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remix_reduxTitle: Pygmalion (When Statuesque Beauty Goes Too Far)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ellipsisblack
Summary: He almost lost Dean that night. Before he realized what it meant.
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Supernatural
Title, Author and URL of original story: Galatea bysanyin.
There was a woman. They thought that she had been the victim of some kind of supernatural crime, but it turned out that she was a witch, whose own spell had gone embarrassingly wrong.
Dean couldn't swallow back the biting, snide comment, so the witch had made sure to get her next spell right. Dean felt it when it hit him, and Sam saw him freeze, face leeching of color.
"What did you do, you bitch?" Dean snarled.
The woman only smiled, waved a hand, and suddenly the thick, spiced shadows cloaking the room became stifling, and turned to full darkness.
He's going to wither away without you, boy. Her voice echoed in his head and faded, leaving a vague impression of old magic, and ancient Greek rattling around in his skull.
Sam woke up with the taste of sulfur on the back of his tongue to find Dean crouched over him. He put his hand on Dean's bare arm, and Dean nearly toppled over, catching himself at the last minute.
"Are you okay?" Sam asked.
Dean struggled to his feet, not meeting Sam's eyes, absently rubbing the arm that Sam had just touched. "I'm fine, Sam. Let's go."
Sam trailed behind him to the car, watching Dean shrug his jacket on, even though the sun had come up since they went in, and the air was balmy. Dean fumbled the keys trying to open the car door, and before Sam could get to him, he'd crumpled, sliding down against the car, fingers scrabbling weakly and then going still as his knees hit the gravel.
Sam grabbed his brother around the waist and pulled him up.
"You're shaking," he observed as Dean managed to get his weight under him and stand up properly.
Dean pushed forward and away. "I'm fine, I just need food," he said. "You can drive."
There was a diner around the corner and across the street from the witch's house, which was innocuously nestled in suburbia, and Sam drove them straight there, glancing occasionally across at Dean, who was slumped against the passenger door.
When he killed the engine, Dean didn't move.
"Dean?" Sam tried. There was no response. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty, do you want some food or what?"
Still nothing from Dean, not even an annoyed rustle at the nickname.
Sam reached across and shook him, his hand brushing against Dean's neck.
Dean revived a little, and struggled out of the car and into the diner. They ordered eggs, bacon, sausages and hash browns. A good, greasy breakfast after a long night hunting. Usually Dean would have been inhaling that food and reaching for Sam's, but today he prodded listlessly at his eggs and sipped his coffee, which got cold before he finished it.
He speared the sausage on his fork and raised it to his mouth, but his hand was shaking so badly he couldn't bite into the food. Sam, unable to watch, grabbed his arm to steady it.
"Fuck off," Dean mumbled, voice thick and heavy like he was forcing the words out through maple syrup. He addressed his eggs like he couldn't even raise his eyes to look at Sam.
Walking back to the Impala, he elbowed Sam when Sam tried to steer him. Two steps later, he crumpled to the ground again, and this time he didn't get up.
Sam fell to his knees beside his brother. "Dean. Dean," he said, voice pitched low but increasingly frantic.
After a few moments, Dean's eyes struggled open. "Gimme a hand," he said, so quietly he was barely more than mouthing the words.
Sam nodded and hauled him upright, hooking his arm under Dean's shoulder and half-carrying him to the car.
Dean fell across the back seat, and Sam, more than worried by now, simply slid into the driver's seat and took off, speeding to get Dean back to the hotel and warm. Even though it was midday by now, Dean was curled on his side in fetal position, knees braced against the front seat, rubbing his arms up and down.
They made it back to the hotel room the same way they'd got to the car: Sam's shoulder under Dean's taking most of his weight while Dean struggled to put one foot in front of the other.
Dean collapsed on the bed, fretting with his jeans as if they were hurting him.
"You're shivering, Dean. You should leave them on," Sam said tensely, and Dean's hand flopped against his side.
His face retained its pinched, pained expression, and after a while Sam felt too guilty to leave him like that. Dean barely responded when Sam dragged the jeans off, then tugged him up so he could untuck the blankets. Shivering, Dean crawled under them and curled up. Sam grabbed his laptop and sat down on the bed, running as many searches as he could while he watched Dean and periodically checked his temperature and his pulse.
