PixCT: 10-09
Oct. 9th, 2008 03:48 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
~1870 words
- - - - -
A combination of fic, pic, and cock, and that's really all there is to it.
All About Cock Thursday
So Far
Sept 07 - Sept 08
DruCT: 09-18
PixCT: 09-18
DruCT: 09-25
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DruCT: 10-02
PixCT: 10-02
- - - - -
Today
DruCT: 10-09
My fic:
Slash (Wincest: Dean/Sam) oneshot
Adult rating
Preseries
~1870 words
- - - - -
Dru's Pic Pick
He slips off his clothes, tosses them mindlessly on the floor because they're bloody and they're torn and no amount of detergent or mending could fix them now. The water is blistering hot in the tub. He hasn't touched it yet to feel how hot, but steam is rising off the ripples, billowing large and wide in the tiny bathroom.
Carefully, he steps into the bathtub, making sure not to slip and fall since his ankle's already fucked up as is and he can't risk making it any worse. The water really is as hot as he thought, and he hisses when he slides fully in. The heat burns, turns his skin blushing pink, but matches his pain, dulls the sting inside. After a moment, he sighs and closes his eyes as the water laps at the wounds on his back. The ones that are deep enough to hurt with every movement, but not enough for Dad to have noticed in the darkness of the car. They bled, stuck to the inside of his coat when he shrugged it on, and now their cracked, puckered edges soften under the water.
He dozes, can't stop himself with the water so warm and the heat sneaking inside him, collapsing his consciousness. The tub's too small for him to stretch out, so his knees are bent, and his arm rests on the side of the cool ceramic. He drifts in and out, thoughts tumbling over one another without rhyme or reason. Thinking about how he and Dad left for the hunt while Sam stood in his doorway and sulked and said, No, I've got homework, and Dad said, You're putting homework before family?
And Sam looked from Dean to Dad and back to Dean and then to the ground when he answered, Yes, sir.
Dad didn't say anything to Sam. He snapped, Let's get going, Dean and turned away without giving a second look to Sam.
Dean lingered for a moment. Hated this position. Hated being torn between Dad and Sam, and he swallowed hard and pulled out his wallet. Pulled out a twenty and laid it on the countertop by the door and said to Sam, In case you need somethin'. He tightened his lips and Sam tightened his face, and Dean followed Dad out to the car.
There's a knock at the door now, interrupting his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. The door opens slowly, hesitantly, and then, "Dean?"
Sam peeks his head in. "Dean?" he says again.
Dean shifts, water slops over the side of the tub, as he tries to cover himself. Not that they haven't seen each other naked before. But, instinct says he should cover himself, and so he tries, but there's not much he can do beyond tucking his legs tighter up to his chest.
"You...you okay?" Sam asks, leaning against the wall, hair in his eyes.
"Yeah. I guess."
"You guess?"
"Hurt my ankle. Bitch got my back."
Sam looks worried, forehead furrowed and top lip pressing hard against the bottom one. "Dad clean it up?"
"No. Didn't tell him."
"Dean..." Sam begins, but he stops. He knows how things go. How when Dad doesn't talk for four straight hours on the road and the only sound in the car is the radio, picking up country and classic amidst the mix of static that the signals bring, how the last thing you want to ask for is to have Dad clean your cuts. If you're up and walking, sometimes...sometimes that's all Dad cares about, and they both know it. "Lemme look at it," Sam says.
"At what?"
"Your back, doofus."
"No, it's really...it's fine," Dean mumbles, looking down into the water. He hates that Sam worries over him. He hates that he can't be home enough to take care of Sam instead of Sam taking care of him.
"It's going to get infected if it's not cleaned out." Sam moves forward, pushes the door closed all the way behind him. "That's the last thing you need."
Dean nods, feebly, knows the truth to this. He's had infected injuries before. Watched them swell and warm and felt the bite of pain with every movement.
"Where's Dad?" he asks as Sam rifles through the medicine cabinet.
