PixCT: 2-07
Feb. 7th, 2008 04:10 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
~1070
- - - - -
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
January 08
- - - - -
Today
DruCT: 2-07
My fic:
Slash (Wincest: Dean/Sam) oneshot
Adult rating
~1070 words
- - - - -
Dru's Pic Pick
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There's a beauty, sometimes, in the act of forgetting. In the ability to let yourself forget. As sweet as that beauty may be, it is just that much uglier, just that much more painful, when the memory comes rushing back, only to realize that beauty--as it does with people-- fades here too.
Now, that beauty, that luster is flaking away in chunks of gold to reveal dirty brown beneath as you stand in the stairwell and listen to Dean's words. He's talking, low and rushed, and not making eye contact, glancing up and down the marbeled stairs as if he expects someone to appear from their room at this hour of the night--no, morning, you correct yourself--except everyone's been asleep for a long time. Dean smells like food grease and car grease, gasoline and gunpowder, like the road and home, which you remember is just one in the same anyway. His jacket's a bit sloppy on his shoulders--hasn't been eating well, you can tell--but his eyes are as bright as they've always been, and you know that this, that him standing before you now is just beauty breaking.
You wonder if you still have time to put things back together before you lose it all.
What do you want, Dean? you finally ask because his words, rambling, careless and empty are making scarred memories bleed, and suddenly, you're angry and frightened, and you can't even begin to explain why. Not to him. Certainly not to yourself.
He wipes at his bottom lip, chapped and peeling with the edge of his thumb, and he turns his eyes away. Says, Isn't it obvious? and you know, sure as the low ache in your gut and the flash of heat on your cheeks what he's doing here.
And you shake your head, focus your attention elsewhere, on the wrought iron tendrils blood-red in the dim light, and you say, No. We can't. I won't.
You got a girl now? he wants to know, like he hasn't already pried his way into your records and files, like he hasn't sat in his car for the past two nights watching you and Jess through your illuminated window, like. Like he hasn't been hovering around your every step since you came to California.
You tell him, Yes. She's up there. Jerk of your head up the stairs in the direction of your apartment door. Sleeping. She's what matters now.
And I don't? he asks because he knows how to fuck with your head and he knows you, bone to blood and inside out.
I didn't say that, you sigh, tighten your hands into fists, feeling thin and weary, and all too fragile in his presence. When did things become like this between the two of you? You used to speak in rolling, soft breaths. Now your whispers pierce and bite.
I miss you, he says, stumbles a bit closer to press you into the corner, and the wall behind you is cold through the thin t-shirt you wore to bed.
You're drunk, you try to make the both of you believe. You don't know what you're saying.
'Course I do. He snorts, bitter and sardonic. I didn't drive thousands of fucking miles just to show up here smashed.
You know there's no lie within his words, and so close now, you feel your beauty, your selected amnesia of this crumbling, and you swallow. Your knees are weakening, and you reach out a hand to steady yourself, only to find your fist closing into the sweet leather of his coat. It's where you've always come to land.
Tell me to go, he says, look me in the eye and really, honestly, tell me to leave and I will. He's telling the truth now. Of course he is. He has been since he got here. You're the one filled with lies and false pieces of a life that isn't yours for the taking.
You shake your head. Can't speak because his fingers are slipping past the elastic band of your pajama pants, and his hand wraps around your cock.
Your head rolls back, mouth opening, gaping in a silent cry, and he leans in tight, presses himself hard against you, barely any room for him to move his wrist. But he does, and the feel of his hands on you again is so sweet and forgotten you want to weep at it all coming back so hard and fast like this.
Your eyes lock with his and you're choking back helpless little sounds and he's grunting hot, fleshy noises that echo in the stairwell, and you're just waiting for Jessica to poke her head out of the door and say, Sam, baby, what are you doing?
You cling, adrift and tossed about--without him--to him and you let him hold, let him carry you as he always has and always did.
Noses touching, eyes huge and wide so close together, breathing each other's air, you whisper, Dean, Dean, I...
I've got you, he says. I got ya, Sammy.
You come with your eyes closed, with the feeling of his cheek, prickled unshaven against your own, and the smell of him filling your head.
