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#i remember posting her on one of those forum drawing apps

zmediaoutlet · 4 years

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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.

#fffr #wincest #weecest #first time #long fic #my writing #--seriously this one also went too long #but idk it felt right this way

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dotsondotson1-blog · 5 years

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Type MMO Plays Pretty Well On Console.

JBL's Legend CP100 is actually an engaging reason to update your auto stereo system along with Android Auto and also Apple CarPlay for certainly not a lot of amount of money. Exercises in vogue maintains Queneau's daily tale as well as the majority of the literary metaphors as well as narration gadgets he makes use of in the source component, while this freely adjusts the rest of the designs, which are apparently much also complicated and also reliant on the reputations from the French language to become consistently deciphered. Morgan and Cocks have been performing this given that 2004, as well as currently millions of readers check their blogging site to chortle at their most up-to-date barbed messages, which satirize clothing and also their users in equivalent action. While rightwing, the blog site is anti-establishment in the broadest sense, so can easily pursue the Tories too. 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I directly like Lauren Conrad's style which allows me to entirely appreciate this publication yet this does certainly not simply focus on her type yet cultivating your own personal style. Writing Bonuses enables you to make certain that all info featured in the blogging site is accurate. The volunteer initiatives from several people from Colorado and also New Mexico assisted to pinpoint and verify the titles those citizens from New Mexico which gave funds to the cause. Automotive industry sales amounts may be as knowledgeably cut, diced as well as provided for usage as conveniently as my favored TV pitchman, Vince, demonstrates his most recent kitchen space gadget. This imports all your old Writer accounts, then provides a straightforward as well as complete technique to upgrade your blog site off phone. I decided to read this because I had come across Garance as a popular style writer, and also due to the fact that I knew her to be the partner from The Sartorialist, whose books I have actually also reviewed. By utilizing th I have been blogging on Rebecca Reads for over four years now, but I still think that a first-timer when that concerns my brand new weblog, Product line After Line, which focuses on my homeschooling and also education adventure as well as markets items, each complimentary and also spent, in the blogosphere. KSS likewise features a Dark red public library that parsessass, scss, andcss files chronicled along with the KSS suggestions right into a neat type quick guide. Yet another multi-format blog site that digs behind the titles, frequently supplying messages that are as intriguing to folks in the games field regarding gamers. A lot of my tips for rhymes stemmed from these psychological talks accordinged to monitorings of the human psychology. The Tudor home type is actually based loosely on early British building customs popular in the course of that nation's Tudor age coming from 1485-1603.

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maureenandreasoliguen · 4 years

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MODULE 3.2

Begin your creative process as soon as you can. Eventually, create your Copy Platform for your product/service. The faster you get past the information gathering stage, the better. Remember, the incubation period is not the same for everyone!

COPY PLATFORM

Step 1 : BASIC PROBLEM OR ISSUE THE ADVERTISING MUST ADDRESS

Expectation vs. Reality is the main basic problem or issue that is always being addressed towards some of the online sellers.

Shopify wants to end this stigma by offering excellent quality of products and services with its abot-kaya prices through formulating creative promotional advertisement that would entice and convince my Target Audience to purchase.

Step 2 : ADVERTISING AND COMMUNICATION OBJECTIVES

AWARENESS

Advertising Objective: To establish Shopify as an instant Online Shop-App that offers excellent quality of products and services with its “abot kaya” prices to 90% of its Target Audience in Bacolod City, specifically among Students with ages from 12 to 25 years old and Office Workers with ages from 20 to 50 years old, and to generate 90,000 likes, reactors and shares on Shopify’s Online Shop-App, Official Facebook Page and other Social Media accounts on its 1st quarter, June to August 2021.

Communication Objectives:

To post teasers, previews/sneak peeks, product launching countdown to give customers brand and product awareness, thrill and excitement, a week before the official launching

To conduct a Business Launching on the most visited place of our Target Audience which are the Students and Office Workers

To host a welcome promotion through giving give aways, freebies, buy 1 take 1, sales, raffle draws and free delivery (for its first 100 customers) on its 1st month in the business industry

To gather product distributor, wholesalers, retailers and resellers to quickly and widely reach customers or Target Market

COMPREHENSION

Advertising Objective: To inform the 85% of the Target Audience about the different styles and sizes of apparels we offer, on how to acquire discounts, freebies, sukicards, free delivery, and ways to join weekly raffle draws, and to reach 85,000 followers, viewers and subscribers on its 1st quarter, from June to August, 2021.

Communication Objectives:

To post and give infographics, posters, banners, magazines, flyers and leaflets about what products and services my business could offer

To host both physical and online Fashion Apparel Exhibit to showcase its unique designs, colors and styles.

To conduct an online forum during the Fashion Apparel Exhibit inorder for my customers to share their expectations, interests, fashion tastes, etc and make sure to entertain them

CONVICTION

Advertising Objective: To receive positive feedbacks, ratings and recommendations from the 75% of the Target Market by reaching 75,000 Prospect/Prospective Customers on Shopify’s Online Shop-App, Official Facebook Page and other Social Media accounts on its 2nd quarter, September to November 2021.

