The time, it is stamped.

[britomart_is]

Give me one of my own stories, and a timestamp sometime in the future after the end of the story, or sometime in the past before the story started, and I'll write you at least a hundred however many words of what happened then, whether it's five minutes before the story started or ten years in the future.

For reference, stuff I've written.

Don't feel obligated to request something just to feed my ego, it doesn't need the help (the analogy that just popped into my head is that my ego is like one of those squirrels in parks who are used to handouts of human food so they get really aggressive and beat you up and steal your lunch money/your lunch). But I'm working on multiple larger projects and would love to have some prompts I can whip out when I need a (productive) break, so if you want to take advantage of my procrastination, fire away!

Comments

[glovered.livejournal.com]

fandom: your icons
pairing: sam motherfucking winchester/really really childish
timestamp: sometime in the future, Dean finds out some of his joke accusations are true.

[britomart-is.livejournal.com]

Ahahahahahahahaha, you're on! You are so on.

1/2

[britomart-is.livejournal.com]

In Dean's defense, he hadn't known at the time that the man eating syrup-drenched pancakes five feet away was a demi-god with a nasty sense of humor.


It was hard enough getting Sammy to split up to follow different leads. He's been clingy like a, like a, a leech, no, something Dean likes more than a leech, Sam's been clingy like a staticky dryer sheet - ever since Broward County. Having Sam all up in his personal space is the sweetest kind of torture for Dean, so he's been desperate to get some breathing room before he does something stupid like nibble on Sam's ear or rest a hand on the small of his back or fuck him raw and then get down on one knee and propose and maybe suck Sam's cock while he's down there. Yeah, splitting up was definitely the right call.

Dean doesn't want to push his luck and provoke a nervous breakdown, though, so he hurries back to Sam afterward. The skeezebag mayor's ex-wife didn't give Dean any leads on why the dude's now a peeping tom from beyond the grave, scaring the shit out of women all over town. Hopefully Sam's had more luck with the other women in the late mayor's life -- the ladies of Sizzle. (Which Dean doesn't think is much of a name for a strip club, it just makes him crave a steak.)

The first thing Dean sees backstage is a glimpse of Sam's hair and one huge booted foot visible through the wall of sequins and feathers and bare skin. All right, Sammy. He seems to have gotten the girls on his good side. Dean steps closer and shoulders his way in through the crowd of attentive women. Sam is sprawled in a chair in front of the lighted mirrors. One woman is bent over his right hand, carefully painting his nails a very light pink. His cheekbones are defined, cheeks more flushed than usual. There's a smear of bright red over Sam's mouth, like someone tried to put lipstick on him and he turned his head away. Sam's eyes are shut, and another woman - practically sitting in his lap - is putting the finishing touches on a barely-there smudge of black lining Sam's eyes. "That's some serious harassment. So how many of you did he follow home?" Sam asks. Six girls out of the group raise their hands. Sam carefully opens his eyes, blinking at his own image in the mirror, then counting the hands. Then he sees -- "DEAN." Sam's messy red mouth opens once silently, then shuts. "Um."

Dean says something intelligible, it might have sounded like it was just a distressed noise but that's cause of, you know. The music. The music out on the stage.

"Oh darn, we're out of makeup remover," says a woman in towering high heels.

Turns out Sam got all the information they needed by being an obliging plaything for as long as he spoke to them. Sam scrubs at his mouth with a hand as they walk out, and it just results in the trace of lipstick smearing and pinking up his face even worse. Now Sam just looks like he's been thoroughly debauched.

Dean hates his life almost as thoroughly as his life seems to hate him. He clenches the car keys in his hand till they're on the verge of breaking skin and definitely does *not* watch as Sam checks himself out in the visor mirror once they're back in the car.


Dean's coming out of Wal-Mart with a four-pack of t-shirts, a bag of rock salt, and a jug of Sunny D when he sees Sam coming out of Office Depot. "Hey, what'd you need to get at an office sup--"

"Paperclips," Sam says quickly. "We needed paperclips."

Dean squints at him and takes a chug of juice. "Okay." Sam is weird.

Their battered and annotated (for accuracy and opinion) Bible caught on fire a couple hunts ago, so when he needs to prove a point about demons Dean just has a moment of gratitude for the Gideons and reaches for the nightstand. He pauses with the drawer open and blinks. "Sam?"

Sam grunts questioningly.

"Why's there a ruler in the nightstand?"

Sam's eyebrows rise toward his hairline. "Beats me. People leave the weirdest things behind in motel rooms."

"Right," Dean says. He shakes his head and grabs the Bible. He needs to get more sleep, strange things are happening in Dean's brain.

