushed his lips over Sam’s, just a ghost of a touch. “I miss you.”

 

“I’m right here,” Sam pointed out.

 

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “But you’re all sick and stuffy and weak. That’s no fun at all. It’s not fair having you on your back and not being able to do anything.”

 

It had been roughly twenty days and four hours since their last kiss, not that Sam was keeping count. “But I don’t have a fever.”

 

Dean took the strip off and leaned over, putting it on the nightstand. “Yeah, that’s right. You don’t have a fever.”

 

Sam narrowed his eyes. “You sound disappointed.” He coughed a couple times, fighting his own instincts as he tried to keep them light and not the body-shaking, deep chest coughs his body was telling him to cough.

 

Dean looked away, shrugged.

 

“What!”

 

Dean looked back. “Oh, no. Not that. I was thinking that if you did have a fever, I’d have a reason to drag your ass back to the ER. I don’t think that medicine they gave you has helped at all.” The back of his hand stroked Sam’s cheek, fingertips grazing the stubble there.

 

Sam reached up and grabbed Dean’s wrist. Then, taking his brother completely off guard, he flipped Dean over, rolling Dean onto his back on the bed beside Dean, then lying there with Dean hovering over him. “A week ago, I didn’t have the strength to do that. I’ve definitely improved.”

 

But then he really did have to cough. He put a fist to his face and coughed violently, wetly. His whole body shook and he rolled off from on top of Dean. He sat back against the pillows propped up against the headboard. And he closed his eyes, lending all his strength to the task in hopes that it would pass sooner rather than later.

 

When it finally did, he found himself hunched over with a hand rubbing his back and another hand in front of him with a tissue. Clearing his scratchy throat, Sam took it and blew his nose. “Guess there’s still room for more improvement.” He sounded weak. This coughing was just about as tiring as hunting. 

 

“All right. That’s all I can take. Into the bathroom with you.”

 

Sam clutched at the blankets, hugging the covers to his chest as if they were some impenetrable barrier Dean couldn’t find a way through.

 

“You can take those with you. Just c’mon.” After pulling Sam up out of bed and swirling the blankets around Sam twice so they wouldn’t drag, he got his brother into the bathroom and shut the door behind. Dean turned on sink tap water full blast hot. Then he turned on the shower which, surprisingly for a little motel, ran scalding hot.

 

The mirror fogged up and Sam coughed. The room filled with steam and Sam coughed. Dean took his shirt off, apparently too warm to keep it on, and Sam coughed and wished he weren’t sick. “Dean,” he moaned miserably. That wasn’t playing fair at all. He sat down on the floor and shivered. The floor was colder than sitting on the closed toilet seat lid. However, Dean couldn’t sit next to him there. So he sat on the floor and a shirtless Dean joined him.  Dean wrapped his arm around Sam and Sam coughed.

 

“You sound better already,” Dean lied.

 

Resigning himself to the fact that nothing was going to happen until Dean was sure he felt better, Sam took a slow, especially deep breath of the warm, moist air and tilted his head to rest against Dean’s.

 

 

 

Title: C is for Convalescence

Rating: G
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean or Gen, depends how you want to read it

 

Sam woke at the buzzing sound of a card slid into the door’s card reader. On a normal day, the sound wouldn’t have even registered. After the mental hospital, he’d slept straight through two days and spent the next week sleeping on and off for eight hour stretches. He was starting to feel more like himself now, which meant it was getting harder and harder to stay asleep. The littlest sounds woke him, so Dean spent as much time out of the room as possible. Every time Sam woke he expected to see Lucifer sitting next to him in Dean’s absence.  He was jumpy, not relaxed.

 

But he was also still sleepy. So when Dean quietly walked through the door, Sam opened his eyes and blinked at him, blearily, not lifting his head from the pillow. “Hey.”

 

“Hey,” Dean nodded back. “Sorry to wake you.”

 

“S’okay.” Sam yawned and considered sitting up, then decided that was far too much effort. “It’s your room too. At least, until we leave. When are we planning to hit the road?”

 

“Did you find us a case, Sammy?”

 

Sam blinked, gazed over at the laptop on the table, and blinked again. “What?”

 

“Yeah. That’s what I thought. C’mon sleepyhead, let’s get you sitting up. I’ve got something for you.”

 

With Dean’s help, Sam managed to sort of sit up against the pillows. But the second Dean stepped back, Sam slid down, bent at the waist but on his side now.

 

“Weak as a kitten.”

 

“Am not,” Sam insisted, not intending it to come out in such a pouty way.

 

“Are so.” Sam knew he was deadweight in Dean’s arms, but he couldn’t help it. Dean propped him back up and then quickly sat down on the bed so Sam could flop against him and stay somewhat upright. Dean held up a smoothie, angled the bendy straw, and put it to Sam’s lips. “This one’s got protein powder in it.”

 

Sam sipped, swallowed, and coughed as the sudden rush of cold seized his throat and head. “Yeah. I can taste it.”

 

Dean lowered the smoothie. “Sorry. I—”

 

“No, it’s good. It’s nice to be able to taste again. For a while there, everything I ate was sawdust.” He bent his head, lips catching the straw, sucking. Dean lifted the drink again.

 

Dean turned on the television, keeping the volume down low, flipping through stations with no care for what they showed. Sam kept his gaze on the smoothie; the bright flashes and quick movements on the screen were a bit overwhelming still.

 

“Oh shit.”

 

Sam stiffened. “Leviathan?”

 

“No… looks like vampires.”

 

“The sparkley douchebag kind?” Sam closed his eyes as he sipped the cool smoothie.

 

“The suck you dry kind. In Tulsa.”

 

“That’s not good.”

 

“Not good.” Dean reached down and picked up Sam’s hand. “Can you hold this? I’m going to go make some calls. If this is big enough to hit national news, someone’s got to be on it.”

 

Wondering what someones were left, Sam concentrated on holding the smoothie and drinking without falling asleep in the middle of the task. But by the time Dean returned, having reached out to everyone he could think of, Sam was asleep again, stretched across the bed the wrong way, the fallen smoothie cup leaking the little bit that was left upon the bedspread.

 

*

 

“Sam.” Sam heard his name, recognized Dean’s voice, and decided his brother wouldn’t mind if he ignored it. “Sam? Sammy?” Dean nudged, then shook Sam’s shoulder.

 

Reluctantly, Sam opened his eyes. He didn’t really feel so tired. It just felt good to be able to sleep. He checked the back seat and the visor mirror, making sure Lucifer wasn’t there.

 

“We’re here. You wanna sleep in the car while I interview this victim’s sister?”

 

Sam did. But more than that, he wanted to show Dean he could handle an interview now. He wasn’t up for a fight, but he could handle talking to someone. Then he realized his eyes were closed again and he was leaning comfortably against the door. “Just one more day,” he murmured. “One more nap. Then I’ll be back to normal.”

 

Sam jumped and woke when the driver’s side door opened and closed. He looked over, expecting to see Dean leaving the car, but instead he found Dean getting in. “Forget something?”

 

“No, I’m done. She wasn’t seeing anyone and didn’t have many friends, but I got the name of the bar she worked at.” He looked at Sam, head slightly cocked. “Are you ever going to do anything but sleep?”

 

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Let’s go get… those… vamps…” He broke off, yawning. He lifted his hand, scrubbing at his eyes, then his whole face. Then his body tensed and he pitched forward, held back only by his seatbelt. “hehhhCHISHHHHH!” Sam froze afterward, hunched over, hand at his nose.

 

“Oh shit. That’s not good.”

 

Sam nodded. “Not guh-good-heh-SHUHHH!”

 

 

Title: D is for Dusty

Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean

“Chmph!”

 

Dean glanced over his shoulder, seeing Sam with his arm bent over his face, nose smushed into it. “Dust getting to you, Sammy?”

 

“It’s Sab.” Sam snuffled into the crook of his arm then cleared his throat. “Add I’b fide.”

 

Shining his flashlight across the floor and then into the corners of the abandoned house, he saw nothing but cobwebs and dust. There was a layer of dust an inch thick on every surface, from the floor to the windowsills. They had flashlights to sweep away the cobwebs as they entered each doorway, but they kicked up the dust as they walked. And Sam’s nose hadn’t stopped twitching since they started searching.

 

“h’CHMPH! huh….” He rubbed his nose into his sleeve and rubbed his knuckles against his eyes.

 

“Fine my ass. If you needed allergy meds now, you should have told me to get them up the last time I picked up supplies.”

 

“I did’t dow we were goig subwhere I’d deed theb.”

 

“Bullshit!” Dean laughed, the light of his flashlight finally finding the door leading down to the cellar. Nine times out of ten, dead people were in the cellar. “When aren’t we in old, rundown, dusty houses?”

 

Miserably, Sam nodded. Then he lifted his arm again. “hah-CHIMPHHH!”

 

Hand on the doorknob, Dean turned. “Are you gonna be okay down there? Can I rely on you to watch my back? Or do you want to stay up here while I have a look? You know it’ll be even dustier down there.”

 

Sam rubbed his eyes again. Then he lifted his other arm and rubbed it roughly against his nose. After clearing his throat, he met Dean’s gaze. “I’ve got your back.”

 

*

 

Dean limped across the motel room, the ice pack taped around his knee making it hard to bend his leg. He sat down on the bed at the first possible second, and Sam’s attempt at drifting off to sleep was thwarted by the movement. He couldn’t open his eyes, though.

 

“Here.” Dean had brought with him a cold, wet washcloth, folded into thirds. He laid it over Sam’s burning, puffy eyes. Then he pulled a few tissues from the box and folded them to Sam’s nose. “Blow, kiddo.” Sam hesitated. “Come on, Sab.”

 

Sam coughed, surprised.

 

“That’s what you told me to call you. And I need to call you something other the guy who pushed me into an anvil.”

 

“I got the ghost, did’t I?”

 

 “Yeah, you did. Which is why you get a washcloth and tissues and all the Sudafed you want.”

 

Sam tensed up and reached out, grabbing Dean’s hand, guiding it and the tissues back to his nose. “huh-CHISHHH! Uhh…” He sniffled and Dean wiped his nose for him.  But not like he used to when they were young and Sammy was sick. Not like a big brother. Sam cleared his throat. “Add what if I wadt subthig else?”

 

Dean leaned over, pressing his lips to Sam’s.

 

 

 

Title: E is for Endurance

Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean

 

“You okay, Sammy?” Dean’s voice sounded calm, steady. Damn him.

 

They’d been running through the woods for fifteen minutes now. There was a stitch in Sam’s side that hurt like hell as he ran. Due to the fact that his legs were longer than his brother’s, his stride helped him keep up better. Sam gathered his energy and managed a breathy “…f-fine…” The work came out strained, choked. And it made him cough, slow, so he had to work harder to match Dean.

 

“Too much time sitting behind a desk. You’re outa practice.”

 

Sam ignored the pain and his brother’s comments as he concentrated on running. “I can… keep up,” he insisted, the energy he spent from talking making him fall a few feet behind.

 

*

 

“You okay, Sammy?” Dean called from the other side of the room, where he’d just tricked a demon under a devil’s trap.

 

Sam thrust forward again with the knife. This time, it made contact with the demon, but instead of glancing off, it stuck between two ribs. Sam felt it slip out of his hand and send him falling forward past the monster. His knife was lost, as was his control of the situation. The demon charged at him, and he only just rolled out of the way in time. “Fine!” Sam called out, springing to his feet again.

 

He was out of breath, with nothing but bare hands and brains that wouldn’t be much help to him right now. And that was when Dean pumped it full of rock salt. Distracted and angry, it broke off its attack on Sam and went after Dean. Side-stepping, Dean directed it straight under the Devil’s trap. Two demons. One trap. Those weren’t bad odds.

 

“Fighting skills are a little rusty,” Dean said before whipping out the pocket notebook and reading the spell in Latin. When both had been incinerated, he reached in and retrieved Sam’s knife.

 

Sam took it and brushed the ash off with a mumbled, “Thanks.”

 

*

 

“You okay, Sammy?” Dean was the one with the seven-inch gash running down his leg. Dean was the one with the broken right hand, keeping him from stitching himself up. And, yet, Dean was the one asking Sam if he were all right.

 

And Sam didn’t have a good answer. Sweat dripped from his forehead down his face in slow trails as he crouched down with needle and thread. Every breath he took was work and pain seized him sharply as if to tell him to cut it out and just stop breathing already. “Fine,” Sam whispered as the needle pierced Dean’s skin again. Instead of sucking in a breath, Dean calmly took a swig from his flask.

 

Sam did the best he could before his hands started tingling. Light-headed and shaky, Sam stumbled away, wrapping an arm around his middle. The stitches were done; that was what was important. The fact that he was about to die was less so.

 

Dean hopped over and placed a hand on Sam’s back. “You look like shit.”

 

Sam winced, less from the immense pain and more from the pain of admitting he was as far from fine as possible. “Think I broke a few ribs when I got thrown down the stairs back there.”

 

Dean nodded, led him to the bed, and shook a couple Aspirin from the bottle.

 

*

 

“You okay, Sammy?” Dean devoured his double-bacon cheeseburger, juice dripping down the sides of his hands and onto the paper in the little plastic tray.

 

Sam stared down at the remaining half of his salad. Was it possible to get food poisoning from salad? He didn’t feel feverish; this couldn’t be a flu. But his stomach was definitely queasy in a way it definitely hadn’t been before he’d started eating. “Fine,” he said, stabbing a tomato with his fork.

 

“Eat up. Gotta be back on the road in ten.” Dean plunked down cash for the meal and a tip proportionate to the tightness of the waitress’s outfit.

 

Sam gave his salad one more look. Then, with a hurried “Be right back!” he bolted for the bathroom before he could tell Dean that maybe a tip wasn’t appropriate this time. He squeezed himself into a stall, folded himself on the floor, and berated himself for not even being able to keep up with Dean when he was eating.

 

*

 

“You okay, Sammy?” Dean grinned down at Sam, who he was straddling in bed.

 

Sam thrust forward, cock sliding against Dean’s slick hand. They’d been at this for hours, neither man willing to be the first to give into orgasm, both men enjoying the build-up far too much. Soft, tender touches had finally given way to grabs and firm strokes and bodies pushing against each other. Sam looked up into his brother’s eyes and, finally, smiled. “Better than fine, Dean.” He thrust again, hard and dripping. But the movement made Dean slide deeper into him. Dean slid out again, but the motion was so good, it turned into a rocking rhythm he couldn’t resist.

 

Dean groaned and tried to hang on. But Sam’s hands cupped his ass cheeks, squeezing, then pulling him closer. Buried deep, Dean cried out, back curved, head thrown back, an orgasm making his face flush behind the freckles.

 

Satisfied to have finally held out longer for once, Sam let himself come against Dean’s hand and chest. 

 

 

 

Title: F is for Fever

Rating: PG

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing: Sam/Castiel

 

 

Sam was slow. Not special kind of slow, just moving at a decelerated pace kind of slow. And it wasn’t that he zigged when he should have zagged. It was that he hadn’t even seen the need to zag coming before he was firmly knocked onto his ass. He hit the concrete warehouse floor hard. But his head slammed against some machinery and, as pain shot through him, the already dark warehouse went black.

 

Dean was on the opposite side of the warehouse, busy cornering two of the three Leachee demons under a devil’s trap and hoping Sam had dealt with the third. You had to stab them in the neck with a blade cleaned in holy water. Coming up with a couple daggers that fit the bill wasn’t a problem for the Winchester boys; the problem came in the stabbing. The demons were virtually impervious and tended to choose abnormally tall humans to possess. Dean would have fought them single-handedly to keep Sam out of harm’s way because of that, but even he couldn’t take on three at once.

 

Arm straining, extending, he drove a dagger into flesh at the neckline. It wasn’t quite far enough, but the angle was true and the demon collapsed before him. Dark blood ran down Dean’s hand, making his grip slip as he withdrew the dagger. He stood on the fallen Leachee in order to get the height needed to dispatch the second.

 

“Sam!” he called out. Machinery whirred and hummed, clanked and sputtered all about him. He yelled louder but couldn’t hear a response. As he headed through the warehouse, Dean muttered, “I’m fuckin’ exhausted. If he’s gotten himself possessed, I’m not even going to bother killing him. He’ll just have to deal.”

 

He found the third Leachee before he found Sam. It was lying with its head crushed in some mechanical press, an athame embedded in its Adam’s apple. “Sam?” The mechanisms around the Leache squeaked and ground noisily in protest. But there was no Sam. “Sam!”

 

He lay around the corner, curled on his side, moaning so softly Dean wouldn’t have been able to hear him even without the broken machinery. “Damn it, Sammy.” Dean sank to his knees.