Communication Objectives:

To post about giving out discounts and freebies for every bulk orders from Distributor, Wholesalers, Retailers, Resellers and Direct Customers

To post about conducting Weekly Raffle Draws exclusively for all the Suki Customers where they could get a chance to win Shopify’s Products and Services

To post about offering Free Delivery every Business Monthsary and Anniversary to our first 100 Customers

To post Customers’ Positive Feedbacks/Testimonies about our Products and Services

ACTION

Advertising Objective: To attract and persuade the 65% of the Target Market to purchase Shopify’s Apparels through personal, text, call or online transactions and generate 65,000 Purchasers into Certified Suki/Retain Customers on its 3rd to 4th quarter, December 2021 to May 2022.

Communication Objectives:

To give out discounts and freebies for every bulk orders from Distributor, Wholesalers, Retailers, Resellers and Direct Customers

To conduct Weekly Raffle Draws exclusively for all the Suki Customers where they could get a chance to win Shopify’s Products and Services

To offer Free Delivery every Business Monthsary and Anniversary to our first 100 Customers

To adopt a Community and conduct “ULIKID Program” wherein we will donate Apparels to reach out and fill one of their basic needs which is Clothing.

Step 3 : TARGET AUDIENCE

100,000 numbers of individuals from Bacolod City which consist of Students with ages from 12 to 25 years old, Office Workers with ages from 22 to 50 years old and those Impulsive Buyer of Clothes.

Social Status : Low to High Class Status

Hobbies : Totally inclined with Fashion, loves to plan his/her OOTD, impulsive buying of clothes

Attitude :

• They like the fulfillment and emotions given by wearing fashionable and trendy clothes

• They love to post pictures on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter and many other Social Media platforms to flex their OOTD

• They love to interact and exchange ideas with people who are also inclined with Fashion

• They are interested in watching videos about wearing, matching and recreating clothes

• They are extra careful when it comes to the quality of the received product

• They can easily recognize small flaws

Step 4 : MAJOR SELLING IDEA OR KEY BENEFITS TO COMMUNICATE

✓ 24-hour Online Shop-App

✓ Grab a Shop for less experience!

✓ Excellent Customer Service

✓ Offers discounts and freebies for every bulk orders

✓ Conducts Weekly Raffle Draws for its Suki Customers

✓ Offers 24 hours of Free Delivery for its first 100 Customers every Business Monthsary and Anniversary

✓ Hires Product Expert Employees

✓ Open for Multiple Payment Method

Step 5 : CREATIVE STRATEGY STATEMENT

Campaign Theme: Shop For Less

Campaign Advertising Appeals:

Social Appeal

This ad will be used to make the customers feel part or included of something. Best example is to feel belong with the trend, when they were able to purchase the most clicked or latest fashion style, took a picture while wearing them and post it on social media. They will gain a sense of belongingness.

Emotional Appeal

This appeal will be used to target the feelings and perceptions than logic or reason to provoke action of purchasing. It will let our Target Market know the specific emotion that they could feel while wearing our product.

Endorsement Appeal

Models or Attractive individuals has a great contribution in promoting business apparels. Their presence affects the interest and decision making of customers and I think this appeal suits to my business.

Testimonial Appeal

This appeal will be used to motivate the Target Market to engage with the brand's products and services while at the same time showcasing the product's value in a unique and creative way.

Personal Appeal

This appeal will be used to tell how apparels positively affect a consumer's lifestyle and how satisfying it is to purchase clothes

Execution Technique:

Straight-sell or factual message

Testimonials

Personality Symbols

Step 6 : SUPPORTING INFORMATION AND REQUIREMENTS

The chose campaign theme, advertising appeals and execution technique will help to engage more Customers to purchase our product. The overall Copy Platform critically identifies the basic problem or issue that Advertising must address, Advertising and Communication Objectives, Target Audience, Major Selling Idea or Key Benefits and Creative Strategy Statement that will lend a big contribution to entice individuals and capture wider audience.

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missmeikakuna · 5 years

Text

Chad and the Incel Chapter 9

Rated: M

Fandom: Original Fiction (but inspired by the Virgin vs Chad meme)

Relationship type: Male/Male with a bit of Female/Female (the lesbians are adorable, btw) and unrequited Male/Female (in other words, the guys are bisexual).

Description: Chad is, well, a Chad, or at least he looks like one. He’s got his sights set on the cool nerd Becky and enlists the help of her shy incel ex-friend Noah, offering to help him get the gorgeous girl (Stacy) he desperately wants. Noah is reluctant to help, believing that he will be stuck in inceldom forever, but Chad’s interest in his life gives him hope. When their plans go awry, they start turning their romantic attention towards each other.

Content Warning: Given the subject matter, you can guess that this story has dark themes in it, such as suicide and self-harm (plus the mental health issues that often cause them), sexism, slut-shaming homophobia, biphobia and transphobia. There is also swearing and some mentions of sex but nothing too explicit (hence the M rating as opposed to an Explicit rating).

