#trent trig

[julpernulper]

“i got the math autism” “i got the science autism”

i got the autism that makes me do trigonometry on trent reznor’s face

[phantomphangphucker]

Phic Phight - Graphite Heart

For: @datawyrms

Danny doesn’t want to take a stupid test that is utterly useless for him and thus decides to get out of it in an... interesting way.

Did Danny study? No. Does Danny need to pass this test? Also no. Does Danny need to pass this class? Also also no. Does Danny care? Fuck NO.

Hence why he’s staring at his scantron with a truly bored and pained expression. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to deal with this bull crap. And most importantly, fuck this test. Fuck this entire class. And fuck the teacher too, for good measure.

Mr. Trent’s a dick anyways.

Besides, who the fuck thinks fucking trig should be its own mandatory class? What idiot was on drugs at the meeting that decided this shit? He wants to ball up the stupid test and grind the crumpled paper wad through his fucking eyeballs and out the back of his head like an oversized gunshot wound. At least the paper being all red and bloody will make it more fucking interesting to look at. And maybe if he crumples and uncrumples the paper enough it’ll get all soft ‘n shit.

Soft and bloody.

Like someones exposed steaming innards.

Probably his innards, if luck would have it.

Anyway, he’s not even going to pretend to be even in the same ballpark or planetary system as having the right answer to any of this horse crap. No scratch that, this is donkey crap; because horses are actually kinda cool. Trig is not cool. It doesn’t make sense. Danny taking this doesn’t make sense. Fuck, him even being in this class is stupid as shit. Fuck. This. Majorly.

Ancients he wants to die.

Death over trig. Someone should put that on a shirt. Danny’d buy it. With what funds you’d ask? With Vlad’s. Because fuck that guy. Well that, and the dude wouldn’t notice the missing forty. Ancients that guy might not miss forty thousand. Danny thinks Mr. Trent would, since people with money are at least smart enough to save their money, and Mr. Trent thinks trig is something sixteen-year-olds should actually give even half a rat's ass about; making him a stupid little bitch who definitely doesn’t save his money effectively. Mr. Trent is also one of those assclowns that won’t let Danny leave for his ‘bathroom breaks that everyone knows isn’t actually a bathroom break’, meaning Danny has to actually sneak around the douchebag; not sure why he bothers with that shit though. And fine, maybe that just means the guy’s a proper responsible teacher -since letting your student effectively skip class is totally irresponsible teacherly behaviour. Danny’s not dumb okay- but it seriously clashes with Danny’s whole hero thing he’s got going on. And fucking with Danny’s hero gig makes anyone and every one an assclown.

So there. Mr. Trent is a certified assclown. Now and forevermore. By the grace of God himself.

So all that means Danny’s pretty cool with just extra nopping out of this situation. This bullshit test, for this bullshit class, overseen by a bullshit teacher, in a bullshit subject. This also means that Danny is one hundred percent cool with giving his teacher a simultaneous aneurysm, stroke, and heart attack.

How?

Well, Danny wants to die. He’s mentioned this. So... how about he does die. Just, like, right here. Right now. Not in the foreseeable future but immediately. This sounds like a sound plan in his mind. Would probably send any non-halfa to the therapist for suicide prevention though. But all things considered -and by ‘all things’ Danny means the fact that he is ALREADY DEAD and literally has to OFF HIMSELF every time he wants to go ghost ‘cause being a halfa works FUCKING STUPIDLY- no therapist should be worried about his blatant current death wish. Though yeah fine, Danny’s got more issues and traumas than even the holiest of gifted therapists could shake a stick at.

So yeah. Danny’s going to die today. At eleven-thirty in the morning. Surrounded by other people who probably vaguely want to die and are bored/frustrated out of their minds; and one overly serious teacher with a gigantic stick up his ass. Wow, if dying wasn’t super fucking commonplace then this scenery would be super disappointing as a backdrop for teenage death.

Is there any way to improve the crappy surroundings? Without summoning a ghost, probably not. Kinda hard to make a fucking trig test ‘exciting’. If he could pull out his phone without absolutely getting spotted, then he could text Tuck to hack the speakers and play some badass action movie noises. But well, Mr. Trent-McDickface said he’d get a suspension if he got caught with his cellphone out during a test again. Mr. Trent was a test-happy son of a bitch; which is part of why Danny is so totally done with this bullshit.

Tapping his pencil on the papers repeatedly and sighing, fuck improving the atmosphere and aesthetic. Moving on, because fuck, how is he going to off himself? Actually doing the whole ‘shoving a paper wad through his eye’ idea would take some serious effort -effort Danny doesn’t fucking have- and probably wouldn’t even get the job done. And what else does he have at his disposal? A desk. More paper. Himself, obviously. Normally he’d have a water bottle but again, Mr. Trent is a dick and banned those. He’d also normally have an eraser but his dumbass forgot one. Uh, what else... Well arguably he could take off his shoe, tear off the steel toe, and cave in his head with it; but Mr. Trent would notice, assume he’s cheating, and suspend him. So hard pass there. Same problem with using literally anything in his pockets. Tapping his pencil some more, wait a second...

Danny pauses with the pencil, stares down at it, and grins. He has a pencil.

He has a fucking pencil.

It’s longish. It’s pointy. It’s sharp.

It is definitely a suitable instrument of death.

Now about the how. It’s too fucking skinny to do shit via impalement in most places. Heck, people stab themselves in the throat with pen casings all the time as a form of emergency medical treatment. Though fine, hollowing out his pencil by removing the graphite and spending the rest of his test breathing through a fucking pencil and dribbling blood down his neck, would be very interesting and would definitely spice up this experience for everyone else. Wouldn’t achieve death though. And he can’t properly fuck off outta here without dying first; turning his ghostly ass invisible and phasing through the floor second. Ain’t nobody about to make Danny motherfucking Phantom sit his floating ghostly ass down and take a goddamn trig test; that Phantom fucker’s busy beating all the ghostly asses. Assumptions will be made.

Whacking himself through the head poses the same issue as the paper wad idea. Plus, if he could live for a solid half-hour with an entire axe embedded in his head, then an embedded pencil ain’t doing shit. Other than giving him brain-focused graphite poisoning, if that’s even a thing.

Heart though... now that’s an idea. Ram just about anything through a heart and you get one nice and fast corpse spouting blood like a goddamn fountain. And hey, if he does hollow out the pencil then it can gush out the pencil like it’s a fucking straw. That qualifies as aesthetics, right?

Alright, cool. Time to bite off the metal end of his pencil and stab the desk hard enough to slide the graphite out.

Flipping the pencil around -he can feel Mr. Trent’s glare boring into his head. Fuck that guy and his shitty-ass glare- doesn’t this kinda count as an emergency stake? He’s about to go out like a vampire from a shitty low-budget vampire parody flick. He’ll have to give Vlad a little PowerPoint presentation on the merits of death by hollowed-out pencil, with Danny’s own personal experience thrown in, of course, so he can get the guy to effectively stake his own vampiric ass.

Vlad so won’t go for it though. Oh well. Danny’s still gonna make that presentation though, just to make Vlad question his sanity some more. That was always a fun time.

Danny sticks up his hand, not even bothering to keep the shit-eating grin off his face. Mr. Trent sighs, “yes, Daniel? And no, you can not go to the bathroom”.

Well fuck you too buddy.

Danny grins as he speaks, dropping his hand, “question, if I were to stab myself through the chest with my pencil using the desktop to get enough force, what do you think the acute angle between the hypotenuse that would be my chest and the opposite that would be the pencil, would be?”.

Jesse whispers, “Jesus Christ, Fenton”.

Mr. Trent pinches the bridge of his nose, “what does this have to do with the test?”. At least Danny’s making his most disliked teacher suffer a little; even if he hasn’t known him all that long.

Danny grins a bit wider, “well it would make for an interesting easy bonus question. In fact, let’s get the answer right now to make sure everyone gets it right”, glancing around the class, “now everyone pay attention”. No one does, but he expected that; normally it was only a joke in class. They will in a fucking second though. Ha ha. Danny thinks he’s funny.

Mr. Trent glares at him but switches to wide-eyed panic and jolts to run over to Danny’s desk when Danny actually does put the pencil upright on his desk, tip angled at his chest, and slams his chest down on it; blood immediately spilling over the side of the desk.

Danny floats invisibly out of his body just as Mr. Trent gets over and pokes him. His body, corpse, whatever the fuck, flopping over onto the ground. And yup! Blood is spewing like water out of the exposed end of the pencil, soaking his shirt and slowly the floor. The thump of his body hitting the ground gets everyone to snap their necks around to look at him and promptly scream.

Danny puts his invisible hands to his invisible chest and curls up in the air, cackling his ass off. Which no one noticed since their screams had been louder.

“Holy fucking crap! Holy fucking crap!”.

“Jesus fuck Fenton”.

“Why does he always do this shit?!?”.

“Oh god”.

“Daniel?! Mr. Fenton this isn’t funny!”. Mr. Trent puts his fingers to Danny’s body's neck while pulling out his cellphone, “everyone out! I’m calling the hospital”. Danny’s got no clue why the guy’s bothering yelling at this point since everyone got their screams out already. Danny, meanwhile, is snickering with a hand over his lips. This is too good.

Emile sighs, “don’t bother”, pointing randomly at the air, “Danny, show your goddamn self already, you asshole”, scowling, “some of us actually care about class, you know”.

Danny rolls his invisible eyes, “but why”, popping back into visibility while laying against the ceiling and still snickering, “It’s useless. And unnecessary”.

Mr. Trent snaps his head up to the ceiling and gapes.

Something Danny forgot to mention? Mr. Trent was a new transfer teacher and was thus out of the loop on all of Amity’s bullshit. Which might, might, have been the real reason Danny did this. Besides his hatred for trig anyway. Meaning the guy knew jack fucking all about his Phantom ass; unlike the rest of the entire fucking town.

Eh, it was kinda hard to hide the halfa thing when you had to randomly ditch and leave behind your corpse in random and often easily findable places. After about the tenth time someone reported stumbling on Daniel Fenton’s corpse people kinda put two and two together into four. Look, mom! He can do maths! Now please get him out of this class.

Danny waves at the teacher from the ceiling, grinning and snickering, “hiya”. His body picks that exact moment to be a little over-eager about spewing out blood and splatters it right across Mr. Trent’s cheek.

The teacher passes out.

Danny snickers, floats down to grab his body's shoulders, “I’ll be taking this”, looking around the class, grinning, “to whoever is gonna take teach to the nurse, remember to have fun”. Then two-finger saluting with an extra arm and hand before phasing himself and his body through the floor. Hearing one final, “fuck you, Fenton. Fuck. You”.

---

Danny, back in his body after a nice relaxing fly, waves cheekily at Mr. Trent when he passes him in the hall, “you never did say you’d suspend me for dying. I’ll be taking that automatic hundred now”, and grins wide while putting his face next to Mr. Trent. Telling your students you’d give auto-hundreds if you had to stop the test, was asking for trouble. Specifically Danny-related trouble. Even if all Danny wanted and cared about was getting the fuck outta the stupid goddamn test; and each test was only worth five percent of their grades, so one perfect score amongst a sea of near zeros meant jack fucking all.