Hours passed like that. Sam's searches were fruitless, but at least Dean didn't seem to be getting worse.
Dean rolled with effort onto his back and pushed the covers down to bare his chest. His skin was white with a bluish tinge, like marble, like a corpse.
Sam, startled, said, "Are you all right? Are you hot?" He put his hand against Dean's forehead. His skin was still cold and clammy.
"Please," Dean whispered.
He wiggled a little and sighed, then slowly he managed to lift his hand and take Sam's, pulling it down so it was resting on Dean's chest, between his nipples.
Dean inhaled, then sighed again like it was the first proper breath he'd taken all day. A slight flush spread up his chest and neck, and he looked at Sam, eyes deep with some knowledge he didn't want to share.
Suddenly burning, Sam snatched his hand back and stepped away from the bed. Dean's arm fell limp at his side, and his eyes went dull again, any knowledge in them frozen beneath the witch's spell.
*
He almost lost Dean that night.
Before he knew what it meant.
He curled up on the other bed, staring at the ceiling in the gloom and listening to Dean's teeth chatter.
Suddenly, he realized the chattering had stopped, that there was now eerie silence coming from Dean's bed. More frightened by this silence than by any noise, Sam sat up and turned the light on.
Dean was lying on his back, eyes staring upward, unmoving.
"Dean?" Sam climbed from his bed to Dean's. "Dean! Wake up," he said, frantic, then stilled, concentrating all his attention on finding Dean's heartbeat. Eventually, he felt it, thready and erratic, and much slower than it should be.
Dean blinked, and Sam was so relieved that he tugged Dean upright into a hug. Dean collapsed forwards, his head falling into the crook of Sam's shoulder.
"Please," Dean rumbled, the word more of a sound, lips moving against Sam's throat.
His hand had come up to rest against Sam's hip, playing with his t-shirt.
"Dean." It was half-question and half-statement, as Sam pushed Dean back and he fell against the pillow, skin pale as ice.
He blinked sluggishly, and Sam stared down at him.
Dean made a quiet noise, almost a word. Sam leaned over, cupping Dean's jaw. He watched, shocked, as color spread out from his hand, banishing the marble stillness and replacing it with quickening flesh. Sam put his other hand on the other side of his brother's face, and the same happened. Dean's misty eyes cleared, and the flush spread down his neck and over his collarbones, disappearing into his ratty grey button-up.
He's going to wither away without you, boy.
Sam snatched his hands back; then, like he couldn't help himself, he pushed up Dean's shirt and ran one hand up the center of Dean's chest. Dean arched and struggled upright, tugging at his shirt. Sam grabbed his hand to stop him destroying the shirt, but this made Dean stronger. With a strange grinding noise deep in his throat, he pulled the buttons off entirely and shrugged out of it.
"Sam," he groaned, begging. "You need to—I need—"
Sam understood. "Dean," he said. "Dean." He hoped his tone said, It's okay, because he couldn't quite force the words out himself.
He dragged his own t-shirt off and wrapped his arms around Dean's back, pressing his lips to the pulse point at the side of Dean's neck. As if he were breathing oxygen directly into Dean's veins, rich color spread out from his lips. He sat back a little and watched it, racing along under Dean's skin.
Dean groaned and twisted, and Sam realized that Dean was hard against his leg, pushing and rubbing, seeking.
"Okay," he said, swallowing, and reached down to brush his hand against Dean's cock.
Dean's gaze sharpened and caught Sam's. Suddenly Dean was dragging him down, backwards, until they were crowded together up against the headboard. Dean stared up at him, seeking, his chest working fast and shallow.
There was a feverish glow to Dean's skin where Sam had touched it, but it was fading; sweat was cooling on Dean's skin. Sam dropped onto his side, leg spread over Dean's, head pressed against Dean's shoulder. Dean's right arm was curled around Sam's shoulder like a vise, trapping him close.
Sam realized he was shaking, with fear, with adrenaline. He knew that they'd never be the same, but that was nothing considering that Dean could die. He had his brother's life in his hands, fragile and brittle, and he knew with gut wrenching, terrifying certainty, that he could do the smallest thing wrong here and just shatter it as quickly as dropping a stone figurine against concrete.