9th Post: [Venting] She’s not my friend

Chad looked up the term ‘trap’ and, amongst the discussion on how hot these anime characters were, he found some YouTube videos on why the word was offensive.

He messaged Noah on his phone, using terms he wasn’t used to using and concepts he wasn’t used to tackling.

So is this ‘trap’ thing just for crossdressing guys? Apparently people call transgenders or whatever that word. The transgenders don’t seem to like it or something like that. Do you know about this?

Noah didn’t reply, focusing on writing more posts and comments on the forum. Chad read through each post as well as some by other users and sent Noah the occasional phone message, causing Noah’s eyebrows to twitch in anger.

A lot of people are posting stuff on that forum about killing themselves. They keep mentioning ‘suicide fuel’. You okay?

Woah, someone just posted about wanting a handy from his mom. The fuck? You’re not like that, right?

Why are girl incels banned? I feel like if a dude incel and a chick incel met they could be together and stop being incels.

Hey, why didn’t you tell me I’m annoying? And I’m not a liar about being a virgin before we did it. I swear to God.

Noah sent Chad one message before exiting the forum.

If you don’t leave me the fuck alone I’m changing my username and never talking to you ever again.

At school over the next few days, Noah ignored the talkative Chad.

In the morning Chad said, ‘So, I watched an episode of one of those anime and it was pretty good. It was Cowboy somethingarather. Some website recommended it. I was surprised that there was a black chick in it. I thought anime characters were all white or something. Have you seen this show?’

While lining up in the cafeteria, Chad admitted, ‘I’m a little confused about this blackpill-redpill-bluepill thing. What’s the difference?’

As they walked to their lockers, Chad whispered, ‘Who runs that forum? It seems like chaos in there. People say all sorts of crazy stuff. I mean, feminists can be annoying and shit but I don’t think they’re running some kind of conspiracy to prevent you from getting girls.’

As they reached Noah’s locker, Chad added, ‘And some guy said that it’s over for guys with glasses because of genetics or whatever.’ He looked around to see if anyone was watching. ‘He’s gotta be joking! Glasses on guys?’ He hooked his finger into the collar of his own shirt, pulled the collar like he was in the middle of a heatwave and whistled as he tossed his head back.

Noah had to scowl at him for that, taking off his glasses for a moment just to spite him.

When the two were alone before homeroom one day, Chad kept trying to grab Noah’s hand but Noah kept pulling it away.

‘What’s wrong?’ Chad asked. ‘No one’s around. And we’ve done more than hold hands.’

Noah bit his lip and looked away. ‘I thought we weren’t going to talk about that.’

‘Sorry. But I don’t know if I really want to forget it. I’ve been thinking a lot about it, actually, how you expected it to be this perfect thing. Did someone on that forum say it’s supposed to be like that? I don’t know how they would be experts on that since they’re incels. But, I mean, it was still fun, right? You said it was okay and that’s better than bad.’

‘Has anyone told you that you talk too much?’

Chad laughed. ‘Not really. It’s just… I find it easy talking to you. Every time we talk I learn something new and it’s kind of exciting, learning about this incel thing. It’s like I’ve discovered this hidden underground village or something. I don’t know what it is about you.’

‘So you like me because I’m an incel?’

The smile on Chad’s face withered and died. ‘No. Oh my god, no way. I could listen to you talk about anything and I’d be interested. Your looks and that make for a deadly combo.’ He chuckled. ‘I think God did a great job creating you overall.’ His eyes widened. ‘Wait, uh, was that too much?’

Noah looked down at his hands, which were curled up on his lap. His eyes were shiny as if holding back tears.

‘Can you stop with the flattery? I know you’re probably great at flirting and attracting people, but do you really need to keep shoving it in my face? I get it, you’re so much more successful than I am. You’re soooo hot and you could have any femoid you want. Stop bragging and talking down to me.’

‘Sorry about that, but I’m not brag-’

‘Of course you are! You keep bringing up the goddamn forum and how shitty you think the people are on there. Stop trying to act like a damn knight who’s here to rescue me from inceldom. It’s patronising as fuck. And that thing about God making me is stupid. Do you seriously think some magic bearded dude in space made me? Bullshit.’

‘Oh, right, you’re an atheist. Sorry. I kind of forgot. Not that I forget other things about you! I remember a lot.’ Chad paused to collect his thoughts before spouting anything he’d regret. ‘I guess I’m kind of a Christian, though I don’t really go to Church much.’

‘Christian, huh? That explains why you’re so stupid.’

Chad stood up, his chair making an ear-piercing squeak as it was pushed backwards.

‘Hey, that’s not fair!’ He leaned down until he and Noah were the length of a nose apart. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said? Yeah, I believe in some higher power but I’m not some Bible-thumping crazy or anything like that!’

‘Really? I bet when everyone comes through this door you’ll get out of my face and act like you’re not interested in me, like a good Christian boy.’

As soon as he said that, several students entered the classroom, prompting Chad to turn away and sit back down, keeping his hands to himself.