He wipes his hand off on his jeans, leaves shiny, sticky smears of you on his clothing for all to see, and you know he doesn't give a damn one way or the other.
You swallow--haven't even kissed him yet--and ask, Want me to...? You don't finish, don't really know how to properly name exactly what you two share.
He smirks, soft and fleeting, shakes his head. Nah, 'm good. I'll let you get back to that girl of yours.
He turns, leaves you panting in the corner, and he moves down the stairs, away from you, out of your life--
Dean, you say, wait.
He stops, looks over his shoulder as you come forward. Stand at the top step to his bottom place, and you smile faintly, just enough warmth on your lips for him to know you're not joking when you say, Don't stay away so long next time, okay?
Okay, he says, and he smiles, and that, this right here on his face with eyes alight and lips curving is beauty. Beauty broken, yes, and beauty forgotten, but beauty so sweet, so long missed and. So needed.
End
"Goodbye" by Hootie and the Blowfish and "Hallelujah" sang by k.d. lang
Fic:
- - - - -
A combination of fic, pic, and cock, and that's really all there is to it.
All About Cock Thursday
So Far
- - - - -
Today
Dru's Pic Pick
There's a beauty, sometimes, in the act of forgetting. In the ability to let yourself forget. As sweet as that beauty may be, it is just that much uglier, just that much more painful, when the memory comes rushing back, only to realize that beauty--as it does with people-- fades here too.
Now, that beauty, that luster is flaking away in chunks of gold to reveal dirty brown beneath as you stand in the stairwell and listen to Dean's words. He's talking, low and rushed, and not making eye contact, glancing up and down the marbeled stairs as if he expects someone to appear from their room at this hour of the night--no, morning, you correct yourself--except everyone's been asleep for a long time. Dean smells like food grease and car grease, gasoline and gunpowder, like the road and home, which you remember is just one in the same anyway. His jacket's a bit sloppy on his shoulders--hasn't been eating well, you can tell--but his eyes are as bright as they've always been, and you know that this, that him standing before you now is just beauty breaking.
You wonder if you still have time to put things back together before you lose it all.
What do you want, Dean? you finally ask because his words, rambling, careless and empty are making scarred memories bleed, and suddenly, you're angry and frightened, and you can't even begin to explain why. Not to him. Certainly not to yourself.
He wipes at his bottom lip, chapped and peeling with the edge of his thumb, and he turns his eyes away. Says, Isn't it obvious? and you know, sure as the low ache in your gut and the flash of heat on your cheeks what he's doing here.
And you shake your head, focus your attention elsewhere, on the wrought iron tendrils blood-red in the dim light, and you say, No. We can't. I won't.
You got a girl now? he wants to know, like he hasn't already pried his way into your records and files, like he hasn't sat in his car for the past two nights watching you and Jess through your illuminated window, like. Like he hasn't been hovering around your every step since you came to California.
You tell him, Yes. She's up there. Jerk of your head up the stairs in the direction of your apartment door. Sleeping. She's what matters now.
And I don't? he asks because he knows how to fuck with your head and he knows you, bone to blood and inside out.
I didn't say that, you sigh, tighten your hands into fists, feeling thin and weary, and all too fragile in his presence. When did things become like this between the two of you? You used to speak in rolling, soft breaths. Now your whispers pierce and bite.
I miss you, he says, stumbles a bit closer to press you into the corner, and the wall behind you is cold through the thin t-shirt you wore to bed.
You're drunk, you try to make the both of you believe. You don't know what you're saying.
'Course I do. He snorts, bitter and sardonic. I didn't drive thousands of fucking miles just to show up here smashed.
You know there's no lie within his words, and so close now, you feel your beauty, your selected amnesia of this crumbling, and you swallow. Your knees are weakening, and you reach out a hand to steady yourself, only to find your fist closing into the sweet leather of his coat. It's where you've always come to land.
Tell me to go, he says, look me in the eye and really, honestly, tell me to leave and I will. He's telling the truth now. Of course he is. He has been since he got here. You're the one filled with lies and false pieces of a life that isn't yours for the taking.
You shake your head. Can't speak because his fingers are slipping past the elastic band of your pajama pants, and his hand wraps around your cock.