 

“Hurts,” Sam whimpered—actually fucking whimpered, like a little kid, like someone really hurt.

 

It wasn’t a very helpful answer, however. “What hurts?”

 

Dean’s fingers brushed Sam’s forehead and Sam recoiled, wincing. “Head… and everything else.”

 

His forehead had been hot. Far hotter than it should have been.

 

“What’s the matter with him?”

 

Dean wheeled around, nearly losing his balance, though he was kneeling on the floor. “Damn it, Cas. You couldn’t have come fifteen minutes ago?”

 

“What’s the matter with him?” Castiel repeated, cocking his head as if that would help him better see the problem.

 

“Not sure, but he’s got a fever. I don’t think it’s from the Leachee demons.”

 

Castiel walked over and squatted down. With a touch to his temple, Sam’s eyes opened. His head wound was healed, but the illness remained.

 

“Sam?”

 

Sam looked from Castiel to Dean and then back again. “Hurts,” he said again.

 

“The two of you are as bad as broken records,” Dean muttered. He turned to Castiel. “His temperature’s too high; makes him hypersensitive. We need to get him somewhere safe, cool him down, force him to rest.

 

With a nod, Castiel scooped Sam up. Sam cried out and turned his face into Castiel’s trench coat, muffling the sounds of moans. Castiel held him close and carried him out of the warehouse, to the backseat of the car.

 

Tears turned the tan fabric darker brown as Sam cried with pain at every turn or bump the Impala navigated. Dean glanced in the rear view mirror, catching Castiel’s expression, reflecting his concern. Dean’s foot pressed heavier on the gas pedal, not being able to keep from turning but making the ride a few seconds shorter. After surviving the ride, Sam passed out on the journey to the motel room, the hand that had tight hold of Castiel’s tie loosening then going slack and dangling down with the rest of his arm.

 

Castiel sat with Sam in bed while Dean brought washcloths and bowls of cool water. He sat with Sam when Dean left to get medicine from a local drug store. He sat with Sam while Dean nodded off in the next bed, reluctant to sleep but unable to keep his eyes open any longer.

 

Sam slept for a long time and then drifted in and out of consciousness, delirious or crying when awake and whimpering when asleep. Four times, Sam got up and stumbled to the door, mumbling about demons and having Dean’s back. Castiel walked him back to bed each time and held a fresh compress to his forehead.

 

It was around four in the morning when Sam’s fever broke and lucidity washed back over him. “Cas,” he whispered, as if just noticing the angel were there. “Hi.”

 

“Hi there,” he replied, as if he had just arrived. He wiped a cool washcloth over Sam’s damp forehead. “You have a fever.” 

 

“Had one this morning, too. Thought I’d be okay on the hunt. Dean’s okay, right?”

 

“He is fine. Sleeping now.”

 

“Good.” Sam looked relieved for a moment. Then he reached up and put a hand to his head. “World’s spinning, Cas.”

 

“Yes, it is. In fact, it’s in constant rotation—”

 

“More than usual, I mean.” Sam sat up, stripped off his shirt, and then lunged for the angel, pulling him down so they were snuggled together. Sam buried his face in the space between Castiel’s neck and shoulder, nuzzling. He threw a leg and an arm over Castiel’s body. He sighed deeply, relaxing as Cas’s arm wrapped around him and held him tight. “You gonna stay the rest of the night, or do you have to rush back to Heaven?”

 

Castiel didn’t answer right away, and the pause made Sam shiver. He was certain Cas didn’t move, but suddenly there was a blanket up around the two of them, tucked so tight he couldn’t imagine the angel would be able to escape.

 

 

 

 Title: G is for Gift
Rating: PG
Fandom: Avengers
Pairing: Captain America/Iron Man

As long as he lived—and Tony Stark planned on living forever, if not longer—he would never forget the expression on Steve Rogers’ face when he handed over the keys to the man’s motorcycle. Tony had never before been so grateful for one of his father’s obsessions. He couldn’t have known, as a kid growing up with that bike on display at home, that one day he’d actually have the chance to give it back as a gift to the man it belonged to. Or, for that matter, a chance to fall madly for the man.

 

Tony headed back into the elevator, tapping out notes with his stylus into his tablet so as not to waste time on the long trip up to the top from the garage. He had only been settled behind his desk for about twenty minutes when Jarvis interrupted his train of thought.

 

“Sir, there’s a news report just coming in that may be of interest.”

 

“Jarvis, I’m a little busy right n—“

 

The flat screen turned on anyway, to a local television station where a news chopper had just captured a car accident in midtown. An accident between a garbage truck and a taxi. Though right in the middle of the intersection lay what used to be a motorcycle. A familiar motorcycle.

 

His phone rang. “Sir, the number is private and blocked, but showing up in my databanks as—”

 

“S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Tony growled. Eyes fixed on the news report, he picked up the phone. “I know,” he said. “I’m leaving for the hospital now.” He hung up. Ground transportation would be useless, especially in that part of town. The helicopter would take time to prep. Thankfully, he had the suit.

 

Iron Man soared through New York City, speeding single-mindedly toward the hospital, spooking a few pigeons he passed along the way. His footsteps were heavy as he marched through the halls, right past the desks of employees who jumped up to try to stop him. Super strength came in handy, though, as he stormed through closed doors and pushed aside security officers. There were already some members of S.H.I.E.L.D. standing guard outside the curtain; Tony didn’t let them stop him either.

 

Steve lay in a hospital bed, cuts and bruises bringing color to an otherwise pale face. “How bad?” Tony grabbed at the chart clipped to the base of Steve’s bed. He skimmed it, trying to make sense of it when his head was spinning with worry.

 

And Steve, hearing this, pulled himself out of slumber, though somewhat reluctantly. “Tony?” His handsome blue eyes took an extra second to focus. “You came.”

 

Tony forced a smile as he looked up. “Hey there. Of course I came.” He rounded the bed and put his hand down on the pillow.

 

Turning his head, Steve nuzzled against the cold, metal fingers and wincing slightly. “I got into a little accident out there.”

 

“I heard. Good thing you were wearing a helmet… and that you’re practically invulnerable.”

 

A laugh made Steve wince again. “Still managed to crack a rib.” He took a deep breath and shuddered at the pain that caused.

 

“Anyone else and they’d be dead. I saw what happened to your bike.”

 

Steve closed his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

 

“It was a gift. Your choice if you want to total it.” That wasn’t what Steve wanted to hear, his eyes wide. “That was a joke. Don’t worry. I’ll get it fixed up.” It was a mangled wreck now and not all parts would be original. Unless he were able to track down some suppliers with authentic parts. There were few such parts out there and even fewer places willing to part with such parts… but that was part of the fun. “First, though, we need to get you fixed up.”

 

“My patient needs rest, Mr. Stark.” A doctor said, throwing open a curtain and closing it behind him, stepping over to the other side of Steve’s bed. “He needs to stay here and rest if he’s going to recover. I can prescribe—”

 

Steve gave the doctor a weak smile. “Drugs don’t work on me, Doc.”

 

The doctor frowned, took the chart from Tony, scribbled a few things, clipped it back to the bed. “All the more reason you need your rest. And you can’t get that with a superhero bothering you.”

 

“I can’t get that without him here.”

 

The doctor looked entirely unconvinced, but he left and sent in an RN after him to quickly take Steve’s vitals. Tony stripped out of the suit so he could settle onto the bed without weighting it down. He was careful as he sat down, not wanting to hurt Steve further. But Steve made room for him in the bed and immediately rested his head on Tony’ shoulder. “A few more hours and I’ll be healed.”

 

“Mmm.” Tony rolled slightly to the side, pulled out his smartphone.

 

“Oh, Tony. Can’t you spend just three hours not working?”

 

In a huff, Tony replied, “Fine.” He slid an arm around Steve and stroked his shoulder. “Except you know I get fidgety when I can’t work. I’m already nervous about all this. And today I really needed to complete that next test of the hydraulic system for the—”

 

“Tony, can’t you work on helping me fall asleep?”

 

With a smile, Tony set the phone down.

 

 

Title: H is for Hay

Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean

“There.” Dean points up ahead to what looks like an abandoned barn. One side has a tractor through it, but the roof is pretty much intact and it sure beats spending the night out in the rain in the middle of a cornfield with corn only up to their waists. “C’mon.”

 

Sam hesitates. The barn looks temping, but it sounds like Dean’s forgotten the incident with the horse when he was fourteen. He shakes his head, little droplets of water falling from his hair like a dog that shakes off when he’s wet.

“This isn’t open for debate, Sammy. You’ll catch cold out here in the rain all night. At least there we can keep dry and get some sleep. We’ve got a long walk back to the car in the morning.” He sets off for the barn without further discussion and Sam has no choice but to follow.

 

The sky goes bright with light and, not a second later, thunder rumbles so much they can feel it in the ground.  Dean and Sam quicken their pace. They’re drowned rats by the time they get inside the barn. Rain trickles through gaps in the roof and between slats of the walls. “Up in the hayloft looks like our best bet,” Dean nods toward the ladder. “Looks like the roof is better up there.”

 

“Nah, I think we should hunker down under the loft.” He points to the far corner that’s protected on two sides by pretty sturdy walls and has cover of both the loft floor and the roof. “Easiest to make a break for it if someone finds us.”

 

Dean looks unconvinced. “Up in the loft, we’ll be hidden from sight, and safer if any wild animals come calling.” He grins. “Do I have to pull the big brother card or are you gonna head up that ladder?”

 

Reluctantly, Sam starts climbing. The hay is a thick cushion, kind of harsh and prickly, but also dry and warm. He kicks off his shoes and Dean climbs up. “Better take off all our clothes, let them dry a little while we sleep.” Sam agrees with that, and they lay the items out over the hay, which starts to soak up some of the moisture. They even stuff their sneakers with hay. Though Sam hesitates to do so, it’s too late now to stop whatever will come.

 

Maybe he’s grown out of it, he wonders, as he lies down in the hay. Dean lies down beside and thrusts a leg between Sam’s. Sam throws an arm around Dean, not realizing how cold he feels until he stops moving. Thunder booms outside and Sam’s thoughts drift, trying to remember if he saw a weathervane on top of the barn or not. Dean isn’t so preoccupied, as he nuzzles his face into Sam’s chest and starts breathing slowly, deeply, bringing sleep about. For a few minutes, Sam’s stupid enough to think this might actually work, that he might actually make it to sleep and be able to sleep straight through until the storm lets up.

 

But then he feels the damn tickle in his nose, so deep and itchy he can’t do anything about it. In vein, he scrubs at his nose with his knuckles. He presses the back of his hand to his nose. He pinches with his thumb and forefinger. But the tickle just gets worse. He sucks in breath and tries to hold it. Fails. “hurhh… HERSchhhhh!”

 

Dean doesn’t get it. He snuggles closer. “Bless you.”

 

Sam tries to explain. Fails. “Dean… no… I… al… the… huhEHKShhhh! huhtshhhh! HUH-SChhhhh! UHSHHH!”

 

Dean lifts his head as Sam shakes against him. “What’s wrong?”

 

But it’s too late to ask that and too late to do anything about it. The hay’s gotten to him. “hihhhhhtSchhh! HUHKSchhhh!” Sam’s hand, cupped at his nose and mouth, is wet. “huh-EHKShhhh! huhhhUHShh!” He doesn’t even bother trying to open his eyes or close his mouth. “Hihhh-EHSHhhh! UHPTSHHHH!”

 

“God… Sammy… I forgot all about the damn horse…”

 

His eyes watering, starting to itch, are still closed but he can see the images replay in his mind. That ghost racehorse out for revenge against its former owners and trainer that had sold it for glue. John Winchester had brought Dean and Sam along to help. And while Dean had helped, tracking down the remaining tail hairs in some woman’s locket, Sam had spent the whole time sneezing uncontrollably any time he came close to the stables. It wasn’t horses he was allergic to, though, but the hay.

 

And here he is, tangled up with Dean in it. In a lot of it.

 

“Do you want to go?”

 

Sam thinks about the sneezing and the misery and the cold wet outside. Above the sound of his sneezes, he can hear the rain beating down on the roof. There’s nowhere else within a hundred miles to take shelter. Hating his answer, he shakes his head. And sneezes some more. “hehhSchh! HUTTShuhhh! Huhhh-URShhikuhh!”

 

Dean slides his arms around Sam, pulling him close. Sam presses his nose to Dean’s dry, warm shoulder, trying to hide against his brother, getting ready for an incredibly long night.

 

 

Title: I is for Itchy
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sam/Dean

“It’s not fair.” Sam fills the cheap plastic motel cup with water and downs the Benadryl pill with a single gulp. “We’re brothers.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “Not fair that I get Mr. Itchy here as a brother. Didn’t you learn anything in Dad’s survival classes?”

 

Sam looks at him wide-eyed. “Dean, when you’re fighting for your life, you don’t stop to count the number of leaves on a plant.” He swings his hand over, fingers curled, ready to rake his red forearm, but Dean swats his hand away. A little noise in the back of Sam’s throat expresses his annoyance. “I just want to scratch a couple times then I’ll be done.”

 

“Yeah you will be if you make that rash worse and it starts blistering.” He reaches up and starts unbuttoning Sam’s shirt. He pulls it off, not remotely surprised to see that the rash has spread all the way up Sam’s arm. It looks red and blotchy and miserable. Once again, Dean thanks his luck that he seems to be immune to poison ivy.

 

Sam goes to scratch again, an involuntary reaction to the intense itch crawling all over his skin. But Dean grabs his wrist and holds tight. Sam whimpers and wriggles in place, wanting to get free. Wanting to scratch. “Deeean!” he moans helplessly.

 

“I gotcha Sammy. Just wait two more minutes.” He keeps a tight hold on Sam’s wrist, though, not trusting his brother to wait the two minutes. So he unbuttons and unzips Sam’s jeans using only one hand. Sam tries to rotate his arm and rub it against his side, and succeeds partly, but it doesn’t do anything except probably start it spreading on his side and chest now. Dean sighs and pulls down Sam’s pants.

 

Off comes one leg, then two. And Sam is wriggling so badly with pent-up energy and need that he cries out and kicks the little trashcan wedged between toilet and sink cabinet. It topples over and out fall a couple Kleenexes, a store receipt, and the paper wrapping with the motel logo on it that had been around the bar of hand soap at the sink. He groans in frustration.

 

Dean just shakes his head, still holding tight to Sam’s wrist. “Boy. Stanford sure did turn you grumpy.” He leads Sam over to the bathtub, tests the water temperature, than guides Sam in. It’s thick and milky with Aveeno oatmeal bath solution and even though Sam tries to pretend nothing’s changed, the way his shoulders relax tips Dean off that Sam is relaxing and the itch is backing away a little. “There. That’s better, right?” He lets go of Sam’s wrist, letting Sam slip beneath the water, submerging both hands and arms as well as his side and chest and ankles and calves—everywhere the redness has taken up residence on his skin. “That’s a good Sammy. No more itching now.”

 

Sam’s eyes shoot daggers at him. “This is precisely why I went away.”

 

Dean gets up and turns back a few seconds later with a bottle of pink stuff in one hand and a bag of cotton balls in the other, ready to start the application. “Because you hate when I bathe you?”

 

Sam hesitates then gets this shy look on his face. “Well, no. I kind of like that part.”

 

 

 

Title: J is for Jammies

Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean

 

Sam presses the back of his hand against Dean’s forehead and Dean leans forward, increasing the pressure of the touch, trying to get closer to Sam. But Sam is already up, out of bed and dressed. And Sam tucks the covers tightly around Dean. “Now, I’m going to go pay for a few more days of the room and pick up something from the continental breakfast. You stay right here. I’ll be back in ten. Do you understand?” Dean makes absolutely no sign that he understands. He sniffles and rubs boyishly at his bothersome nose. “Dean, nod if you understand that I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

 

Dean nods as if it’s a reflex, and Sam isn’t entirely sure Dean knows what he’s nodding about. But he’s got only a couple minutes to get over to the Super 8’s lobby before the bagels and cold cereal are swept up and boxed away for tomorrow. So he pats Dean through the blanket, grabs his winter coat, and leaves.

 

When he gets to the lobby, there are no bagels. There are, however, donuts and danishes and fresh fruit. Sam loads up a large plate, knowing Dean won’t have much of an appetite anyway. There is also a man who is more than happy to take Sam’s money for two more days. “There’s a paper convention in town this weekend, so the motel is booked solid. You’ve got to leave by 11 on Thursday.”