But Mr. Trent shivers slightly, and eyeballs Danny’s chest (is Danny still wearing the bloodied shirt with a hole in it? Fuck yes. Even if the school had requested he doesn’t do that since it’s a health and safety hazard. Eh, Danny will change after this. His folks should totally invent sanitary blood absorbing and self-repairing clothes), and nods slowly. Danny is officially having a very good day.

End.

Prompt: They always knew he was a ghost. Always.

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of wildfire relief, @jesusonthetortillas​ donated $10, and requested pre-series pining!Sam, with diary discovery. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

After his little lesson from Sabrina, the hot librarian's assistant, it's not hard at all for Dean to find what he's looking for. He drops Sam off at the library the way he usually does, and flirts with Sabrina on his way out like he usually does, but instead of going to his shift at the construction site like Sam thinks he's going to, he circles back around, through the library stacks on the main floor, and waits like a dingus by YOUNG ADULT – ADVENTURE, watching the back of Sam's nerdy, nerdy head where he's hunched at the computer banks, getting up to no kind of good.

It wouldn't have come to this, Dean thinks, if Sam weren't so—he doesn't even know how to think about it. He doesn't know when to pin it down. They were doing okay. Sam ran away, a few years back, but since then he's—well, he's always bitching at Dad and bitching at Dean half the time too, but he's done good in school, he's done his part with the hunting. It was sometime at that last school. September in Maryland. Dad was gone a lot of the time, because Dad always was, and Dean went with him on about half the hunts but Sam got to stay behind, got to just call in research tips and last-minute lore checks, and Dean thought he was pretty happy, as much as Sam ever seemed happy. Chill, just doing his homework at the rickety desk, not complaining any more than usual about Dean's usual dinners of fast food or Kraft or Top Ramen. Seventeen and getting tall and mellowing out, and finally hanging out with his little brother was just fine. Dean thought.

That was two towns ago, three months ago. Dean picks his nails with his pocket knife, leaning on one elbow by the Hardy Boys. Sam's still working away on the computer. Anymore he always is. After school he's always angling for Dean to bring him to the library and if Dean won't drive him then Sam walks, even when it's raining, like it is half the time in frickin Washington, anyway. Always finding a free computer and settling in and disappearing onto the internet. Not coming home until the library closes, and moody if Dean's there when he walks in, and Dean just—he thought they were past all this crap. He thought that maybe Sam had—settled. Figured out how things were, how things had to be.

Well. Either way. Sabrina, with the glasses and the sexy dreads and the legs that very much went all the way to the floor under those wide-legged pants she was always wearing—she gave Dean a computer lesson, free of charge, and he's got a way in, now. Sam won't talk to him, won't hardly look at him. Dean chews the inside of his cheek, watching Sam type on the battered public machine. Sam's not the only one who knows how to research a case, in this family. Dean's going to figure this out. He's gonna fix it.

A bell rings, at five o'clock, like the end of a school day. Sam jerks like he's been shocked and looks up at the ceiling, clearly annoyed. He's been engrossed for two hours, typing away, reading. Real frickin' boring, on Dean's end, but he stayed put. Like staking out a house for a job—nothing to do but wait. He takes a few steps backwards, makes sure the shelves hide his face, and there's a general rustling as people leave—a mom and her kid, and tears because the kid's favorite book wasn't here—and when Dean looks again the computer banks are empty, and Sabrina's checking out the last few patrons, and Sam's—gone. Walking home in the rain, little goth that he is. Fine with Dean, if it gives him a few minutes.

When he settles into the chair Sam was in it's still warm. He opens up Netscape Navigator, the library's homepage welcoming him in a friendly kinda way—big yellow smiley face, that's fun. He goes to where Sabrina taught him, in the menu at the top: view, and then History, where it turns out the computer saves all the webpages you went to just in case you need to find them again, and there—oh, jackpot. Gotcha, Sam.

All kinds of crap. A weather website, a bunch of Ask Jeeves searches, something called DiffEQandU. Some mythology stuff, too, and Dean goes to one that turns out to be a history of kitsune. That's something, at least—Sam doing his important homework, in there with whatever other crap he's been working on.

The last bunch of results are all pages from some website called Livejournal, which Dean's never heard of. He clicks one at random and is brought to—huh. A splashy red page, with a big picture on top of kids graduating from high school in those dorky blue robes. He scrolls down, skimming, looking for the important details among the mess, but it's hard to tell what it is. A forum, it looks like. Kind of like the ones Dean's been on where people trade car parts, or swap ghost stories. A square box, dated yesterday, that says WHEN IS HARVARD'S APP REVIEW???, and a panicky paragraph where some chick might die if she doesn't get in. Another, the day before, with questions about the SAT, and a link that says 43 comments that, when Dean clicks it, brings him to a bunch of apparently teenagers all giving each other tips from some test they're worried about taking.

College. Dean's stomach curls into a knot. It's all—college stuff, applications and tests and deadlines. The usernames are all weird shit: tmntpizzadelivery, quistis4ever, willyshakes. Dean can't tell—is one of these kids Sam?

Sabrina's nearly done with her line of book nerds. Dean rubs a hand over his mouth and clicks away, tries another of the Livejournal results in the history. Another forum, this one apparently about—soccer? Jesus, Sam. Another forum, this one about Conan the Barbarian, and that one's at least easy to snort at, with people's shitty drawings of Red Sonja and excitement about a possible remake. There are personal pages, though, too—one titled Delaware Sucks, in which some girl complains about her life—one titled trent reznor rules my soul, featuring a goth kid who won't shut up about Nine Inch Nails and his bitch of a mother. Another, with a plain blue-and-grey color scheme, with the title on the road, and a new post from today—from an hour ago—with the text just reading, I don't know what to do anymore, and six comments underneath, waiting.

"Hey—ready to go?" Sabrina says.

Dean jerks in his seat. Sabrina's raising her eyebrows at him, behind her glasses, a little smile curving her mouth that promises something a little better than book dust and computer lessons. "I'm always ready," Dean says, grinning, and gets her to roll her eyes—yeah, he's in there—but his eyes drag back to the webpage, the posts. He scrolls down, quick—post after post, waiting to be read. "Real quick—borrow a pen?"

She has one—she's a sexy librarian, of course she has one—and he uncrumples a receipt from his jacket pocket and writes down the URL, careful to get it right. rearviewmirror.livejournal.com. He wants to click on the comments, but.

"Come on, the movie's starting soon," Sabrina says, and Dean closes Netscape, folds the receipt very carefully into his pocket, stands up. He's got a date to make out with a hot chick in the back of a movie theater, and maybe a little more, and Sam's whole Eeyore routine has to take a number. Dean will figure it out. He's got an easy way to run a stakeout, now.

*

December 4

Still can't decide. Anyone else going through this?

current mood: agonized current music: motorhead (AGAIN)

Comments:

teenagehamburger: Yes!! I still don't know where I want to go. Mom wants me to stay close to home, but Delaware sucksssss. Where are you looking?

��      rearviewmirror: Anywhere. TBH I'm still not even sure I should apply.

               teenagehamburger: WTF?? Of course you should!! College is the big escape, remember?

 December 1

He's driving me INSANE

current mood: annoyed current music: motorhead (again)

Comments:

bloodofreptile: lol you got it bad

       rearviewmirror: right now I just want to hit him with a brick, actually

teenagehamburger: LOL!! Sorry :(  :(

       rearviewmirror: Sigh. I guess it could be worse, right?

             teenagehamburger: Definitely!! He could be the cute cheerleader from 4th period who doesn't know I exist….

                     coppertonebuttgirl: oh, sorry hammie, that sucks <3

 November 29

The thing is, I don't even want anything crazy? I just want to be—me. Just me, without anyone breathing down my neck. Trig teacher says I could get in to one of the top ten, but I just want to go *anywhere that's not here*

current mood: restless current music: Pearl Jam (home alone!)

Comments:

bloodofreptile: i hear you lol. why don't they get that the rules and hovering and all that shit just makes us want to run faster?

    rearviewmirror: Exactly! My teacher keeps talking about college like it's a place to expand your mind and stuff, and that's fine, but lately I just want to expand my horizons. Kind of ironic?

         bloodofreptile: yeah lol haven't you lived like everywhere?

               rearviewmirror: Feels like it.

teenagehamburger: Is You Know Who going to college too?

 November 18

I feel like it shouldn't be this hard. Normal people have it easy.

current mood: indescribable current music: silence

Comments:

coppertonebuttgirl: feel free to talk to me anytime <3

 November 3

Dad's gone again. Didn't say goodbye. We went to the movies and he gave me a beer, and we watched the stars for an hour in the parking lot even though it was freaking freezing. Happier than I've been in a while. Don’t want it to change but it has to change.

current mood: current music:

Comments:

teenagehamburger: OMG, that sounds so romantic?? I can't believe you were drinking!! Aren't you underage?

     bloodofreptile: lol relax it's not a big deal

           teenagehamburger: I'm just saying!!

coppertonebuttgirl: wish it wasn't hard for you <3

bloodofreptile: dude you've got to say something

     rearviewmirror: I literally can't.

          bloodofreptile: ok but it's gonna drive you crazy. do you even know if he's gay? start with that maybe

*

The posts go on, and on. Reading backwards through time, it's a strange piecing-together. rearviewmirror is active in about ten communities and Dean reads through all of them, that week, bringing an illicit cup of coffee in to the library when he doesn't have a construction shift. He reads with his hand over his mouth and by the time he has to get off the computer he's got a headache, every time, his throat dry and aching.

The journal's been active for six months. Dean clicks through the pages to the very start and reads it in the right order, his heart pounding oddly in his ears. I don't know what this place is. A journal, I guess, considering the name. I just need somewhere to talk where no one will listen.

It's not a pouring-out, like some teenage girl doodling hearts around her crush's initials. He holds back. Never says exactly where they're living, never mentions names. To figure out who it was, you'd have to be one of two other people, and Dean knows that Dad can barely turn on a computer, much less go onto the internet and pore over some teenage angst-fest. Dean spends half his time wishing he were the same. Maybe if he hadn't asked Sabrina for help.

At home, Sam's the same as he always is. Comes home after his own stint at the library, eats the dinner Dean gives him. He reads, most of the time. Does his schoolwork. Dean says, careful one night, "Hey, True Lies is on. Wanna watch?" but Sam only gives him a strange, uncertain look and says, "No, I have a paper due," and he shuts himself into their bedroom with the door very firmly closed, and Dean sits there on the couch alone with a beer and Jamie Lee Curtis being sexy as hell on the fuzzy TV, and he—he doesn't know what to do.