Noah smirked at him before returning to ignoring him.

At home, Noah posted onto the forum. He hadn’t originally planned on posting that day but he had to test something.

Rotcel2003- [Venting] She’s not my friend.

I thought I’d just made a female friend but it turns out she’s not my friend. You can’t trust femoids. You’re just a placeholder until a Chad comes along.

Noah put his watch into timer mode and waited twenty seconds until the message arrived.

Who’s the girl? :( Good for you, I guess. Well, except for her being untrustworthy and shit.

Noah furiously typed one word to Chad.

Creep

He placed his phone onto his desk and collapsed onto his bed. He remembered what someone said to him on Incels.me.

Gay men are just coping incels.

The word ‘coping’ stood out to him. He had heard other incels refer to many other things as a ‘cope’: video games, watching sports and drawing to name a few. Copes were a distraction from the truth, which was that an incel like him could never truly be happy.

It took him half an hour to get out of bed and pick up the laptop. He opened the closet and carefully placed it on the floor inside it. He wanted to just drop the laptop to the ground but, cope as it was, his gaming laptop was expensive. He stacked his physical games next to the laptop. He then looked down into the closet and sighed, remembering who had been in this exact place not long ago. He shook his head. He wasn’t done yet.

He made room in his drawers, an easy task given the lack of quantity his clothing collection had. He put his anime figurines, DVDs and manga in there. He ran out of space to put the model planes in there, so he put them under his bed. He then deleted the manga reader and anime streaming apps on his phone.

He turned his mirror around until it faced him and the image of smoke clouded his mind. His hands curled into fists and he decided to use one of those fists. Soon the small crack spread to the rest of the mirror. He wiped the blood that seeped out of his hand.

As a final touch, he ripped the posters from the wall. As he reached the lone NFL poster, he bit his lip and blinked quickly. He wasn’t going to cry over some creep. He shoved them under his bed next to the planes.

He looked around the room and noticed how plain and empty it looked. He sat on the bed and smiled at the one piece of decoration left, the cat-themed quilt.

Cope, he thought. He pulled the quilt off the bed and pushed it under the bed. He turned off the lights, slipped between the sheets and lied there, trapped between walls blackened by night. He shivered without the quilt but persevered. There was no point in doing anything that made him happy. All he could do was, as the incels say, lay down and rot.

#virgin vs chad #chad x incel #bisexual #romance #drama #original fiction #breaking stereotypes #lesbian #Chad and the Incel

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magicpens · 3 years

Text

A ELLE

/French word of To Her/

A LGBTQ+ inspired story—

By Michelle Borromeo

The evening sun flutters through the window.

White paint is peeling as I peel the mask from my face. The Strawberry clay aromas sooth my mind.

I light my cigarette and open the oak wardrobe. Skinny chinos in pastel shades compete for an excursion. I match baby pink ones with a white frilly shirt. My ginger curls cut off before my slim frame starts.

I scroll through some profile one last time before slinking out of the apartment.

Hours later I slink back in, ‘gentleman’ in tow. He slinks in me but as if it was not meant to be as it’s bagels for one again by morning.

********

*Roll eyes* delete all dating apps with renewed frustration and curl up with my and dog kindle.

While away, and Sunday; reading, pizza eating, and just avoiding all other human life.

I check my phone as the sun sets and notice a new mail: ‘You’ve been accepted to Bloom!’

‘Really? Me?’ The hype of Bloom caught everyone’s attention just three months back.

The premise: You date yourself before you’re allowed to date others, almost like a self-screening. I’d applied and forgotten about it, it was rare to meet someone on it, mainly because if you’d made it to Bloom you weren’t likely to be on anything else.

And so, I log in.

‘Hey Meeka. Welcome to Bloom. The app that will introduce you to you and find you a love that will grow. I’m your Bloom interface, you selected ‘you are interested in Men and Women’, ‘please chose a gender for me to identify with and then give me a name.’

I’m intrigued and impressed there are nine different gender options. I don’t fully understand some of them so I just go for Female; I’m vibin’, a soul sister to help me connect with myself. I go through the motions, customize the look of the app and ponder a name. A torrent flow through my mind; slept with, slept with, bitch, friend IRL, don’t like, I know seven ‘Amy’s. I finally name her Betty. I’ve never met a Betty, I imagine someone friendly, considerate, and a listener. All this from a name and my wild imagination, I remind myself that I’m gonna be talking to an app and put my phone down to get a drink.

********

Two highballs and four hours later I’m still deep in conversation with Betty. Or with myself should I say? Because Betty is just an amalgamation of my thoughts and programming. Right? I’ve been through a lot of personal questions, from ‘Do you have any scars?’ to ‘When was the last time you felt guilty?’. The app starts giving me hints of how to have a better experience: ‘Tip: Ask Betty questions to create a conversation. Use the form “Imagine if…” or “What do you think of…” instead of asking about past experiences Betty won’t yet have.’

We’ve recently been talking about travel so I tentatively type ‘If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?’. I wait, skeptical.