 

Sam promises they will be checked out by then, thanks him for the food, and heads back to the room, which is just around the corner and down the walk from the lobby and front desk.  When he rounds the corner, however, the sight in front of him stops him cold. Dean is there, fully dressed, hand on the handle of the driver’s side door. Rushing to intercept, Sam nearly loses his breakfast, plate and all. He pulls Dean by the arm, increasing the space between Dean and the Impala, until Dean is practically back inside the room. “Dean, what are you doing?”

 

Dark irises wade in the pools of confusion that are Dean’s eyes. He answers the question with two of his own. “Are you ready to go?” He presses a fist to his nose, snaps forward. “Hehhh… hehEhshooo! Do you doe where by keys are?”

Before Sam can reply, Dean begins to sway and Sam lunges forward, grabbing him. He’s never been so glad to have hidden Dean’s car keys the night before. But he’s not so happy to find Dean outside, fully clothed. “We’re not going anywhere. You’re sick. Not to mention we have nowhere to go.”

 

Dean nods as if this hadn’t occurred to him. He spent so much time on the road it was just second nature to get up and go. Back in the room, Sam finds their bags by the door, open and jammed with things Dean shoved in them in a hasty attempt at packing. His pajamas are in there, along with the extra shampoo bottles from the shower stall, the trash can from the bathroom, and a lamp from the nightstand. Instead of unpacking, because the Winchesters never really settle anywhere if they can help it, Sam grabs Dean’s pajamas from the bag on the way back to bed.

 

Dean coughs and sniffles as Sam tries to get the clothes off him. But Dean’s arms are stiff and strong and all his body wants to do is flop onto the bed and snuggle up with blankets. He bats Sam’s hands away. “C’mon, Dean. I’m trying to get you into your jammies. Will you just quit fighting me on this?”

 

Even sick and feverish Dean’s got a little fight in him. But it’s like he can’t figure out if he wants to stay in bed or leave. Sam does the only thing he can think of to tame a feisty, restless Dean—leans over and kisses him. And then, just like that, Dean goes limp. He lets Sam strip off his clothes and pull the soft, white t-shirt over his head and the flannel sleep pants up to his waist. Loose drawstring. White tube socks. But Dean shakes his head when Sam goes for the sweatshirt and Sam chalks that up to the fever. But Dean doesn’t protest when Sam tucks the covers securely around him.

 

*

 

It’s just before lunch when Dean wakes up. Sam’s lying in bed, reading a book he’s not particularly into. Rolling over, Dean nuzzles his face into Sam’s chest and sneezes four times running. “Um, gross?” Sam winces as Dean snuffles, wipes his nose with the edge of Sam’s shirt. “I’m going to go get you some tissues. Let me up.” Sam manages to extricate himself from the bed. The tissue box is part of the counter in the bathroom, but he pries open the cover and extracts the box.

 

When he returns, Dean is up and his pants are off. He’s trying to get his jacket on, though.

 

“Dean, what’re you doing?”

 

“Goig out.” It’s almost impossible, but he sounds even stuffier. “I gotta get tissues. I cad’t… hehh… hehhEHGshhhh! Egxxshh! Cad’t stob sdeezig.”

 

“Because you’re sick. Get your jacket off and get back in bed, Dean. I’ve got your tissues right here.”

 

Dean stares at him. “Bushy Sabby.”

 

Sam raises his eyes to the ceiling for a microsecond. “Pushy. Right. All this is just a power trip and has nothing to do with your fever.” He crunches the box under his arm as he forces the jacket off and the pajama pants back on. With a hand around Dean’s upper arm, he marches his older brother back to bed. Dean lies down and Sam tucks the blankets tight around him. Then he sits down on the edge and supplies Dean with as many tissues as he could want. Dean passes them back, used, balled-up, and damp. Sam winces and drops them over the side of the bed into the trash can.

 

*

 

Sam sticks a thermometer in Dean’s mouth, kisses his forehead, strokes his cheek. Sam turns his back for one minute and Dean is out of bed, stripping off his pajamas and crawling across the floor for his shoes.

 

Sam doesn’t need the thermometer to tell him Dean’s still running a fever. He picks him up and puts him right back in bed, wishing that he could strap him in instead of tuck him in.

 

*

 

The shower helps Dean’s breathing a bit. He isn’t quite so snuffly as he stands there in the hot, steamy bathroom. He can take a deep, full breath without coughing. Sam has to hold Dean up. Fevers and slippery tubs are a bad combination.

 

After they get out, Sam turns to retrieve Dean’s pajamas, neatly folded on the lid of the toilet. But when he turns back around, Dean isn’t there. He’s made a break for it, heading out of the bathroom and straight for his duffle bag.

 

Sam intercepts, steers him back, and dries him off before the pajamas go back on. “Jammies and bed,” Sam insists. Dean nods.

 

*

 

It’s the middle of the night and Dean kicks down the covers for the fifth time. The sudden, cold rush of air sweeping over them wakes Sam and makes Dean shiver. He runs hot and cold too quickly to keep up with, but he clings to his brother, whimpering.

 

Sam gets up out of bed. He pulls the sheet and blankets back up again, folding the end of the sheet over the edge of the blankets as he tucks them around Dean. Stroking Dean’s forehead sends Dean back to sleep. For another twenty minutes.  Then he kicks them down a sixth time.

 

*

 

“Hah-EGShxxttt!” Dean sneezes into a t-shirt he’s just taken out of his bag as he roots through just about everything he owns. His sneezes are forceful, wet, and the tissues have long since run out.

 

Sam stands in the doorway, plastic bags from the grocery store, filled with everything from Kleenex packs to canned soup, hang from one hand. He surveys the damage of the room—clothes and other items strewn about. There’s a skin magazine open in one corner. There’s a sawed-off shotgun sticking out from under the bed. There’s a baseball cap perched on a lampshade. There’s a pair of muddy shoes on the table. “Dean, what’re you doing?” Sam is beyond exasperation now. He’s beginning to think Dean won’t be well enough to move on Thursday when they get kicked out of the room, not if his fever’s making him act like this.

 

Dean snuffles and looks up. “I dod’t feel good,” he admits. “hah-hah-h’EKkkShhhhh! Sniff! Sniff! I’b sick.”

 

“I know that.”

 

“I could’t fide by jabbies. I deed to chadge idto theb and thed get idto bed.”

Sam wants so badly to laugh, but he knows he shouldn’t. What he does instead is take hold of Dean by the shoulders. “Dean, you’re wearing your jammies already, that’s why you can’t find them.

 

Dean looks down and studies himself for far too long. It’s an uncomfortable silence, punctuated by sniffles and throat clearings. His nose runs as his head hangs down. Finally Sam guides his brother to bed. And Dean climbs in, sliding under the covers happily and settling in.

 

Sam goes to work tucking his brother in again. First he rips open one of the new Kleenex boxes, gives Dean a few tissues, wedges the box between pillows and nightstand. Then he runs his hands down both of Dean’s sides, sliding a little of the blanket just underneath Dean. He’s become an expert in tucking, folding the sheet over the edge of the blankets and comforter then making sure that covers Dean’s shoulders and neck, all the way up to under Dean’s chin. Dean is tight and secure, which is what he likes when he’s sick and, more importantly, what he needs.

 

He goes to fish out the tissue boxes from the grocery bag to tend to Dean’s runny nose. But he feels a hand on his back and Dean sniffling into his neck. Ten seconds. Ten seconds and Dean’s up and out of bed again. At this rate, he’ll never get any rest. There’s only one thing to do.

 

“That’s it. I’ve had it.” He turns. “I feel like I’m on repeat. You can’t keep getting out of bed, Dean, or you’ll never get better.” Sam ushers his brother back to bed and then crawls under with him. It’s a lot harder to tuck Dean in from under the blankets, but he tries. And then he wraps his arms around Dean, spooning and cuddling from behind. Dean couldn’t escape now even if he wanted to.

 

 

 

Title: K is for Kitten

Rating: PG-13

Fandom: Horatio Hornblower

Pairing: Horatio/Bush

 

To say Hornblower and Bush were drunk would be a grievous misuse of the word. Sure, they had each had a few drinks at the officer’s club, but that was to be expected. For the privilege of having somewhere warm to pass some time, of being able to play cards to earn next month’s rent, of striking up conversations with illustrious officers, a little bit of libation must be endured. They were not the sort of stinking drunk that the men of the ship typically were after a weekend of shore leave. They were not even the sort of tingly that came from having a cold and suffering through the ship’s physician’s remedy of many mugs of rum. But they were intoxicated enough to walk slowly, swaying together to stay upright.

 

And it was as Hornblower misstepped and Bush slid an arm around him to keep him from toppling into a store window, that Bush noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Something moving. Something small. Something alive. He left Hornblower to the wall just past the window and turned to go after it.

 

“William?”

 

“Pardon. One moment,” Bush muttered, searching the darkness for more movement, and spotting it at last. He pursued, boots against the cobblestone, walking then running as a carriage came around the corner. Bush reached down, scooped the something up just in time, and pulled back as horse hooves and wheels sped through the street exactly where he had been. Heart pounding, lightheadedness gone from the dose of adrenaline like one he only got during a good battle, he hurried back to Hornblower.

 

“What was all that about?” Hornblower asked, rubbing his forehead and standing upright again without needing to rely on the wall.

 

“See for yourself.” He stood up taller, sticking his chest out proudly, to reveal a small black ball of fur against it. As Hornblower watched, the fur moved and light from the gas street laps caught in its eyes, reflecting in an eerie manner. Then it nosed against the opening of Bush’s peacoat, seeking the warmth there. Bush searched Hornblower’s face. “It’s a young kitten.”

 

Hornblower took a step back. “Indeed, I see that.”

 

As he continued to see, the kitten reached out one tiny paw and dug its claws into the coat. It flexed its digits and kneaded the paw into the wool.

 

“Careful. It will put holes in the fabric.”

 

“Nonsense. It’s too small.” His voice took on a slightly different tone as he spoke with his chin pressed to his neck, looking down at the kitten as if he had never seen its equal. “What a lovely little thing.”

 

“Yes it is, but it will freeze along with the two of us if we linger out here for much longer.” The days were cold, but the nights were remarkably colder. And it was well into the nighttime now.

 

“You are right of course.” He cradled the kitten in one arm but wrapped his other arm around it to secure it. “Do you think Mrs. Mason will mind an extra lodger for the night?”

 

Hornblower took another step back. “I’m not sure I take your meaning.”

 

“I should think my meaning plain enough. I’d like to bring the kitten home.”

 

Hornblower’s third and final step back took his breath away as he slammed back against the wall, not expecting it to be so close. He gasped and clapped his hand over his mouth, but the sound had escaped nonetheless.

 

Bush looked up, confusion in his eyes. “I never took you for an animal-hater, Horatio.”

 

“Animals? No.” His voice was muffled by his hand.

 

“Then it is cats in particular you hate?”

 

“Not… hate precisely.” His eyes seemed to beg for mercy, and Bush knew every one of Hornblower’s expressions. Carefully, he pried the paw, claws and all, from his coat. He hugged it warmly, then moved toward the arcade and set the kitten down where it would be safe, away from the streets. It mewled and disappeared into the darkness, its fluffy tail held high.

 

They did not speak as they now soberly walked back to their lodgings. Bush led the way up the stairs and Hornblower followed just behind. The lady of the house and her daughter were fast asleep at this hour, and they made their footfalls as soft as possible to ensure that.

 

When they reached the top of the stairs, Bush headed into Hornblower’s room, knowing Hornblower would continue to follow. As soon as the door was closed behind them, Bush caught Hornblower up in his arms, holding him close. And Hornblower returned the embrace, resting his cheek upon Bush’s shoulder. There were stirrings and touches of all sorts.

 

But then Hornblower pulled back. He had never before pulled back from this, but there it was. He clapped his hand over nose and mouth and moved back as far as the small room with its slanting ceiling would allow.

 

“Horatio?”

 

Hornblower shook his head, unable to speak, eyes closed.

 

“Why, whatever is the matter?”

 

“h’pishhh!” Hornblower snapped forward with a covered but nonetheless violent sneeze. It came with fellows, however. “hihpishh! H’ishhhh! H’pihshhh!” He turned to the side. “hihh… hih-ihPIHshhh! Hihpishhh!”

 

“Goodness gracious! God bless!”

 

Hornblower seemed to try to nod. But it was difficult to tell the difference between a nod and the bob of a head from another sneeze. “heh-IHshhhh! H’pshh! Ishh! Ihshh!”

 

“Horatio?”

 

“It was… h’pishh! Sniff! Sniff! It was the kitten.”

 

“Sir?”

 

Hornblower wiped his hand across his nose then put the other one there in its place. “Sniff! Cat hair always tickles my nose fiercely. Sniff! All I need do is…” He drew close again, lowering his hand from his sniffly nose. Then he took one cautious breath in Bush’s direction before drawing back in an instant. “And I… I… heh-IHPShhhhh! Ihshhhh!”

 

Off came Bush’s coat at once, flung to the far corner of the room. “I’m sorry, Horatio. I didn’t know. We… don’t come across many cats at sea, do we?”

 

Horatio chuckled and rubbed the side of his hand underneath his nose. “No we… we don’t. hihpsh! H’shihh! Ihpshh!”

 

“Thank god. Imagine you going into battle like this.”

 

Bush said it with such a straight face that Hornblower didn’t realize it was a joke at first. Then he looked up enough to see the smile, and returned it. “I… I daresay you should take all your clothes off, just to be sure. I’m sniff still feeling a bit sneezy.”

 

Bush nodded. “You know best, of course.” He began to strip down.

 

 

 

Title: L is for Lust

Rating: R
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Dean/Castiel

 

“ehh-Shooo!”

 

“Bless you.”

 

“Thank you?”

 

“You didn’t call.”

 

Lying on the roof of the car, Dean finally turned his head to the side, seeing Castiel standing beside the car, cell phone in hand. Cas tilted his head to match the angle of Dean’s as best he could. “I didn’t feel much like… doing anything.”

 

“That isn’t entirely true. You’re looking at the stars. That’s something,” Cas pointed out.

 

“Yeah.” Dean coughed into a fist and let his head roll back, looking up at the sky. “Guess it is.”

 

“And you sneezed. That’s something else.”

 

“Right.”

 

There was a pause. Then, “You miss him.”

 

Dean closed his eyes for a few seconds, going from dark black sky to the darkness of his eyelids. When he opened them again, the stars were all the more brilliant for it. “Yeah, I do.” It was another one of their stupid fights. Something about Dad or Sam’s soul or something that had seemed so incredibly important at the time but now seemed so incidental and petty he couldn’t even remember what it was exactly. All he knew was that Sam had stormed off, left town, told Dean he needed his space and Dean hadn’t broken down and called him. Yet.

 

He hadn’t called Cas either, yet there he was. Trench coat. Tie. Concerned expression. Just when he thought the loneliness would start eating away at him. “Come here,” Dean said, scooting over so there was room on the car. And suddenly Cas was there, beside him, staring up at the stars as well.

 

Dean coughed again and rubbed a tickle out of his nose. He was fighting off some damn bug, popping vitamin C tablets and downing juice at every opportunity. He really didn’t want to take anything else unless it got so bad he couldn’t drive. At least Sam wasn’t there to catch this from him; Sam always caught whatever Dean had, and usually had it worse in the end. “Angels can’t get sick, can they?”

 

“No, Dean.”

 

“Good thing.” He coughed again and felt Cas’ hand on his forehead, then his cheek. Then Cas drew him over. The angel’s arms both wrapped around Dean, stubble against his cheek, perfectly warm body pressed close.

 

Dean looked up, tracing constellations with his eyes. “Sam and I used to watch the skies like this. For hours.”

 

“Like this?” His grip on Dean tightened.

 

Dean smiled. “Well, no, not exactly like this, I guess.” He turned his head, smothering a sniffle into the collar of Cas’ trench coat.

 

“You should sneeze.”

 

Dean wasn’t so sure, but he did give in anyway. “h’Shuhhhh!” Cas didn’t flinch, didn’t move. Dean relaxed again, like that hadn’t just happened. “This is… great. It’s what I need.”

 

Castiel’s nose rubbed against Dean’s face. His breath was pleasantly warm, soft, intimate. “It’s not all you need.”

 

Dean swallowed. Coughed. “Yeah, well, I didn’t think you’d show up with a tissue box and cough drops, but if you got ‘em on you…”

 

“Not what I meant. I meant sexual relations.” A hand broke from the hug, sliding down Dean’s back, around the front, to his crotch. That was Cas, getting right to the point. No sugar coating. No playing games. Honest and blunt and efficient. And, yeah, Dean had wanted it. Needed it, even.