He remembers that day, the looking at the stars day. It was November 2. A nasty anniversary, in their family, and yeah, Dad left. Dean got it. He'd thought Sam did, too, by now. It was better to have Dad gone, on a hunt, than trying to drink himself to death at home in the apartment. At least he was working, that way, and not hurting himself. To distract both of them, Dean picked Sam up from the library and they went straight to the movie theater—the Blair Witch sequel, with Dean providing running commentary about how dumb they were about dealing with ghosts, which at least made Sam grin and elbow him to shut up, even if he was laughing too, the liar—and, yeah, afterward they'd picked up Taco Bell, and then after that Dean swung through the liquor store drive-thru and they parked out, and he let Sam have a beer, and they both sat on the trunk and leaned back against the cold glass or the rear window and didn't really talk, much. The stars, big above them. The night, quiet. Sam was pressed against his side, chilled out and not bitching about anything, and Dean tucked his hand behind his head and he was pretty content with the world, right then. His brother, here, and a six-pack waiting, and nothing happening right then that'd hurt them. Sam smiled at him, that night, before he went to bed. It was sweet—like he used to be, when he was little—and Dean had ended up falling asleep on the couch, watching the public access, but his dreams that night were—good, like they never were on the night of November 2, and it had felt… okay.

do you even know if he's gay?

The college prep—that wasn't a surprise. It hurt but it didn't shock. All his worrying, all his whining, wanting to be 'free'—whatever free meant—it was all part and parcel of the last decade. Dean should've known better. Sam wasn't mellowing out. Sam was a stubborn little shit and he'd always wanted to have a life that wasn't—this.

The gay thing. That hit different. One of the communities Sam followed was for lesbian and gay youth, talking about their coming out experiences. Sam didn't post there much but he commented, asked questions. How do you know? What does it feel like? The hamburger girl was from there, a lesbian chick trapped in some Delaware high school. Encouraging, commiserating. They talked about how college would be their big escape, their chance to go to a big city and find their way. Meet people. Only apparently hamburger girl was crushing on the cheerleader from fourth period, and Sam—

Dean makes an excuse the next day. Saturday: no work for Dean, no school for Sam. Alone in the apartment together, all day, after Dean's week of reading—he can't face it. "Where are you going?" Sam asks, eight a.m. with his hair fucked up and coffee clenched between his hands, and Dean looks at him in his pajama pants and his ratty hand-me-down shirt, skinny and tall and hiding things Dean can't handle, and he says, snappish in a way he doesn't mean to be—"Out, Sam, for christ's sake—" and sees Sam's expression shutter before the apartment door slams behind him.

He goes for a drive, out of town. Cold, threatening rain like it always is, but it won't snow. Out—past the airport, past the suburbs, out to Black Lake. They killed the nymph that was drowning people out here, him and Dad, when they first arrived. Sam stayed home. Sullen on the other end of the line when Dean called to say they'd finished the job, and they were getting burgers for dinner, and did Sam want one. Whatever, Sam had said, like even answering was an imposition. That was November, too.

He sits on the hood, heels braced on the bumper, arms locked around his knees. The lake looks cold. He wants to sink into it, wants to feel that freezing shock, like the polar bear dive he did on a dare back in Illinois. The way the brain just goes blank, tv-static filling up everything and washing all the shit away. All the weird crap you don't want to think about, frozen, and the only thing to focus on just—getting out.

He's not going to dive into the lake. It's nine in the morning and he's wearing his only pair of boots. He hasn't gone out with Sabrina all week. He's been piss-poor at the construction site and McMillan nearly brained him with a hammer yesterday, because Dean wasn't paying attention, and the foreman screamed at him in front of the whole crew. None of that feels close, right now. He breathes the wet-clogged air, cold and mossy, turning his ring restlessly on his finger.

Back at that high school they went to in Raton, Mrs. Encinas in 6th period English told Dean he'd be smart, if he didn't just give up all the time. All he needed to do was take the time to read between the lines, to actually interpret what he was reading and not take things on face value. He made some joke. He doesn't remember what it was, now. Like he didn't know what the fuckin Great Gatsby was saying, when he hoped and hoped and never got what he wanted. When happiness always felt like it was about a thousand miles away, on the other side of a lake he couldn't cross, and hope went out like a snuffed light. Dean can read what's not there. He's done it his whole life.

The problem: Sam's little online journal went back six months. They've lived in four towns, in that time. He never uses names, never puts up anything that'd really identify him. They were in Maryland, August-September-first of October, and it was a comment right at the end of August, on the community for gay kids, talking to the hamburger girl: I like someone, too. He doesn't know. He. The same he that carried forward, through all his journal entries, from Maryland to Washington across whole breadth of the country. He likes classic rock. He drives me nuts. He gave me a beer, and I wanted—

Dean curls forward over his knees, sliding his hands into his hair, breathing hard between his knees. He can read between the lines and he wishes that he couldn't. He wishes—god. What? That Sam would just meet a nice girl and fuck her and get it out of his system? Except how he was writing, it wasn't like it was new. It was something he'd been thinking about. When did you know? had read one of the forum posts, and in the responses, among all the dumb teenage crap about formal dances and jerking off to the wrong person in the music video, there was a comment by username rearviewmirror that said, I broke my leg and he carried me to the car and I wanted to kiss him.

Sam broke his leg in July, the summer he turned fifteen. He'd been trying to stay quiet but he'd had this trapped whimper in his throat that he couldn't stop, and Dad had stayed behind to cover their backs and it had been left to Dean, to scoop Sam up, his whole body quivering with the shock—to hug him close between the trees, humid Georgia night making every place their skin touched slick with sweat—to let Sam cling to his neck, shuddering, and to put a hand on his back and whisper, hey, Sammy, it's not even that bad, huh? no bone sticking out, you did good. we're gonna get you a cast and I'm gonna draw you a great picture, okay, Cindy Crawford with her tits out, right there on your shin and Sam had been so shaky that his laugh sounded like he was crying, but he'd nodded against Dean's neck and chattered out sounds cool, Dean, and when Dean got him to the car Sam hadn't wanted to let him go—so they crawled into the backseat together, Sam still half in his lap and with his arms still tight around Dean's neck. Dad got into the front and frowned at Dean in the rearview, and Dean nodded, and when the car leapt forward Sam gasped and gripped at Dean's shirt when his leg got jostled, and Dean put his hand in Sam's hair and said, it's okay, you're okay, and Sam—wanted to kiss him.

He can't square it. It's like there's some twinned version of his brother, in this place Dean never knew existed. All these secrets he's been hoarding, this other person he's been. These wants that make him a stranger.

He goes back home with stuff for lunch around noon. Sam's reading, in the bedroom. "Got pb&j or grilled cheese," Dean calls, down the shotgun kitchen through the thin-carpeted hall, and Sam calls back, "I'm not hungry," which is a goddamn shit of a lie. He grows like an inch a day, he's never not hungry. Dean braces his hands on the counter and counts to five, in his head. He puts the bread away, and puts the cheese in the fridge. He goes into the living room and turns on the TV and it's college football, which is boring as hell, but it fills the apartment with noise. He wishes Dad were home. He wishes he were hunting.

The Huskies lose. Sam hasn't come out of the room, as far as Dean can tell. He's had—four beers? He looks at the table. Five. It's getting toward dark and it's raining, a-fucking-gain, and Dean's still wearing his jacket and his boots and his ears are cold, because the heater in here sucks, and he's shredded the label of the beer everywhere, everywhere. He brushes it off his knees and that just means it's gonna get ground into the shit-brown carpet, but—who cares. He's got other things on his mind.

He gets the last beer out of the fridge. Should've bought more. "Got some spare cash," he says, to the dark hall. There's a halo of light around the half-closed bedroom door. "Thinking pizza for dinner."

Silence.

Dean pushes the beer bottle against his forehead. "C'mon, Sam. It's not going to kill you to prefer pepperoni or sausage. Just say something."

"Doesn't matter," is the response.

Dean squeezes his eyes closed, slams the bottle down to the counter. It's four steps to the bedroom and the door flies open under his palm. "Just fucking say," Dean says, and Sam's looking at him with big eyes, curled up on the twin bed with his back up against the wall, books spread open all around him. Homework, of course. "Just say it, okay? What do you want?"

Sam stares at him. "I don't care! Get—whatever, pepperoni. Jeez, what's up with you?"

"Sure you don't want sausage?" Dean says, kind of nasty, and Sam frowns, shakes his head. Goddamn it. Dean drags a hand over his face, sags against the door frame. He's—a little dizzy. Oh—okay, so maybe he should've eaten, sometime since this morning. "Damn it, Sam," he says, his stomach twinging.

"What?" Give him this—maybe he's sneaking around, maybe he's lying about half his life, but Sam doesn't shrink back from an argument. He's still in his pajamas. He shoves his notebook away, lifts his chin. "What?"

"Been doing some reading," Dean says, and watches Sam's face scrunch disbelievingly. "Rearviewmirror? You don't even like cars."

It's weirdly satisfying to watch Sam blanch. He's been so unaffected the last little while it's almost a relief to get a real reaction. His mouth parts, his eyes go big. He stares at Dean in total silence except the rain drumming on the roof, and then he says, "That's—private."

"Not that private," Dean says. "You're putting shit on the internet for any asshole to read, Sam. It's not a pretty princess diary with a sparkly lock."

Sam's face is white. He licks his lips, his back rigid against the wall. "How did you—you never—"

"I know how to use a friggin computer," Dean says, and watches Sam close his eyes. "So? Got a lot to say to a bunch of strangers. Might as well say it to me. I mean, I'm your brother, right? Family."

It comes out hard but his voice cracks, on the last word. He swallows and some of the anger dissipates. Sam's jaw flexes and he tucks his hands behind his neck and his knees drag in, like defense. Like he needs defense. Against Dean. Like it's Dean who's wrecking things.

Dean's legs go out from under him. He sits down. Right there, in the doorway to the bedroom, the frame hard against his spine. The rain's loud and he doesn't—what is there to say? "You should've told me."

That's really it. Sam looks at him. Disbelief. "How?" he says, and Dean tips his head back against the wall, looks at the popcorn ceiling, says, "I don't know, it's not my damn secret. But you should've."

"Yeah, that would've gone great," Sam says, sarcastic.

Silence. The rain. Dean drags his hand over his face again, clears his throat. "So. You're—queer." For some reason it seems like the simplest thing to start with.

Sam snorts. "I'm not, like, jerking off to JC Chasez," he says, bitter.

"Who?" Dean says, but shakes his head. "God, whatever. Jesus, Sam, I can't—don't talk about you jerking off. You're not—you don't date chicks, either. Ever. So you're—"

"I don't know," Sam says. Kind of firm. Dean closes his eyes to not look at him. "I don't know, okay? But that's not what—" Pause, while he drags in a breath that's audible across the room. Dean curls over, his forehead between his knees. It's too big to hear. Sam blows out air. "You read the whole thing?"

Frail. Cobweb soft, like if Dean breathed too hard it'd break. Dean folds his hands over his head. "I read the whole thing," he says.

"Don't—" Sam says, quick, and cuts himself off. Dean can't stand it—he looks, peeking up, and Sam's made himself small, there at the head of the bed. His mouth is small, his lips between his teeth—his eyes, big and scared. "Dean. I wouldn't—I swear. I wouldn't—"

"Kiss me?" Sam flinches like from a raised fist, when Dean's all the way over here. Dean licks his lips, dropping his hands so they dangle useless between his knees. "Or, what. Leave? Either way it's pretty fucked up, for me, Sam."

"Oh my god," Sam says, very quietly, and—christ. Looks like he's gonna cry.