"Sleeping. Looked at me, asked if everything was okay, and went to bed." Sam pulls out a brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide, stares at it, confused, for a moment, before looking down to Dean.
"It'll work," Dean says, answering Sam's unspoken question.
Sam moves to the tub and kneels down at the side. He pushes up his sleeves as Dean slides forward, just enough so Sam can reach his back.
"You don't have to do this," Dean tells himself more than Sam.
Pressing a dry washcloth to the opened top, Sam turns the bottle over, wetting the cloth. "No, s'pose I don't, but I'm going to anyway." Gently, barely a whisper of a touch, he touches the cloth to the claw marks on Dean's back.
Instantly, Dean hisses, arching forward, away from it.
"Sorry, sorry," Sam says. "It's really bad, Dean. There's a lot of dirt and...it's really bad." He rests a hand on Dean's shoulder, pulls Dean back. "It's got...it's gotta be cleaned." His voice sounds pained, so Dean grits his teeth and doesn't fight when Sam lifts the washcloth again.
When Sam's finished, Dean feels as though his back is on fire, but rationally, he knows that he'll be saved from infection. The water's still warm enough he could sit here a while longer, maybe ease away the pain some more, and he's considering it, isn't ready to return to real life beyond the bathroom where Dad sleeps and studies and is already dreaming of that new hunt on the horizon.
Dean's so lost in his thoughts that he doesn't notice Sam until he quietly says, "Dean?" It's a question, and he looks up, looks over his shoulder where Sam's standing with his shirt on the floor and his pants undone, hanging low on his hips.
"Sam." He shakes his head, weak, and he—What is happening? "Sam, don't," he says, and he struggles, reaching for a towel on the hook just outside the tub, but it's almost too far out of his reach with his back filled with acid eating through the muscles.
But Sam's never been one for listening. Never has been and Dean supposes he never will be, and Sam pulls off the last of his clothing, and he steps into the tub, fitting in behind Dean. He's a jumble of long arms and long, long legs, and barely fits in the bathtub on his own, let alone with Dean too, but he does, and Dean flinches, stiffens, and can't move fast enough away.
"What are you doing?" Dean asks. He fights to keep his voice even, strong, but it trembles nonetheless to reveal his fear and anxiety.
"Taking a bath," Sam answers, matter of factly. He drops the washcloth in the water, swishes it back and forth, and then rubs it over the bar of soap. When he's done, he rests the bubbly bar on the edge of the tub, and lifts the washcloth to the back of Dean's neck.
"Sam, this..."
"Don't even say this isn't right," Sam spits out, like he's angry and ready to fight if that's what it means.
Dean wants to argue with him though. His heart drops, thinking of how they shouldn't have started this, how he shouldn't have put ideas into Sammy's head by climbing into bed with him. It was his fault they're like this. He's the one who let Sam sneak into his bed last month and snug up tight against him. He's the one who placed his hand over Sam's when Sam jacked off beside him, and said, Just like that, Sammy, just like that and taught him how to take it slow, how to savor the rising pleasure instead of rushing through it. This is his fault.
"Whatever you're thinking," Sam says, presses his forehead to Dean's shoulder, "stop it."
Dean's laugh is bitter hoarse. "I think that's supposed to be my line."
"Mmm, maybe." He loops one of those ridiculously long arms around Dean's chest, slick wet fingers coming to rest below the crook of Dean's arm. His legs are pressed up against Dean's sides, holding him in, and his chest is against Dean's back now, curled into one another.
Sam kisses the back of Dean's neck, up the nape to below his ear, and he says, "Do you like this? Tell me if you don't. I just...I thought...I thought this might be nice. Want to make you feel better, Dean."
It's Sam so close to him, just how it's supposed to be, and they've been apart for days now while Dad huffed and bitched and killed, and now, Dean's back with Sam, and it's only them in their little world again, and there’s no blood and no one’s screaming. Here, there is no darkness or tears, only light and warmth, and Dean can't help but turn his head back to accept the love that Sam offers him.