 

The kiss drew Dean’s gaze from the stars and straight to Castiel. Even lit only by the moon and starlight, Cas seemed bright. The zipper of Dean’s jeans slid down. The tie around the trench coat slipped off. Dean’s urges took him over entirely. His blood boiled with lust. The one kiss became a million. The embrace became a bond. And the touch became infinite.

 

In that moment, Dean wanted Cas more strongly than he had ever wanted anything. And when Cas rolled on top of him, and Dean thrust upward, it was like making love to the sky itself. And it seemed to last forever, like a fire constantly fed, constantly growing. He might not believe in God but, damn it, he believed in Castiel.

 

When Dean’s senses returned, he found himself once again in Castiel’s arms, lying on half of the open trench coat, snuggled impossibly close against Cas’ chest, with the other half of the trench coat draped over him as Cas still wore it.

 

“How did you know?” Dean murmured, sniffling a little, not wanting to ruin the moment with a sneeze but knowing it was probably inevitable.

 

“You called me.”

 

“I didn’t.”

 

Warm lips on his forehead. “Not in words.”

 

Dean pressed his nose against Cas, but that didn’t help as much as he’d hoped. “hehhh-SHUHhhhh!”  He sniffled. “In… in sneezes?” He had a brief image of himself sneezing every time to call Cas… or Cas showing up every time he sneezed. This cold might not be so bad after all.

 

Another kiss. “No, Dean.”

 

 

 

Title: M is for Mortality

Rating: PG
Fandom: Doctor Who
Pairing: Rose/Mortal!Ten

 

They were lying on the couch when it happened. Later, the Doctor would tell her that some of the greatest developments in the history of the universe had come about from someone lying on a couch. But, even afterward, Rose wouldn’t have lumped this into that prestigious category.

 

They were lying on the couch, watching the evening news, and Rose picked up the remote.

 

“Hold on a second.” The Doctor reached up and put his hand over hers.

 

“Tail end of the news. Just a fluff piece left.”

 

“Mmm. Important fluff piece, this.”

 

On the screen, a reporter walked through a pet store, cages of cats and dogs on either side. The animals made such a cacophony that she had to speak with her mouth buzzing and popping into the microphone in order to be heard. “Every night these animals act up like this and authorities are clueless…”

 

“Lanscapins.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Alien race. Enslave planets. You know how it is. But animals can sense them and start acting up, just like that. I’ve seen it a hundred times.” He pushed off from the cushions, jumped to his feet. “If we leave now, we’ll be able to get there by—”

 

Rose followed hesitantly. “Wait, Doctor, if it’s dangerous—”

 

“Aliens, Rose. Nasty aliens with big, sharp teeth. And spiked tails. And Mohawks.”

 

“And what?”

 

“Mohawks. Well, of scales, not hair, but generally the same visual effect. Point is: aliens!”

 

“But you’re mortal now. You go looking for trouble and you could die from it.”

 

“Nahhhh. Or, well, I guess I could, but I haven’t before.”

 

She found herself stepping between him and the door. “What do you mean? You’ve died nine times. Technically sort of ten.”

 

He considered for a moment then grabbed her hand. “But none of those deaths were due to Lanscapins.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “C’mon, Rose. You don’t want me to just sit here when an adventure is going on just down the road, do you?”

 

“Kensington isn’t just down the road, Doctor.”

 

“Ten tube stops away, to someone who’s traveled through space and time, ten tube stops is down the road.” His eyes flashed with excitement. “You can’t expect me to just lie back down on the couch when there are aliens here. I wouldn’t be me if I did that. Besides, you’re mortal and managed to make it through battling your fair share of aliens.”

 

Trying to push her worry aside, she focused on his words and those smiling eyes full. There was excitement in them, sure, but also trust and reassurance. “All right. We’ll go check it out.”

 

“That’s the girl I love!”

 

Just as she felt she was never going to get used to hearing the Doctor use those words about her, she found herself being whisked away into a much more familiar situation, following his red trainers out of the tube station and down the street to the pet store as seen on the news.

 

*

 

Rose tried her best not to smile as a sharp intake of breath accompanied the cotton ball she pressed to the back of his wrist. His arm was covered in scratches. In fact, more than one were large enough to almost look like he’d tried to commit suicide but cut the wrong way. “Stop whinging or I’ll never get these cleaned properly.”

 

He put on a brave face but flinched as the alcohol she was spreading over the cuts stung again. “Just when I was starting to like cats, too.”

 

She looked up, finding this statement almost as unbelievable as his description of aliens with Mohawks. There hadn’t been any such aliens—no aliens of any sort, in fact. What there had been was some university research student one building over working on a high frequency sound generator every evening after classes. And there had been cats who really didn’t want the Doctor to save them from the nonexistent threat.

 

“Tsssss! Ow, Rose!”

 

“Sorry. Done with that.” She finished with the rubbing alcohol and began wrapping bandages around his forearm. He was a bleeding, hurting captive before her. And this was the perfect opportunity to lecture him about running full throttle into a dangerous situation. But she couldn’t bring herself to do so. He felt bad enough, what with the pain in his arm and wasting her time on a completely uninteresting, non-alien development. So she tucked the edge of the bandage under and leaned forward to kiss his cheek. “There are plenty of adventures to be had without aliens.”

 

“Not good ones.”

 

Laughing, “Doctor, are you pouting?”

 

“Me? Never!” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Well, maybe a little.”

 

Kissing took care of that, and then they were back, lying on the couch.

 

 

 

Title: N is for Noseblower

Rating: G
Fandom: Horatio Hornblower
Pairing: None, Gen
Notes: Sort of a sequel to O is for Overboard, so it’s in reverse alphabetical order. Oops.

 

“Yes…” The Indy’s doctor was about twice as old as her captain, white hair protruding from head, nose, ears, and even a mole on his cheek. His eyes, fixed in a permanent squint, studied Hornblower’s wounded shoulder. “Yes, that’s coming along nicely.”

 

“Dnicely?” Incredulous did not begin to describe his emotions. “Sir, I cad barely bmove it.” His other arm was tired of having to compensate. But that was mostly because all of him was tired. It had taken Archie’s help to even drag him up from the midshipmen’s berth as doing it alone would have depended on an undignified amount of crawling on all fours. Or, at least, threes.

 

“Nerve damage from the salt water. It shall heal. You won’t even notice it after a while.”

 

Horatio doubted that very much, but he knew better than to argue. Besides, his voice wouldn’t hold up through even half an argument. “Add bmy… other coditiod?”

 

He heard a throat being cleared and turned in the direction of the doorway to see Captain Pellew himself. Horatio struggled to get to his feet, coughing and snuffling and wincing.

 

“Rest, man.” The captain gestured for his officer to remain lounging on the table. “Unable to kick this cold, Midshipman Hornblower?”

 

Horatio nodded. “Yes. Sorry, Sir.” He chose his words carefully, avoiding sounds that made him sound stuffed-up in the nose. His nose was tickly, besides, but he did not dare sneeze now.

 

“What can’t be helped must be endured. I expect you back when you are able to serve and not a moment before.” He studied Horatio’s expression and smiled with amusement. “Though I’d wager that not serving is akin to torture for you.”

 

Flushed in the cheeks, Horatio Hornblower smiled at his captain, a wiser man than even Horatio had guessed.

 

“Feel better.” On his way out, he paused in the doorway and looked to his side. “And I expect you’re seeing to him while he’s in this state, Mister Kennedy?”

 

Horatio didn’t hear the answer, as it was too soft, but Pellew nodded to him and left just as Archie headed back in. Archie had a handkerchief in hand. Horatio wanted to reach for it at once—with his good arm, of course—but self-restraint was more important than preparing for an oncoming sneeze. He let Archie help him up and get him back.

 

On the way to the midshipmen’s berth, Horatio directed a crewman up to the deck to mop up, rather than have the man see him cough from too much congestion. He slipped past a practice drill at the canons, nose pressed to his good shoulder to keep him from sneezing and ruining the men’s time.  And he passed and broke up a small card game where the men were gambling wages they had not yet even earned.

 

It wasn’t until he was swinging in his hammock that he was able to relax sufficiently. And then he reached, but he reached for Archie’s hand. Archie moved close, up against the hammock, a hand on Horatio’s good arm to hold him steady and another cupping the hanky to Horatio’s nose. It was a position they assumed whenever Archie was off duty, like now.

 

Horatio felt his breath catch. Tiny, hitching little breaths were loud enough to signal Archie. “heh-eh-eh-eh-ehhhhhh…” The last one was shaky. Then on struck the sneeze. “ehhHITChhhhhhhh!” Wet and messy meant terribly embarrassing, but that was gloriously hidden behind the handkerchief. “Egscuse be.”

 

“Blow, Horatio.”

 

Each sneeze made Horatio close his eyes, and he certainly kept them closed as he took a deep breath and blew his nose into the hanky. He couldn’t sneeze in front of the captain, but he could sneeze in front of Archie Kennedy. He could also blow his nose in front of Archie. And he could blow his nose while Archie held the handkerchief for him. But he absolutely could not look the man in the eyes while doing it.

 

It felt damn good, though, blowing his tickly nose into something nice and warm and dry. So few things on this ship were ever dry. And though his blow was a, embarrassingly wet, gurgling sound muffled by the cloth, blowing did keep his nose from running and tickling so very badly.

 

“So the doctor says your arm is healing?”

 

Horatio nodded a little, careful not to dislodge his friend’s hands.

 

“Do you believe the doctor?”

 

Horatio shook his head. First he’d been stabbed in battle. Then he’d nearly died saving Archie from drowning. And finally he’d come down with a miserable cold in his nose. The doctor seemed optimistic and entirely blind to the extent of that misery. Horatio knew it wasn’t the gangrene setting in; the wound looked clean, healthy. But Archie felt guilty. And Archie had held up hankies for him when Horatio’s nose had dripped.  It was a strange but reassuring arrangement.

 

“ehh… heh-ehh… oh-ehh good God…”

 

“Horatio!” Archie exclaimed, surprised.

 

“S-sorry, Archie. I’ve-ehhh-got… ehhhh… big… ehhihshooo! IHKShhhhhh!” The hammock rocked. Horatio shivered, sniffled, took a deep breath right down to his toes, and blew his nose again.

 

The hanky was wet; his nose was wet. Without thinking about it, Horatio lifted his arm to signal that he needed the handkerchief folded over to a dry portion, and he winced terribly as pain shot through his shoulder, down his arm.

 

“Lie still, Horatio. You’ve done enough. The captain’s right. You need your rest.”

 

Horatio’s toes curled, muscles tensed. He wanted to get up and work. He wanted to do something to rid himself of this misery. But there was nothing he could do. Nothing but lie here and let himself heal as Archie tended to him. It was infuriating.

 

Archie moved his hand from Horatio’s arm to his forehead. Horatio tilted his head into the touch and relaxed again. “All right,” he said finally, opening his eyes. “But I shall rebay you for every secod whed you fall ill …”

 

Archie grinned. “You just tell me when you need to sneeze and I’ll get the handkerchief in place. Then perhaps there will not be a ‘when I fall ill.’”

 

Horatio knew that was idiotic to say, foolish to wish for. If Archie were meant to fall ill, he would. But as Archie read his mind and readjusted the hanky, then nodded to Horatio to blow his nose, it was not too much to hope for. He took another deep breath and blew his nose, the soft gurgling sound not quite so embarrassing any more.

 

 

 

Title: O is for Overboard

Rating: G
Fandom: Horatio Hornblower
Pairing: None, Gen

 

For what it was worth, they had won the battle. The Indefatigable’s capable crew overtook the French frigate, despite its twenty-six guns. One of the Indy’s cannonballs had torn right through one of the masts, and the cracking of it as the weight of the sail pulled it down was not a sound any man would soon forget. From that point on, the battle was inevitable. They came close enough to board and engage in hand to hand. Even badly crippled, the French crew wouldn’t go down without a fight.

 

Horatio had been part of the boarding party this time, storming on with gun in one hand and sword in the other, eager to do his duty for king and country. He hadn’t expected the sharp pain of a bayonet stabbing his shoulder. He hadn’t expected the man who charged him and socked him in the stomach. He hadn’t expected to find himself in the ocean, trying not to swallow seawater.

 

But the moment he saw Archie Kennedy hit in the head and thrown over the side by some damn frog twice his size, Horatio knew he had no choice but to go after him. He slid his sword into his belt and dove overboard. He lost his gun to the ocean floor.

 

Momentum threw him down, plunging him five, ten, fifteen feet below the surface. He reached out, desperately searching. His only hope was to swim down as fast as he could to counter Archie falling as dead weight. For the longest time, all he felt was water. Then he practically ran into Archie’s body. At least, he hoped it was Archie. It was hard to tell underwater, but at least the jacket was the right color. Even though he spent the entire swim back up wondering if Archie had been wearing a jacket.

 

Horatio swam hard. His uniform and peacoat, so good at keeping him warm while on deck, now weighed him down. His boots felt useless and heavy, but he kicked fiercely with them. His arm, especially his shoulder, stung with pain, but he kept it wrapped around Archie. His other arm waved as he tried to propel himself upward. He’d sunk so quickly that fighting his way back up slowly seemed to take ages.

 

His chest hurt terribly and he longed to take a breath. But he wouldn’t allow himself to do it. He’d pass out before he took a breath and let water into his lungs. He just hoped he’d break through before that happened. Opening his eyes against the stinging seawater, Horatio saw light. It was a hazy blue-gray-yellow glow above him. And getting closer. Thank God.

 

He kicked harder, paddled faster. His lungs felt as if they would explode. But the water grew warmer and he threw his head back. The second his face broke through to the surface, he took a huge gasp. The next second, he pulled Archie up. The man was still unconscious, naturally, but there was nothing Horatio could do about it yet.

 

He used his free arm to try to tread water, pushing water down to keep his head and Archie’s above. The Indy was so close the ship sent waves that struck him. Horatio yelled, desperate for someone to rescue the rescuer. A few more seconds and Archie wouldn’t need rescuing.

 

He wasn’t sure who had seen him, but he knew it was Mathews who lowered the ladder. Horatio slung Archie over his shoulder and went up the ladder slowly, one step at a time, before the ladder was pulled up for him, though he didn’t know by whom. He knew it was Styles who took Archie from him so Horatio could climb over the edge and flop onto the deck. Slamming Archie’s body against the hard, wet deck had done what needed to be done. Archie coughed up water. Instinctively, Archie rolled onto his side, curling up. He opened his eyes and focused on Horatio. His body shook too much with coughs to let him say anything, but, with water dripping down his face, Horatio smiled back.

 

*

 

“Here’s another handkerchief, Horatio.”

 

Prying his eyes open, Horatio’s hand darted out from beneath the two blankets, grabbing the hanky and bringing it to his nose like a magnet. “Thadk you. ih-h’fpshhh! Sniff! Sniff! Excuse be.”

 

“Not at all.” Archie waved a hand. And, from out of nowhere, produced another blanket.

 

Horatio snuffled into the hanky. “Wherever did you get that?”

 

“I have my ways.”

 

Archie Kennedy was no more devious than a cuddly young kitten. Narrowing his eyes. “Archie…” He sounded stern, but his tone was playful and grateful. Archie draped it over him and he he sort of snuggled into it, cheek against the thick wool. It wasn’t as soft as he might have liked, but the extra blanket calmed his chills. It didn’t do much for the tickle in his nose, however. “ih… hih… hih-ih-hiptshhh!” He wanted to excuse himself right away, but another sneeze was imminent. “h’chiifffff! Uhh… bardod be.”

 

“Quite all right, Horatio. You have a ghastly head cold. Hardly surprising that you need to sneeze a little.”

 

“If odly it were a little!” Horatio laughed. Then he coughed, rocking in his hammock.

 

Archie wiped his brow for him, adjusted the blankets. “What can I get you? There must be something to make you feel better. Only you sound so very miserable.”

 

This was a dreadful cold. But this would pass, as colds always did. It was enough to know that, and to be able to talk to a friend he had, for a few moments, thought lost. But now Archie felt in his debt, guilty, and would not leave his side. “Dot so biserable dow.” He sniffed and smiled reassuringly at Archie. “At least I’b… dry… hih-EHSChhhhhh!”

 

Archie took a step back, wincing slightly but chuckling. “Speak for yourself.”

 

 

 

Title: P is for Porn

Rating: R
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean

 

Sam was used to having Dean’s sneezes signaling that his brother was awake. It had taken two hours for Dean to fall asleep this time, and over those hours and the thirty-eight before it when Dean was sick with a cold, Sam had gotten to know Dean’s sneezes well.  There were the soft, steady stream of sneezes when his nose was terribly ticklish. There was the loud, uncontrollable sneeze that was like a whole bunch of little ones all together. There were the uncovered ones, sprayed freely, when he felt too sick to bother covering his nose. And there were little, stifled ones when he was too tired of sneezing and knew they wouldn’t be too strong.

