PixCT: 1-31
Jan. 31st, 2008 05:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pixel_0It's that time again...
Fic:
Slash (Dean/Sam)
Adult
~2300 words
- - - - -
A combination of fic, pic, and cock, and that's really all there is to it.
All About Cock Thursday
So Far
September 07
October 07
November 07
December 07
DruCT: 1-03
PixCT: 1-03
DruCT: 1-10
PixCT: 1-10
DruCT: 1-17
PixCT: 1-17
DruCT: 1-24
PixCT: 1-24
- - - - -
Today
DruCT: 1-31
My fic:
Slash (Wincest: Dean/Sam) oneshot
Adult rating
~2300 words
Sometimes I write things that make sense. This is not one of those times.
- - - - -
Pix's Pic Pick
- - - - -
When Dean Winchester was four years old, he saw his life burn away.
The fire started in a room down the hallway from where he slept and dreamt childish dreams. The fire burned his father’s hands and singed his eyebrows and hair. The fire destroyed his mother’s beauty and laughter, but spared her life by allowing her to watch the world from a wheelchair.
Outside, on the lawn as the firemen ran by and the ambulance workers hurried over to his mother lying on the grass, as the sirens wailed through the darkness and neighbors gaped in horror, Dean looked up at his father.
“Where’s Sammy?” he asked, peering through shaggy bangs and into his father’s sooty face. “Where’s Sammy? Did you save him too?”
John looked back at the house, which blazed high into the night, and he shook his head. Shook his head and sighed and said, “I’m sorry, Dean, I’m so sorry.”
The fire took away Dean’s only brother.
- - - - -
There are people who believe that parents have a favorite child. While the parents may never admit it to themselves and certainly never to their children, there still remains that favorite child. The son who can excel better in school or the daughter who can smile prettier than the others.
In a doctor’s office where they waited for Mom to return from yet another medical consult to see if there was any hope for her damaged nerves, Dean was reading through a parenting magazine about this very subject. He was six years old, closing in on seven, and he knew that he had once had a brother, even if the memory of Sammy’s face or the smell of his skin in the morning was quickly fading.
“Dad?” Dean asked, keeping his eyes focused on the words in front of him.
John grunted an acknowledgement. Since his wife’s accident and son’s death, he had hardened, closed himself off to everyone—even Dean—to protect what light he had left in him.
“Did you and Mom love Sam more than me? Do you wish that I had died instead of Sam?”
John stiffened for a moment, but he only said, “Don’t be silly, Dean.”
That was enough for Dean who had only wanted to hear, No.
- - - - -
When Dean was eleven years old, he met his great-aunt at Christmas. She wore a blanket over her legs and read a book in a language he didn’t understand. Dean sat by her because his parents were too immersed in their own world, too caught up in undying grief and trying to survive by clinging to one another, and he didn’t like talking to his cousins, who were too loud, too happy, simply—too much.
He sat next to the lady for a long time until she, not looking up from her book, said, “You miss your brother, doncha, kiddo?”
Startled, because no one had mentioned Sam since the fire took him away years ago, Dean replied, “You know about him?”
“‘Course I do,” she responded. “You haven’t been the same since he died.”
Dean sighed, picked at a dried spot of something from dinner on his jeans, and said, “I don’t think Mom and Dad wanted me as much as Sam. I don’t think they love me anymore.”
“Would you like to talk to Sam?” she asked, closing the book on her lap and using her index finger to mark the page.
Dean narrowed his eyes, confused. Didn’t this lady know that Sam was gone? Forever?
She reached around to the back of her neck and pulled off one of her many necklaces. This one was a small golden amulet with black string tying it together. Handing it to Dean, she said, “Here. Go on, you can have it.”
Reluctantly, he took it from her and held it tightly in his hands. She leaned down and whispered in his ear what he would need to do to see his brother again. When she pulled away, he was smiling for the first time that he could remember.