Your head rolls back, mouth opening, gaping in a silent cry, and he leans in tight, presses himself hard against you, barely any room for him to move his wrist. But he does, and the feel of his hands on you again is so sweet and forgotten you want to weep at it all coming back so hard and fast like this.
Your eyes lock with his and you're choking back helpless little sounds and he's grunting hot, fleshy noises that echo in the stairwell, and you're just waiting for Jessica to poke her head out of the door and say, Sam, baby, what are you doing?
You cling, adrift and tossed about--without him--to him and you let him hold, let him carry you as he always has and always did.
Noses touching, eyes huge and wide so close together, breathing each other's air, you whisper, Dean, Dean, I...
I've got you, he says. I got ya, Sammy.
You come with your eyes closed, with the feeling of his cheek, prickled unshaven against your own, and the smell of him filling your head.
He wipes his hand off on his jeans, leaves shiny, sticky smears of you on his clothing for all to see, and you know he doesn't give a damn one way or the other.
You swallow--haven't even kissed him yet--and ask, Want me to...? You don't finish, don't really know how to properly name exactly what you two share.
He smirks, soft and fleeting, shakes his head. Nah, 'm good. I'll let you get back to that girl of yours.
He turns, leaves you panting in the corner, and he moves down the stairs, away from you, out of your life--
Dean, you say, wait.
He stops, looks over his shoulder as you come forward. Stand at the top step to his bottom place, and you smile faintly, just enough warmth on your lips for him to know you're not joking when you say, Don't stay away so long next time, okay?
Okay, he says, and he smiles, and that, this right here on his face with eyes alight and lips curving is beauty. Beauty broken, yes, and beauty forgotten, but beauty so sweet, so long missed and. So needed.
End
"Goodbye" by Hootie and the Blowfish and "Hallelujah" sang by k.d. lang
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-02-07 09:11 pm (UTC)You cling, adrift and tossed about--without him--to him and you let him hold, let him carry you as he always has and always did.
What I think is best about this is tho it's everything "for Sam," it's also exactly what Dean needs.
It's oddly nice where it ends-- imperfect as ever, because they have to maintain this decided upon separation-- and yet not completely lost. Yis. Oh, and atypical? I like. A lot.
♥
no subject
Date: 2008-02-07 09:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-07 09:27 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-07 09:41 pm (UTC):)
no subject
Date: 2008-02-07 10:50 pm (UTC)Hon, if this had a title, what would it be? -smile-
no subject
Date: 2008-02-08 12:21 am (UTC)Gorgeous, hon. *smish*
no subject
Date: 2008-02-08 05:47 am (UTC)Love this. And I especially love the symmetries in the beginning and the ending.
There's a beauty, sometimes, in the act of forgetting. -- As sweet as that beauty may be, it is just that much uglier, just that much more painful, when the memory comes rushing back, only to realize that beauty--as it does with people-- fades here too.
.
.
.
Beauty broken, yes, and beauty forgotten, but beauty so sweet, so long missed and. So needed.
Perfect!
no subject
Date: 2008-02-08 02:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-08 03:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-10 07:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-10 10:42 pm (UTC)You: awesome, this Fic: amazing, thursday: hell ya!
no subject
Date: 2008-02-11 12:31 am (UTC)Thanks,
Lynsey
no subject
Date: 2008-02-11 06:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-19 03:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-19 03:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-19 03:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-19 03:28 pm (UTC)Title? Oh, I am absolutely horrible with titles, I really am. If I had my way, I'd just number all my fics. ;) Still. If I had to title this, I'd do some take on the word "beauty," I suppose. :)
no subject
Date: 2008-02-19 03:28 pm (UTC)*smishes back*
no subject
Date: 2008-02-19 03:30 pm (UTC)And yes, the symmetry. I'm a big dork when it comes to things like that, so I love it when people notice it too. :)
Thank you again so much! :)
no subject
Date: 2008-02-19 03:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-19 03:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-19 03:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-19 03:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-19 03:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-19 03:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-19 03:35 pm (UTC)Atypical, yes, but I also like it quite a bit too. Perhaps different is better. ;)
♥