[britomart-is.livejournal.com]

Author's note 1: This is why I didn't say 100 words.
Author's note 2: Fuck canon. Dean totally remembers saying that, despite having a golden retriever gnawing on his jugular fifteen minutes later.

[debbiel66.livejournal.com]

I never manage to get in before prompting is closed, but I'm going to try anyway.

fandom: SPN
timestamp: Dictionary for a Dead Language (because I love it so absolutely and will shamelessly always want more)

[britomart-is.livejournal.com]

You're head of the pack this time! What time in particular would you like to see for Dictionary?

[aubade-saudade.livejournal.com]

timestamp: Dictionary for a Dead Language (because I love it so absolutely and will shamelessly always want more)

THANKYOUTHANKYOUTHANKYOU ♥

1/1

[britomart-is.livejournal.com]

Dean finds Sam in the hammock strung between two ash trees, ropes creaking gently. Thundercat is stretched long and sleek across Sam's chest, head tucked under Sam's chin with a little cat smile. Dean can hear him purring from across the yard. He bends and scratches the cat's head, firm skritches between his ears, earning an ecstatic full-body wriggle.

Sam's smiling, awake. Dean sits carefully on the edge of the hammock, sends it rocking and tipping. Sam's hands grip the cat's ribs protectively but his eyes stay shut. He hasn't given up on his nap yet.

Dean wraps a hand around Sam's ankle. He brushes his thumb against Sam's instep. Sam shivers in the early June heat.

"Come inside," Dean says.

"It's nice out." Sam's petting the cat. Dean ignores a little spike of jealousy.

He runs an index finger down Sam's nose, pink even under the leafy shadows. "You're getting sunburned. It'll hurt so much you won't even want me to touch you." It's Sam's first summer. The first summer that this Sam will know. He doesn't remember learning about sunscreen the hard way at age eight when he came back from a field trip blistered and miserable, then proceeded to pick the dead, peeling skin off for weeks, delighting in grossing Dean out with it.

Sam's eyes crack open at that. He gazes languidly at Dean over the top of the cat's head. "I always want you to touch me," he says. His smile is slow and lazy as molasses. He shifts a long leg, brushes his toes against Dean's side. He sits up carefully in the unstable hammock. Thundercat, indignant, leaps from his lap to the ground with a dig of claws that makes Sam hiss. "You interrupted my nap," Sam says.

"Hmm," Dean says. He rests his hand on Sam's foot.

Sam stands and stretches, shirt rising up just a little. He casts a sly little look at Dean afterward. It's goddamn adorable sometimes, watching Sam re-learn how to seduce someone. "Okay, penance." He grabs Dean's hands and pulls him up. "I'm not done sleeping and it's your fault. You gotta tire me out again." He pulls Dean back toward the bunkhouse.

Dean, not being half the lazy ass that Sam is, lies awake later while Sam dream-mumbles into his shoulder, lips moving against Dean's skin with garbled urgency. There's a ballpoint pen on the bedside table and Dean nabs it. Given the choice between writing on the sheets or on Sam's back, he chooses the one that involves his hands on Sam's skin. He glides the ink over the expanse of Sam's back with the gentlest of touches.

Summer for Sam: Ice cream truck make popsicles, swimming (safety!), lightning bugs, BBQ, walking around naked, stay out drinking beer till dark, sex in hammock??, go for drive w/ windows down

Dean pauses, gnaws on the pen cap. It'll be next to impossible, requires supplies that will have been used up in the war, Dean'll probably have to convert to Scientology to get his hands on the right stuff, and all of that means that he has to, he has to pull this off for Sam. It's Sam's first summer. The first he'll remember.

With careful, firm strokes, he writes on Sam's back: FIREWORKS.

[callistosh65.livejournal.com]

Since Debbie got to Dictionary for a Dead Language, I'll choose a future timestamp for The King of Imperfections...

[britomart-is.livejournal.com]

Do you have a preference on how far in the future?

1/2

[britomart-is.livejournal.com]

They've been living in Elk Plain for long enough to have accumulated junk in the garage and developed opinions on the town council, but it doesn't occur to them to buy into this Halloween nonsense till they're standing in the grocery aisle and Dean is clutching a two-pound bag of mini Reese's cups to his chest. He looks at Sam with great urgency. 

"Fine," Sam says. "But if we get them, we're leaving the porch light on for trick-or-treaters. You can have the leftovers." He takes them and puts them in the cart. He stares at them thoughtfully. "They're all so small." 

And that's how, five years in, the Plant-Page household abruptly becomes extremely popular with the kindergarten set. 