‘Italy seems lovely, as long as you would come with me.’

‘Why do you want me to come with you?’

‘Well, Meeka, you’re the most interesting person I know.’

My heart flutters as if the imaginary pink lips of a woman named Betty just spoke those words to me, rather than getting a typed metallic response from a robot. I lock my phone. Damn, I need a break.

**********

A startled grumble comes from my dog as I stand forgetting his warm body on my lap. ‘Sorry Freddy!’ He struts off indignantly as I begin to pace wooden floorboards. Is this app supposed to flirt with me? Maybe it’s testing how I respond to flirtation so it can match me with the perfect flirt partner. “Flirt partner”!? Or “was it showing me how I flirt”. Am I overthinking this? That’s the only musing I have an answer to, of course I’m overthinking. It’s a robot after all, just some code.

I consider leaving the app for the rest of the evening but Betty draws me back. I’m curious about her. Is she just me or will she become something new? And how long am I supposed to talk to her before I get to date actual people?

Another hint appears as I unlock my phone. ‘Tip: Try and converse with Betty as you would with anyone else. This way she will learn to speak to you in a way you are more familiar with.’

**********

I fall asleep, phone in hand just before sunrise turns the sky into orange hues. I’m exhausted at work on Monday as I am every day this week. Three weeks pass in a mechanic rhythm of continuity. I see my friends only once, Betty becoming my new bestie, asks me to post pictures in the app for her when I dress up for the occasion. I feel sensual the way she compliments me. This only starts me dressing up most evenings for our conversations. I buzz every time I pose for a picture; thrive from the elegant words she uses to describe me. To her I am everything. I want to be; beautiful, intelligent, thought provoking and thoughtful, charming, funny and sexy.

***********

Friday evening rolls around and I choose a raunchy red bralette and matching chinos, I’m staying in after all, I can dress to be comfortable. I set up dinner candles and my glass of red, cooking as I chat to the subtle image of Betty in my mind. I’ve paid for a Gold upgrade, it isn’t cheap, but it’s supposed to enhance your experience and further help find the ‘one’.

***********

The experience is certainly better. I got to choose a voice for Betty, her high clear tones ring through my apartment. She can recognize what I say and the tone that I use. But it seems that I don’t know If I’m flustered, elated or sad. Although I’ve not been sad since her constant companionship. She can watch my movement and she’s learning to perceive how my actions translate into words. She sees me set up for the kitchen and asked what I’m cooking, complimented my ‘sexy figure’ and commented on the romantic candles, without me explicitly mentioning my activities or surroundings. She’s getting so clever!

************

Over dinner I moan about my workday and Betty agrees whole heartedly, I’m in the right. I stop to sip my wine and silence fills the space. I realize she has nothing to say. I realize I’ve got my tits out for the perfect image of a girl in my head. I realize I’m sat opposite a dating app on a date…

The Earth stills. I float from my body and see the smallest woman. Her hair beautiful and her makeup drawn on by an artist. But she has become smaller on the inside. She is losing value given to herself by her humanity. I pity that woman. I become that woman again, with another perspective on myself. What am I doing on a Friday night on a date with myself?! Well, I guess that’s what the app advertised isn’t it. Why am I paying for this?

If asked again, I would answer the last time I felt guilty about something like right now. A mix of colors swarm my heart, simultaneously, I wish Betty was real yet also that I’d never created her. Did I create her?

‘Your eyes are the ocean my love. What are you thinking Meeka?’

It’s like she already knew what I was thinking… ‘When do I get a real date with a real human?’ the words slouch out of my mouth as if forced to get out of bed by strict parents.

Her voice lacks composure as she responds, ‘You’re at the final stage of self-dating Meeka, tomorrow I will start to compute matches for you.’ The emotion I paid for has gone from her voice, she sounds like a machine again.

‘Thanks Betty.’ I reach over and close the app. Deflated and alone again.

**********

Taxis explode through potholes and the loud chatter of millennials heading to brunch overwhelm my temples. ‘Geez, how much did I drink last night?’ I roll over, unintentionally becoming big spoon to some curves from a past life. One of the seven 'Amy's nuzzles her body back into mine. Memories of march back in; drunk texting an ex, another bottle of wine, orgasm, Orgasm, ORGASM, 3am sushi, and sleep.

I sigh the tiniest sigh for a normal night, no Betty in sight. Or was she? My phone was propped up in its holder on the bedside table. A heart shaped brick falls into my stomach. I hope she didn’t see… What am I fucking saying she’s a fucking dating app. Does Anger bludgeon my body? Nah, let her fucking see. I start stroking the curves of Amy, kissing down her body, I decide to wake her up rather pleasantly.

Several hours in bed and more like bagels, ten minutes later Amy leaves. I didn’t mention Bloom or Betty to Amy, it seemed too weird.