Their lips meet, soft little kisses, and Dean can't twist back, can't turn around to hold Sam closer, but he doesn't need to. Not with Sam's one arm wrapped around him and another hand resting on his thigh.
Sam's hand ghosts up, over, Dean's cock, and Dean flinches, can't help himself not to at the sudden touch, and Sam pulls back and says, "Can I? I want...can you...can you show me?" he asks, hesitantly. Dean pauses, long enough to think once, but not long enough to think twice, and he nods, and rests his hand over Sam's, threads their fingers together, and leads their hands to his cock.
"Slow," Dean whispers, "slow, go slow." But, his breath is already pinched because Sam's touch is so tentative and gentle, and his hand, his awkward teenage boy hand, is bigger than any girl's—Dean's own—has ever been. His strokes are even, smooth under the water, and Dean closes his eyes, curves a hand over Sam's knee and squeezes.
"Dean," Sam says, "does it feel good? Does it feel good for you?"
Dean nods, feeling drugged and dizzy, and says, "Yeah, Sammy...good."
Sam leans forward, presses his cheek against Dean's, and they listen to each other breathe. Dean's strangled gasps of pleasure and Sam's tiny inhales of excitement.
Dean comes, spills onto Sam's hand beneath the water, and it's nothing powerful or monstrous, nothing that rips him open. It's quiet and sweet, and he's never felt more loved than he does right now, choking down noises as Sam watches, wide-eyed and wondering.
"Stop, stop," Dean tells him, tugging Sam's hand away. He leans back into Sam, leans back into the warmth and comfort there, and the water laps at their skin entwined together. He closes his eyes, rubs the side of his thumb over Sam's hand and lets himself be held.
"Dean," Sam says, rests his face next to Dean's, and his voice is soft, barely there, and he kisses Dean above the eye, and whispers, "I'm glad you're home again."
End
"Nightingale" by Norah Jones
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
He slips off his clothes, tosses them mindlessly on the floor because they're bloody and they're torn and no amount of detergent or mending could fix them now. The water is blistering hot in the tub. He hasn't touched it yet to feel how hot, but steam is rising off the ripples, billowing large and wide in the tiny bathroom.
Carefully, he steps into the bathtub, making sure not to slip and fall since his ankle's already fucked up as is and he can't risk making it any worse. The water really is as hot as he thought, and he hisses when he slides fully in. The heat burns, turns his skin blushing pink, but matches his pain, dulls the sting inside. After a moment, he sighs and closes his eyes as the water laps at the wounds on his back. The ones that are deep enough to hurt with every movement, but not enough for Dad to have noticed in the darkness of the car. They bled, stuck to the inside of his coat when he shrugged it on, and now their cracked, puckered edges soften under the water.
He dozes, can't stop himself with the water so warm and the heat sneaking inside him, collapsing his consciousness. The tub's too small for him to stretch out, so his knees are bent, and his arm rests on the side of the cool ceramic. He drifts in and out, thoughts tumbling over one another without rhyme or reason. Thinking about how he and Dad left for the hunt while Sam stood in his doorway and sulked and said, No, I've got homework, and Dad said, You're putting homework before family?
And Sam looked from Dean to Dad and back to Dean and then to the ground when he answered, Yes, sir.
Dad didn't say anything to Sam. He snapped, Let's get going, Dean and turned away without giving a second look to Sam.
Dean lingered for a moment. Hated this position. Hated being torn between Dad and Sam, and he swallowed hard and pulled out his wallet. Pulled out a twenty and laid it on the countertop by the door and said to Sam, In case you need somethin'. He tightened his lips and Sam tightened his face, and Dean followed Dad out to the car.
There's a knock at the door now, interrupting his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. The door opens slowly, hesitantly, and then, "Dean?"
Sam peeks his head in. "Dean?" he says again.
Dean shifts, water slops over the side of the tub, as he tries to cover himself. Not that they haven't seen each other naked before. But, instinct says he should cover himself, and so he tries, but there's not much he can do beyond tucking his legs tighter up to his chest.
"You...you okay?" Sam asks, leaning against the wall, hair in his eyes.