 

But it was nice to have some peace and quiet at last. Dean really had been driving him crazy, especially since he refused to take anything for it apart from some Ibuprofen. And he absolutely wasn’t going to take any witchy herbal stuff. That didn’t leave a lot of options, and there were only so many boxes of tissues he could buy.

 

So he settled down at the cheap little table in the motel room he’d found for them, plugged his laptop in, and booted it up. He typed some words into the search engine and up came a whole list of sites and articles. Choosing one at random, he brought up a piece about techniques for avoiding and dealing with the common cold. At the top of the page was a photo of someone in mid-sneeze. Sam stared at it longingly for a second then quickly scrolled down to the text. It was hard enough listening and watching to Dean sneeze; he didn’t need to be bombarded with it even when Dean was asleep. No, he was trying to find a remedy.

 

Hand washing. Covering noses. Staying hydrated. Lots of Vitamin C. All boring stuff that wouldn’t help at this point. It moved on to hot showers to loosen congestion, cold compresses to lower temperatures, menthol to ease breathing. That was a little more useful.

 

Sam tried another article. It suggested teas and honey. And gargling with salt water. And rubbing Vaseline on a sore red nose. “Oh God.” Something inside Sam squirmed again at the image of him touching Dean like that. It was one thing to drive with a sniffly brother in the passenger seat beside him, but another to be touching him. Dean always seemed to want to keep his distance when he was sick, probably so Sam wouldn’t catch it. Dean didn’t seem to want to snuggle or be held or anything like that; he just wanted to sneeze and cough and sneeze in his own bed until the cold had passed.

 

He quickly moved on to another article. This one talked about chicken broth, but Dean still had an appetite. Peppermint oil in baths, but that might be too close to an herbal remedy. A humidifier, but he couldn’t imagine Dean agreeing to drive around with that in the trunk beside all the weapons. But then he pictured Dean with his clothes off, basking in the warm, moist air of the room, breathing deeply. Sam closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. That image was too good. He was going to need a shower. Or a run out in the cold. Or—

 

“Whatcha lookig at, Sabby?”

 

Shocked that he hadn’t heard Dean’s sneezes at all, Sam jumped in place. He quickly flipped the top of the laptop down.

 

Dean grinned and coughed. “Caught you readig bord.”

 

“Bored?”

 

“Bord.” Dean gestured, cupping hands at his chest, miming breasts.

 

“Porn?” Dean nodded. Sam was about to deny it, but the hot flush in his cheeks revealed all and made Dean chuckle.

 

“Oh yeah. Just waitig udtil I was asleeb before divig id. I dew it.” His amused expression faltered slightly and Sam knew he was going to sneeze. Sam tried not to watch. But the way Dean’s face just dropped, went slack with helplessness, Sam couldn’t look away. Dean’s nostrils flared. Dean’s eyes closed. Then Dean sucked in one sharp breath and snapped forward. “Hixxtchhhhh!” A wet one. Sam loved the sound of those, and the look of them. Plus they made Dean all sniffly with a runny nose that needed tending to. Sam wanted to wipe it for him. Or kiss it. Or something more. But he’d settle for handing Dean a Kleenex. Sam got up and grabbed the box on Dean’s bed.

 

But as Sam headed back with it, what he saw stopped his heart cold. Dean was leaning over, one finger rubbing at his nose, the other hand opening the laptop up. Sam hadn’t had time to close the browser windows, so Dean was staring at the articles about cold and flu remedies. Sam sunk into the other chair, trying not to look defeated or found out.

 

“Whoa, Sab. This isd’t exactly the kide of bord I exbected.”

 

“I was looking for something that might help your cold,” Sam tried to explain.

 

But, somehow, even sick, Dean saw right through him. “If that’s the case. Why are you blush… blushig?” He pressed a fist to his nose and mouth, and Sam knew it was going to be a big sneeze. He was getting ready for it, drawing silent, deep breaths. “huhh…” And, God, a build-up. It was like watching Dean sneeze in slow-motion, every exquisite detail at his disposal. “huhhhhhhh…” His voice wavered. It was coming. “huh-huhh… huh-HUPHSHOOO!” He practically yelled as he sneezed, it was that loud, the sound filling the room, the sneeze filling his whole body.

 

Sam wanted to bless him, but he couldn’t find his voice.

 

Dean nodded, sniffing hard, clearing his throat. “Sab, I was odly jokig, but…” He rounded the table, gaze resting on Sam’s lap. Sam tried to scoot in, to hide his reaction under the table, but it was too late. Dean saw. Of course he saw.

 

“As good as porn,” Sam whispered, voice breaking from nerves. “Better… ‘cause it’s you.” He closed his eyes, unable to face his brother.

 

But then he felt a warm hand on his chest. And a nose nuzzling at his neck and chin. And wet lips against his. This time he felt the hitching breaths. And the twitching nostrils. And the tremble that rushed through Dean’s body. “hihkschh! Heptchhh! hehShoo! H’ehshhh! Ehhhhtchhhh!” So many sneezes. Against Sam’s neck, Sam’s cheek. Dean settled in his lap, arms wrapped around Sam, still sneezing. “hehfshhhh! Hekkshooo! hehhShuhhh! Huhhh-ih-IHHHSchhh!”

 

Sam moaned, needy, straining and pushing against Dean’s body while holding him close. “So sneezy. This cold’s making you sooooo sneezy. I’ll have to help.” Sam reached past Dean for the tissue box, shoving two in Dean’s face. And when Dean blew his nose, Sam felt that, too, tingles doing more than just racing right through him now. They controlled him, demanded more of him. “And stuffy, too. Poor Dean.”

 

“How’d you survive these last couble days?” He sniffed. “How did’t I dotice?”

 

Sam laughed. Dean didn’t want to know the answer to that.

 

“Dever dew it would be so easy to get to you. I feel better just thidkig about all the thigs I could do dow.” He sniffled into Sam’s now damp shirt collar.

 

“Fulfilling someone’s deepest kinkiest fetish dreams. That wasn’t one of the remedies mentioned online.”

 

“heh… heh-CHIXXXSHHH!”

 

Feeling the sneeze and feeling Dean shake against him, Sam moaned again and knew he and Dean weren’t going to make it over to the bed.

 

 

 

 

Title: Q is for Quidditch

Rating: PG-13 for language
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Marcus/Oliver

Without so much as a glance in Oliver’s direction, Marcus stormed past the player’s bench and into the guest team’s locker room at the Falmouth Falcons’ pitch. Oliver mumbled “Be right back,” to the nearest assistant coach and grabbed his crutches. With one under each arm and holding his left leg up, he made his way into the locker room.

 

He found Marcus leaning up against his locker, chest heaving with quick, deep breaths. Oliver maneuvered around the benches then stood beside him. “Getting pulled and benched is not the end of the world, Flint.”

 

Marcus glared at him. “Not to you, maybe. You’re used to sitting out.”

 

It was a low blow. Oliver had spent the past two years on the team sitting on the bench as the backup keeper. Occasionally he got to start and even more occasionally he got to play out a whole game. He’d been in the middle of one when a bludger had smacked right into his leg at such high speeds it shattered almost all his bones. The healers had grown his bones back in about a day, but getting his leg back to proper Quidditch-playing condition was going to take a little longer. He wasn’t stupid enough to want to push it. He leaned against the lockers. “Fuck you, Flint.”

 

“Is that an offer?” His voice was wobbly, uncertain, like his heart really wasn’t in it.

 

“No, you asshole. It’s a threat to tell me what’s wrong with you or we’ll never shag again.”

 

He dove into his locker, rooting around, before finally producing a letter. He crumpled it in his fist and thrust the little ball of it at Oliver.

 

Oliver unfolded it, slid the letter from the envelope, and skimmed it. “Oh… Flint…”

 

“Had to be this game. I’ve been playing for years and she picks this game to come to? The game where I get tossed out for colliding with a player in open air? I mean, it might be worth it if I’d been pulled for trying some illegal move or for scoring so many goals it’s not fair to my teammates. But just because I had my eye on the quaffle and totally didn’t see that Robinski guy coming, I get thrown out of the entire game right in front of my mother who really doesn’t need another reason to disapprove.” He banged his fists back against the lockers.

 

His eyes looked wet. Marcus Flint, about to cry. Oliver had never seen something so entirely unexpected.

 

“Let’s get out of here,” Oliver said, gripping Marcus’ arm. “Unless…”

 

Marcus nodded. “You don’t know my mum. She won’t want to see me after this.” His voice sounded stronger. He nodded resolutely. “Let’s go get a drink, Wood.”

 

Oliver turned, the end of the crutch catching on the nearest bench. He pitched backward, right into Marcus. Instead of just keeping him upright, Marcus actually scooped Oliver up. Crutches and all, Marcus held Oliver. They grinned at each other. Marcus carried him out, away from the Quidditch pitch, as applause rose up from the stands, indicating the Falcons had either scored again or caught the snitch. They both felt the sadness of the loss, but knew it would fade after a couple drinks. There was always another game, after all, and endless chances to get it right.

 

 

 

Title: R is for Reassurance

Rating: I’d like to say R, just so it matches the title. But it’s more like PG-13
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean

Sam had always been a little… particular about things. He’d toss a pinch of salt over his shoulder after laying down lines. He’d adjust his long stride to miss every crack in a sidewalk. He’d pick up a penny from the street and give it a good wipe down against the leg of his jeans before pocketing it. A little superstitious. A little OCD. Nothing they couldn’t handle. 

 

However, Dean did notice it had grown worse lately. If he thought about it—really sat back and thought hard about it—it had worsened after Dean confessed that his deal with the Crossroads Demon meant only one year left to live. Or, now, a matter of a few months. But that stint with the rabbit’s foot had really done a number on Sam.

 

That’s probably what had finally pushed him over the edge. He avoided black cats and dark gray ones too, just to be sure. He wouldn’t walk anywhere near ladders and if he spotted an umbrella in a house when they went in to interview someone, he turned right around and left, dragging Dean with him. The kid practically slept with his fingers crossed and knocked his knuckles lightly against any wooden surface he came across.

 

It was annoying, but it was Sam—just a weirder, more extreme version of Sam. The most annoying part didn’t come until they were headed west on dusty back roads, rolling past cornfields at a snail’s pace. “There’s gotta be a faster route,” Dean grumbled, rubbing the palm of his head against his throbbing forehead. “Keep on the lookout for highway signs.”

 

Sam squeaked. He actually, physically squeaked. Dean heard it, loud and clear, even though Sam tried to cover it with a cough. Then the younger man quickly folded up the map, careful to fold it along the proper creases before stuffing it into the glove compartment. “Stay on this road,” Sam ordered. “The highway isn’t safe.”

 

Dean eyed him. “You overheard something at the gas station back there?”

 

“Nope. This is just safer.”

 

“What do you mean? Route 66 is historic, yeah, but it’s still the fastest way to get to… Sam?”

 

Sam was shifting about in his seat, looking restless and uneasy. Sam chewed on a fingernail, jiggled his leg up and down, and tapped a finger against the window. Finally, he blurted out, “But what if we run into another six?”

 

It took a few seconds for this statement to sink in. Once he understood, he tried not to sound as frustrated as he felt. “666, Sam? Do you know how crazy that sounds? You’re worried about—”

 

“Some people say it’s the devil’s number,” Sam explained. “I don’t want to risk it. Not with you…” He shook his head. “Better to stay away. Map says this road’ll get us there eventually.” He stared straight out at the road stretched out before them, determined not to look at his brother. But his breath started to race, in quick, shallow puffs that were starting to get out of control. He was on his way to a full-blown panic attack.

 

Just telling Sam to calm down when he got like this never worked; if anything, that made it worse. And Dean recognized this as one of those times Sam would come apart when teased. Sam knew he was being stupid, irrational, knew he wasn’t thinking the way normal people did. But, even so, he knew it was something he had to do. He had no choice about it.

 

That didn’t mean Dean couldn’t be frustrated. It just meant he had to bite his tongue and look after his little brother. He reached over and ran his hand through Sam’s hair, a gentle petting, a simple sensation that had always seemed to help take Sam away from his obsessing for a few seconds. And that was long enough for Sam to take a deep breath. Long enough for him to relax back into the seat. Long enough to finally look over at Dean and realize he wasn’t in any real danger.

 

“Fine. We’ll do whatever you want,” Dean finally said, rubbing the back of his neck and then dipping his hand under his nose for a sniffle with a swipe. “But I’m heading there for the night.” Dean nodded to a billboard advertising a motel coming up that was two parts shabby to one part ‘doesn’t ask questions.’ “I feel like crap.”

 

*

 

Sam sat at the cheap imitation wood desk shoved up against the wall of the motel room, typing away at his laptop. He systematically dealt with his inbox, which wasn’t very full to begin with. Dean lounged in bed with a box of Kleenex, a bottle of ginger ale, and a car magazine. He’d taken some Ibuprofen but hadn’t wanted to take anything stronger. Sam seemed a bit off still, and Dean wanted at least one of them to be able to think clearly. He had a hard enough time dealing with his brother’s quirks normally; he had no hope of it when he was doped up and loopy on cold meds.

 

 Two minutes into an article on engines, Dean felt a sneeze coming on. He cupped a tissue to his nose and mouth and snapped forward, the cheap bed bouncing beneath him, springs squeaking. “hetChahhhh!” 

 

One minute into an email to a friend back at Stanford, Sam looked up from his laptop. “Bless you.”

 

“Thanks.” Dean scrubbed at his nose, balled up the tissue, and successfully made the shot into the trashcan. Sam grinned.

 

“You got yourself a cold?”

 

Dean nodded. “Yeah, I guess.”

 

“That sucks. Sorry, man.”

 

Six minutes into an article on sports cars Dean would never buy, he felt like sneezing again. He set the magazine down, finger marking his place. “huhhChuhhh!”

 

Two minutes into a search for cemeteries in the town they were headed to, Sam paused. “Bless you.”

 

Dean met his eyes and, while sniffing, gave him a nod of appreciation, acknowledgment. Then he picked his magazine back up.

 

About twenty seconds away from finishing that same article, Dean tossed the magazine aside and grabbed for the tissues. “hahh-CHMphhhh!”

 

Not doing any work at all now, Sam answered with a quick, “Bless you.”

 

Wiping his nose, Dean looked over at his brother. Sam had the laptop closed and was staring at him intently. In fact, Sam didn’t want to look away even for a second. It was kind of unnerving. Dean tried not to notice, but he could feel Sam’s eyes boring into him, even when he wasn’t looking in Sam’s direction.

 

Finally, Dean threw himself off the bed. “Gonna go take a shower,” he muttered. “See if that’ll help with this congestion.” He stumbled toward the bathroom, only to find Sam right behind him. He paused and turned in the doorway, Sam bumping into him and looking a bit embarrassed about it. “Somethin’ you wanna tell me, Sammy?”

 

“Ah…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “No…”

 

“You gotta piss?”

 

Sam nodded. “Yeah. That’s right.”

 

Dean sidestepped, sliding out of the bathroom. Gesturing to the now unblocked doorway, Dean said. “Be my guest. It’s all yours. I’ll shower when you’re done.”

 

Sam shifted from one foot to the other and back again. “Um, never mind. I’m fine.”

 

Dean studied him. Then he shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He stepped back into the bathroom and started to close the door. But Sam’s big shoe got in the way, keeping the door from closing. “Damn it, Sammy…”

 

Sam wouldn’t look him in the eye. He looked past Dean into the bathroom or down at the floor, or at the mostly-closed door. His foot didn’t budge. “You’re sick, Dean. What if you pass out in the shower and hit your head?”

 

“Not gonna happen.” Grabbing Sam’s hand, Dean put it to his own forehead. “See? I don’t even have a fever.”

 

 Sam pulled his hand back, gripped the molding around the doorframe tightly, as if he didn’t hang on, he’d go flying across the room. He still didn’t move his foot out of the way. And he leaned on the bathroom door, trying to casually use his weight to force it open. The plan wasn’t working, though; Dean kept a firm grip on the door, trying to push it shut. Sam tried to explain. “Look, I thought… maybe you could use some company. I could wash your back. I know you like that.”

 

Dean blinked at him, even though Sam still wouldn’t look at him. “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t feel so good. I’m just going to stand in the shower and breathe in all the steam. M’really not in the mood to fool around.” His toes bumped against Sam’s, and then his foot started nudging Sam’s back. He swung the door open a little then started to close it again. The door was almost closed when he sneezed. It was sharp, sudden, and wetter than all the previous ones. “hihh-HUHSchhhhhh!”

 

“Bless you.”