- - - - -
Late that night, well after his parents had gone to bed, Dean slipped downstairs. He pulled on his boots and jacket, gloves and hat, dressed himself in warm clothes and tiptoed outside.
The snow was falling softly, white dots in the night air beneath the barn light overhead, and he bent down to gather the snow in his hands. He rolled the snow into three balls, like a snowman, one big, one bigger, and then the biggest. Hefting them on top of one another, the figure in front of him did look very much like a clichéd snowman that he had seen one too many times in TV cartoons. He stepped forward and placed his great-aunt’s necklace over the snowman’s head and stood back.
He waited for a long moment, long enough that he began to believe that he had been lied to yet again and that nothing was going to happen and the only thing he would get tonight would be cold toes.
Then the snow began to melt off his snowman. It dropped off the figure in fat, wet piles, plopping sloppily into the pristine snow below. Horrified, Dean backed away unsteadily, hand coming over his mouth to hold back a scream.
Soon enough, the snow was gone, and in front of Dean, a young boy stood. He had shaggy brown hair that curled down over his forehead, and his naked skin was pale and smooth. When he lifted his eyes, Dean felt something hot drop into his stomach, and the boy said, “Dean.”
Hesitantly, clumsy and awkward in his snow clothes, Dean came forward and touched the boy’s face. “Sam?” His voice broke on that single word, and the boy in front of him smiled, pure and uninhibited.
“I’ve missed you,” this boy—Sam—said. “I thought you’d never find me.”
Dean threw his arms around the little boy and pulled him in tightly. “Sam,” he said. “Sam, Sam, Sam.” It was the only word he could remember in the flood of knowledge that his brother had somehow returned.
- - - - -
John and Mary couldn’t see Sam, despite all of Dean’s attempts. They just shook their heads and asked Dean to “please stop talking like that.”
Next to Dean, Sam shrugged and said, “I guess it didn’t work for them like it did for you.”
The two boys spent all of their time together. Sam wore Dean’s clothes even if they were a bit too big for him, and he did everything that Dean did. They rode the bus together, went to school and learned together. At dinner, Dean offered to set a plate for Sam, but Sam just said that he wasn’t hungry. They read stories together and curled under faded quilts in Dean’s bed when nighttime came.
“Where were you?” Dean whispered as they hid beneath the bedcovers, flashlights brought beneath their chins. “Where did you go?”
“Away, I guess,” Sam answered. “I don’t remember what it was like. It was dark and cold, and I missed Mom and Dad and you. I missed you talking to me.”
“But you’re back now,” Dean said.
“Yeah, I’m back now.”
- - - - -
Spring came and the snow disappeared from the ground to reveal baby green grass. Sam perched on the windowsill in Dean’s room and gazed outside, face pinched and distressed.
“What’s wrong?” Dean asked.
“I think it’s time for me to go back.”
“But…I thought you said…”
“I did say. I did. But I came in the winter,” Sam said, looking over his shoulder to meet Dean’s eyes. “It’s not winter anymore.”
It was so obvious that Dean couldn’t believe he’d overlooked such a fact.
“Are you coming back?” Dean asked.
“If you want me to.”
Dean nodded and went to the window. He undid the latch and lifted the window to let in the temperate breeze. It blew through Sam’s hair and ruffled the sleeves of Dean’s shirt.
“I’ll come back if you find me again,” Sam said as Dean looked away to wipe at his eyes.
“Okay,” Dean whispered. “Okay.” He thought that he was talking to Sam, but when he turned back, Sam was gone.
- - - - -
Every year, every winter on the first snowfall, Dean went outside at night and found Sam again. Every year, every time Dean spent hours by himself, John and Mary wondered and worried who their son was talking to and why he suddenly grew happier than all the months before. Every year, every spring when the birds began to sing, Sam left with the snow and Dean began his wait for winter.