Sam's not even sure how word is spreading so fast, do kids that young have cell phones? Or just a psychic connection linked specifically to high fructose corn syrup? But hordes of them -- how are there even this many kids in this town? -- pile onto the doorstep, pillowcases and hollow plastic pumpkins outstretched in anticipation of the full-size candy bars Sam and Dean are giving out. Dean's been sulking for the last half hour because it doesn't look like there'll be any left over for him. 

Since they never left the light on before, always stayed in with popcorn and beer and Jason Takes Manhattan flickering in the dark living room while they got distracted and groped each other, they had been previously unaware of the trends in Halloween costumes these last few years. 

Sam swings open the door, staring with concern into the big metal bowl with its diminishing number of Snickers. He might need to send Dean out for more. 

"TRICK OR TREAT!" multiple voices chorus. 

Smiling, Sam looks up, and drops the candy bowl with a loud clang. "Gah!" 

Dean's there in an instant. "What--gah!" 

Six four-foot-tall kids shift from foot to foot, clutching their candy buckets, adjusting their Sam and Dean Winchester masks. Sam notices with dismay that four of the six are wearing Dean and that Sam's hair is being horribly, horribly misrepresented. The plaid shirts are right on the money, though. "Nice costumes, guys." He picks the bowl up, grabs a handful of candy and starts distributing. Sure, he could let them reach in and take for themselves, but four of these kids are dressed up as Dean Winchester and he's pretty sure that not only would all the candy be gone within seconds, but possibly also Sam and Dean's wallets and electronic equipment. 

Dean leans in the door frame, staring in bemusement. "Is that a ... salt shaker?" 

The Sam with the salt shaker clutches it defensively. "We aren't allowed to have guns." 

The tallest of the kids, a Dean, puffs up his chest. "The Winchesters were allowed to have guns when they were our age. When they were kids, they had rocket launchers." 

Behind Sam, it sounds like Dean's trying not to choke to death. 

Sam focuses on a Dean in a red flannel. "Luke, right? Your mom teaches math?"

The kids talk over each other introducing themselves, but the last one, Josh, the tallest and probably oldest, pushes his Dean mask up on his head and narrows his eyes. "What did you say your names were?" 

Sam meets Dean's eyes. Dean raises an eyebrow. The kid looks old enough that he probably remembers more than the others. Old enough that to him, the Winchesters are memory, not legend. "Sam Page." Sam adjusts his glasses unnecessarily. 

"Dean Plant." Dean runs a nervous hand over graying hair. 

"Right," the kid says. His eyes widen. "I-- I-- I ... thanks for the candy." He runs down the stairs and into the street. The gaggle of mini Winchesters follows. 

[deirdre-c.livejournal.com]

Love That's Gonna Break Me In Two. One week later.

:D

[britomart-is.livejournal.com]

HAH. Oh dear, poor Dean is in for trouble.

[dev-earl.livejournal.com]

YES! THANK YOU FOR THIS PROMPT. FAVORITE. ♥

[earthquakedream.livejournal.com]

Post-What Happens to a Dream Deferred (http://britomart-is.livejournal.com/44689.html)

And Sam hates to leave Dean, but he'll come back for him, soon as he can. Sam comes back for Dean.

♥

[britomart-is.livejournal.com]

♥!

1/2

[britomart-is.livejournal.com]

When Dean wakes up, the midday light pouring in the windows is blinding, haloed around a dark silhouette. Dean's knife is pillow-warm in his hand. He's brought the warm knife to a warm throat before he's even fully conscious. Half-dreaming, Dean finds himself transfixed by the pulse beating in that throat, tha-thump. Dean blinks three times before the sunspots finally clear from his eyes, and then he's fully awake and there are no more reasonable explanations for what he's seeing. Tha-thump tha-thump.

"Dean." Sam's smile is a growing thing, starts off small and then takes over his features till he's nearly glowing. Sam shakes his head slowly, not seeming to notice the shallow line Dean's knife is tracing over his throat, a thin seam of blood rising to the surface. Dean drops his knife and wraps his hand around Sam's throat instead, palm to Adam's-apple. He feels Sam's blood beading against his skin. Sam's voice cracks. "I missed you."

Dean's hand tightens. He's keenly aware of the knife tapping up against his knee on the bedspread, and of the fact that his instinctive reaction to seeing his little brother bleed is finally, finally going to get Dean killed. Killed by a monster wearing his brother's skin, on a flowery bedspread, after waking up hungover at noon.

What's particularly cruel is that this monster doesn't look like Sam did the last time Dean saw him. He looks older. Tall, broad, a man without a hint of boy in him. No gaunt cheekbones, no circles under his eyes. Tan and healthy, eyes shining with light, with an honest-to-god smile making him look like a big old dork, like the most beautiful thing Dean's ever seen. It's either especially cruel or especially kind, because Dean gets to see Sam's stupid face one more time before he dies. And that's something Dean was never going to have, because Dean's little brother has been dead for two years.