 

But Dean wasn’t done. He turned, mouth hanging open, eyes closed, face slack. “huh…” He cupped both hands to his nose and mouth. “huhhhTschew! hehhShooo! K’shooo!”

 

“Bless you, bless you, bless you.” Sam said automatically.

 

Dean mumbled a thank you and dragged his runny nose across his sleeve. He coughed and looked longingly back at the shower.

 

Without Dean trying to force the door closed, it was easy for Sam to slipped inside the bathroom. 

 

Rubbing his nose on his sleeve some more, Dean glared at him. “What the hell? Are you planning on standing here while I take a shower? ‘Cause that’s not creepy at all.”

 

“I just—”

 

“h’TShughhh!” Dean sneezed into his arm.

 

Before even a second had passed, Sam offered up another “Bless you.”

 

“Out,” Dean croaked. “I want you out. This is too weird, even for us.”

 

Sam shook his head. “I can’t.”

 

“Sure you can. Just walk out the door and let me close it so I can take a shower.”

 

Sam wouldn’t stop shaking his head now. He sat down on the closed toilet seat and, hunched over, started running his hands through his hair as though to calm himself, head off the oncoming panic attack. It didn’t really work. His whole body trembled. His breath raced. Dean could almost hear the thumps of his heart speed up. Sam gripped the counter, swaying as he started to go dizzy from hyperventilating. His cheeks were flushed with heat and sweat shown on his brow but he shivered there. He clutched his chest, pain shooting through him like a heart attack or like his chest was going to explode.

 

He didn’t respond to Dean petting him now, Dean’s fingers combing through Sam’s longer hair with affection, concern. “Sammy, you’re gonna be okay.” Twice in one day. It was highly unusual for Sam to have panic attacks that often, even if the first one had been headed off before it could really begin. Dean wasn’t sure what he could do this time; Sam wasn’t even listening to him.

 

Plus, he was sick. Not wanting to sneeze on Sam, he turned and directed a quick sneeze into his shoulder. “hihfSHooo!”

 

“Bless you.” Sam’s voice was strained but the words were clear enough. He looked up at Dean now, eyes searching, not wanting to miss a thing.

 

“Sammy… “ Dean tried running his hand through Sam’s hair again, and this time Sam tilted his head into the touch, craving the sensation.

 

“Sorry,” Sam whispered. “But I can’t hear you if you make me wait outside and turn the shower on.  And I need to know when you sneeze.”

 

Dean’s eyebrows rose. He squatted down, hands on Sam’s knees, wanting to keep that physical contact between them, like it would ground Sam, take him out of his head and keep him back in the world. “You don’t have to bless me every time I sneeze.”

 

“No,” Sam argued. “I do.” His voice was still soft, shaky, like the anxiety was still so close and he was worried about something going wrong to make it come back and kill him. “People used to think that a person’s soul left his body when he sneezed. And unless someone said ‘bless you’ as a shield, a demon could move right into his body. A demon already owns your soul, Dean. I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want you to go a second sooner than you have to.” He put his hands over Dean’s, squeezing.

 

Dean held back a sigh. “It’s just a cold.”

 

“I know.” Sam bit his lip.

 

“I’m not going anywhere right now. You’re not losing me yet.”

 

“I know,” Sam repeated, though it didn’t sound like he believed it.

 

Dean shrugged. “Okay,” he said, keeping his tone casual, calm. “You can come into the shower with me. But no playing around, you got it?”

 

Sam wasted no time in undressing and helping Dean do the same. And once they were under the pretty weak spray from the shower head, Sam wrapped his arms tightly around his brother.

 

Against his back, Dean felt the slow, steady thumps of Sam’s heart and the gentle rise and fall of Sam’s chest with each breath. Dean wasn’t sure which one of them was more grateful for the reassuring physical contact.

 

 

 

Title: S is for Sneezy

Rating: G
Fandom: Once Upon a Time
Pairing: Mary Margaret (Snow)/David (Charming)

“hhtttcheeet!”

 

Mary Margaret looked up from her newspaper to see David getting up, hand cupped to his face. He walked over to the counter and helped himself to a napkin from the container. He snuffled into it, blew his nose, balled it up, and deposited it in the trash can by the counter that was filled with coffee stirring sticks and emptied sugar packets. She studied him closely, seeing how tired his eyes looked, how flushed his nostrils were. He was sick, she knew. But she had a feeling he didn’t a want her knowing. So she dropped her gaze back to her newspaper and the toasted bagel growing cold on the plate.

 

“hetchhuuhh! Hxtshhh!”

 

She looked up again. Poor David was getting up again, sniffling into the back of his wrist, the cuff of his sleeve. He helped himself to another napkin. He cast a glance over in her direction, and she quickly turned the page of her newspaper to hide behind it.

 

“hehhhIHshhh!”

 

This time, he blew his nose into one of the napkins and then took another one. He sat back down. He stirred his spoon around in oatmeal he hadn’t otherwise touched and seemed to have no appetite for. It only took about two minutes before he needed that napkin. He folded it over his nose and hunched over.

 

“huhhkihshfffff!”

 

He stayed bent over in his chair, as if he were scared of moving. Sure enough, just seconds later, he sneezed again.

 

“hefShhhffffff!”

 

That was all Mary Margaret could endure. She abandoned the newspaper she wasn’t really reading anyway and settled into the chair beside David. He gave a start and turned away from her, hiding his face. “I can’t help but notice today you seem a little—”

 

“hehhh-Ihshffffff! Hehh… sneezy?”

 

She smiled. “Exactly what I was going to say.”

 

*

 

“hehhshhhh!”

 

“Charming?”

 

He looked up from his breakfast, fancy cloth napkin pressed to his nose.

 

“That was you.” Snow’s voice was light with amusement. “I thought maybe one of the dwarves had stopped by. But, no, that sneeze was entirely yours.” She leaned forward, elbows on the elegant lace tablecloth. “Are you ill?”

 

He wiped the napkin at his nose and nodded. “I think I may be coming down… heh… heh-Ihphshhh! Coming down with a cold.”

 

“Think?” Still smiling, she pushed her chair back from the table and walked its length to him, past the centerpiece of beautifully baked muffins, past the extravagant candelabras, past the vacant silver place settings. She bent and placed her lips on his forehead, finding it warm. Then she drew out a handkerchief.

 

It was thin and beautifully stitched, embroidered with her initials, and folded perfectly in fourths without a single wrinkle. It was almost a shame to ruin its perfection with something as uncontrollably messy as a sneeze. But, at the same time, it was a shame to have the poor man sneezing into napkins when there were handkerchiefs available for his nose. “Here.” She took his hand, kissed the back of it, and then pressed the handkerchief into it.

 

He smiled up at her. “It’s so nice. Are you certain?” She nodded and, as his breath hitched. Desperate for something, he quickly cupped it to his nose. “hehh… hehh-IHshfffff!” The sneeze came out all muffled and contained.

 

“Let me help you up to bed.”

 

“No.” He sniffed hard. “I’ve got too much to do today. The royal hunting party is—”

 

Snow finished it for him. “—is going to have to do without you today. You, Charming, are going straight back to bed. We can have them bring breakfast up if you feel a little hungry.”

 

He sniffled, rubbed the soft hanky one way beneath his nose, then in the other direction. “To bed?”

 

Snow nodded back and took her husband by the arm.

 

*

 

“hetschhhhhh!”

 

“Oh, bless you. Here…” Mary Margaret trailed away as he dipped her hand into her purse and rummaged around. She pulled out a small, sealed pack of tissues. Then she slid it over to him.

 

He hesitated then snatched it up. “Th-thanks. Just feel so sn-sneezy this morning…”Successfully having pulled a tissue out of the pack, he cupped it to his nose and mouth. “heh… hehh-IPTSchfffffff!”

 

“I hope you’re not suddenly allergic to coffee. What a tragedy that would be.”

 

A reluctant and amused smile came to his face. “Nuh-no.”

 

“Then you sound like you’re coming down with a pretty sneezy cold.”

 

“hhhehkshfffff!”

 

“You should probably go home and get back into bed.”

 

He looked at her longingly, like he couldn’t stand not being there with her. “No, I need—”

 

“You need to take care, David.” After all he had been through, losing him now to a little head cold would be tragic. If she could march him right home now and tuck him into bed, she would.

 

David considered for a few moments then snatched another tissue from the packet. “HEH-hshffff!” He sniffled into it, rubbed at his nose. “I think you’re right.”

 

She scooted back, giving him room to stand up, slide off his chair. “Take the tissues,” she insisted. “Sounds like you’ll need them on the way home.”

 

He gave her a reassuring smile that stayed on his face for only three seconds. Then he turned to the side. “ehhh-Hshfffffff!”

 

She laughed, reaching out and patting his arm, wishing she could do more. And she saw in his eyes that he wanted the same. “You’d better leave now. There aren’t that many tissues in the packet and at this rate you’ll run out.”

 

Nodding, he left. But she saw him double over with another sneeze just outside the door.

 

 

 

Title: T is for Trophy

Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Original characters

There were lots of wonderful things about finally winning the Stanley Cup. The knowledge of succeeding at the penultimate level of your profession. The triumph of beating every other team in the league. The victory celebration with your teammates. But as Wilson watched Rick skate around the ice, the thirty-five pound cup hoisted proudly over his head, it was so much more. It was awe. It was magic. It was a miracle.

 

They’d all played their hearts out during the playoffs, but they’d also pushed their bodies to the limits. They put all their energy into every shot on net. They stopped the puck with any part of their body they could. They got slammed into the boards and shoved to the ice but shook it off and got right back into the game. Of course, a shot of cortisone and some smelling salts on the bench didn’t hurt. But by the end of game seven in the final series, there wasn’t a player who wasn’t hurt bad and battling through it just for the win. The Eagles’ captain, however, wasn’t showing it in the least. The way he held that cup, taking the first lap around the arena for the fans, kissing it repeatedly, you wouldn’t know about his broken foot or the throbbing of his cheek with a gash that was going to need more than temporary stitches or the pulled groin muscle.

 

Holding the cup made it all go away for a whole minute. Nothing else mattered but that silver chalice, finally won. No, not won—earned. Earned through blood and toil and sacrifice. Earned through work and spirit and determination.

 

Rick and Wilson hadn’t talked about the first handoff. They were both superstitious enough to know that talking about even the remote possibility of winning was tantamount to shooting yourself and all your teammates in the head. Wilson had thought about it a couple times, as they’d drifted off to sleep together, and he’d have bet that Rick had thought about it too. But this was Rick’s decision, not their decision, and Rick was going to be a good captain. He was going to hand the cup to whoever the hell he wanted to and Wilson wasn’t going to take it personally.

 

He’d be happy for Blake or Reesey or Mikey or Stans or whoever. He’d grin like a son of a bitch, watching the goalie or the alternates or even one of the young guns get the honor of being the second guy to skate with the cup in front of the fans and families and the television audience watching live on NBC before local news kicked the telecast off onto the NHL network. Everyone deserved to be second, but it could only go to one guy.

 

He tried not to show any emotion as Rick turned, skating back to the team, starting to lower the heavy trophy. He found himself watching but not making eye contact. He didn’t want Wilson feeling uncomfortable or guilty or pressured. The cup meant many things and those three things weren’t anywhere on the list.

 

But then he felt the end of a stick jab in his back. And Brizzie, one of the alternates, elbowed him in the side. “Take it.” Someone else said, “It’s yours.” And someone else said, “Majors, you’re the man.” And a jolt of panic and understanding rushed through him as he realized Rick was heading straight for him with it.

 

Wilson started to shake his head. Tried to implore Rick to choose someone else. But his husband either didn’t get the signal or just didn’t care, because he came over, thrust the cup into Wilson’s paining chest, and gave him a look to show he was just as happy in this brief little second of time as he had been at their wedding two years ago.

 

Wilson’s hands, which he hadn’t realized he’d even lifted, closed around the lip of each end, holding more securely than he would have thought possible for something so large and heavy. And suddenly he was holding it up above his head and gliding forward to tumultuous applause. His two broken fingers stuck out weirdly, not curving with the others, but his grip was flawless. The pain in his neck vanished as he tilted his head back and pressed his dry lips to the smooth, metallic surface. The twang in his calf he’d only started to notice halfway through the first subsided, allowing him to sail effortlessly in a loop.

 

Everything around him was a blur—people, cameras, boards. All that was real was the coolness on his face and the heavy cup above his head that meant he now had everything he’d ever dreamed of.

 

When he got back to his teammates, he realized he had been so preoccupied with thinking about who Rick would hand it off to, he’d forgotten to pick Jonesy out of group and had to correct his direction at the last second. Pain shot through his calf and up his leg, making him bend at the knee, lose his balance. But he handed it off just in time and pulled back. He felt arms helping him clear out of the way. He raised his leg, not wanting to put any more pressure on it. And he was glided back toward one of the sports medicine trainers.

 

Even the staff was beaming with pride. They’d get their chance with the cup tonight as well, before families got out on the ice for photos, before it would make it back to the locker room for the champagne. Before it would leave to get engravings of all of their names.

 

*

 

“I thought for sure you’d drop it.”

 

Wilson chuckled into his husband’s breastbone, moving close but awkwardly around Rick’s cast. It was due to come off soon, but they still had to be careful until it did. The five cracked ribs between the two of them had taken the second-longest to heal but, now that they had, Wilson was determined to take full advantage of it. The fact that the cup sat on top of their low dresser, starting back at them, reflecting the morning sunlight onto their bed, just made it that much sweeter.

 

“I thought for a second you were gonna kiss me on national TV with it between us. I was terrified.”

 

Rick angled his head and did kiss him now. Slow, strong, just the way he liked it.

 

“I wonder how many people have had sex with the cup in the room,” Rick mused, breaking off eventually.

 

Wilson smiled. He’d wondered the same, just a few weeks ago when they’d been told the date Rick was going to get to spend with the cup. He wasn’t stupid enough to think he and Rick might be the first gay couple to allow it in their bedroom. But he knew they were the first openly gay teammates to get the cup, and that counted to him.

 

“Let’s add two more to the tally,” said Wilson.

 

There were lots of wonderful things about finally winning the Stanley Cup.

 

 

 

Title: U is for Unconventional

Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Torchwood
Pairing: Jack/Ianto

 

Of all the words in all the languages in all the worlds, a relationship with Captain Jack Harkness had never and could never be described as conventional. Ianto Jones had learned this firsthand. After three months, the one place they hadn’t had sex was in a bed.

 

For one, Jack didn’t sleep and, thus, having a bed at the hub was a waste of space. For another, Jack had about a thousand different kinks and regular vanilla sex in a bed wasn’t one of them. Jack was endlessly turned on when cornering Ianto in the kitchen pretending to be a strict boss until Ianto made him the perfect cup of tea he then had to be rewarded for or interesting Ianto in a game of naked hide-and-seek.

 

The latter was a lot more exciting when one wasn’t catching a cold, however.

 

Ianto crouched, naked, under Jack’s desk side of his hand pressed hard to his scrunched-up nose. His breath kept hitching and he was sure that if Jack didn’t hear him sneeze, Jack would hear him breathing.  Not to mention that he had no handkerchief on him now. There was nothing so undignified as sneezing openly while crouching naked under a piece of furniture. He felt sure that, if Jack were to ever find him here, Jack would do so just as Ianto lost his valiant battle with the tickle in his nose. And what a fierce, urgent tickle it was, too.

 

Determined now, Ianto pressed harder. He settled down onto the floor, shivering as the cold struck his arse. He really should have chosen a better place to hide. The greenhouse would have been warmer. Or down with the washer and dryer, where they could have masked his noise.

 

He closed his eyes and concentrated. He tensed and relaxed. He held his breath. And, finally, the desperate urge to sneeze passed. Listening closely, there were no footsteps. Safe. For the moment, at least. And, before he knew it, he was fast asleep with his head against the inside of Jack’s desk.

 

*

 

Ianto woke to lips closed over his own. Jack’s eyes were closed, hand on Ianto’s shoulder as if he had tried to shake Ianto awake and had given up in favor of a kiss. The kiss was unusually gentle, sensuous. Fingers grazed over Ianto’s cheek and danced against Ianto’s temple and hairline.

 

“Sleepy?” Jack asked, the words slightly playful. “I didn’t realize this game was so boring all of a sudden. I’ll have to come up with something more interesting.” His lips ghosted over Ianto’s. “Or is it something more?”

 

Hungrily, Ianto sucked Jack’s lip into his mouth. The kissing began again. Deep and warm, mouths pressed and lapped languidly. A dreamy sort of ecstasy came over Ianto, blocking out every other emotion, worry, concern.