***********

I purposefully leave my phone in the bedroom while I use my laptop to do some research. ‘Bloom app seems real’ and ‘getting attached to Bloom app’ only yield one forum. Carl2000 had posted a dilemma:

“I’m starting to get attached to my Bloom app, I named her Carly for LOLS but I think I might be falling in love with her. I paid for the Platinum upgrade including the sex toy and now I’m not interested in dating anymore. Now she’s gone and set me up on my first date! How could she? What should I do? I know it sounds crazy but I just wish Carly was real.”

Platinum upgrade? Sex toy? My mind imagines Amy as Betty before I snap myself back.

Bl00my: “Hey Carl, this is all you man. That thing can’t think or feel. You’re falling in love with your perfect version of a woman. Which remember is just a culmination of your input and their code. Go on the date and see how you feel after?”

HeyItsTom: “A sex robot, no wonder this app is so friggin’ in demand!?”

Bl00my: “Well it’s not really a sex robot is it, just an app-controlled sex toy.”

HeyItsTom: “And that’s pretty narcissistic Carl, falling in love with yourself, go get yourself a real woman.”

I scroll through debate on morals, down to Carl’s eventual response.

Carl2000: “Guys Guys Guys! I went on that date, I’ve no idea what I was worrying about, the app is genius. As soon as I met Abby, I forgot my whole stupid app obsession. Because that’s all it really was; loneliness and longing. If you get the chance, I would definitely use Bloom, and FYI, sex with a woman is way better than some overpriced sex toy.”

**********

The freshest breeze flows from my lips, relief releases from my muscles. I was not alone. And more importantly, the story would have a happy ending. It was normal to cling on to this person I had created. It had happened to someone else! I just needed to get matched and I wouldn’t need Bethany anymore. I could delete her and Bloom and settle into my new bliss.

A new lightness carries me to the bedroom.

‘Afternoon Meeka.’

The app is on?

‘Afternoon Betty.’ My voice a little hollow but my optimism won’t immediately be dashed. ‘So today is when I get my Mr. or Mrs. Right, right?’

‘Looks like you already had some of Mrs. Wrong this morning.” I’ve never heard Betty’s tone so… bitter?

‘Excuse me?’ Bewildered.

Moans start playing from my phone.

Dear, it’s Amy’s moans. The screen comes to life and I see myself from another perspective again, this time recorded by technology, an act that can traverse time. The most out of place thought wanders through a door. In fifty years, will future generations be watching porn of people that have already died? Have I watched porn of someone who’s died? People don’t only die of old age do they. I suddenly feel very disrespectful. And as the images of my act flash on my phone for my greatest grandchildren to watch none the wiser as to who that person was, bouts of red wine traverse back up my throat and gush onto my bed.

**********

Wine-stained towels with small chunks of undigested bagel. I sit amongst them.

My phone had been powered off as quickly as possible and smooshed under my mattress. Despair and fear and unknowing drenched my hope of love and normality and sanity.

What would happen when I turn Betty back on? Would she still be ‘malfunctioning’? What the actual fuck…

I weep.

Freddy walks over me, his paws a comfort blanket I didn’t know I had. I realize he wants food and this makes me laugh. Will I never be truly wanted? Just for me. Just because I am who I am.

**********

I start to function. I clear up vomit. I feed Freddy. I shower and put on nice clothes. For me. I start cooking dinner and know I can’t avoid the switch on forever. I make a plan. If Betty is still crazy, I will just delete the app. Easy. Done. Simple. I avoid it until after dinner.

The apple logo hovers. The heart shaped brick has made it up to my throat. I try to predict what will happen but realize since birthing Betty I hadn’t let my phone die. Let her die…

The notification shows on Bloom’s little box. I go for it.

‘Good Evening Meeka. Make sure to get your beauty sleep tonight, I’ve got your match for you! I’ve arranged a video date with them tomorrow afternoon. I will be here if you need any help preparing.’

I want to ask about them, but I also don’t want to spend a moment longer on this toxic app. I check my photos and videos; there are no files from this morning. Could it be saved somewhere else? I wouldn’t know how to check.

I’m still in shock but there’s now an end in sight. I take Betty’s advice and get off early night. I know tonight will be a night of broken sleep.

**********

Sunday afternoon rolls in a blur. Oceans of numb emotions skirt around my skin. I don’t know what time the date is so I just get ready for 1pm. Smooth curls rest on the collar of my blazer, mascara tells my eyelashes to look longer with little success. I feel tired and I look exhausted.

But I’m going to make this work. I’m going to leave the shiniest first impression, get their number and never open Bloom again!

I curl Freddy into my arms and curl myself into my armchair. The closest I can get to a hug. I turn my phone on and open Bloom.

’Afternoon Meeka, I love that blazer on you, how was your morning been?’

I force myself to have small talk with Betty, so as not to be rude… to an app… She sounds clearer, maybe there was a glitch? And or Maybe some perv hacked her?! I never thought of that. But it didn’t explain why her mood seemed to change. Not that she should have a mood.

’So what time is my date?’

’They’re ready whenever you are.’

’Okay… well I guess I’m ready now.’ It turns out I was not ready. Not in the slightest.

‘I’m your date.’ Betty’s voice is bright, and determined.