Trying to steady his arm, he ran it along Dean's side, crossing ribs and muscles set in stark relief, the flesh softening as he touched it. Dean rolled slightly, trapping his own cock in the crease between Sam's thigh and hip, his flesh burning into Sam's through the twin layers of boxers.
Dean moaned, and the sound came from deep within him. He was hot now, burning up under Sam's touch, muscles twitching and shifting sporadically like there was too much fire in him, like he was going to melt into lava.
Sam swallowed hard and tugged Dean's boxers down, tracing his finger along the inside of Dean's thigh, shaping muscle and flesh under his hand. Dean kicked his shorts right off, his legs falling apart, knees slightly crooked.
He pulled Sam down and in to him, the arm curled around Sam's shoulder tugging him close while the other one dragged Sam's free hand towards his cock.
Again, a noise that might once have been a word rose from Dean's throat, rough like the crunch of gravel.
The last of Sam's resistance fell to that desperate, alien noise, and he let Dean guide his hand, wrapping it around the base of Dean's cock, fingers spread out to brush his balls.
Dean released his hand and curled, nuzzling into Sam's neck, pressed so close Sam could feel his eyelashes, breath, lips, the muscles in his cheek jumping like there was an electric current coursing through Dean's body.
His mouth opened, tongue pressed against Sam's throat, drinking in the contact like it was water and he was dying of thirst, sweat pouring off his body and catching in the sheets. The whole room was sticky and sour, and all Sam could feel was his own hand around his brother's dick, and Dean's tongue lapping at his neck.
"Okay," said Sam, around the lump in his throat. "Okay."
He knew, right to the heavy feeling in his gut what Dean needed, but there was nothing he could use to—he'd just have to hope that what he could do was enough. Trying to catch his own struggling breath, Sam slid his hand slowly down Dean's cock, down past Dean's balls, brushing the soft, burning flesh beyond that and resting, finally, just shy of the entrance to Dean's body. Dean bucked and then curled his spine, feet braced against the crumpled coverlet so he could push his tailbone up and allow Sam better access, and Sam responded by moving so that he was half-covering Dean, pressing him back into the bed, and dipping the first knuckle of his index finger inside the tight ring of muscle.
His finger, slick with Dean's sweat but nothing else, caught and scraped a little, and Dean hissed, his mouth clamping shut against Sam's skin and barely avoiding taking out a chunk of flesh.
Slowly, Sam pulled back and then pushed his finger in past the first knuckle, and then the second, until his palm was flush with Dean's balls, his fingers spread out against Dean's ass. Dean's legs thrummed with energy as Sam pulled back once more. It was just a little movement, but it was enough; Dean's hips pushed off the bed one last time and he came, spilling across his stomach.
In that moment, all the tension fled his body. His arm, hooked around Sam's shoulder, became a dead weight, and Sam collapsed beside him. Dean was pliant as Sam tugged and turned him so they were curled on their sides, facing. Sam curled his fingers in the soft, sticky hair at Dean's nape, and they settled, foreheads touching, tangled together in the sweaty sheets.
Dean sighed, his eyes struggling open.
"Dean," Sam mumbled, and it came out sounding animalistic. "Dean."
Exhausted, he let his eyes slide shut, feeling vaguely the rise and fall as Dean sighed again, and settled closer, seeking Sam's warmth.
He'd almost lost Dean that night.
Please, he thought. Let it be enough.
He dreamed of beauty and flame, and the scent of incense.
When he woke up, they were still curled on the bed, forehead to forehead, Dean's slow deep breaths gusting across Sam's cheek. He tilted his head slightly and pressed his lips to Dean's. His brother wasn't icy cold and shaking, or burning hot and thrumming with frightening energy, and when Sam leant back and opened his eyes, he found Dean watching him. Alive.
Author:
ellipsisblack Summary: He almost lost Dean that night. Before he realized what it meant.
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Supernatural
Title, Author and URL of original story: Galatea by
sanyin.There was a woman. They thought that she had been the victim of some kind of supernatural crime, but it turned out that she was a witch, whose own spell had gone embarrassingly wrong.