"Sam," Dean says, and no matter how pissed he is, that's not—Sam fights back. Sam always fights back, he's frickin' annoying that way. He's not supposed to crack like this. Dean rolls up to his knees and Sam's looking away, neck craned unnaturally so that his face is pointed at the broken-blind-covered window so that Dean can't see, but Dean can—Dean can see his teeth so hard in his lip that the skin there's white, and his chest shaky, and his fist clenched in the thin fabric of his pajama bottoms, and, and—"Sammy," Dean says, again, and Sam's eyes close and there is—shit, shit, a tear, running fast out of the corner of his eye, streaking down his cheek so quick that if Dean could blink he might've missed it.

Dean's gut hurts, like he took a punch from a werewolf and he's gonna be bruised for the next three weeks. He doesn't have anything to say to make it better, not when it's this screwed up. This isn't Sam bitching about Dad or whining about crossbow practice or pouting about a move. Sam's been thinking about this for two years and he's managed to talk about it with people, online at least. Dean's coming at it with a week's slow raw realization and he doesn't know how to make it—not how it is.

He gets over to the bed, on his knees. Sam won't look at him, like the view of nothing through the blinds is the most fascinating thing in the world. There's a wet shining trail, down his cheek to his jaw. A damp circle on his t-shirt. Dean says, because he can't think of what else to say, "You really—you want—" and even then, can't articulate it. A kiss. Sex. A kind of close they've never been. He says, slower, "Is that why you want to go?"

Sam drags in air. Sounds like it hurts.

Dean drags his teeth over his lip. There are books all over the bed. He pushes them away, and Sam's notebook. He pushes up—knee on the mattress, and sinking down to his hip, and Sam's close enough to touch, now, and he jerks and looks at Dean like he's an alien. A ghost. Something that can't be real, only they both know that it is. Dean touches Sam's hand, fisted there in his pants, and Sam jerks again, his stiff shoulders back against the wall, and he shoves Dean's hand but no matter the crazy growth spurt Sam's been having Dean's still stronger, still has the reach—he grips Sam's wrist and yanks, gets him off balance, and then he's right inside Sam's grapple and has his hand flat on Sam's chest, pressing him harder against the paint, and Sam stares at him wild-eyed with his breath both fast and deep and Dean leans forward and presses their mouths together. It's a bad kiss—he barely hits on center, and Sam freezes—but there's the touch of warmth, Sam's lips—soft—and the shocked air hitting Dean's face—and Dean drags in breath through his nose and resettles, fits his mouth to Sam's soft open lower lip and makes it better, his head tipping, easy pressure there, just the faintest amount of suction so that when he pulls back a millimeter there's a little smooch sound, and that makes it—real.

He kissed his little brother. No getting around that. No pretending. His nose brushes Sam's cheek and Sam's not really breathing, and Dean—fuck, Dean does it again, pressing in and letting Sam's wrist go so that he can get a hand on Sam's jaw, tipping him so it's good. Sam makes a tiny noise and breathes out hard against his mouth, and when Dean kisses him for a third time Sam meets it, his lips moving finally out of that still shock, his fingertips brushing Dean's arm all careful, his heart pounding under Dean's hand.

Dean pulls back. An inch between them—not enough but all Dean can seem to manage. He swallows. His lips are tingling, and his eyes are closed and he doesn't want to open them, and his fingers—jesus, he's got them tangled in Sam's hair like Sam's some easy hot chick he's picked up at a dive bar, pressing her up against the wall in the bathroom hallway, knowing how the night's going to end.

"We can't," Sam says. Sam. His voice, steady and familiar. "We—Dean. This isn't—"

"No," Dean says, god knows why. He pulls back, though—pulls his hand out of Sam's hair, stands up. His legs wobble for a second. He has to open his eyes and so he drags in a breath and does, and Sam's sitting there with his shoulders high and tight and his hands fisted on his knees and his hair a little fluffed on one side, a little screwy. His mouth parted and his eyes—fixed on Dean's face, looking all over it. Like he's memorizing a trail map, for an unknown stretch of land.

"I'm drunk," Dean says. It's not true. Five beers—he's buzzed but he knows what he's doing. Sam doesn't contradict the lie. "Acting nuts. Sorry, Sam. I—"

"I want pepperoni," Sam says. His face isn't white anymore. He's flushed, dark pink in the hollows of his cheeks. His eyes are dark, wide and fixed on Dean, and there's still that shining trail on his cheek but it's drying. "Order from that place on Melrose. Garlic knots, too."

Dean backs up a step, pins on a smile. "What, you think I'm dumb? Like I wouldn't get knots," he says, and Sam doesn't smile but he nods, brief and fast like Dean's picking up a play in some con they're running, and Dean snaps a finger-gun at Sam—fuck, what is he doing—and turns out of the room, says—"Okay, dinner in thirty minutes or less or your money back!" and walks through the kitchen and out into the living room and out the front door, and closes it behind himself, and leans against it and stares blindly out into the rain, the setting sun still sparking some tiny golden bit of light out to the west, past the horizon.

He licks his lips and tastes salt, not his own. Sam's hand, on his arm—skimming, brushing light through the thickness of his jacket. Like he wasn't sure he'd be allowed to really touch. He drags in the rain-soaked air. He'll drive, to get the pizza. He'll drive, and he'll give Sam time. When he gets back he'll offer Sam half the pie and a beer, and there'll be some movie on TV that Sam probably won't want to watch, but maybe he will. They'll be—brothers. Dean knows how to do that. It feels like it's all he's got left.

*

It's—not easy but it's not all that hard, either. There's a brutal week where Dean's torn between walking on eggshells and wanting to wrestle Sam to the ground, and Sam goes perfectly silent—not pouty withdrawal or furious silent-treatment, but as still and quiet as though he's not even there. Dean can't bear it. It takes Dad coming home to break it—Dad, and christ, when he calls to say he's coming back Dean completely freezes and his mind fills up with—with—but then Sam looks at him and takes the phone out of his hand and says, his mouth's full—what's up? and after that it's like things… settle. It's not okay but it's livable.

rearviewmirror.livejournal.com goes quiet. Dean checks, occasionally, over the months that pass. When he's looking up some random piece of lore for Dad, when they're hunting alone and Sam's stuck back at whatever shitty hotel they stored him at, and Dean's on research duty because Sam's in high school and can't answer his phone. Dean types in the address and checks, and it's still that last post. Anyone else going through this? He hopes, sincerely, not. It's too fucked up for anyone else to bear. At least the Winchesters have practice.

They run PT. Sam does his homework. Dean watches TV. Hunting focuses things. There's stuff to kill and people to save and things aren't falling apart any more than they ever are, so—Dean deals.

Sam leaves.

*

It's January. Dean's in a library, alone. Dad's working a job north of Boise and he sent Dean down to Wendover to take care of a haunting, and Dean's done and Dad called and said two more days and there's this raw wounded spot where Dean should be able to turn, to look over his left shoulder and say—but it's empty there, and so he's in a library.

Sam started posting again, when he got to school. Small stuff. That he was sorry for the long break. That he'd ended up at a university after all. The hamburger girl doesn't respond anymore but the Nine Inch Nails boy does: thought you were dead, he says, no-caps like he's so goddamn cool, and Sam says, Just working some stuff out.

Sam likes his professors. He plays pick-up soccer with some of the guys from his dorm. His roommate snores. He doesn't listen to music at all. There's nothing—real. There's none of the sadboy shit, nothing about what he's feeling, no pondering of what it all means. He picks up a few different Livejournal friends, clearly people from his classes, who crack jokes about Ancient Civ and Linear Algebra. He joins a community focused around civil rights litigation. He might as well not be there.

Dean reads it all. If Sam's not calling then Dean's gonna check in whatever way he can. When Sam left Dean made sure he had at least one good knife in his bag and he said don't forget the salt when Sam hiked his backpack onto his shoulder, and Sam snorted and looked at him like a gunshot but he nodded, and Sam's not dumb, he knows how to take care of himself, but. Dean's the big brother, here. He's within his rights, to check and make sure baby bro's not being a dumbass.

January and it's fuckin cold, in Wendover, but the library's too warm. Dean keeps his coat on anyway, scrolling through the comms. He's kinda turning into an expert, navigating the pages, recognizing the shorthand. He hasn't made an account. Doesn't know why he would. He finishes his scan of the comms Sam's part of and doesn't really see any relevant posts, and no comments from rearviewmirror that he can find. He chews his cheek and goes back to the main page, thinking—okay, he can get out of here. Beer and dinner, and finding a motel that doesn't look toxic, and waiting for Dad to call. Not the worst night he could have. He refreshes, one last time, just in case, and there's a new post. He reads:

January 23

Done with class for the week. Feeling restless.

current mood: current music:

Comments:

lawblog69: we should go out!!

bloodofreptile: go get laid

Dean snorts. At least the NIN kid is consistent. He refreshes again and there's a new comment.

bloodofreptile: go get laid

    rearviewmirror: Not really in the cards.

He takes a breath, sitting there at the computer bank. It's quiet in here—the good people of Wendover aren't much for the library, apparently—but he feels like someone's right there. Like he could reach out and touch, when it's just words on a glowing screen. Still—the speed of the comment—Sam's… sitting there. Right now, on a computer in Palo Alto, looking at the same thing Dean is.

He refreshes.

bloodofreptile: go get laid

    rearviewmirror: Not really in the cards.

        bloodofreptile: still holding onto that? very hufflepuff. how long has it been?

              rearviewmirror: my whole life

Dean presses his knuckles to his lips, hard enough that he can feel his teeth pressing back. Jesus, Sam. He refreshes—another comment, from coppertonebuttgirl, agreeing about the restlessness but apparently she's off to a date with her boyfriend, and Sam responds and says sounds nice :), and jesus, Sam, Dean thinks. Off to have the big college experience like he wanted so bad, off to have that new shiny life, and after five months away he's still all sadsack, still not actually living.

He clicks the comment box. He types, unaccountably mad. He hits submit, and gets a warning that it'll show as anonymous. He waits, and refreshes, and reads:

Anonymous: Just go hit a bar. Live a little. Thought you were supposed to be smart, college boy.

     rearviewmirror: Since when does smart have anything to do with it?

Dean rolls his eyes. He can hear Sam's voice saying it, nettled and trying to sound like he isn't.

Anonymous: You're on here mooning after Cindy Crawford when Claudia Schiffer and Tyra Banks are out there in the real world. Have a beer, get over it.

A pause. Dean has to refresh twice. The librarian walks by with her cart of books and gives him a distracted smile, and Dean's so addled he doesn't actually process and then return it until she's already gone.

rearviewmirror: I don't think it's something you get over. It mattered. It still does, to me.

Dean chews his thumbnail. Sam's face, turned unnaturally, looking out that window at the rain. The wet track, on his cheek.

Anonymous: Matters enough that you're never going to move on?

    rearviewmirror: I didn't think you could move on from family. Maybe I was wrong.

The air goes out of Dean's chest. He turns away from the computer, entirely, swiveling the chair so he's looking out at the lonely bookshelves. He flexes his jaw and swivels back around. Hits refresh.

The thread of comments is gone. He blinks, confused. He doesn't think he was hallucinating—been a while, since he was that tired and drunk. But—oh—in its place, a single comment, under the brief conversation with the NIN kid:

rearviewmirror: Tell me if it's you.

