PixCT: 3-06
Mar. 6th, 2008 04:32 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
~1190 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
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Today
DruCT: 3-06
My fic:
Slash (Wincest: Dean/Sam) oneshot
Adult rating
~1190 words
- - - - -
Dru's Pic Pick
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There are two doors, one of each side of the room. There are two sets of stairs, one on the outside of each door. One set goes up. One set goes down.
They meet in the middle of the room and stand, staring and studying. Dirt on faces and blood beneath fingernails. Dean's got a bruise that follows the line of his jaw, and Sam's got a scar that curves above his eye to meet the top of his nose. The brothers are broken, worse for the wear as the old saying goes, but they're here, and in spite of it all, that's pretty damn good.
"I forgot it was your turn to pick the room," Dean says. His voice is real, and it's honest. These are his words, his sarcasm, and his wrinkle of the nose as looks around at the spiraled patterns and the creeping floral decor.
"It just seemed right," Sam answers, shrugs. The decorations are chaotic but almost comforting so.
Dean reaches up, touches the scar by Sam's eye, and says, "You could’ve gone blind. Should be more careful next time."
"I'll try to remember that," Sam replies, but they both know it's hard to be careful when there's so much after him. So much at stake if he doesn’t follow through with his promises.
Dean smiles, soft and smirking, and he lets his hand linger on Sam's face, drops it down to cup the back of Sam's neck. "Remember the last room we got?"
Sam rolls his eyes, groans at the memory of Dean's pick for when they previously got together like this. So typically Dean. Sam will never admit it aloud, but it pains him to remember it because in remembering the room, he remembers Dean.
"I'd rather not," he admits, and Dean laughs. "How 'bout we just talk? Or something?" Sam asks, but he knows that they won't talk. Not for long anyway. They don't come here to shoot the shit. They don't have time for that now. If they're going to talk, it's going to be when they're pleading, gasping, begging for more and now and please, yes, please.
But, Dean, cocky bastard he is, leans back on his heels and says, "What'd you want to talk about, Sammy?"
Sam wants to say they should talk about how they don't see each other except for these brief moments now. He wants to talk about how they can change that. He wants to talk about everything that happened between them and around them, and he wants to talk about he'd give it all up, destroy every last bit of what he has, if he could have Dean back beside him.
Dean stares and watches the way Sam's face darkens, the gloom and shadows that sets over his brother, and he sighs, heavy and sad, and he says, "Y'know we can't change that. You know that. This is the best we got. We should make it count."
Looking away to the windows where the curtains are drawn tight--don't want to see what's outside --Sam shakes his head. He doesn't know if he can keep doing this anymore. It’s getting to be too hard, knowing what they had, reliving it all for a few fragile moments only to rip it away so cruelly every time.
Interrupting his thoughts of what waits outside the windows, Dean's tugs him closer, hand on a hip and another one on the side of his face, whispering, "Ssh, ssh, it's gonna be okay. C'mon, Sam, it'll work out eventually," and he stands, nearly on tiptoes to kiss the corner of Sam's mouth, light and sweet. He brushes his fingers through Sam's hair and pulls him carefully to the bed.
They don't really collapse, don't really tumble, merely ease down onto the colorful blankets, arms wrapped around each other, afraid to let go and be apart. Dean is below Sam, hands slipping down the back of Sam's jeans, and Sam is kissing with his eyes closed, trying to memorize every taste and sound so he can protect this moment until the next time they're together.
Dean spreads his legs, let them fall open so Sam can settle between, cocks hot through denim, and right here, right now, Sam finally feels like he can breathe.
"Love you," Sam murmurs, while kissing Dean, "love you so much."
Smiling into Sam's neck, Dean whispers, "Damn you, Sam, damn you." There's wetness, warm against Sam's skin, and he doesn't have to lift his head to see the tears. He doesn't blame Dean for his words, doesn't hate or argue with him.
Sam damns himself every day for what happened between the two of them.
They lay together for hours, drinking each other in, and their words fit between kisses as whispers and secrets. They swear and cry, gasp and come. Even though they feel free in this little world they've created, they know their time is limited. Finally, when they're quiet and Sam's head is tucked beneath Dean's chin and they're sleeping, peaceful and easy, the phonograph across the room begins to play. It's a scratchy tune, a song they’ll never be able to name or sing the lyrics, but they know its meaning—its purpose—all too well.
Dean opens his eyes and nudges Sam awake. They dress wordlessly, lumps in throats and eyes bleary bloodshot, and when they're finished, they stand in the middle of the room to say good-bye.
"Next time, you pick the place?" Sam asks, and Dean nods.
"I'll make sure it's something good. I’m thinking a beach. How does a tropical paradise sound?"
They hug, a little bit awkwardly, because they know what waits for them after they leave here. They know all too well what waits for them.
Dean slaps Sam on the shoulder, says, "Go get 'em, tiger. Make me proud, okay?"
Sam’s smile is sick. He wears it only to keep Dean strong.
They turn away and walk to the doors on the opposite sides of the room. Dean goes to one door. Sam goes to one door. They open the doors and step outside to the stairs that lead them apart.
Outside the door, the demons greet Dean, take him away on the stairs that go down to Hell.
Outside the door, the demons greet Sam, follow him eagerly on the stairs that go up to Earth.
Dean disappears into a cloud of smoke. His skin, his image and beauty that the demons created only for this rare moment fall away, and his soul that he sold to save his brother becomes a prisoner once again alongside the hundreds of demons who keep him company in the land of fire and brimstone.
His screams are silent. His tears go unnoticed.
Sam falls to his knees on parched earth. Behind, the demons who became his followers chortle to remind him that while he may be their leader, they are the ones who create these rare moments for the brothers, and he lifts his face toward the sky to let the acid rain fall on his skin.