Dean couldn't swallow back the biting, snide comment, so the witch had made sure to get her next spell right. Dean felt it when it hit him, and Sam saw him freeze, face leeching of color.
"What did you do, you bitch?" Dean snarled.
The woman only smiled, waved a hand, and suddenly the thick, spiced shadows cloaking the room became stifling, and turned to full darkness.
He's going to wither away without you, boy. Her voice echoed in his head and faded, leaving a vague impression of old magic, and ancient Greek rattling around in his skull.
Sam woke up with the taste of sulfur on the back of his tongue to find Dean crouched over him. He put his hand on Dean's bare arm, and Dean nearly toppled over, catching himself at the last minute.
"Are you okay?" Sam asked.
Dean struggled to his feet, not meeting Sam's eyes, absently rubbing the arm that Sam had just touched. "I'm fine, Sam. Let's go."
Sam trailed behind him to the car, watching Dean shrug his jacket on, even though the sun had come up since they went in, and the air was balmy. Dean fumbled the keys trying to open the car door, and before Sam could get to him, he'd crumpled, sliding down against the car, fingers scrabbling weakly and then going still as his knees hit the gravel.
Sam grabbed his brother around the waist and pulled him up.
"You're shaking," he observed as Dean managed to get his weight under him and stand up properly.
Dean pushed forward and away. "I'm fine, I just need food," he said. "You can drive."
There was a diner around the corner and across the street from the witch's house, which was innocuously nestled in suburbia, and Sam drove them straight there, glancing occasionally across at Dean, who was slumped against the passenger door.
When he killed the engine, Dean didn't move.
"Dean?" Sam tried. There was no response. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty, do you want some food or what?"
Still nothing from Dean, not even an annoyed rustle at the nickname.
Sam reached across and shook him, his hand brushing against Dean's neck.
Dean revived a little, and struggled out of the car and into the diner. They ordered eggs, bacon, sausages and hash browns. A good, greasy breakfast after a long night hunting. Usually Dean would have been inhaling that food and reaching for Sam's, but today he prodded listlessly at his eggs and sipped his coffee, which got cold before he finished it.
He speared the sausage on his fork and raised it to his mouth, but his hand was shaking so badly he couldn't bite into the food. Sam, unable to watch, grabbed his arm to steady it.
"Fuck off," Dean mumbled, voice thick and heavy like he was forcing the words out through maple syrup. He addressed his eggs like he couldn't even raise his eyes to look at Sam.
Walking back to the Impala, he elbowed Sam when Sam tried to steer him. Two steps later, he crumpled to the ground again, and this time he didn't get up.
Sam fell to his knees beside his brother. "Dean. Dean," he said, voice pitched low but increasingly frantic.
After a few moments, Dean's eyes struggled open. "Gimme a hand," he said, so quietly he was barely more than mouthing the words.
Sam nodded and hauled him upright, hooking his arm under Dean's shoulder and half-carrying him to the car.
Dean fell across the back seat, and Sam, more than worried by now, simply slid into the driver's seat and took off, speeding to get Dean back to the hotel and warm. Even though it was midday by now, Dean was curled on his side in fetal position, knees braced against the front seat, rubbing his arms up and down.
They made it back to the hotel room the same way they'd got to the car: Sam's shoulder under Dean's taking most of his weight while Dean struggled to put one foot in front of the other.
Dean collapsed on the bed, fretting with his jeans as if they were hurting him.
"You're shivering, Dean. You should leave them on," Sam said tensely, and Dean's hand flopped against his side.
His face retained its pinched, pained expression, and after a while Sam felt too guilty to leave him like that. Dean barely responded when Sam dragged the jeans off, then tugged him up so he could untuck the blankets. Shivering, Dean crawled under them and curled up. Sam grabbed his laptop and sat down on the bed, running as many searches as he could while he watched Dean and periodically checked his temperature and his pulse.
Hours passed like that. Sam's searches were fruitless, but at least Dean didn't seem to be getting worse.
Dean rolled with effort onto his back and pushed the covers down to bare his chest. His skin was white with a bluish tinge, like marble, like a corpse.