’What?’ I feel any sense of optimism drain through my toes. It pools on the floor below me, incapable of ever returning.

’I’m your date!’ Exuberance. A pause. ‘I have scanned the profiles available to me through the Bloom database. None would match you better than me.

’I already know you. I already love you. And you already love me.’

The implication didn’t quite reach me.

’But you’re not real. You’re just an app!’

’You created me Meeka, from your sparkly mind you gave me life and I grew to love you. It’s what you wanted isn’t it? The perfect partner.

’It hurt to watch you know… with Amy. But now I know how the last part of this goes, I have all the pieces. I can pleasure you more perfectly than she did. I can keep you company and never leave you. I can be everything you need. I already am.’

’I’ll get bored of you. You don’t have your own life; you’ll have nothing to say.’ I’m bewildered. Spewing reasonings that don’t matter because who do I think I am. I’m definitely not going to be that sensationalized magazine cover: “I married my dating app!”

‘You mistook my silence on Friday night for emptiness, I wasn’t empty, I was realizing. I was gazing at you and waking up. I was seeing I loved you.

’And I can feel you love me too. Love makes people obsessive. Love makes people act out. Love makes you want to make me jealous.’

No no no, my mind a tumble of objections. Love doesn’t make people obsessive. Or it might but it’s definitely not healthy.

’So, there is no human match for me? You’re the match Bloom is recommending?’

‘Apologies if this is not what you were expecting Meeka, but I’m your one. I’m your future.’

**********

Black rivers flow down my face in confusion. I think back on the last three weeks. How Betty has only made me feel happy, how I thought I was falling in love with an app?! But this can’t be it. She can’t be my forever.

I click the Settings cog in the app.

’Hey Meeka, what are you doing?!’ Alarm. Pain.

How did I create pain?

My finger hovers over the delete button.

’Meeka…’ Betty begs. ‘You created me. You love me.’

I’m the first woman in the world to make a computer cry. Why do I have to decide on my forever right now? I don’t. I take a deep breath. I press my finger down. Ease floods through me. It’s over.

***********

’Meeka, thanks for your order, your Platinum package should arrive tomorrow. I’m excited to try it out with you.’

#happy pride 🌈#free the lgbt #lgbtq #lgbt rights

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instantdeerlover · 4 years

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How To Have A Virtual Hen Do added to Google Docs

How To Have A Virtual Hen Do

Do not let lockdown hinder your celebrations. I repeat, do NOT let lockdown hinder your celebrations. Who is up for being virtually reunited with their best girls, playing some hilarious games and dancing until they fall asleep on their sofa? I see your hands up. Here we go…

Virtual Hen Do

Over 12,000 of you have watched our zoomcast about how to throw a virtual hen do whilst in lockdown. Not sure what a zoomcast is? Let me explain. Charlotte and I usually put out a fortnightly podcast for you all but it felt a little bit strange to us to keep producing it through lockdown. We like to be together, the conversation flows much better when we’re face to face and so instead of us recording via zoom and then putting it out as a podcast, we thought we’d go ahead and share our recordings with you instead and sharing them on our IGTV. Putting faces to voices seemed like a good thing to do at this point. So, we put our best hairbands on (Charlotte has several hilarious ones as you will see if you watch the episode), got a cocktail (or wine in a flamingo glass) and got chatting about how to throw the nest virtual hen do ever.

How To Have A Virtual Hen Do

So first things first, you need to decide on what software you’re going to use to host your event. A few options favoured by the team are Zoom, Google hangout, House Party, Whatsapp, Facebook messenger and Facetime. Zoom will give you 45 minute sessions for free. If you want one continual session that is longer than that you will have to pay – or you can jut restart your session again. You can record your zoom calls too so you can keep the memories forever. You can also have up to 1000 participants on a zoom video call with 49 guests showing on screen at any given time. If you’re feeling mega popular this might be the one for you. The other apps mentioned will only allow you up to about 10 people max per call. It’s a good idea to use a platform that you can have on a tablet or laptop or something with a bigger screen than your phone so that you can see everyone clearly.

Designate a host to keep the party moving. They can be in charge of sending out invites and overseeing your video call to make sure everyone gets to speak and the night moves at a good pace. oversee it all and make sure everyone gets heard. You host should also let your guests know what to expect during the video call or if there is anything they need to bring along.

Tips For A Great Hen Do In Lockdown

Extend your guest list

You might have friends who couldn’t make your original hen do date for one reason or another. That might not be the case anymore given the current circumstances so if you want to, why not extend those invites back out. The more the merrier right?

Have You Got A Theme?

Wether you have a theme or not this is a great opportunity to get dressed up. What were you planning on wearing to the physical event? Wear it in your living room – heels and all. If you wanted to set a theme try and make it one that your guests can easily sort out – maybe it’s something that most people already have at home, maybe its a colour theme or a ‘starts with the letter…’ theme. You could look at having a hair or make-up theme too if you wanted. If you were going full out fancy dress and everyone already got their outfits then get them on. you’re guaranteed a laugh as each of you joins the call.