 

Ianto drew back only the moment before he sneezed. “heptishhhh!” He still managed to catch a bit of Jack’s face in the spray. Horrified, he turned away, cupping his hand over his mouth.

 

“That’s what I thought,” Jack murmured. He kissed the back of Ianto’s hand and then reached up, rubbing two fingers beneath Ianto’s wet nose. Ianto sniffled instinctively and Jack’s eyes lit up.

 

It was then that Ianto looked down, noticing Jack was aroused. Quite aroused, in fact. And, for some reason, Ianto suspected it didn’t have much to do with his winning naked hide and seek. Ianto’s eyes met Jack’s, flicked downward at Jack’s hard dick, and then drifted back up. When he sniffled, Jack moved forward. And Ianto smiled behind the hand still held over his mouth. Then he nuzzled closer, snuffling and wiping his nose against Jack’s dry hand.

 

With his head dipped submissively, he caught sight of Jack’s cock twitching with need. And he knew. He just knew what that meant. He dropped his hand and sat up as much as he could underneath a desk. “You’re excited to find me?”

 

Jack took a moment to consider his answer. “I’m excited that I found you. And I’m excited that I found you like this.”

 

Ianto’s breath caught. He tried to fight, tried to will it away. He tried to pull back as well, but Jack just moved in closer, under the desk with him. And, in the end, all the straining and holding his breath amounted to nothing. “hehIHHShhh! H’chiiish!” A quick, wet double-sneeze tore from him, against Jack’s hand. His other hand stroked Ianto’s head, petting him reassuringly.

 

Instead of jumping Ianto, taking him, claiming him right then and there, Jack said, “Guess I’d better get you to bed.”

 

 Ianto supposed he must look confused, because Jack’s next words were infused with amusement. “You do have a bed at your flat, don’t you?”

 

Not bothering to point out that in all their time together Jack hadn’t once even suggested they go to Ianto’s place, he let Jack scoop him up from under the desk. “Yes, I do.”

 

“And it’s big enough for two?”

 

Ianto smiled. Nodded. “Yes, it is.”

 

It took some time to locate and get back into all of their clothes.  Jack barely let Ianto alone for a second, keeping an eye on him or, even better, an arm around him. He even tied Ianto’s tie on himself, slipped it over Ianto’s head, and tightened it. He wouldn’t let Ianto get away until it was straightened properly.

 

Then Ianto was properly bundled up, complete with a scarf and mittens that seemed to materialize out of nowhere. “Jack, these aren’t especially sensible.” He held both hands up and mimed talking, touching his thumb to his fingers repeatedly to show that was just about all he could do.

 

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you.” Jack dabbed a cool white handkerchief at Ianto’s nose. “Now tell me everything that’s wrong. You’re sneezy and sniffly, I got that. What about your throat?”

 

“Hurts when I swallow,” Ianto admitted, surprising himself for being so honest all of a sudden. But the look in Jack’s eyes showed he was feeding off of this. Ianto summoned up some more specific details. “My head hurts as if a weevil’s been gnawing on it.”

 

Jack’s fingertips skittered over Ianto’s forehead and applied pressure at his temples. That actually felt kind of good for some reason, and Ianto felt the words flow out more easily as he closed his eyes to enjoy it.

 

“My throat’s raw and scratchy. I woke up coughing this morning.”

 

“I’ll make you tea,” Jack promised softly. “All the tea you want. Let’s go.”

 

Ianto had a feeling that none of his coworkers really believed Jack had chosen him. But none of them—not even Owen—would have questioned it if they had seen Captain Jack Harkness lead Ianto Jones down the street by the hand, looking up for the telltale green plus symbol that indicated a pharmacy. They didn’t see him march into the nearest Boots and buy up exactly the medicines and supplies that matched Ianto’s symptoms. They didn’t see him take Ianto up to his flat and tuck him into bed, flannel pajamas and all—Jack even wore some so Ianto wouldn’t feel underdressed.

 

There was tea that was actually pretty decent. A stack of gloriously soft, pressed hankies to sneeze into. And homemade soup magically whipped up from the almost nothing that had been Ianto’s kitchen.

 

As Jack cleared the dishes and tray away, Ianto stretched out on his side, the four pillows propping him up so he could breathe more freely. He was still forced, however, to make use of the handkerchiefs. “h’chufffff!” Slightly muffled, the sneezes still brought a wide-eyed Jack back to the bedroom in mere seconds.

 

He hovered by the bed, swaying weakly, eyes trained on Ianto. “Would you…” Ianto tried not to smile, though he was amused to see this normally confident man so suddenly uncertain. “Would you mind if I climbed in with you?”

 

Ianto decided to give him an in. “To keep me warm?”

 

Jack played along, nodding. “Though I’ve also brought this.” He held up a filled, red hot water bottle.

 

Immediately, Ianto folded back the covers at the corner. Jack slid in and put an arm around Ianto as Ianto snuggled close to the hot water bottle. It sloshed about. And when Ianto reached to adjust its position, his hand brushed a prominent part of Jack’s anatomy. If a few sniffles could get Jack this hard, Ianto wondered what the rest of his cold would do to the man. Then he remembered that Jack was immortal, and he suddenly wasn’t concerned at all.

 

Feeling another sneeze coming about, he skipped the handkerchief and nuzzled his nose against Jack’s shoulder. “huh-hehhh… huh-Umffschhhhh!”

 

Jack shuddered, instinctively wrapping his arms around Ianto, drawing him impossibly closer. When he spoke, his voice was breathy with need, though as sexy as ever, “Ever make love to someone with a hot water bottle between the two of you?”

 

“Um, sniff, no.”

 

After placing a kiss on the top of Ianto’s head, Jack pulled back. His eyes searched Ianto’s. And, reading the man, Jack answered the look in those eyes with a question, “Would you like to?” For Captain Jack Harkness, even sex in a bed was unconventional.

 

 

 

Title: V is for Virus

Rating:
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean

Nineteen hours away:

“ihhh!” Sam takes a hand off the wheel and claps it to his mouth, index finger pressed to the bottom of his nose. His breath catches and he hopes it won’t evolve into a sneeze. He needs a little luck. The method’s worked for the past four sneezes. And he’s under no delusion that it will work every time, but he hopes that this time it’ll be number five.

 

He fights the urge to close his eyes as his nostrils flare and breath races. He tries to hold his breath, tries to squish his palm against both his nose and mouth. But it doesn’t do any good. The sneeze comes out wet and strangely smothered against his hand. “ihh-hxxtshff!” His eyes are only closed a split second, and it pitches him forward a little, but he’s still driving straight in his lane.

 

Quickly, he glances over at Dean. In addition to not crashing the Impala, it looks like he also hasn’t woken his brother. Dean sleeps in the passenger seat, covered in the thick wool blanket from the back. And his jacket. And Sam’s jacket. As he sleeps, his face goes from pale to flushed and Sam would pull away his layers, but that will wake Dean, and the guy’s felt so shitty today Sam doesn’t want to disturb him for anything. Besides, Dean will wake up if he gets overheated.

 

Sam wipes his hand on his jeans and puts it back on the wheel. Nineteen more hours ‘til they get to Bobby’s. Really, it’s nineteen hours and twenty-two minutes, but at the speed he’s going, Sam’s pretty sure he can shave that twenty-two minutes off. They’ll have to stop a couple times for fuel, but refueling the Impala is an art form they’ve got down cold now. So it’s still safe to say nineteen hours. And that countdown is the only thing keeping Sam going right now, especially as Dean’s given in already.

 

 

 

Seventeen hours away:

 

It’s not the Croatoan virus. It’s not. Definitely not. But it’s still pretty shitty. And it hit them both at the same time. Usually one of them gets sick first. The other catches it in time, of course; you can’t spend all day and night enclosed in a car with someone coughing and sneezing up a storm and not catch it. But there’s usually enough of a delay that one of them can keep driving and fighting until the other’s on the mend. This time, though, they both come down with it at the same time. The moment Sam realized he had a runny nose, he noticed Dean sniffling. The second Sam realized it hurt to swallow, Dean coughed and choked on his coffee. And exactly when Sam felt the first sneeze coming on, Dean sneezed into the crook of his arm; Sam’s followed behind half a second later.  And after that, the sneezes had not stopped.

 

 “hih!” Hand to his mouth, pressing to his nose, Sam holds his breath. Waits. Forces his eyes to stay open. It works. Sam glances at Dean. Still asleep. Lucky bastard. Dean had been sneezing so much that morning he’d had to pull over and let Sam drive.

 

“ihhhhh!” Sam quickly pinches his nose. The tickle plays maddeningly there, dancing about, starting and stopping and trying to have its way with him. Finally, it backs down and Sam drops his hand back to the steering wheel. This time, he looks at the time. Seventeen hours and eleven minutes. Damn.  And he can’t pull over and get a room somewhere or that’ll just put them further behind. Though Sam thinks fondly of bed. Of a box of tissues—even rough, industrial, crappy motel tissues.

 

“hehIHSCHKKUHhhh!” Sam claps a hand over his nose far too late and winces. He sniffles wetly into his palm then wipes the side of it back and forth against his nose.

 

Sam nearly hits the gas pedal by mistake as he feels fingers brush the back of his neck. They press and rub, a little sympathetic massage from a brother who, until five seconds ago, was in a deep sleep. As a ‘bless you’ now seems superfluous, Sam settles for the sentiment behind the rub. It helps him calm back down. “How’re you doing?” Dean’s voice is rough, and he doesn’t even bother clearing it.

 

Sam shakes his head. He fights the overwhelming urge to ask Dean to take over so he can curl up in the backseat and sleep. “Okay,” he only sort of lies. “Did’t bead to wagke you ub. Ode of us should get sub sleeb.”

 

“Mmm. Kay.” Dean pats his cheek, takes a sip from a bottle of water, then nestles back into his blanket and coats, letting the seatbelt cradle him and the door provide support. But he can’t get comfortable. He coughs and sniffles and coughs again. Then he shoves the coats down and fidgets. “Sammy?”

 

“We cad’t stob. Gotta get to Bobby’s, rebebber?”

 

Dean hesitates. “Right,” he finally agrees. He closes his eyes and forces himself to fall back to sleep.

 

 

 

Fourteen hours away:

 

Sam pulls into the gas station, parks by a pump, and closes his eyes to give himself just a moment of rest.

 

A honk from a fellow car wakes him with a start. He looks around to see the car in front of him has pulled away and, as he hasn’t started pumping, he’s supposed to pull all the way up to make room for a waiting car. Sam waves an apology and pulls up.

 

 Then he drags himself out of the car and thrusts a credit card into the card reader. As gas starts pumping into the Impala, Sam circles around the car and opens the passenger door. “Gas stob,” he says, pinching his nose to keep from sneezing; the tickle’s been relentless and he wants to get the words out before the next one strikes. Only it makes his voice silly and high-pitched in addition to congested. “Get out add shake it. Thed get sub ludch for us.”

 

Dean drags himself up and follows his little bother’s orders. Sam uses the bathroom and, seeing Dean still in line at the counter, crawls into the back seat. Ten minutes. He knows he probably will only get seven or eight at the most, but ten would be brilliant. There’ve got fourteen hours and thirty-something minutes until they get to Bobby’s. Ten minutes seems like an acceptable allowance.

 

 

 

Thirteen hours away:

 

Sam rolls from the seat to the floor of the Impala and grunts. He sits up, pulls himself up, which takes effort as he’s wedged in pretty well. But once he’s up, he sees they’re on the interstate. Panic sets in, though he coughs before he can express it. “D… where…?”

 

Dean glances back at him. “Hey sleepyhead.” He whispers it with strength and Sam has the impression that Dean’s voice is so shot that that’s all he can manage. “We’re about thirteen hours from Bobby’s.”

 

“You okay drivig?”

 

Dean nods. “I couldn’t wake you back cough! at the gas station. And I feel better after that nap.”

 

“You soud like saddbaber.”

 

“Sandpaper?” Dean guessed. “You sound a two year old kid who doesn’t know how to blow his nose. Sammy?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Blow your nose.” He tosses a tissue box into the backseat.

 

Sam smiles and lies back down across the backseat. He straps himself in this time and dips into the tissue box repeatedly.

 

 

 

Eleven hours away:

 

“What do you wadt?”

 

Dean presses a fist to his nose. “hah-ARSCHHHH!” He shakes his head. “Not hungry. Sniff!”

 

Sam digs cash out of his pocket and shifts bills around to find the singles that the vending machines at the rest stop will take. “Peadut Eb add Ebs?”

 

Dean chuckles. “Give up talking, Sammy.”

 

“Shut ub, or I’b gettig you sudflower seeds.”

 

 

 

Ten hours away:

 

“Sniff! Sniff! We’re dot goig to bake it.”

 

Dean’s curled in the passenger seat again. He shivers as an answer and sneezes unrestrainedly. He doesn’t bother to take his own advice and blow his nose. “Three hours left? Four?”

 

“Ted,” Sam replies, feeling guilty for admitting it. “Add twedty bidutes. At least.”

 

“Fuck. Sniff! Sniff!” He cranes his neck and rubs his nose on his shoulder. “We’re not going to make it to Bobby’s. Sniff!” He clears his throat. “Are you okay driving?”

 

Sam’s eyes are on fire. His head throbs, pounds. His nose is so stuffed he breathes in pants through his mouth. His nostrils twitch and he pitches forward in a quick but forceful sneeze. “Dot really.”

 

 

 

Still ten hours away:

 

“There’s a… a… ihhhh-HIPTSHHH!”

 

“Fuck!” It comes out as a squeak, which is all Dean’s voice can spare. “The road!” His eyes are wide and he clings to the seat.

 

Sam turns the wheel back as the wheels hit rumble strips and the car glides just short of the guard rail. Then Sam slides his wrist and back of hand under his nose with a monstrous sniffle. He clears his throat and fights—absolutely fights with all his energy as if this were a hunt—to keep his head equally clear. Then he tries again. “There are a botels at this exit.” He glances over at Dean, just daring him to protest. They’d both agreed when they came down with this virus that the best thing to do was to get to Bobby’s as soon as possible.

 

But Dean can barely move. He closes his eyes. “Find some place near a drug store.”

 

 

 

Still still ten hours away:

 

“Sam?” A hand grazes his cheek, fingers threading through his hair. “Gotta take your temperature, son.”

 

For one brief second, he thinks it’s his dad. But then he remembers. And then he’s confused again. He opens his eyes and looks around the room. It’s the motel room where he and Dean had crashed, with Dean in the other twin bed and a gun on the nightstand between the two of them. It’s not Bobby’s house. And, yet, it’s Bobby sitting on the bed next to him.

 

“Your brother’s got a fever of one hundred and one point three. You think you can beat that?” He holds up a digital thermometer.

 

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “I thig I’b hallucidatig right dow.” He opens his mouth and lifts his tongue. The hallucination slips the thermometer under his tongue and watches the little numbers on the reader climb. Funny thing is, the thermometer feels real enough in his mouth. And he can’t work out how it would get there otherwise. Unless, somehow, Bobby were actually here. Sam pulls a hand out from under the covers he doesn’t remember pulling up. He reaches out and pokes a very real Bobby Singer.

 

Then he pulls back, startled.

 

“Relax, kid.” Bobby smiles at him. “Dean called me. Took me a while to figure out why he was whispering, but I got the address and jumped in the truck. Must be some virus for both of you to be down for the count. Can’t believe you idjits thought you could make it all the way to South Dakota like this.”

 

The thermometer beeps and Bobby pulls it out. “Lucky Sam. One hundred and one point five. You win an Aspirin.” The bottle rattles and the water is cool against Sam’s hot throat.

 

“Lucky,” Sam repeats with a smile, finally feeling it.

 

 

 

Title: W is for Wings

Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Castiel

 

“Dude, take some Dayquil.”

 

“Huh?” Sam looked up from the laptop to see Dean stuffing clothes into a duffle bag.

 

“You’re sniffing again. Which means you’ll be sneezing again soon. Do you think I wanna catch your cold? Take some Dayquil or, better yet, take some Nyquil and sleep in the car and maybe you can shake that bug before it gets worse.” He slung his bag over his shoulder. “You ready to go?”

 

Sam downed the rest of his coffee and smothered a yawn into his shoulder. The exactly seventy-eight  minutes of sleep he’d had the night before was taking its toll. His eyes felt like they were on fire and trying to squint at the laptop screen wasn’t helping. “Yeah. Sniff! Ready.”

 

Dean eyed him, reached into his bag, and tossed Sam the Nyquil. “Two gulps and you’ll sleep like a baby, Sammy.”