Sam, startled, said, "Are you all right? Are you hot?" He put his hand against Dean's forehead. His skin was still cold and clammy.
"Please," Dean whispered.
He wiggled a little and sighed, then slowly he managed to lift his hand and take Sam's, pulling it down so it was resting on Dean's chest, between his nipples.
Dean inhaled, then sighed again like it was the first proper breath he'd taken all day. A slight flush spread up his chest and neck, and he looked at Sam, eyes deep with some knowledge he didn't want to share.
Suddenly burning, Sam snatched his hand back and stepped away from the bed. Dean's arm fell limp at his side, and his eyes went dull again, any knowledge in them frozen beneath the witch's spell.
*
He almost lost Dean that night.
Before he knew what it meant.
He curled up on the other bed, staring at the ceiling in the gloom and listening to Dean's teeth chatter.
Suddenly, he realized the chattering had stopped, that there was now eerie silence coming from Dean's bed. More frightened by this silence than by any noise, Sam sat up and turned the light on.
Dean was lying on his back, eyes staring upward, unmoving.
"Dean?" Sam climbed from his bed to Dean's. "Dean! Wake up," he said, frantic, then stilled, concentrating all his attention on finding Dean's heartbeat. Eventually, he felt it, thready and erratic, and much slower than it should be.
Dean blinked, and Sam was so relieved that he tugged Dean upright into a hug. Dean collapsed forwards, his head falling into the crook of Sam's shoulder.
"Please," Dean rumbled, the word more of a sound, lips moving against Sam's throat.
His hand had come up to rest against Sam's hip, playing with his t-shirt.
"Dean." It was half-question and half-statement, as Sam pushed Dean back and he fell against the pillow, skin pale as ice.
He blinked sluggishly, and Sam stared down at him.
Dean made a quiet noise, almost a word. Sam leaned over, cupping Dean's jaw. He watched, shocked, as color spread out from his hand, banishing the marble stillness and replacing it with quickening flesh. Sam put his other hand on the other side of his brother's face, and the same happened. Dean's misty eyes cleared, and the flush spread down his neck and over his collarbones, disappearing into his ratty grey button-up.
He's going to wither away without you, boy.
Sam snatched his hands back; then, like he couldn't help himself, he pushed up Dean's shirt and ran one hand up the center of Dean's chest. Dean arched and struggled upright, tugging at his shirt. Sam grabbed his hand to stop him destroying the shirt, but this made Dean stronger. With a strange grinding noise deep in his throat, he pulled the buttons off entirely and shrugged out of it.
"Sam," he groaned, begging. "You need to—I need—"
Sam understood. "Dean," he said. "Dean." He hoped his tone said, It's okay, because he couldn't quite force the words out himself.
He dragged his own t-shirt off and wrapped his arms around Dean's back, pressing his lips to the pulse point at the side of Dean's neck. As if he were breathing oxygen directly into Dean's veins, rich color spread out from his lips. He sat back a little and watched it, racing along under Dean's skin.
Dean groaned and twisted, and Sam realized that Dean was hard against his leg, pushing and rubbing, seeking.
"Okay," he said, swallowing, and reached down to brush his hand against Dean's cock.
Dean's gaze sharpened and caught Sam's. Suddenly Dean was dragging him down, backwards, until they were crowded together up against the headboard. Dean stared up at him, seeking, his chest working fast and shallow.
There was a feverish glow to Dean's skin where Sam had touched it, but it was fading; sweat was cooling on Dean's skin. Sam dropped onto his side, leg spread over Dean's, head pressed against Dean's shoulder. Dean's right arm was curled around Sam's shoulder like a vise, trapping him close.
Sam realized he was shaking, with fear, with adrenaline. He knew that they'd never be the same, but that was nothing considering that Dean could die. He had his brother's life in his hands, fragile and brittle, and he knew with gut wrenching, terrifying certainty, that he could do the smallest thing wrong here and just shatter it as quickly as dropping a stone figurine against concrete.
Trying to steady his arm, he ran it along Dean's side, crossing ribs and muscles set in stark relief, the flesh softening as he touched it. Dean rolled slightly, trapping his own cock in the crease between Sam's thigh and hip, his flesh burning into Sam's through the twin layers of boxers.