"Yeah. I guess."
"You guess?"
"Hurt my ankle. Bitch got my back."
Sam looks worried, forehead furrowed and top lip pressing hard against the bottom one. "Dad clean it up?"
"No. Didn't tell him."
"Dean..." Sam begins, but he stops. He knows how things go. How when Dad doesn't talk for four straight hours on the road and the only sound in the car is the radio, picking up country and classic amidst the mix of static that the signals bring, how the last thing you want to ask for is to have Dad clean your cuts. If you're up and walking, sometimes...sometimes that's all Dad cares about, and they both know it. "Lemme look at it," Sam says.
"At what?"
"Your back, doofus."
"No, it's really...it's fine," Dean mumbles, looking down into the water. He hates that Sam worries over him. He hates that he can't be home enough to take care of Sam instead of Sam taking care of him.
"It's going to get infected if it's not cleaned out." Sam moves forward, pushes the door closed all the way behind him. "That's the last thing you need."
Dean nods, feebly, knows the truth to this. He's had infected injuries before. Watched them swell and warm and felt the bite of pain with every movement.
"Where's Dad?" he asks as Sam rifles through the medicine cabinet.
"Sleeping. Looked at me, asked if everything was okay, and went to bed." Sam pulls out a brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide, stares at it, confused, for a moment, before looking down to Dean.
"It'll work," Dean says, answering Sam's unspoken question.
Sam moves to the tub and kneels down at the side. He pushes up his sleeves as Dean slides forward, just enough so Sam can reach his back.
"You don't have to do this," Dean tells himself more than Sam.
Pressing a dry washcloth to the opened top, Sam turns the bottle over, wetting the cloth. "No, s'pose I don't, but I'm going to anyway." Gently, barely a whisper of a touch, he touches the cloth to the claw marks on Dean's back.
Instantly, Dean hisses, arching forward, away from it.
"Sorry, sorry," Sam says. "It's really bad, Dean. There's a lot of dirt and...it's really bad." He rests a hand on Dean's shoulder, pulls Dean back. "It's got...it's gotta be cleaned." His voice sounds pained, so Dean grits his teeth and doesn't fight when Sam lifts the washcloth again.
When Sam's finished, Dean feels as though his back is on fire, but rationally, he knows that he'll be saved from infection. The water's still warm enough he could sit here a while longer, maybe ease away the pain some more, and he's considering it, isn't ready to return to real life beyond the bathroom where Dad sleeps and studies and is already dreaming of that new hunt on the horizon.
Dean's so lost in his thoughts that he doesn't notice Sam until he quietly says, "Dean?" It's a question, and he looks up, looks over his shoulder where Sam's standing with his shirt on the floor and his pants undone, hanging low on his hips.
"Sam." He shakes his head, weak, and he—What is happening? "Sam, don't," he says, and he struggles, reaching for a towel on the hook just outside the tub, but it's almost too far out of his reach with his back filled with acid eating through the muscles.
But Sam's never been one for listening. Never has been and Dean supposes he never will be, and Sam pulls off the last of his clothing, and he steps into the tub, fitting in behind Dean. He's a jumble of long arms and long, long legs, and barely fits in the bathtub on his own, let alone with Dean too, but he does, and Dean flinches, stiffens, and can't move fast enough away.
"What are you doing?" Dean asks. He fights to keep his voice even, strong, but it trembles nonetheless to reveal his fear and anxiety.
"Taking a bath," Sam answers, matter of factly. He drops the washcloth in the water, swishes it back and forth, and then rubs it over the bar of soap. When he's done, he rests the bubbly bar on the edge of the tub, and lifts the washcloth to the back of Dean's neck.
"Sam, this..."
"Don't even say this isn't right," Sam spits out, like he's angry and ready to fight if that's what it means.