- - - - -
The year that Dean was nineteen and Sam was fifteen, they had turned off the lights to sleep when Sam leaned forward and kissed Dean. His lips were surprisingly warm and soft, and Dean jerked back so violently that he fell out of bed and toppled onto the floor.
When Sam crawled to the edge of the bed and peered down, Dean asked, “What the hell was that?”
“I…I don’t know,” Sam admitted. “I just. I don’t know. I’m sorry, Dean, I’m sorry. It just happened, okay? I’m sorry, it really did just happen. I didn’t mean—”
Breathing heavily, Dean rose to unsteady feet and sat down on the bed next to Sam. His mind was spinning and he couldn’t concentrate. He knew the difference between right and wrong, what brothers should and shouldn’t do, and he felt sick to his stomach.
That night, after Sam finally went back to sleep, Dean remained awake, unable to find rest.
- - - - -
That same year, when spring was on the horizon and Sam was soon to be leaving, Dean asked him—as he always did—if Sam was coming back.
Sam smiled. He knew the answer to this question as sure as his own name, and he knew that Dean needed the reassurance more than anything else. Yet, as soon as he opened his mouth to tell Dean what he needed to hear, Dean surged into him, mouths coming together.
“Sam,” Dean breathed, hand coming to curl in the collar of Sam’s shirt. “Don’t go, don’t go, dammit.”
“I have to…” Sam whispered, trying to talk through the kisses. “I have to go.”
Dean wrapped his hands around Sam’s face, brought their foreheads together and said, “I’m coming with you someday, I promise. I can’t let you keep leaving like this.”
Sam’s smile faded away with the first sweep of warm spring breeze, leaving Dean holding his brother’s clothes and the necklace that had brought him back.
- - - - -
The next year, Dean moved out and got his own apartment. With a backpack full of clothes for his brother, he went to the park to find enough snow to bring Sam back, and they embraced each other next to the slide and kissed fiercely, madly, when they stumbled into Dean’s apartment, drunk on each other.
Sam shoved Dean back against the door, and Dean wondered when Sam had grown so tall, had grown into a man and out of a little boy.
“I’ll stop if you want,” Sam said. His skin was flushed and his nose was still cold from the outside. Sam had a hand on Dean’s hip and another on Dean’s face.
Dean smiled up at Sam. “That’s not what I want. Not at all.”
And Sam laughed and said, “Okay then.”
- - - - -
They learned each other’s bodies during the winter of that year. They learned the weight and taste of the other’s cock and what touches invited gasps and shudders. They learned how to kiss when the sun, still premature gray and pink, peeked in through the window and awoke them from sleep entwined together.
At night while the snow fell quiet and endless outside, Dean pulled Sam close and whispered, “I’m not letting you leave without me this time.”
Sam tucked his head beneath Dean’s chin and ran his fingers over Dean’s chest. His breath was warm on Dean’s bare skin. He didn’t say anything.
- - - - -
In the spring, Sam waited at the doorway while Dean finished eating breakfast. As soon as they opened the door, Sam would be gone.
“If you go with me,” Sam said, leaning against the door with his hair still damp from their shared shower that morning, “we won’t be able to come back. There won’t be anybody else to find us and bring us back here.”
Dean stood, put his bowl and spoon in the sink, and didn’t bother to wash it. “Yeah, I know that.” He walked over to Sam and said, “That’s just a risk I’m willing to take.”
After pulling off the necklace, Sam handed it to Dean. They joined hands, let the black cord lace itself between their fingers, and Sam looked down at Dean. “Ready?”
Dean nodded. He wasn’t afraid. He had lost Sam once and had seen his brother disappear every year for too long now, and he wouldn’t let Sam, the only person who mattered, go on without him again.
Sam reached for the door and pulled it open. The warm air hit Dean in a rush, and he closed his eyes. Everything fell away, and there was silence.
- - - - -
“Dean,” Sam was saying. “Dean, we’re here. We made it.”