Dean moaned, and the sound came from deep within him. He was hot now, burning up under Sam's touch, muscles twitching and shifting sporadically like there was too much fire in him, like he was going to melt into lava.
Sam swallowed hard and tugged Dean's boxers down, tracing his finger along the inside of Dean's thigh, shaping muscle and flesh under his hand. Dean kicked his shorts right off, his legs falling apart, knees slightly crooked.
He pulled Sam down and in to him, the arm curled around Sam's shoulder tugging him close while the other one dragged Sam's free hand towards his cock.
Again, a noise that might once have been a word rose from Dean's throat, rough like the crunch of gravel.
The last of Sam's resistance fell to that desperate, alien noise, and he let Dean guide his hand, wrapping it around the base of Dean's cock, fingers spread out to brush his balls.
Dean released his hand and curled, nuzzling into Sam's neck, pressed so close Sam could feel his eyelashes, breath, lips, the muscles in his cheek jumping like there was an electric current coursing through Dean's body.
His mouth opened, tongue pressed against Sam's throat, drinking in the contact like it was water and he was dying of thirst, sweat pouring off his body and catching in the sheets. The whole room was sticky and sour, and all Sam could feel was his own hand around his brother's dick, and Dean's tongue lapping at his neck.
"Okay," said Sam, around the lump in his throat. "Okay."
He knew, right to the heavy feeling in his gut what Dean needed, but there was nothing he could use to—he'd just have to hope that what he could do was enough. Trying to catch his own struggling breath, Sam slid his hand slowly down Dean's cock, down past Dean's balls, brushing the soft, burning flesh beyond that and resting, finally, just shy of the entrance to Dean's body. Dean bucked and then curled his spine, feet braced against the crumpled coverlet so he could push his tailbone up and allow Sam better access, and Sam responded by moving so that he was half-covering Dean, pressing him back into the bed, and dipping the first knuckle of his index finger inside the tight ring of muscle.
His finger, slick with Dean's sweat but nothing else, caught and scraped a little, and Dean hissed, his mouth clamping shut against Sam's skin and barely avoiding taking out a chunk of flesh.
Slowly, Sam pulled back and then pushed his finger in past the first knuckle, and then the second, until his palm was flush with Dean's balls, his fingers spread out against Dean's ass. Dean's legs thrummed with energy as Sam pulled back once more. It was just a little movement, but it was enough; Dean's hips pushed off the bed one last time and he came, spilling across his stomach.
In that moment, all the tension fled his body. His arm, hooked around Sam's shoulder, became a dead weight, and Sam collapsed beside him. Dean was pliant as Sam tugged and turned him so they were curled on their sides, facing. Sam curled his fingers in the soft, sticky hair at Dean's nape, and they settled, foreheads touching, tangled together in the sweaty sheets.
Dean sighed, his eyes struggling open.
"Dean," Sam mumbled, and it came out sounding animalistic. "Dean."
Exhausted, he let his eyes slide shut, feeling vaguely the rise and fall as Dean sighed again, and settled closer, seeking Sam's warmth.
He'd almost lost Dean that night.
Please, he thought. Let it be enough.
He dreamed of beauty and flame, and the scent of incense.
When he woke up, they were still curled on the bed, forehead to forehead, Dean's slow deep breaths gusting across Sam's cheek. He tilted his head slightly and pressed his lips to Dean's. His brother wasn't icy cold and shaking, or burning hot and thrumming with frightening energy, and when Sam leant back and opened his eyes, he found Dean watching him. Alive.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-22 10:07 pm (UTC)This is gorgeous! I was wondering what fic you would choose, and this is one of my old favorites, so I was happy already when I saw the title. And the writing itself - I love visceral it is, how lush, that you took the scattered timeline of the original and righted it so we can see Sam's descent into real panic. Amazing. Thank you!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-29 04:37 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-05-03 08:06 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-23 08:19 am (UTC)Lovely. I've always enjoyed the well done "fuck or die" scenarios, and yours was definitely up there ^^ Thank you for sharing!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-29 04:37 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-29 05:38 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-30 04:01 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-02 04:39 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-01 03:40 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-11 10:25 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-03-18 11:17 am (UTC)