Dean licks his lips. He closes out of the browser, picks up his notepad and keys. On the steps outside it's cold, cold, fucking cold, and this town is bleak. He walks down to the Impala, waiting there in the iced-over grey snow, and braces his hands on the hood, and blows out a long purling winter-dragon breath, and then fishes his phone out of his pocket. Another new phone, but he's got Sam's number memorized, and he almost calls before he chickens out. If it's not actually wanted—he imagines that conversation and he's just not constitutionally capable, right now, of facing how goddamn awkward it'd be.

He texts: It's me.

The response, after seconds: Where are you?

The shitty part of Utah. That's saying something. Easier, like this. Like it's not him kicking down a doorway right into Sam's head.

I don't have class tomorrow.

Could be random, if he didn't know who he was talking to. Dean leans his elbows on the hood of the car, looking at the little box of black-and-white text. He chews his lips and thinks. Before he can respond, another message:

I don't want to move on.

Dean tips his head enough that he's pressing the edge of the phone into his forehead. His fingers are cold. He sniffs, his nose dripping in the icy weather, and types, careful to make sure he gets it right: I'm nine hours away.

Less, if he goes over 100 in the boring parts of Nevada, and if he doesn't stop at all for a catnap.

Stop in Reno for a nap. You get weird when you drive all night. Text me when you're close.

Dean works his jaw, standing there in the cold. He's got nothing to do, for two days. He's got most of a tank of gas. He's got—nothing. Nothing. He gets in the car, and he drives.

It's only 9:30 when he gets to Reno. There were parts of Nevada where he drove very, very fast. He pulls into a truck stop, gets more gas and parks out near where the semis are lined up, the drivers early-birding the night away. Still cold here but less so. He twists around so his back's to the passenger door and looks out the driver window at the neon signs of the truck stop, the cars going in and out of the gas islands. He ate a little but his stomach was all twisted up and he couldn't get much down. A beer would go easier but he doesn't want to be drunk. Well. He does. This is insane. This is—completely stupid.

He pulls out his phone, looks at it. Dials and holds it to his ear, and it rings three times—long enough for him to change his mind four times—before there's an answer, and Sam's voice says, "Dean?"

His voice. Dean closes his eyes, tips his head back against the cold glass of the window. "Long time, no speak," Dean says. It feels rusty.

Sam's quiet for a second, on the other end. "Not really, though. Right?"

"I guess so. It's not the same." Dean listens to the little acknowledging sound Sam makes. There's silence again, for seconds that he counts—one and then two and then three. He listens to the cooling tick of the engine, through it, and then says, before he loses his nerve, "I shouldn't come. Right? This is nuts."

There's some noise, staticky. Like something passed over the mic on Sam's phone. After a beat, Sam says, "You should do what you want to do."

"Oh, should I," Dean says, and it comes out sarcastic, but he doesn't really mean it to be mean. Sam doesn't take the bait, staying quiet on the other end, and Dean opens his eyes again, watching a huge truck muscle past the gas island, watching the normal world go by. He rubs his eye. "I've been—it's been weird, Sam."

Understatement, but he doesn't know why he says it. That kind of stuff isn't for Sam to worry about.

"Go to sleep," Sam says, instead of responding. "An hour or something, just enough so you won't drive off the road. Text me when you're close."

Same thing he said before. "It'll be like three in the morning when I'm close," Dean says, and Sam says, "I'll be awake," and then the line disconnects, and Dean's left there alone again on the bench seat, but it—feels different.

He sort of sleeps, sort of doesn't. He's got a talent for going to bed wherever and whenever he has to—on spare tires and on forest floors and in a closet, once, with a propane tank as his pillow—but his brain won't shut up. He drifts in and out, for the hour Sam asked him for, and then he gets out of the car and goes into the 24-hour c-store and buys a big cup of coffee and a Hershey bar, and points the hood west, and follows the yellow dashed line home.

He texts from a gas station outside Sacramento. Sam texts back in less than a minute with an address. Dean glances at his map of California and responds: 45 minutes, and it's more like thirty when he pulls up to the—yeah, the motel, and he makes a sound that's sort of like a laugh except it doesn't feel like one. He turns into the parking lot and the headlights flash the building, and there, sitting on the sidewalk with his back to a pillar.

Dean parks. Sam has his arms folded over his knees, but he unfurls, stands. Dean gets out of the car and Sam's—jesus, ten feet away, his face totally visible under the streetlight. His hair's a little longer. "Did you get taller?" Dean says, and Sam huffs, his head ducking, and—fuck everything else, it's Dean's little brother, and he drags Sam into a hug, folding his arms over Sam's shoulders even if he has to lift on his toes a little to do it. Sam goes stiff for half a second, but he hugs back, and Dean turns his face in, Sam's hair in his nose like it always is, and feels him—warm, and safe. All Dean ever wanted for him, pretty much.

"You have to get the room," Sam says, when they pull apart. At Dean's eyebrows he shrugs, the corner of his mouth curled. "What? My scholarship doesn't include seedy rent by the hour stuff."

"Oversight much?" Dean says, but he goes in, and he gets a room. Two queens, because that's what the tired miserable little desk clerk says they have available. Means Dean doesn't have to think about other possibilities, and it means that when he dangles the keys off his finger and Sam half-smiles at him, when they've walked down the cold sidewalk side by side, when Dean opens the door and finds the different motel room, same as the first—Sam sits on one bed, and Dean sits on the other, and they look at each other, and it's like it's two years ago and they're just two kids, waiting for Dad to come home.

Sam is taller. Taller than Dean, now. His hair long enough to fall in his eyes, which it does constantly. Newish sneakers, and old jeans, and a hooded sweatshirt, and a denim jacket over the top of that. Not warm enough for the Bay in winter, but Dean bites his tongue before he says anything about it.

"How are your classes?" he says, instead.

Sam's cheek sucks in, like he's chewing it. After a second he says, "You don't want to talk about my classes, man." His head tips. "Anyway. You read about it, right."

It was a mistake not to stop for beer. Dean needs something to do with his hands. "Your algebra professor sounds like an asshole," he says.

Makes Sam smile before he ducks his head, looking down at his lap. "I thought—" He swallows, audibly. He shakes his head, his hair falling down and hiding his face. "Only reason I started posting again was that I wondered if you might still—if you'd check."

It's quiet, honest. Dean hasn't talked to Sam in person for half a year and he's off-balance. Expecting Sam to snark, to be dismissive, to roll his eyes. Small hours of the morning, maybe he's too tired not to be honest. Maybe he's growing up. Dean's not prepared for that.

Sam looks up at him when Dean's silent for too long. His teeth dig into the corner of his mouth and he drags his hand through his hair, gets it off his forehead. "I said I didn't want to move on. You know what I meant, right?"

Dean huffs. "Yeah, I'm not an idiot, Sam," he says, and Sam's eyes tighten. Dean leans back on his hands, tips his head back on his shoulders to look at the ceiling. "Thought this was the whole point of getting out. Getting away, making a whole new life. Being someone else."

"I'm still me," Sam says, unseen. "And it wasn't the whole point. I want a life. That part—whatever, that doesn't matter right now. But I never thought the other thing was going to go away."

He stands up, so Dean can see him. Dean looks at him down his nose, and Sam's—god. Tall. That keeps being his first thought. Tall, and maybe not a stranger, even if he's real damn strange. Sam steps closer, in the little space between the two beds, chewing his lip again. He's gonna make a sore there. "Dean," he says, and Dean raises his eyebrows in response. "You came."

"Yeah," Dean says, rueful. "Well. I'm Cindy Crawford."

Sam's face ripples—a frown, surprise—and then a huffed little laugh—and then he steps between Dean's knees and touches his chest, his jaw. Leans down, slow, telegraphing like they're practicing a fight, and Dean stays exactly where he is, leaned back on his hands, and Sam's mouth touches his—softly. Not hesitant. Dean lets his eyes close and feels it. Puff of air against his face as Sam lets out a tense breath and then another kiss, the damp inside Sam's lip catching against Dean's, and Dean kisses back then, reaching up and getting Sam's jaw, his jacket, fisting the denim and pulling Sam closer. There's a stagger—Sam's knee landing on the bed by Dean's hip, and Dean gets an arm around his lower back and kisses him again, tasting him. Salt, and when Dean kisses him again and presses his mouth open, licks inside, there's coffee-taste, Sam's tongue—slick, tentative—he stayed up, to wait for Dean—his kiss clumsier now, like he doesn't have much practice.

Dean pulls back a few inches. Sam's half-draped on him, his weight nearly in Dean's lap. His eyes are dark but big with surprise, like he didn't expect Dean to go with it. "Sammy," Dean says, and Sam—shudders, his hands closing hard around Dean's shoulders. Okay, Dean thinks, filing that away. He drags a thumb over Sam's jaw, where he's got a barely-there prickle of stubble. "What are we doing?"

Sam shakes his head, licks his lips. "This," he says, holding the side of Dean's neck. "This."

They peel Sam's jacket off, and then Dean's. Sam's still in that hoodie, soft black, and Dean gets his fingers just under the hem of it, barely grazing Sam's stomach, kissing him again—tangled up close on the edge of the bed, Sam's thigh slung over his. Sam keeps touching his face, his chest. His amulet, swinging forward between them when he urges Sam down to his back on the mattress, a knee between Sam's and his hand still there on Sam's belly. Sam grips the amulet and breathes out hot against Dean's face and lifts up for another kiss, which Dean gives him easy, and it's—god, it's good. The lights on, the room warm, Sam wanting underneath his hand. His mouth, slick and open, learning how to press back, how to give as good as he's getting. Dean kisses his cheekbone, his jaw, settles his hand flat on Sam's stomach to ground him, says, "Sammy, you've done this before, right?" Sam hitches breath, nods. Dean sorta laughs, lifts up so he can actually see Sam's expression. "More than once?"

"Twice," Sam says, and when Dean raises his eyebrows he frowns, vaguely indignant. "Jenny Morrison, just before graduation." He licks his lips. "And—a guy. After student orientation, here."

"Playing the field, huh?" Dean says. There's no reason it should make his stomach go molten hot. He rubs Sam's stomach, feels the rise of his breath. "You like it?" Sam nods, again. "What'd you do?"

Sam's cheeks are dark, brick-red. He licks his lips again and Dean ducks back in to kiss him, knocking his mouth open, tasting inside. Earns himself a small deep noise and Sam's hand sliding through his hair where it's too short to grab. He nudges Sam's nose and sits up, peeling off his overshirt. "C'mon. What'd you do? Didn't put that up on your journal, how am I supposed to know?"

"It was a rush party," Sam says, looking at him. He pulls his t-shirt off over his head, making sure his amulet stays put, and Sam blinks heavily, his lips parted. Jeez—it's weird. Hot. Sam wants him, Dean thinks, and it sends a rush of blood south. "He's—uh. Pre-med, smart."

"Not looking for his biography, Sammy," Dean says, and spreads his hands on Sam's hips, pushing up. The hoodie moves, the t-shirt underneath rucks up—Sam's pale here but still that faint all-over tan, darker than Dean's skin. He licks his lips. "What'd you do? Jerk each other off?"