The thing with Sam's skin seems to register Dean's dread. "Okay," it says. "I get it." The monster layers its hand over Dean's on its throat, pats lightly. It meets Dean's eyes and doesn't look away. "I'm so sorry, Dean." Dean shudders when the monster leans in to press its forehead against his. Its breath and Dean's breath share space, become one. "I never meant to be gone for so long."

The mattress rebounds when the monster gets up, springs squeaking. Dean watches it cross the room favoring its left. It has Sam's limp. It returns with a cup of cold coffee and a plate of hashbrowns and scrambled eggs. "I would've waited to make breakfast, but I thought you'd be up earlier." It smiles indulgently. It presses a fork into Dean's hand. Numb, Dean eats a bite of his potatoes.

Dean looks down at the plate, and his first words to his dead brother are, "I like my eggs fried."

"Fried is gross," Sam says, nose wrinkling. "The yolks are gooey. I'm not gonna make them."

The coffee goes on the bedspread and the plate, and the potatoes and scrambled eggs -- scrambled, Sam's favorite, the little tyrant -- go on the floor. Dean wraps himself around Sam before Sam can flicker out like a mirage, before he can walk away, before he can die. "Sammy," Dean says into Sam's neck, words muffled, face squashed.

Sam's practically petting him, hands smoothing over Dean's hair, down his back. Dean shakes and doesn't object. "I know," Sam says. "I know." Sam's warm and huge and his thumb is playing over the knob at the top of Dean's spine. "I missed you."

Sam cranes his neck at a sharp angle to kiss Dean and Dean snaps, doesn't unwrap either arms or legs from around Sam but tips them both back till Sam falls on him, heavy, crushes him into the bed. He pulls at Sam's clothes ineffectually, can't remember how to work zippers or buttons. But Sam is magical and smart, Sam makes their clothes go away, makes them naked.

It was never like this. Not before. Sam never kissed Dean's mouth. Sam never said Dean's name, certainly not again and again and again. Sam never spread Dean out on the sheets and sat back on his heels for a long, shameless look at him.

[locknkey.livejournal.com]

Story: Or Die Trying

"Sex Ed was in sixth grade, dumbass." Sam scowled. "And anyway, I missed that week. Dad dragged us off to go hunt … pixies or something, I don't know."

Pixie hunt! - past or possibly revenge of the pixies. :)

[britomart-is.livejournal.com]

Pixies! I can do pixies. I think.

[atanih88.livejournal.com]

Time stamp for:Absence (http://britomart-is.livejournal.com/143408.html).

Dean's POV the third day after Sam falls into the sleep the first time :)

[nubeinchild.livejournal.com]

...by a rocking cradle

Timestamp: anytime, anywhere

[fuzzytale.livejournal.com]

THIS

[mickeym.livejournal.com]

I WANT A TIMESTAMP TO DICTIONARY. *koff* Er. Please? :) If I'm supposed to tell you when, um. Five years after :)

[britomart-is.livejournal.com]

I owe you a five-years-later, but to tide you over here's "between the end and epilogue" for debbiel66: linky (http://britomart-is.livejournal.com/175800.html?thread=3331768#t3331768)

[who-favor-fire.livejournal.com]

... A Rocking Cradle, maybe during the birth, or directly after?

*draws hearts around you*

[who-favor-fire.livejournal.com]

Whoops, someone totally beat me to this.

[maraceles.livejournal.com]

Timestamp for The Frightened Inch Between Our Skins!

Being with Dean like that, with the Twinkies and the footsie and the making out--is the relationship going the way Sam figured? :D

[bythedamned.livejournal.com]

sigh. I typed out a whole answer on the phone on the train, and now a day later it seems to have not worked. damn. anyway, I said something along the lines of: Something after Frightened Inch Between Our Skins, because holy geez yes. Anything from that, ever, at all, would be wonderful. But also Dictionary for a Dead Language, preferably after but I have a feeling you could make anything before heart-wrenchingly enthralling too.

I've read all your Sam/Dean, but I think it's time to go back and read all your gen too :)

[britomart-is.livejournal.com]

All right, I went with Dictionary and split the difference between before and after: you got during. Comment!fic to follow immediately. :)

[meesasometimes.livejournal.com]

*whimper* possibly my favorite story of all time....and that was just so....fireworks?...you're trying to kill me right?

[meesasometimes.livejournal.com]

please take above comment and pretend that it was a direct reply to the DDL timestamp.... I fail.