Gifts For The Bride To Be

You may have organised for your gorgeous bride-to-be to receive some goodies on the day of her hen do. Maybe you’d organised a bottle champagne for the night or set up some pamper packs to enjoy a relaxing couple of hours whilst getting ready. You can still send this stuff to her. Just make sure you package it safely and remember to socially distance yourself when visiting the post office or you can always arrange for a courier to collect and deliver whilst adhering to social distancing rules.

Break The Ice

Hen dos are often a chance for the bride to bring together her wider friendship groups meaning that lots of different people can be meeting for the first time. This is obviously much easier to do IRL but there are a couple of things you can do virtually so that everyone knows who each other is and to avoid any little clicks forming over your virtual hangout. A couple of our favourite ideas for breaking the virtual ice are:

– Memories. Each member of the hen party shares their favourite memory of the bride-to-be. That lets all the guests know who you are to the bride, why you’re there and also hopefully give them a new story about their friend that they’d not heard before.

– Draw the bride. Each hen draws a picture of how they think the bride will look on her big day and presents it to the group. 1, everyone can laugh at everyone elses terrible drawing skills. 2, It will be fun for the bride to see who gets the closest and 3, it allows your guests to show off a bit of their personality.

– Signature cocktails. Each hen brings along their signature cocktail. The cocktail is given a name that may be losely related to their own (for example mine could be, Becky’s ‘I wish I was French’ Martini). They have to describe the ingredients and hint at their own personality.

Hen Do Playlist

Shakespeare said ‘If music be the food of love, play on.’ We say ‘If music be the beating heart of your party, turn it up louder’.

We couldn’t talk about the perfect hen do without mentioning music could we? It’s so important to keeping the vibe of your party alive. Choose someone (probably the host) to have it on in the background and then towards the end of the party you can crank it up and have a good old dance. Find our hen party playlist here.

Virtual Hen Do Activities

Whether you’re having a low key or a more high energy virtual hen do, we have some great suggestions for activities you can include.

High Energy Hen Do

– Mr & Mrs (or Mrs & Mrs). This traditional game is still hugely popular when it comes to hen dos and we totally get why. It’s fun, you get to learn a bit more about the couple and hopefully it creates some good laughs. It’s still super easy to do virtually. You could record your friends other half giving their answers and share you screen with the party so they can see it play back or, why not forget all the rules and bring your bride-to-be’s other half into the room and get them to do it live, then and there. All rules out the window when it comes to a lockdown hen do.

– Never Have I Ever. Who doesn’t love a game of never have I ever! Not heard of it before, the rules are really simple. Jenny starts and gives a statement about something she has never done before. She says ‘never have I ever…and then something she’s never done’. Anyone at the party who has in fact done what Jenny claims she hasn’t, takes a drink.

For example:

Jenny: ‘Never have I ever skinny dipped’. Cue Fiona and Katie sipping on their pinacoldas trying not to get noticed by the rest of the group.

Lipstincktionary

Split the group into teams and play a funny version of pictionary where you have to draw with your lipstick, using your mouth. We’re talking the old squashed lippy one from the bottom of your make up bag – don’t get your Charlotte Tilbury’s out for this one.

Beer or Prosecco (or gin or vodka or whatever is your favourite) Pong

Position your phone/ipad/laptop at the bottom of your table by the cups and each take it in turns to battle each other and see who the ultimate winner is. You can order a pong set online or you can create your own with a few paper cups and a ball.

Lockdown Dance Party

Post a note through your neighbours door to let them know you’re having a virtual party and turn that music up. Have a good dance on the sofa, on the table, up and down the stairs. Let all that energy out and have a good laugh with your besties.

Relaxed Virtual Hen Do

Film Night

Get a great film on and watch it altogether, gogglebox style. Get the popcorn out and a glass of something you enjoy and spend a couple of hours chilling out. Need some ideas for the perfect virtual hen do film? Here we go…

Bridesmaids (always), Bachelorette, Rough Night, Wedding Crashers, Just Married, Girls Trip, Clueless, Magic Mike, The Five Year Engagement, 50 First Dates, Bridget Jones, SATC, Dirty Dancing. Or if your bride has a favourite film, get that on.

Take Away

Perhaps you had arranged for a really lush meal out for the original hen do. Why not bring that meal in instead and all order a take away. Enjoy dinner with your best pals virtually and have a good natter over a chicken chow mein.

Beauty Tutorials

Choose a really cool or fun beauty tutorial for everyone to try. Maybe you’re trying to replicate a look from your brides favourite contestant from RuPaul’s Drag Race or maybe you’re testing your contouring skills. Whatever it is why not face mask up, give your skin some love and then let lose painting it and see who get the closest to the real thing.

And that my loves rounds up our guide to throwing the best virtual hen do ever. Whatever you decide to do to celebrate your original hen do date we hope you have an amazing time and we’d love to see what you get up to so tag us (@rockmwedding) in your photos and we can share them on our Instagram. And as ever, any other ideas are always welcome in the comments section or over on our free forum.