Sam nods, again, his mouth open. God, Dean can imagine it. On some dorm-room bed, their heads leaned together, Sam's mouth open just like this—panting, his hand fumbling down—fuck, fuck it's hot, Sam nervous and into it and trying, making sure. "You liked it, huh?" Dean says, stroking his thumbs over Sam's bare belly.

"Yeah," Sam says, thin on not enough air, his knee drawing up. "But I—I thought about—when you kissed me—" and Dean kisses him again, groaning. Jesus, Sam's gonna kill him. Thinking about some shitty nervous freaked-out kiss when another guy's got his tongue in Sam's mouth. Sam grabs his shoulders, sits up, and Dean accommodates him easy, letting Sam touch him back—Sam's hands sliding down his chest, around to his ribs, grasping. "Dean," he says, panting.

"Let's get this off, huh?" Dean says, pulling, and Sam yanks the hoodie off in a second flat, his hair all ruffling up behind it. The shirt comes with it and there's just Sammy's bare smooth skin, that same pale tan all over. Small brownish nipples, slim muscles. His body. Dean dips and kisses his bare shoulder, licking there, biting, and Sam's nails dig into his ribs so he does it again, swinging a leg over so he's straddling Sam's lap, taking his time. He scrapes his teeth over the swell where Sam's collarbone dips into the arch of his trap, and Sam grips his neck, his back arching. He's hard. Shit, he's nineteen, he has to be hard. Dean slides his fingers down Sam's belly to his belt, tucking under the waist of his jeans, but Sam grips his wrist, then, groaning, saying—"Wait—wait—"

Dean drops his head to Sam's shoulder, groaning back. "We waited," he says, but Sam's hand is on his shoulder, pushing him back, making him look. "What?"

Sam's pink. "Have you—with a guy?" Dean rocks back but Sam's holding him close, looking all over his face. "Dean. Have you—"

"Yeah," Dean says, and watches Sam's ears go red. Sam doesn't need to know when, but it was all in the last year. Three dudes, hookups that were way too easy. They were good—turns out that Dean just likes sex, any way someone will give it to him—and he learned what it felt like to have a dick not his own in his hand, how it felt to slip a cock into his mouth and make a man groan. He hadn't thought about Sam while he was doing it, not really, but he's thinking about it now, and Sam's eyes have dropped, his lips between his teeth. Jealous? Dean smiles while Sam can't see and breaks Sam's hold on his wrist, and slides his hand down, and cups the crotch of Sam's jeans where he's swelling them out. Sam jerks, eyes flying open. "Means I know what I'm doing. Yeah?"

"Yeah," Sam breathes, and then it's—undoing his belt, and unzipping, and then—god, he's still got his sneakers on. Dean backs off and kicks off his boots, deliberately, and Sam blinks at him hot-eyed with his chest heaving and his jeans half-open looking like a friggin porno, but then he gets with the program, and the shoes thud to the shitty carpet and then they're practically racing, undressing, and when Dean kicks his boxers off to the side Sam's—naked, half on the bed, staring at him. Dean stares back, circling a hand around Sam's ankle. God, to look at him, in the lamplight. Long legs, hairier on the shins and lightly furred on the thighs, and a decent dark bush around a dick that's—jesus, that dick. Big, bigger than Dean's, bigger than—Dean licks his lips and looks up with an effort and Sam's staring right back at him, focused between his legs, his mouth parted. "Like what you see?" Dean says, and Sam doesn't answer, just reaches for him, and Dean crawls up the bed and settles on his elbow above Sam with their legs brushing bare, Sam's dick hot against his hip, and Sam kisses him with both hands on his face, his thigh dragging up against Dean's, his lips almost trembly.

Dean soothes a hand down Sam's ribs but Sam's—fuck. Shaking. They haven't even done anything. "Sammy," Dean whispers, between Sam's needing brief kisses, and Sam shakes his head and kisses him again and then ducks his head down, his nose brushing under Dean's jaw. Dean pulls Sam closer—tips, so they're on their sides—and pulls Sam's leg over his hip, pushes in, and—ah, shit, shit that feels good, Sam's big dick brushing in against his, dragging heavy and hot. "Oh," says Sam, small, and Dean slips his hand further and grips Sam's ass, the muscle tight and small—pulls in, and pulls again, encouraging, and Sam grips Dean's shoulder underhand tight enough to hurt but follows, pushing in with the rhythm Dean's urging. He's breathing fast, hot against Dean's throat, but he's got it—humping in, meeting Dean, making their dicks slide, his cockhead smearing wet against Dean's belly. Dean hums, kissing Sam's temple where he can just reach it, just enjoying the—insane way it feels. He lets Sam's ass go and Sam keeps going—good, good—and he licks his fingers sloppy, and reaches down between them, and for the first time he gets a grip on Sam's dick, feels the heft of it. Sam makes a sound like he's been shot and Dean says shh, easy, slicking his hand down to the base, squeezing hard as he pulls back up, and Sam makes another gulping strange sound, his thigh clutching hard around Dean's hip, his hand crushing Dean's lower back in closer. "That feel good?" Dean says, and Sam—comes. Fast, humping in, spurting up Dean's belly and his own, the slick getting all over Dean's dick, hot and wet, the sensation enormous. Dean squeezes him through it, knowing, and Sam humps in again and grabs his ass, nails digging in. Dean tips his head back, feeling it. God, it's good. Sam. His brother.

He swallows. His dick's throbbing, wanting more, feeling left behind. Sammy shudders and Dean licks his lips, pushes Sam back so his shoulders hit the bed. He flops—boneless, shocked—and Dean drags his hands over Sam's ribs, frames his hips. His dick is still big, flushed and wet, his balls clutched up high, and Dean licks his lips and says, "Okay," to no one, and leans down, and gets Sam's dick in his mouth.

A shock, Sam's body practically lifting off the bed. "What," he says, somewhere Dean can't see him—"What are you, oh—" and Dean thinks, oh, what if no one has done this? What if Jenny just opened her legs and she and Sam humped awkward and teenage in some backseat—what if pre-med only wiped his handful of Sam's jizz on the mattress and passed out—what if Dean's the first one, here, opening his jaw wide, careful of his teeth, slicking down, getting the whole fat length of it in his mouth. Only—he can't, fuck, Sam's too big. He fists the base, pulls off, spits and slicks the wet down. When he glances up Sam's up on his elbows, staring, and Dean grins at him, jerks it again, swallows. He can taste Sam's jizz, leftover from coming before. "Hang on," Dean says, and goes back down, letting the head bust his lips open, slicking tight down to his fist, dragging his tongue hard against the underside, suckling easy. Sam takes his statement as an order and grips his head, his shoulder, his hips cringing up into Dean's mouth, and Dean heaves in air, feels Sam firming up again, thick and needing and good.

He's only done this a few times but he—shit, he liked it. Likes it better the other way around, of course, but like this—his dick pressing into the bed, throbbing—Sam splitting open his mouth—yeah, it doesn't exactly suck. He bobs up and down, making sure to pay special attention to the soft ridge at the head, and Sam's making insane noises, now, up above him, petting his head and his shoulders and gripping, trying to shove up. Dean leans into his hip so he can't, fists his dick, pulls off gasping and licking his lips. Sam's still staring, down the length of his torso, and Dean jerks him through the goopy mess they're making—his spit, Sam's precome, what Sam's already come. "You like it?" Dean says, and Sam—rolls his eyes, the little shit.

"You're smug," Sam says, and Dean raises his eyebrows and says, "You're damn right I am," and lets Sam's dick go and goes down, down, no fist in the way until Sam's dick hits the back of his throat and he gags—breathes through it—slurps up with tight lips and then goes right back down, getting his throat used to it, learning the feel of this massive, awesome dick. Sam moans, pushes his hips up, and Dean lets him, rides it—lets Sam fuck up, lets him get a rhythm, like fucking—Sam, fucking his face—and Dean reaches down between his own legs and fists his own dick, finally, groaning in relief and making Sam shudder as the vibration rumbles through Dean's open throat. Sam grips his head with both hands, holding him down, and Dean drags in air through his nose and holds there, filled up with Sam and choking, spit flooding out of his open mouth—the world dark and just Sam's taste, his smell—and Sam makes a little sound—and Dean grunts and lifts off, breaks Sam's hold and crawls up his body, straddling his hips and dragging his dick against where Sam's is all sloppy-hot, dripping wet. Sam gasps up at him and grabs his hips, his ass, fucking up into him, and Dean grips both their dicks in two hands, fucking into the tight wet channel he's making for them both, and Sam pulls at his ass, spreading it, rocking his hips to help, moaning and looking helpless up into Dean's face, and Dean leans down and breathes against him and Sam still comes first, creaming them both, his dick flexing and twitching in Dean's grip, and Dean braces one slick hand on the bed and fists himself seriously, jerking fast, and Sam moans and kisses his jaw and pulls at his ass with those big hands, his fingers slipping low, dipping—and Dean jerks and spills, his belly seizing, his thighs clamping around Sam's hips, Sam's lips open and dragging wet against his throat, his fist gripping the bedspread so hard that his fingers cramp.

Sam's stroking his hips, repetitive and soft, when he's done panting. Dean swallows, shifts his weight. He's slumped on top of Sam, his face buried in Sam's shoulder. Wet between them, sliding, and he releases his dick and slips his sticky hand out, bracing on the bed enough to get some air between them. When he lifts up Sam's eyes are half-closed, but he focuses on Dean's face right away, and his hands stop their stroking and just squeeze, warm and tight. "You okay?" Sam says.

"My line," Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes again, squeezes again. Dean sits up more but Sam doesn't let go. "C'mon, we should clean up."

Sam's eyes tighten, just barely. He sits up, keeping his grip on Dean, and Dean rocks back but doesn't tip over. He gets a hand on Sam's shoulder to keep his balance and Sam says, steady, "Don't freak. Okay?"

"Who's freaking?" Their dicks are still pressed wetly together, though Dean's basically soft, now. Sam's still plump, thick. He swallows. "C'mon, we're gonna get cemented together," he says, and Sam's mouth purses but his grip goes light, and it gives enough room that Dean can lift off, get his feet under him. Jesus, there's enough jizz on him that it's rolling down his belly—he claps a hand to it before it can drop, smearing it over his abs. "You come like a geyser, dude," he says, not really complaining, but Sam's cheeks are red when he looks back up, and he feels—shit. He doesn't know.

He goes to the bathroom. Fluorescent light, pink-painted sink. He wets one of the five-cent washrags and wipes himself up, and he's not turned on anymore so his thought is mainly that it's just gross, and that bed's going to be wrecked, and also, what is he doing. What is he doing.

Sam's hand appears, reaching around him. He jumps. In the mirror behind him, Sam's tall, looking over his shoulder. Looking at Dean, even as he wets the other rag, cleans himself up. Dean chews the inside of his lip and can't really turn away. Sam's got red marks on his shoulder, where Dean was biting him.

"Stay," Sam says. He tosses his wet rag back into the sink and settles his hands on Dean's biceps, squeezing. When he steps forward his dick presses into the small of Dean's back and his chest is warm, damp. "Tomorrow at least. We've got the room. Stay."