Dean felt Sam’s hands, warm and strong, on his shoulders, shaking him, and he opened his eyes. When he looked around him, he smiled and grabbed Sam to pull him down onto the ground so they tumbled. Together.
End
Fic:
- - - - -
A combination of fic, pic, and cock, and that's really all there is to it.
All About Cock Thursday
So Far
- - - - -
Today
Pix's Pic Pick
When Dean Winchester was four years old, he saw his life burn away.
The fire started in a room down the hallway from where he slept and dreamt childish dreams. The fire burned his father’s hands and singed his eyebrows and hair. The fire destroyed his mother’s beauty and laughter, but spared her life by allowing her to watch the world from a wheelchair.
Outside, on the lawn as the firemen ran by and the ambulance workers hurried over to his mother lying on the grass, as the sirens wailed through the darkness and neighbors gaped in horror, Dean looked up at his father.
“Where’s Sammy?” he asked, peering through shaggy bangs and into his father’s sooty face. “Where’s Sammy? Did you save him too?”
John looked back at the house, which blazed high into the night, and he shook his head. Shook his head and sighed and said, “I’m sorry, Dean, I’m so sorry.”
The fire took away Dean’s only brother.
There are people who believe that parents have a favorite child. While the parents may never admit it to themselves and certainly never to their children, there still remains that favorite child. The son who can excel better in school or the daughter who can smile prettier than the others.
In a doctor’s office where they waited for Mom to return from yet another medical consult to see if there was any hope for her damaged nerves, Dean was reading through a parenting magazine about this very subject. He was six years old, closing in on seven, and he knew that he had once had a brother, even if the memory of Sammy’s face or the smell of his skin in the morning was quickly fading.
“Dad?” Dean asked, keeping his eyes focused on the words in front of him.
John grunted an acknowledgement. Since his wife’s accident and son’s death, he had hardened, closed himself off to everyone—even Dean—to protect what light he had left in him.
“Did you and Mom love Sam more than me? Do you wish that I had died instead of Sam?”
John stiffened for a moment, but he only said, “Don’t be silly, Dean.”
That was enough for Dean who had only wanted to hear, No.
When Dean was eleven years old, he met his great-aunt at Christmas. She wore a blanket over her legs and read a book in a language he didn’t understand. Dean sat by her because his parents were too immersed in their own world, too caught up in undying grief and trying to survive by clinging to one another, and he didn’t like talking to his cousins, who were too loud, too happy, simply—too much.
He sat next to the lady for a long time until she, not looking up from her book, said, “You miss your brother, doncha, kiddo?”
Startled, because no one had mentioned Sam since the fire took him away years ago, Dean replied, “You know about him?”
“‘Course I do,” she responded. “You haven’t been the same since he died.”
Dean sighed, picked at a dried spot of something from dinner on his jeans, and said, “I don’t think Mom and Dad wanted me as much as Sam. I don’t think they love me anymore.”
“Would you like to talk to Sam?” she asked, closing the book on her lap and using her index finger to mark the page.
Dean narrowed his eyes, confused. Didn’t this lady know that Sam was gone? Forever?
She reached around to the back of her neck and pulled off one of her many necklaces. This one was a small golden amulet with black string tying it together. Handing it to Dean, she said, “Here. Go on, you can have it.”
Reluctantly, he took it from her and held it tightly in his hands. She leaned down and whispered in his ear what he would need to do to see his brother again. When she pulled away, he was smiling for the first time that he could remember.
Late that night, well after his parents had gone to bed, Dean slipped downstairs. He pulled on his boots and jacket, gloves and hat, dressed himself in warm clothes and tiptoed outside.
The snow was falling softly, white dots in the night air beneath the barn light overhead, and he bent down to gather the snow in his hands. He rolled the snow into three balls, like a snowman, one big, one bigger, and then the biggest. Hefting them on top of one another, the figure in front of him did look very much like a clichéd snowman that he had seen one too many times in TV cartoons. He stepped forward and placed his great-aunt’s necklace over the snowman’s head and stood back.