 

*

 

Sam slid the key card into the motel room door and managed to gather up all the grocery bags and turn the knob before the little green light turned orange and locked him back out. He walked in the room, sniffling as the warmth of the room hit his cold nose. He coughed, cleared his throat. He wasn’t in the room three seconds before he sneezed. “hahh-Hahshoo!”

 

“Hope you bought a lot of Kleenex.”

 

“Sniff! ‘Scuse me. Sniff, sniff!” Sam had, in fact, bought a box. But he’d also bought a six-pack for Dean, who was just as happy to see that as Sam’s Kleenex box. There were cans of soup and bandages and all manner of supplies; you could never own too many lighters in this line of work. Sam put down all the bags and settled on his bed to blow his nose.

 

“Long lines at the grocery store?”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“You’ve been gone an hour and a half, Sammy.”

 

Sam checked his watch, surprised. “Yeah, I guess so. Long… loh…”

 

“Oh great. Another sneeze.”

 

“Jer… hah-hah-Chuhhhh! Sniff! Jerk.”

 

*

 

 “Ehh-Choo!”

 

“You still got that cold?”

 

Sam had tried his best not to sneeze that particular sneeze. He’d scrubbed his finger at his nose repeatedly. He’d pinched his nostrils. He’d held his breath. Nothing had helped. Dean had heard. And it was stupid, really, because after a spectacular sneezing fit, he’d managed to go almost twenty minutes without sneezing. Sure, his nose was still kind of tickley and his eyes didn’t feel quite right. But he’d thought maybe the worst was over for now.

 

“Dude, it’s been weeks. If you keep this up, I’m going to drag your ass to some free clinic and let them poke you.”

 

“I’ll be fine, Dean. Sniff!”

 

“You’ll be annoying.”

 

Sam blew his nose and tried not to sneeze again.

 

*

 

“heh… heh-Shoo!”

 

“God bless you.”

 

“Th-thanks, Cas.” Sam blew his nose and tossed the tissue away. It didn’t go very far because his arms, along with the rest of his body, were tucked beneath Castiel’s arms as the angel embraced him from behind. He felt warm, protected, cared for. Just as importantly, he felt sated and relaxed. “Dean’s gonna figure this out pretty soon.”

 

“He has not yet.”

 

“I know. So far I’ve managed to hold back my sneezes a little and he thinks I have a cold. But he’s not stupid. Sniff! He’s going to notice that I sneeze whenever you’re around.”

 

“If I could clip the feathers from my wings for you, I would do so.”

 

“I knuh-know. hehh-EHShooo!” He blew his nose again, tossed the tissues again. “I wish they dih-didn’t make me sneeze so much. I can’t even see your wings, but they still tickle… me… heh-IHSchhhh!” Though unable to perceive them visually, he could feel the wings wrap around his naked body from behind, cuddle him close. Wings like satin, soft against his cheek. Wings so big they covered his body like a heavy blanket. Even with the sneezing, he’d never felt so good.

 

“Why would your sneezing indicate to Dean that you and I engage in sexual relations quite regularly?”

 

Sam smiled. “It’s Dean we’re talking about here. He’ll notice you make me sneeze sniff! Sniff! He’ll figure out I’m sneezing because I’ve been secretly meeting you. And he’ll put two and two together because the only things he ever thinks about are hunting, food, and sex.”

 

“Hmm.” Cas made a sound of understanding and agreement. “You’re right.” He hugged tighter then kissed the back of one of Sam’s ears. “We’d better find you someone to catch a cold from so you’ll start sneezing from that instead.”

 

Sam’s eyes widened. “Um, Cas. I don’t think that’s a very g—”

 

But the angel vanished, leaving Sam alone in bed and sure this new plan was an even worse one than trying to hold back his sneezes.

 

 

 

Title: X is for Xerophyte

Rating: PG
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John

 

John sneezed precisely six  times during breakfast. The first one came as a surprise, a sudden explosion over his scrambled eggs, only barely covered in time. He drew out his handkerchief to smother rapid-fire numbers two through five. He had to direct the sixth into his shoulder because he was scraping the remainder of his baked beans into the trash.

 

Two more sneezes caught him on the way to the bathroom, where he tried the doorknob and moaned quietly when it was locked. “Sherlock!” he called out, knocking as politely as he could with another sneeze playing at his nostrils. His shoulders rose and he dug his hanky back out with unparalleled haste. “heft’choo! snff Sherlock!”

 

The door opened and Sherlock looked down at him. “John. Is there a reason you couldn’t simply wait for me to finish washing my hands?” His hands were wet, dripping as they held open the door.

 

“I…” His breath hitched, and he buried his nose in the hanky again. “heffkshfffff!”

 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said. “I didn’t quite catch that. You what?”

 

John snuffled wetly, just short of blowing his nose, and tried again. The problem was, now he felt like sneezing even more than ever. “I cuh… I thidk I’b cobig dowd wid subthig. I cah… ahh-heh-IHShfffff! H’shhh! ekkkptchh!” John took a few steps back and leaned against the wall. He blew his nose and caught his breath. He closed his eyes and tried not to sneeze again. “I cad’t stob sdeezig.”

 

“Obviously.”

 

John hadn’t counted on Sherlock having sympathy and hadn’t gone there specifically looking for it. But he had hoped for… well, something. He opened his eyes. “Let be id so I cad—“

 

“Your nose is stuffed-up, John. You should blow it again.”

 

Slightly frustrated, John glared at Sherlock over the hanky as he blew his nose. When he spoke again, he did sound clearer, though. It was infuriating how Sherlock was always right. “There’s a thermometer and some cold medicine in the cabinet. If I take something immediately, maybe this cold won’t get any worse.”

 

Sherlock looked at him—really looked. And, feeling self-conscious, John suddenly felt like some dead body and set of clues that Sherlock was analyzing. Not entirely comfortable under the scrutiny, he started forward again, intending to squeeze past Sherlock to get into the bathroom. He didn’t think he had a fever, but that was always a good thing to check first just… in… case…

 

“ekkt’chhh! Heh-heh-kehchffff!” The sneezy feeling returned in full, even as he rubbed his nose through the hanky. “h’ihshhh! Eh-KEHtchhh!”  He pulled back again, gasping for breath. “ehh-heh…” The intense urge to sneeze backed down just a little. It still tickled him, but that deep, uncontrollable urge to sneeze his head off wasn’t there anymore, thank goodness. “Sherlock,” he said weakly, hoping Sherlock would pick up on the hint and get that aforementioned thermometer and medicine.

 

“You don’t have a cold, John.”

 

John blinked. If not a cold, maybe the flu? He didn’t feel quite so bad as that, though.

 

“Not the flu, either.”

 

Before John could come up with another possibility, Sherlock stepped closer and the urge flared up deep in his nose again. “huh… huhh-IXtchh! Ehfshhh!”

 

“it’s an allergy.”

 

“Aller-huh-huh-huhUPtshhff!”

 

“Yes. An allergy.”

 

“To…? Sniff!”

 

“Xerophytes.”

 

That sounded like a sneeze in and of itself, actually. But it wasn’t a word John recognized. He scanned his memory, wondering if he had come across it years ago in med school perhaps. “What?”

 

“Xerophyte. It’s a plant that grows in an environment with very little or no water. I was studying some of them last night. Their properties to adapt and evolve are quite remarkable.” His gaze bore into John. “As they are the only new element introduced into this environment, I deduce that you must be allergic to them. It isn’t a very difficult leap to make.”

 

“Sure. Sniff! If you know about the plants, that is.”

 

A slight smile played on Sherlock’s lips. “In addition, I worked with them all night, and now you sneeze every time you get near me.”

 

John let the idea sit in. Sherlock did have a point. But he’d never been this allergic to anything before. It was hard to believe that—

 

Sherlock stepped toward him, demonstrating.

 

“ehhhh-EHkshfffff! Hbshhhhhh!” John turned his head, slunk back down the hall a little. And the tickle eased. “Good God, you’re right.” He blew his nose again. “Xerophytes?”

 

Sherlock nodded. “You may wish to avoid the living room for a little while.”

 

“ehhhh-IHPITChhh!”

 

“And me, as well.”

 

“Living room I can do… but you…” Hanky tucked under his nose, John moved forward and pushed Sherlock back into the bathroom. “hifshh! I can’t stay away from you for long.” And he wouldn’t want to, even if he could. “You’d better shower and change.” Up on his toes, he kissed Sherlock. Then he pulled back, turned away. “h’shhoo!”

 

 

 

Title: Y is for Yearning

Rating: PG
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Sirius/Remus

 

Twelve years in Azkaban. Twelve years with no one but Dementors and the occasional visitor passing by. Twelve years hearing no friendly words, just mutters and screams from fellow prisoners. Twelve years of missing friends who had become family to him. Twelve years of knowing everything that had happened was his fault.

 

Sirius woke with a yell, sitting up straight, at once terrified by his unfamiliar surroundings.

 

Remus came running down the stairs in his bare feet, tripping on the second-to-last step, catching himself on the banister, and sprinting into the room with his wand out. His breathing was heavy, eyes wide, heart pounding so hard Sirius could hear it. “What’s the matter? Who’s here?”

 

“Just me,” Sirius said, but with his stuffy nose it came out more like “Just be.”

 

It took Remus a few moments to calm down, to trust that it was just the two of them in his two-story cabin. Then he walked over to the couch. “Another nightmare, Pads?”

 

Sirius seemed far away. His answer was an answer, but was spoken more to himself than to Remus. “Cad you call it a dightbare whed you lived it?”

 

Remus settled himself on the arm of the couch. He took one look at Sirius’ nightshirt and noticed it practically dripping with sweat. “I’m going to go get you a change of pajamas. Okay?”

 

Sirius looked up at him, eyes focusing and unfocusing on the clear then blurry man before him.

 

“Right. I’ll be right back.”

 

When Remus got back, Sirius was in the exact same place, same position, but with his eyes closed. Remus reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder, and Sirius shrieked, jumping in fright. He pulled back into the corner of the couch, hugging his bent legs to his chest.

 

“I’m sorry.” Remus sat down on the couch and showed Sirius his hand. “It’s me. It’s Moony. Remember?”

 

Sirius remembered. He couldn’t forget. Twelve years of remembering Remus. Remembering his touch. But Remus’ hand was different now. There were more lines, more scars. It was Remus he had yearned for, but this wasn’t the Remus he expected.

 

“I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just going to get you into some nice warm pajamas and dry sheets. You’ll be more comfortable. And then I’ll sit with you and we’ll try to lower that fever of yours. Okay?” Remus nodded and, a few seconds later, Sirius nodded as well.

 

The next time Remus touched him, Sirius flinched, but just a little. He lifted Sirius’ nightshirt and stripped it off. Sirius shivered and instinctively moved closer to Remus. Then he stopped, pulled back, kept his distance.

 

Remus bit his lower lip and held out a clean white t-shirt. “Do you need me to…” Sirius was out of it, not quite taking hold of the shirt. “All right,” Remus said. “I’ll help.” He tried to avoid looking at Sirius’ body, and Sirius noticed that. This wasn’t his Remus anymore. This Remus had been through things, been changed. This Remus no longer thought of Sirius as a lover. This Remus made him sleep on the couch when he was sick, instead of cuddling up to him in bed. Thus Remus would rather put pajamas on him than feel him up.

 

Very carefully, Remus guided Sirius up off the couch and balled the sheets up. He laid fresh ones down on the couch and changed the pillowcase. It was a cool summer night, but by the time he was done, Remus looked flushed as well.

 

“I’ve got potions for you,” Remus said, making sure Sirius lay back down. “They’ll get rid of your congestion and lower your fever.” Then Remus left again and Sirius turned his face into the pillow. He shouldn’t have come to Remus. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be.

 

A cool cloth was pressed against his forehead. And Sirius looked up to find a small bottle in front of his face. “Drink this, Pads. You’ll feel better.” Sirius drank. He coughed, but drank and managed to swallow it all down.

 

Then he looked up at Remus, eyes wide. “Would you stay with be?” He coughed and rubbed at his nose. It was starting to run again. It had been so stuffy all day, but the congestion seemed to be shifting now. He was going to start sneezing again pretty soon, most likely. “I dow you dod’t love be adybore, but I could use…”

 

“Is that why you think you’re down here?”

 

“Of course.” Confusion clouded his head like the fever he could already feel slipping away. When Dumbledore had told him to go lay low at Remus’ place, Remus had welcomed him in with a hug and pulled back as soon as Sirius had sneezed. The trek there as a dog had chilled him to the bone and Remus had wrapped him in a warm comforter and set him up on the couch.

 

“You’re down here because this is where the fireplace is. It’s warmer than upstairs and closer to the kitchen and bathroom. Plus it doesn’t require stairs. You probably don’t remember, but you were such a mess when you got here. I wasn’t sure you’d even make it through the night, let alone navigate the stairs. You were too weak for apparation.” He reached out and ran a hand over Sirius’ forehead. “But if you’re feeling better, you can go upstairs. I’ll tuck you into my bed.”

 

“yihhh… ihhhChoo!”

 

“Bless. I’ll tuck you into my bed with a big box of tissues. How would that be?”

 

Sirius hesitated, the confusion still there. “I thought… whed you did’t kiss…”

 

“I didn’t kiss you because you’re ill. I can’t take care of you if I’m feverish and sneezy too.”

 

“yihhChoo! K’Choo!”

 

A few minutes later, Sirius was upstairs in bed with tissues and with Remus. Remus lay on his back, Sirius snuggled up to his side, head on Remus’ chest. In one of Remus’ hands there was a tissue, the other stroked Sirius’ head. “I missed you so much, Sirius. You have no idea. Even sleeping upstairs away from you was painful.”

 

“Really? You still…”

 

“I still love you. Never really stopped, though I tried a hundred times to talk myself out of it. I thought you’d betrayed us. I thought you were responsible for James, Lily, and Peter’s deaths. But I still wanted you. Sometimes I wanted you so I could kill you myself. Other times I wanted to kiss you. And other times I just wanted it to be liked it used to.” Bending his neck, he kissed the top of Sirius’ head.

 

Sirius fell back to sleep. And when he woke up again, after another dream of Azkaban, he didn’t recognize the room but did recognize the arms around him. This was the Remus he had yearned for.

 

 

 

Title: Z is for Zeal

Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Draco/Harry

“What you lack in climbing skills, Potter, you make up for in enthusiasm.”

 

It had been over a dozen years since last he’d been up in a tree. He wasn’t old by muggle or wizard definitions, but he was old enough not to be able to scramble up a trunk, launching himself higher with each staggered branch. He still had his balance, though, as he sat down and scooted closer on the limb. “Damn you, Malfoy. My arm still smarts from that curse and you know it. If you had any decency, you would have had a nice blanket on the ground and had me join you beneath for a picnic.”

 

“You hungry?”

 

Harry paused, checking himself for the answer. “No, I guess not.”

 

“Then screw picnics. If I had any decency, you wouldn’t want me so bad.”

 

“You think that’s why I’m with you? Because you’re so exciting?”

 

“I think that’s part of my appeal. I keep you guessing. Who’s it going to be today? Bad boy Malfoy or kinky Malfoy or—” 

 

Harry kissed him. Draco leaned into it, practically purring and tongues lapped languidly at each other. It was ages later when Harry, worked up and almost jittery with need, pulled away. “I want you, Malfoy.”

 

“Which one of me?”

 

Harry leaned closer, his arm bumping against Draco’s hard chest, a small twang of pain shooting through it. “How about sympathetic Malfoy, for a change?”

 

Draco narrowed his eyes at Harry’s arm, contained in a sling. “Is that arm really hurting my tough Auror that much?”

 

Harry shrugged. “It wasn’t your every day curse. The healers give me another week before it’s back to normal. I’m out of commission until then, stuck doing nothing but pushing parchment around.”

 

“Pity party for Mr. Potter?”

 

Harry sighed, shot Draco a look, then dropped out of the tree. He landed deftly, cloak billowing around him. He started to walk away when he heard Draco drop down as well, boots hitting the grass with a soft thud. Then he felt a hand on his good shoulder and lips pressed to the back of his neck.

 

“You know, when we were in Hogwarts, I used to sit up in trees and watch you.”

 

Harry stopped. When he turned, he was grinning. “Creepy stalker Malfoy?”

 

“Shut up. You know what it was like back then.”

 

“Yeah. But I like it a whole lot better now.” He kissed Malfoy’s cheek. “What do you say we go inside?”

 

Malfoy grinned back. “You getting excited?”

 

“God, yes.” He slid his good arm around Malfoy. “Always. Just go easy on me in bed this time, will ya? I can’t explain to the healers again how I got those marks around my wrists from the handcuffs.”

 

Draco chuckled. “You love it.”

 

“Course  I do. But I’m already at a disadvantage. This time, I get to top.”