"You want your dick sucked again?" Dean says, and that time it is mean and he did kind of mean it to be, and Sam's eyelids dip and his jaw clenches, but he only slips his hands away from Dean's arms to his ribs, holding him. It feels… Dean shakes his head. "Sam," he says, but there's not really anything that can go after it.

A big hand slides up and over, flattening on his breastbone. "It's not just this," Sam says, meeting Dean's eyes in the mirror, and it makes Dean's cheeks go hot.

He covers Sam's hand with his. He shivers, for some reason. He says, "I should take a shower, I've been in the car all day," and Sam says, "Okay," and Dean takes a shower and Sam sits on the closed toilet, watches him through the clear curtain. Gives him a towel when he comes out. Takes his hips, when he's dry, and presses him to the tiled wall, and tips his head up, and kisses him clean.

Five in the morning, or later. There's a clean bed and Dean hasn't slept in a day. He lays down and Sam lays down with him, a few inches away until Dean relents and turns over, and Sam curls up behind him, holding on, his mouth against Dean's shoulder. There's going to be a call from Dad, at some point. Dean's going to have to meet him somewhere, because there's going to be something bad that needs killing. He can't stay. He's wired and tired, all at once.

"Sleep," Sam says, and Dean turns his head against the pillow, knows he will.

"Hey," he says, and Sam makes a quiet noise. "If you put this on your journal, maybe bloodofreptile will finally shut up about you getting laid all the time."

"His name is Dennis," Sam says, and Dean laughs, weirdly glad. Dennis. Yeah, that fits. "And this isn't going on the internet."

"Probably a good idea," Dean says, and Sam says, again, "Dude, go to sleep," and Dean tips back into Sam's warmth, and does, and it's the best sleep he's gotten in a year.

[the-colony-roleplay]

Is there like a page for wanted connections from the members, by any chance? Or, open letter to the public here, does anyone want a brother?

Hello Anon! This is a great question! And funnily enough, I was recently thinking about adding a most wanted or connection bio filter to our open character masterlist, as we have so many of them now, but I was considering how to organize it and what would work best! Perhaps I’ll look into that tomorrow. We do have a small list of most wanted’s that rotate through up under the “updates” tab on the main nav bar, but that’s only a snapshot of 6. 

So, here is a list of all our current connection bios! None of them are actually biological brothers I don’t think, but Mouse’s “Lost Boys” which will be linked below, are all essentially adopted brothers, and I also have seriously considered writing in one of two brothers for my character Teilo Aisling as well, who has both a younger brother and an older one who are still alive. I would love to look into this opportunity with someone for sure :)

Any other members who have brother connections they might like but don’t currently have as open bios can reply to this post!!

Current Open Connection Bios: 

Dr. Emmanuel Trent - Psychologist/ “Handler” to Charlie EssexEthan Kerr -  Close Friend to Corbin EalyGaius Fitrei - Husband to Mei Zhu FitreiHenry Liamson-Turner - Father of Felix TurnerJohn “Skates” Squires & Kit “Trig” Balker - “Lost Boys”/Brothers to Mason QuinleyLissy McCall - Close friend of the “Cal Gals”, Maisie Pace, Annie Perrault and Mira SigarNouka Fang - Head of Calyset House, connections to all Heads and ElitesRosalind Stein - Wife of Josephine Parker

There are also several characters who are connected to one another but aren’t currently taken. For instance we have two brothers, Bode Levy Bram Lindqvist and Espen Filip Lindqvist and there are also some mother/daughter, father/son, friend/partner etc connections among those as well. Those don’t necessarily help you if you are looking for an established connection with a taken character at this time, but I thought I’d mention them anyway! 

Okay, I don’t think I’ve missed anyone in terms of characters connected to other bios specifically. Though it may also be worth mentioning that Killian Weaver, Mink, Maddox Xiao and Quinn Dervilia all have connections to previous major plot drops (in most cases, these connections were established while they were NPCs) so depending on what you’re looking for. these bios may also be of interest to you. To learn more about their connection to previous events/plots, just message us! 

Hope this is helpful! Please don’t hesitate to let us know if you have any other questions at all! 

Thanks so much for your interest :) 

xxR

[pseudowoodo]

when i get you you'll know

fandom: glee pairing: blaine/sebastian words: 1737 summary: Blaine finds Sebastian after the Gap Attack. A season 2 au set during 2x12. Seblaintine’s Day 2018

AO3 link

Blaine finds Sebastian sitting in one of the Dalton common rooms, frowning over a textbook. He’s alone, thank god, but Blaine still hovers at the doorway, watching him absentmindedly tapping his pen against the edge of the table. He has a sudden, visceral flashback to hovering behind a clothes rack at the Gap just a few hours earlier and cringes.

Taking a deep breath, he squares his shoulders and enters the room. This is already the most embarrassing day of his life, might as well keep the humiliation train rolling.

Sebastian doesn’t look up until he’s standing right over him and when he does it’s with the bored ‘Can I help you?’ look Blaine has only ever seen him use on other people. His heart sinks.

“Brought you some coffee,” he says, trying and failing to reach his usual level of cheer.

“Already got some,” Sebastian says, picking up the cup he has with him on the table and giving it an obnoxious little shake.

“It’s more of a peace offering.”

Sebastian raises his eyebrows and in a rush Blaine says, “I shouldn’t have gotten angry with you in the Warbler meeting. You were right.”

“Serenading someone at their place of work didn’t end well? I’m shocked.”

“Yes, you told me so. I’m sorry.” He works a plaintive note into his voice and gives Sebastian the best puppy eyes he can muster. It’s been a long day and he’s not above fighting dirty.

Sebastian sighs and takes proffered cup, gesturing for Blaine to sit. He takes a tentative sip and seems to find it satisfactory. He should; Blaine knows his coffee order. According to Kurt that’s significant, but Blaine’s not so sure.

He takes a sip of his own coffee, letting his victory go unremarked. He’s rewarded when Sebastian, with a shrug that’s a touch too deliberate, says, “I probably could have been less obnoxious about it.”

“Wow, that’s the closest I’ve ever heard you come to apologizing,” Blaine says with a grin that’s probably wider than the situation warrants.

“Don’t be so dramatic. I just think you’ve been punished enough.”

Blaine grimaces. “I take it you’ve heard all about it.” It’s funny to think he was so mad at Sebastian for refusing to take part in the Gap attack this morning when now the fact he wasn’t there to witness the tragedy first hand is the day’s one saving grace.

“In detail. This is going down in Warbler legend my friend.”

“And here I thought I’d be helping the Warbler’s track record for informal public performances. Which do you think will be remembered as worse, this or the literal plane crash?”

“Well, those Warblers got to die with dignity so...”

Blaine refuses to laugh. Sebastian already looks much too pleased with himself.

“Hey, at least you sounded good.”

“How would you know?” Blaine grumbles.

“You always sound good.”

Blaine smiles down into his coffee cup. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s what people will remember.” He sighs, slumping down in his chair. “I can’t believe I thought he liked me.”

“You’re better off. Trust me, he’s not worth it.”

It’s not an inherently suspicious statement; Kurt said much the same thing and Blaine had thought nothing of it. But Sebastian doesn’t do platitudes and he’s turned his attention rather pointedly back to his textbook. “Oh my god,” he says, straightening back up with a start. “You - he said he didn’t do high school!”

“Mmh, yeah, he did seem kinda freaked when he found out how old I was.”

“You could have warned me.”

“I very much did,” Sebastian points out.

Blaine groans and buries his head in his arms. “This day is the worst.”

“Relax. Odds are good you’ll never see that guy again. I haven’t.”

“It’s not even just that.” Blaine lifts his head off the table so he can deliver the news properly. “Kurt told me he thought he was the one I wanted to ask out.”

“Yikes. That’s embarrassing even for Hummel.”

“For him?” Blaine asks, furrowing his brow. “No, for me. I was completely blindsided.”

“You didn’t know Hummel was into you?” Sebastian looks genuinely surprised, a rarity for him.

“It was really that obvious?”

“Blaine, he literally transferred schools for you.”

“He did not,” Blaine says, exasperated. “He didn’t feel safe at his old school.”

Sebastian rolls his eyes. “Right, well whatever his reasons he’s been following you around like a horny puppy ever since he got here. Even Trent’s managed to maintain more dignity than that.”

Blaine’s all set to deliver the latest admonishment in his months long campaign to get Sebastian to be nicer to Kurt, but that throws him off. “Wait, what’s Trent got to do with this?”

“Nothing, just that he’s also pathetically in love with you.”

Blaine frowns. “No he’s not.”

Sebastian gives him a quizzical look, like he really wasn’t expecting pushback on this. “You’re joking right?”

“No?”

It’s almost funny watching Sebastian’s amused smile fade into disbelief. He leans forward, as if this conversation is only just now demanding his full attention. “Okay, but you know Adam from Trig has a crush on you, right?”

“Does he?” Blaine can’t help but get a little worried. He’s never seen Sebastian look so concerned before.

“What about that one you were lab partners with, Jeremy?”

Blaine shakes his head and keeps shaking it as Sebastian keeps listing names, watching his eyebrows rise steadily higher in disbelief at each one.

“The barista who keeps giving you free cookies? That blonde kid who’s always front row at our performances? Thad?”

“Thad’s straight,” Blaine says weakly.

“Oh my god.”

Evidently that was the last straw for Sebastian, who falls back against his chair. Blaine’s still half convinced he’s just teasing him, even though he knows what Sebastian’s teasing looks like and this isn’t it. It’s ridiculous, the thought of all those people liking him. But then, he’d completely failed to notice Kurt; who’s to say he hadn’t failed with others?

Still, “You definitely made a few of those up.”

“Blaine, you’re a pretty popular topic of conversation at this school; trust that I know what I’m talking about.”

“But, why?” It comes out as a bit of a whine. It’s hard to be flattered by all these supposed crushes when none of the guys he actually likes seem to care.

“Because you’re nice to them,” Sebastian says as though the concept is something he’s familiar with but doesn’t quite understand.

“Lots of people are nice!”

“Well, the whole bashful school boy thing doesn’t hurt either,” Sebastian teases and Blaine scoffs, ducking his head to hide his grin. This was more familiar territory. “You’re the teen dream heartthrob,” Sebastian continues, getting into it, “Then wind beneath our collective wings. Not to mention your truly terrific ass.” There’s a deliberate pause before he grins and says, “That was me hitting on you by the way. In case it was too subtle.”

Blaine rolls his eyes. “Okay, I’m not that oblivious. I know you like me.”

“And I know you like me,” he responds with an easiness that makes Blaine’s stomach twist. “So what’s the hold up here?”

It would be nice, Blaine thinks wistfully, if he actually meant it. “Who says I like you?”

“Don’t you? What does floppy haired Jeremiah have that I don’t?”

It’s standard Sebastian dismissiveness, but there’s something in his tone that gives Blaine pause, like he’s caught sight of a real person standing in a row of mannequins. His eyes widen. “Wait, were you jealous?”

Sebastian scoffs. “Yes Blaine, I’ve always wanted to be serenaded in a mall in Lima, Ohio.”

“That’s why you were such an asshole in the Warbler meeting!” Blaine says, ignoring his sarcasm.

“I’m always an asshole in the Warbler meetings.”

“Yeah, but not to me.” He can’t help the smile growing wide across his face. Sebastian looks so grumpy and Blaine is suddenly so sure. “You like me.”