His screams are deafening. His tears go unnoticed.
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
Dru's Pic Pick
There are two doors, one of each side of the room. There are two sets of stairs, one on the outside of each door. One set goes up. One set goes down.
They meet in the middle of the room and stand, staring and studying. Dirt on faces and blood beneath fingernails. Dean's got a bruise that follows the line of his jaw, and Sam's got a scar that curves above his eye to meet the top of his nose. The brothers are broken, worse for the wear as the old saying goes, but they're here, and in spite of it all, that's pretty damn good.
"I forgot it was your turn to pick the room," Dean says. His voice is real, and it's honest. These are his words, his sarcasm, and his wrinkle of the nose as looks around at the spiraled patterns and the creeping floral decor.
"It just seemed right," Sam answers, shrugs. The decorations are chaotic but almost comforting so.
Dean reaches up, touches the scar by Sam's eye, and says, "You could’ve gone blind. Should be more careful next time."
"I'll try to remember that," Sam replies, but they both know it's hard to be careful when there's so much after him. So much at stake if he doesn’t follow through with his promises.
Dean smiles, soft and smirking, and he lets his hand linger on Sam's face, drops it down to cup the back of Sam's neck. "Remember the last room we got?"
Sam rolls his eyes, groans at the memory of Dean's pick for when they previously got together like this. So typically Dean. Sam will never admit it aloud, but it pains him to remember it because in remembering the room, he remembers Dean.
"I'd rather not," he admits, and Dean laughs. "How 'bout we just talk? Or something?" Sam asks, but he knows that they won't talk. Not for long anyway. They don't come here to shoot the shit. They don't have time for that now. If they're going to talk, it's going to be when they're pleading, gasping, begging for more and now and please, yes, please.
But, Dean, cocky bastard he is, leans back on his heels and says, "What'd you want to talk about, Sammy?"
Sam wants to say they should talk about how they don't see each other except for these brief moments now. He wants to talk about how they can change that. He wants to talk about everything that happened between them and around them, and he wants to talk about he'd give it all up, destroy every last bit of what he has, if he could have Dean back beside him.
Dean stares and watches the way Sam's face darkens, the gloom and shadows that sets over his brother, and he sighs, heavy and sad, and he says, "Y'know we can't change that. You know that. This is the best we got. We should make it count."
Looking away to the windows where the curtains are drawn tight--don't want to see what's outside --Sam shakes his head. He doesn't know if he can keep doing this anymore. It’s getting to be too hard, knowing what they had, reliving it all for a few fragile moments only to rip it away so cruelly every time.
Interrupting his thoughts of what waits outside the windows, Dean's tugs him closer, hand on a hip and another one on the side of his face, whispering, "Ssh, ssh, it's gonna be okay. C'mon, Sam, it'll work out eventually," and he stands, nearly on tiptoes to kiss the corner of Sam's mouth, light and sweet. He brushes his fingers through Sam's hair and pulls him carefully to the bed.
They don't really collapse, don't really tumble, merely ease down onto the colorful blankets, arms wrapped around each other, afraid to let go and be apart. Dean is below Sam, hands slipping down the back of Sam's jeans, and Sam is kissing with his eyes closed, trying to memorize every taste and sound so he can protect this moment until the next time they're together.
Dean spreads his legs, let them fall open so Sam can settle between, cocks hot through denim, and right here, right now, Sam finally feels like he can breathe.
"Love you," Sam murmurs, while kissing Dean, "love you so much."
Smiling into Sam's neck, Dean whispers, "Damn you, Sam, damn you." There's wetness, warm against Sam's skin, and he doesn't have to lift his head to see the tears. He doesn't blame Dean for his words, doesn't hate or argue with him.
Sam damns himself every day for what happened between the two of them.
They lay together for hours, drinking each other in, and their words fit between kisses as whispers and secrets. They swear and cry, gasp and come. Even though they feel free in this little world they've created, they know their time is limited. Finally, when they're quiet and Sam's head is tucked beneath Dean's chin and they're sleeping, peaceful and easy, the phonograph across the room begins to play. It's a scratchy tune, a song they’ll never be able to name or sing the lyrics, but they know its meaning—its purpose—all too well.
Dean opens his eyes and nudges Sam awake. They dress wordlessly, lumps in throats and eyes bleary bloodshot, and when they're finished, they stand in the middle of the room to say good-bye.
"Next time, you pick the place?" Sam asks, and Dean nods.
"I'll make sure it's something good. I’m thinking a beach. How does a tropical paradise sound?"
They hug, a little bit awkwardly, because they know what waits for them after they leave here. They know all too well what waits for them.
Dean slaps Sam on the shoulder, says, "Go get 'em, tiger. Make me proud, okay?"
Sam’s smile is sick. He wears it only to keep Dean strong.
They turn away and walk to the doors on the opposite sides of the room. Dean goes to one door. Sam goes to one door. They open the doors and step outside to the stairs that lead them apart.
Outside the door, the demons greet Dean, take him away on the stairs that go down to Hell.
Outside the door, the demons greet Sam, follow him eagerly on the stairs that go up to Earth.
Dean disappears into a cloud of smoke. His skin, his image and beauty that the demons created only for this rare moment fall away, and his soul that he sold to save his brother becomes a prisoner once again alongside the hundreds of demons who keep him company in the land of fire and brimstone.
His screams are silent. His tears go unnoticed.
Sam falls to his knees on parched earth. Behind, the demons who became his followers chortle to remind him that while he may be their leader, they are the ones who create these rare moments for the brothers, and he lifts his face toward the sky to let the acid rain fall on his skin.
His screams are deafening. His tears go unnoticed.
End
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no subject
Date: 2008-03-13 03:43 pm (UTC)