He waited for a long moment, long enough that he began to believe that he had been lied to yet again and that nothing was going to happen and the only thing he would get tonight would be cold toes.
Then the snow began to melt off his snowman. It dropped off the figure in fat, wet piles, plopping sloppily into the pristine snow below. Horrified, Dean backed away unsteadily, hand coming over his mouth to hold back a scream.
Soon enough, the snow was gone, and in front of Dean, a young boy stood. He had shaggy brown hair that curled down over his forehead, and his naked skin was pale and smooth. When he lifted his eyes, Dean felt something hot drop into his stomach, and the boy said, “Dean.”
Hesitantly, clumsy and awkward in his snow clothes, Dean came forward and touched the boy’s face. “Sam?” His voice broke on that single word, and the boy in front of him smiled, pure and uninhibited.
“I’ve missed you,” this boy—Sam—said. “I thought you’d never find me.”
Dean threw his arms around the little boy and pulled him in tightly. “Sam,” he said. “Sam, Sam, Sam.” It was the only word he could remember in the flood of knowledge that his brother had somehow returned.
John and Mary couldn’t see Sam, despite all of Dean’s attempts. They just shook their heads and asked Dean to “please stop talking like that.”
Next to Dean, Sam shrugged and said, “I guess it didn’t work for them like it did for you.”
The two boys spent all of their time together. Sam wore Dean’s clothes even if they were a bit too big for him, and he did everything that Dean did. They rode the bus together, went to school and learned together. At dinner, Dean offered to set a plate for Sam, but Sam just said that he wasn’t hungry. They read stories together and curled under faded quilts in Dean’s bed when nighttime came.
“Where were you?” Dean whispered as they hid beneath the bedcovers, flashlights brought beneath their chins. “Where did you go?”
“Away, I guess,” Sam answered. “I don’t remember what it was like. It was dark and cold, and I missed Mom and Dad and you. I missed you talking to me.”
“But you’re back now,” Dean said.
“Yeah, I’m back now.”
Spring came and the snow disappeared from the ground to reveal baby green grass. Sam perched on the windowsill in Dean’s room and gazed outside, face pinched and distressed.
“What’s wrong?” Dean asked.
“I think it’s time for me to go back.”
“But…I thought you said…”
“I did say. I did. But I came in the winter,” Sam said, looking over his shoulder to meet Dean’s eyes. “It’s not winter anymore.”
It was so obvious that Dean couldn’t believe he’d overlooked such a fact.
“Are you coming back?” Dean asked.
“If you want me to.”
Dean nodded and went to the window. He undid the latch and lifted the window to let in the temperate breeze. It blew through Sam’s hair and ruffled the sleeves of Dean’s shirt.
“I’ll come back if you find me again,” Sam said as Dean looked away to wipe at his eyes.
“Okay,” Dean whispered. “Okay.” He thought that he was talking to Sam, but when he turned back, Sam was gone.
Every year, every winter on the first snowfall, Dean went outside at night and found Sam again. Every year, every time Dean spent hours by himself, John and Mary wondered and worried who their son was talking to and why he suddenly grew happier than all the months before. Every year, every spring when the birds began to sing, Sam left with the snow and Dean began his wait for winter.
The year that Dean was nineteen and Sam was fifteen, they had turned off the lights to sleep when Sam leaned forward and kissed Dean. His lips were surprisingly warm and soft, and Dean jerked back so violently that he fell out of bed and toppled onto the floor.
When Sam crawled to the edge of the bed and peered down, Dean asked, “What the hell was that?”