“You literally just said you already knew that!”

“I knew you wanted to hook up with me, but that’s different. You hook up with lots of people. You don’t date.”

“I’d date you,” Sebastian says. He sounds so annoyed that Blaine bursts out laughing.

“You would?”

“Blaine, I’ve been hitting on you practically nonstop from the moment I got here. This should not be a surprise.”

“I didn’t think you were serious! I mean you’re so out of my league.”

It’s actually sweet how affronted Sebastian looks. “You actually know what you’re doing,” Blaine elaborates. “I just pretend to.”

It’s easier to admit to Sebastian than it was to Kurt. Kurt bought into the image of perfection he’d striven to create at Dalton, made it feel real, whereas Sebastian always seemed to think it was funny more than anything. Still, it’s hard enough that Blaine can’t quite manage to meet his eye.

He hears Sebastian push his chair back and tracks him as he gets up and walks around the table until he’s standing over Blaine. He rests his hand on the back of his chair and leans down until their faces are just inches apart and Blaine can’t help but look at him.

“Blaine,” he says, his gaze steady. “I like you and I want you to be my boyfriend. Clear?”

“That’s all you ever had to say.” He trying for flippant but his throat’s gone dry. Sebastian is so close.

His eyes flick down to Sebastian’s lips and just like that his mouth is on his. He tastes like coffee and courvoisier and Blaine automatically digs his fingers in the lapels of his blazer, holding him close as Sebastian deepens the kiss. He’s imagined this hundreds of times since Sebastian transferred at the start of the school year, how could he not with Sebastian constantly dangling the possibility in front of him, but now it’s real and so much better than he thought it’d be.

The break apart when Blaine grin becomes too wide for them to continue. Sebastian is smiling too, a real smile, the kind he only gets when he’s singing.

“Finally,” he says.

Blaine laughs. “I can’t believe you asked me out on Valentine’s Day.”

Sebastian wrinkles his nose. “Ugh. Neither can I.”

“No takes backs,” Blaine says, running his fingers down Sebastian’s lapels. “You know it’s my favorite holiday.”

“Really? Still?”

“Yeah,” Blaine says, running his fingers down Sebastian’s lapels. “All things considered I’ve had a pretty great day.”

[the-trig-and-tonics]

Trig Point Premier League – Trig 15

Bucknall

We were now on our way to find the trig in Bucknall. We ran along Armshead Road which was quite busy and we had to take care as there was little pavement. Soon we were turning left into Luzlow Lane, which then led us into Bagnall Road. There were lots of things to look at as we ran along and, after a very hilly climb, we were soon passing the site where Bagnall hospital used to stand. A retirement complex named Bagnall Heights has now been built there and it looked a very peaceful place to live.

Greenway Hall golf club was very busy as we ran past and it was great seeing players back on the green after the lifting of restrictions. We stopped for a photo by a golf course sign telling walkers to keep to the footpath.

What we didn’t know then but found out later, if we had run along that path we would have discovered another trig. How could we have been so close to one and not known? That’s another one to add to our ever growing trig list.

Soon we were on a lovely downhill to Milton. We should have savoured this run more than we did because it would be the last downhill for quite a while. At Milton traffic lights we turned left. I have an appointment for my second Covid vaccination at Milton Methodist Church and it was useful for me to pass the hall where the vaccinations take place so I now know where to go. We had a fairly straight, flat run through Carmountside and Abbey Hulton before turning left into Greasley Road and being faced with another steep climb up to Eaves Lane.

Alice and I had been and found the trig at Bucknall a few days earlier. The two of us had completed quite a search before reaching it. Luckily, this meant Carol and I were able to go straight there today. We ran up a narrow footpath, set between two rows of houses and then through a kissing gate into a furrowed field. When Alice and I were there last Thursday it was full of horses and I had been warning Carol about them. However, today there wasn’t a horse in sight so we were able to go straight up the field towards the reservoir without hesitation.

The view from the top of the field was amazing and Stoke-on-Trent was there to behold. It was a lovely, clear view and we could see for miles.

We also noticed that all the horses were a few fields away feasting on hay. It must have been their Saturday morning treat. As per usual though, we had to tear ourselves away from the scenery and get back to finding the trig. Over a style we climbed and there it was, standing by the reservoir railings. Our video shows our approach to the trig and how wonderful it looked.

It was then time for logging and photos.

We had now bagged trig number fifteen and it was time to get running towards the next one.

But one last treat lay in store as we made our way down the field. There was a spectacular view of a small plane parked in the grounds of a local school.

I believe it is used as a classroom and it must be very exciting for the children to learn in such a unique environment.

[penninepete]

Climbing a 'volcano'

Date: 20/06/20 Distance 6.2km Ascent: 365m Conditions: Damp underfoot Weather: 18-21C, cloudy but breezy on the top.

We parked at Heartherdene, the Severn Trent Water Authority car park overlooking the Ladybower and made our way to the start of the walk at the dam.

We crossed the dam keeping out if the way of the cyclists and turned right and followed the road for a hundred metres along the reservoir side. Then we headed up the footpath on the left through the trees which cloak the southern side of the of the reservoir.

This climbs about 40 metres to New Barn and a crossing of two footpaths. We stopped on a couple of stumps so little 'un could have a second breakfast of croissant and mango juice.

Then we turned onto the forest track to climb another 110 metres to the top edge of the trees. A few cyclists came haring down this track so we made sure to keep a look out. At the top we passed a group of nearly a dozen hoiking their bikes over the fence to start the steep decent. We used the kissing gate, much to little 'un's amusement.

From here we crossed Thornhill Brink, an area of heathland, ascending another 70 metres to reach the main Hope Cross to Win Hill path. Again we had to jump out of the way of mountain bikers descending at breakneck speed. In fact a couple of walkers coming down told how they'd had to dive into the heather for fear of being mown down.

From the top of the Brink, Little 'un could see that we just had the 'volcano' bit of Win Hill to go. The pike took us a short time to climb and he could finally sit on the Trig Point 463 metres above sea level. He had climbed his Volcano! It was breezy at the top, so rather than eat here we descended through Win Hill plantation to the top of Parkin Clough.

In hindsight it would have been better to eat here. It would also have been wiser to take the much longer, but gentler way down. Parkin Clough was not easy to descend. The gradient of 1 in 3 for 400 metres was challenging. It was also muddy underfoot and slippery. However, we made it with me holding tightly to his hand, though that was more my comfort than his.

At the bottom we turned right then left to cross Yorkshire Bridge before taking the footpath across the bottom of the dam. Here we found a bench and demolished our lunch, before heading up to the dam and the footpath back to the Car Park.

For a four year old, he has tremendous confidence and surefootedness, but he needs reigning back a little. He probably doesn't see the danger involved. However he had a wonderful time and was so good.

[alkepdmarilynnjy61insurance-blog]

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Drone Transponders Market Shares, Strategies, and Forecasts,Worldwide, 2016 to 2022

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The 2016 study has 268 pages, 92 tables and figures. Worldwide drone transponder markets are poised to  achieve significant growth with the need to achieve protected airways.

The simplest way to protect against mid-air collisions is to require the use of ADS-B transponders on all aircraft. Transponders can turn an uncooperative environment into a cooperative environment. Transponders provide location and positioning information about smart commercial drones. These drones have a computer inside, they are easy to fly, remotely maneuverable, have a camera, and contain sensor logic. Smart drones are evolving computer driven collision avoidance technology making the flying more reliable.

Remote operation occurs in the context of a workflow and sensors. Cameras are improving dramatically to permit management of video and picture taking that is realistic and detailed. Drone actuators, drone transponders, are needed to support drone package delivery. This is a huge new market that speeds economic development, makes it easier for the middle class to both work, and purchase lifestyle items and food efficiently.

Drones based on aerial robotic platform technology can be used to make deliveries to each person’s home, landing on the back doorstep, leaving packages in a locked box. The drone package delivery technology has reached a level of maturity that bodes well for market development. Drone systems are mature enough to be at the forefront of aerospace manufacturing.

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Table of Contents

Drone Transponder Highways in the Sky Executive Summary 25 Drone Transponder Market Driving Forces 25 Self-Regulation of Drones Using Transponders 29 Remote-Controlled Aircraft 32 Drone Transponder Market Driving Forces 32 Drone Transponder Market Shares 34 Drone Transponder Market Forecasts 35

Drone Highways in the Sky: Market Description and Market Dynamics 37 1.1 UAS Regulatory Frameworks 37 1.1.1 ADS-B for Small Drones 38 1.2 Need for Drone Controlled Airspace 39 1.2.1 Transponder Control by Privately Owned Agency 40 1.2.2 Self-Regulation of Drones Using Transponders 42 1.2.3 Project Wing from Google Wants A Transponder Mandatory For All Aircraft 44 1.3 Automatic Dependent Surveillance Broadcast ADS-B Transponder 47 1.3.1 QUICK LINKS 50 1.3.2 PRODUCTS 50 1.4 Google wants transponder in uncontrolled airspace 51 1.4.1 US FAA Commercial Drone Permits 55 1.5 Smart Commercial Drones 57 1.5.1 Smart Drones: Commercial Unmanned Aerial Systems (UAS) Description 58 1.6 Drone Enhanced Capability and Payloads 59 1.6.1 Unmanned Aerial Systems (UAS) Enhanced Resilience 62 1.6.2 Small and Micro-UAS Drones 62

Drone Highways in the Sky Market Shares and Forecasts 63 2.1 Drone Transponder Market Driving Forces 63 2.1.1 Self-Regulation of Drones Using Transponders 67 2.1.2 Dronecode Platform 69 2.1.3 Remote-Controlled Aircraft 69 2.1.4 Drone Transponder Market Driving Forces 70 2.2 Drone Transponder Leading Market Participants 71 2.2.1 Sagetech 72 2.2.2 L-3 Aviation Products 73 2.2.3 FreeFlight 74 2.2.4 Micro-Avionix 74 2.2.5 Google Low-Cost ADSB Transponders 74 2.2.6 Trig Design And Engineering 75 2.2.7 Intel Ascending Technologies’ Asctec Trinity 75 2.2.8 Dedrone 76 2.2.9 ISMAR / Fortem 77 2.2.10 DJI 77 2.2.11 microadsb.com 78 2.3 Drone Transponder Market Forecasts 78 2.3.1 Drone Aerial Systems Market Forecasts 81 2.3.2 Drone Market Segment Applications 83 2.3.3 Drone Aerial Systems by Sector, Military, Agriculture, Oil and Gas, Border Patrol, Law Enforcement, Homeland Security, Disaster Response, Package Delivery, Photography, Videography, Dollars 84 2.4 Commercial Drone Transponder Prices and Drone Issues 87 2.4.1 RELATED PRODUCTS 90 2.5 ADS-B In Receivers 91 2.5.1 $300 Transponder Units For CAA UK Approval 92 2.5.2 Drone Issues Beyond Line Of Sight 93 2.6 Drone Transponder Regional Market Segment Analysis 95

Continued.........................

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[julpernulper]

when i made that trent trigonometry post like a million bajillion years ago i literally expected it to be a flop post and get like 3 notes but its my biggest post to date