Dean wants to argue with him though. His heart drops, thinking of how they shouldn't have started this, how he shouldn't have put ideas into Sammy's head by climbing into bed with him. It was his fault they're like this. He's the one who let Sam sneak into his bed last month and snug up tight against him. He's the one who placed his hand over Sam's when Sam jacked off beside him, and said, Just like that, Sammy, just like that and taught him how to take it slow, how to savor the rising pleasure instead of rushing through it. This is his fault.
"Whatever you're thinking," Sam says, presses his forehead to Dean's shoulder, "stop it."
Dean's laugh is bitter hoarse. "I think that's supposed to be my line."
"Mmm, maybe." He loops one of those ridiculously long arms around Dean's chest, slick wet fingers coming to rest below the crook of Dean's arm. His legs are pressed up against Dean's sides, holding him in, and his chest is against Dean's back now, curled into one another.
Sam kisses the back of Dean's neck, up the nape to below his ear, and he says, "Do you like this? Tell me if you don't. I just...I thought...I thought this might be nice. Want to make you feel better, Dean."
It's Sam so close to him, just how it's supposed to be, and they've been apart for days now while Dad huffed and bitched and killed, and now, Dean's back with Sam, and it's only them in their little world again, and there’s no blood and no one’s screaming. Here, there is no darkness or tears, only light and warmth, and Dean can't help but turn his head back to accept the love that Sam offers him.
Their lips meet, soft little kisses, and Dean can't twist back, can't turn around to hold Sam closer, but he doesn't need to. Not with Sam's one arm wrapped around him and another hand resting on his thigh.
Sam's hand ghosts up, over, Dean's cock, and Dean flinches, can't help himself not to at the sudden touch, and Sam pulls back and says, "Can I? I want...can you...can you show me?" he asks, hesitantly. Dean pauses, long enough to think once, but not long enough to think twice, and he nods, and rests his hand over Sam's, threads their fingers together, and leads their hands to his cock.
"Slow," Dean whispers, "slow, go slow." But, his breath is already pinched because Sam's touch is so tentative and gentle, and his hand, his awkward teenage boy hand, is bigger than any girl's—Dean's own—has ever been. His strokes are even, smooth under the water, and Dean closes his eyes, curves a hand over Sam's knee and squeezes.
"Dean," Sam says, "does it feel good? Does it feel good for you?"
Dean nods, feeling drugged and dizzy, and says, "Yeah, Sammy...good."
Sam leans forward, presses his cheek against Dean's, and they listen to each other breathe. Dean's strangled gasps of pleasure and Sam's tiny inhales of excitement.
Dean comes, spills onto Sam's hand beneath the water, and it's nothing powerful or monstrous, nothing that rips him open. It's quiet and sweet, and he's never felt more loved than he does right now, choking down noises as Sam watches, wide-eyed and wondering.
"Stop, stop," Dean tells him, tugging Sam's hand away. He leans back into Sam, leans back into the warmth and comfort there, and the water laps at their skin entwined together. He closes his eyes, rubs the side of his thumb over Sam's hand and lets himself be held.
"Dean," Sam says, rests his face next to Dean's, and his voice is soft, barely there, and he kisses Dean above the eye, and whispers, "I'm glad you're home again."
End
"Nightingale" by Norah Jones
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Date: 2008-10-09 07:56 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2008-10-13 04:45 pm (UTC)Thank you! :D
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Date: 2008-10-10 12:00 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2008-10-10 03:19 am (UTC)Big love for this.
it's nothing powerful or monstrous, nothing that rips him open. It's quiet and sweet, and he's never felt more loved than he does right now, choking down noises as Sam watches, wide-eyed and wondering.
This fic is made of win, and the boys of love, and you - both ♥
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Date: 2008-10-13 04:47 pm (UTC)Thank you! ♥
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Date: 2008-10-10 09:17 am (UTC)Thank you for sharing.
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Date: 2008-10-13 04:50 pm (UTC)Thank you!
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Date: 2008-10-10 04:28 pm (UTC)Dean pauses, long enough to think once, but not long enough to think twice
Lovely line! I'm glad Dean let himself rest for a change.
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Date: 2008-10-13 04:53 pm (UTC)Thank you! :D
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