PixCT: 07-31
Jul. 31st, 2008 03:15 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
Preseries
~600 words
- - - - -
A combination of fic, pic, and cock, and that's really all there is to it.
All About Cock Thursday
So Far
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October 07
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DruCT: 07-17
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- - - - -
Today
DruCT: 07-31
My fic:
Slash (Wincest: Dean/Sam) oneshot
Adult rating
Prseries
~600 words
- - - - -
Pix's Pic Pick
The basement is dark. His feet are bare as he plods down the wooden stairs slowly. Just awake from a much needed nap, his head is as bleary as his eyes, and he has to hold the railing as he goes down. It’d be too easy to slip, slide down the stairs and have a sore ankle for weeks to come.
It's mid-afternoon, and the only light in the basement is the stark sunlight pouring in from a French door left ajar. The breeze is warm, casual and friendly in its caress of his unshaven skin. He approaches the door, wondering where they are, where his boys have escaped off to now, and he rubs his eye with the heel of his hand, still too sleepy.
He hears them before he sees them. In that moment before the vision meets the sound, something closes cold and tight in his chest, and he knows he should simply turn away. Turn away and not look back because deep down, deep down in that primal part of him that can speak to shadows, he knows that something is wrong.
He steps forward anyway.
They're outside on the slope of earth gathered around the edge of the house. Sprawled on the freshly delivered woodchips, they're gasping like they find pleasure in this and laughing like they have found the answer to all their problems.
Dean reclines with his legs spread enough for Sam to fit between. Sam's shirt is pushed up on his back, exposing his skin and Dean's fingers curling over his spine, and Sam has a hand between their bodies. His arm is pumping, an up-down motion that disappears into Dean's jeans. They kiss and hold and see nothing wrong in what they do.
John whips away, vomit rising furiously in the back of his throat. He staggers from the doors so that they cannot see his disgust, cannot hear his despair, and cannot feel his anger. Wearily, he moves behind a jutting wall, and his head spins.
These are his boys. His sons. And they're together in every way they should not be.
It's not the men on men he minds. He was in the service. He was overseas for long enough to know, and he remembers how sometimes, everybody had to have a somebody in that heated madness over there. He remembers what it was like having no one at home to miss and how the offered pussy on the streets was nearly as dangerous as the mines in the fields. One drink, two drink, three drink, four, and he fell into bed with his partner, the man whose life he promised to save at any and all cost. He knows, even now, the feel of a man's hand on his cock, and how he lost his head when he had fingers that weren't his up his ass.
This man. The one whose life he would save, the one who would save his life. They had a silent promise, the two of them. Sometimes, he thinks now, the boundaries of devotion and companionship blur and fade and fall away in places no one really expects.
That man, John recalls with his heart in his throat, that man came to be his friend. They became brothers.
Standing, listening for a moment more to the sound of their laughter coming in from outside before he sighs.
He knows who he can save in life. He knows who he can change in life.
He knows who he can't. He knows who he shouldn’t.
He turns away from the light spilling in through the door. He turns away and goes back into the basement's darkness.
End
"In the Sun" by Joseph Arthur, "Late Goodbye" by Poets of the Fall, and "Hurt" by Johnny Cash
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
The basement is dark. His feet are bare as he plods down the wooden stairs slowly. Just awake from a much needed nap, his head is as bleary as his eyes, and he has to hold the railing as he goes down. It’d be too easy to slip, slide down the stairs and have a sore ankle for weeks to come.
It's mid-afternoon, and the only light in the basement is the stark sunlight pouring in from a French door left ajar. The breeze is warm, casual and friendly in its caress of his unshaven skin. He approaches the door, wondering where they are, where his boys have escaped off to now, and he rubs his eye with the heel of his hand, still too sleepy.
He hears them before he sees them. In that moment before the vision meets the sound, something closes cold and tight in his chest, and he knows he should simply turn away. Turn away and not look back because deep down, deep down in that primal part of him that can speak to shadows, he knows that something is wrong.
He steps forward anyway.
They're outside on the slope of earth gathered around the edge of the house. Sprawled on the freshly delivered woodchips, they're gasping like they find pleasure in this and laughing like they have found the answer to all their problems.
Dean reclines with his legs spread enough for Sam to fit between. Sam's shirt is pushed up on his back, exposing his skin and Dean's fingers curling over his spine, and Sam has a hand between their bodies. His arm is pumping, an up-down motion that disappears into Dean's jeans. They kiss and hold and see nothing wrong in what they do.
John whips away, vomit rising furiously in the back of his throat. He staggers from the doors so that they cannot see his disgust, cannot hear his despair, and cannot feel his anger. Wearily, he moves behind a jutting wall, and his head spins.
These are his boys. His sons. And they're together in every way they should not be.
It's not the men on men he minds. He was in the service. He was overseas for long enough to know, and he remembers how sometimes, everybody had to have a somebody in that heated madness over there. He remembers what it was like having no one at home to miss and how the offered pussy on the streets was nearly as dangerous as the mines in the fields. One drink, two drink, three drink, four, and he fell into bed with his partner, the man whose life he promised to save at any and all cost. He knows, even now, the feel of a man's hand on his cock, and how he lost his head when he had fingers that weren't his up his ass.
This man. The one whose life he would save, the one who would save his life. They had a silent promise, the two of them. Sometimes, he thinks now, the boundaries of devotion and companionship blur and fade and fall away in places no one really expects.
That man, John recalls with his heart in his throat, that man came to be his friend. They became brothers.
Standing, listening for a moment more to the sound of their laughter coming in from outside before he sighs.
He knows who he can save in life. He knows who he can change in life.
He knows who he can't. He knows who he shouldn’t.
He turns away from the light spilling in through the door. He turns away and goes back into the basement's darkness.
End
"In the Sun" by Joseph Arthur, "Late Goodbye" by Poets of the Fall, and "Hurt" by Johnny Cash
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no subject
Date: 2008-08-14 04:52 am (UTC)