“I…I don’t know,” Sam admitted. “I just. I don’t know. I’m sorry, Dean, I’m sorry. It just happened, okay? I’m sorry, it really did just happen. I didn’t mean—”
Breathing heavily, Dean rose to unsteady feet and sat down on the bed next to Sam. His mind was spinning and he couldn’t concentrate. He knew the difference between right and wrong, what brothers should and shouldn’t do, and he felt sick to his stomach.
That night, after Sam finally went back to sleep, Dean remained awake, unable to find rest.
That same year, when spring was on the horizon and Sam was soon to be leaving, Dean asked him—as he always did—if Sam was coming back.
Sam smiled. He knew the answer to this question as sure as his own name, and he knew that Dean needed the reassurance more than anything else. Yet, as soon as he opened his mouth to tell Dean what he needed to hear, Dean surged into him, mouths coming together.
“Sam,” Dean breathed, hand coming to curl in the collar of Sam’s shirt. “Don’t go, don’t go, dammit.”
“I have to…” Sam whispered, trying to talk through the kisses. “I have to go.”
Dean wrapped his hands around Sam’s face, brought their foreheads together and said, “I’m coming with you someday, I promise. I can’t let you keep leaving like this.”
Sam’s smile faded away with the first sweep of warm spring breeze, leaving Dean holding his brother’s clothes and the necklace that had brought him back.
The next year, Dean moved out and got his own apartment. With a backpack full of clothes for his brother, he went to the park to find enough snow to bring Sam back, and they embraced each other next to the slide and kissed fiercely, madly, when they stumbled into Dean’s apartment, drunk on each other.
Sam shoved Dean back against the door, and Dean wondered when Sam had grown so tall, had grown into a man and out of a little boy.
“I’ll stop if you want,” Sam said. His skin was flushed and his nose was still cold from the outside. Sam had a hand on Dean’s hip and another on Dean’s face.
Dean smiled up at Sam. “That’s not what I want. Not at all.”
And Sam laughed and said, “Okay then.”
They learned each other’s bodies during the winter of that year. They learned the weight and taste of the other’s cock and what touches invited gasps and shudders. They learned how to kiss when the sun, still premature gray and pink, peeked in through the window and awoke them from sleep entwined together.
At night while the snow fell quiet and endless outside, Dean pulled Sam close and whispered, “I’m not letting you leave without me this time.”
Sam tucked his head beneath Dean’s chin and ran his fingers over Dean’s chest. His breath was warm on Dean’s bare skin. He didn’t say anything.
In the spring, Sam waited at the doorway while Dean finished eating breakfast. As soon as they opened the door, Sam would be gone.
“If you go with me,” Sam said, leaning against the door with his hair still damp from their shared shower that morning, “we won’t be able to come back. There won’t be anybody else to find us and bring us back here.”
Dean stood, put his bowl and spoon in the sink, and didn’t bother to wash it. “Yeah, I know that.” He walked over to Sam and said, “That’s just a risk I’m willing to take.”
After pulling off the necklace, Sam handed it to Dean. They joined hands, let the black cord lace itself between their fingers, and Sam looked down at Dean. “Ready?”
Dean nodded. He wasn’t afraid. He had lost Sam once and had seen his brother disappear every year for too long now, and he wouldn’t let Sam, the only person who mattered, go on without him again.
Sam reached for the door and pulled it open. The warm air hit Dean in a rush, and he closed his eyes. Everything fell away, and there was silence.
“Dean,” Sam was saying. “Dean, we’re here. We made it.”
Dean felt Sam’s hands, warm and strong, on his shoulders, shaking him, and he opened his eyes. When he looked around him, he smiled and grabbed Sam to pull him down onto the ground so they tumbled. Together.
End
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-02-02 05:02 pm (UTC)This. Is an awesome idea turned into an even AWESOMER story. I love it!
(I will have to start building snowmen in hopes of finding big, man Sam, too, hahahaha)
:D
no subject
Date: 2008-02-05 05:19 pm (UTC)*pulls on gloves and hat* Heh.
Thank you! :)