PixCT: 11.27
Nov. 27th, 2008 10:08 am![[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
~505 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
Sept/Oct 08
DruCT: 11.06
PixCT: 11.06
DruCT: 11.13
PixCT: 11.13
DruCT: 11.20
PixCT: 11.20
- - - - -
Today
DruCT: 11.27
My fic:
Slash (Wincest: Dean/Sam) oneshot
Adult rating
Preseries
~505 words
- - - - -
Pix's Pic Pick
He swiped the can from school, even though Sammy looked away when he did it and later said, "Dean, that's for the poor," and Dean smiled and replied, "They won't miss one can, will they?"
At home, a two-bedroom, gray apartment on the third floor, Dean pulled out eggs from the back drawer of the refrigerator and an old yogurt container filled with pure white crystals of sugar. He revealed plastic baggies filled with pinches of cinnamon and ginger.
Sam let his backpack drop to the floor, startled and astonished, not sure what to say, so he gaped, his mouth flopping open in amazement.
Dean said nothing. Lifted aside their few chipped plates and out came a plastic-wrapped pie crust. He opened the lid of the pumpkin pie can with his swiss army knife, dumped the orange mush into a bowl, and mixed in the sugar and eggs, spices stolen and hidden. He used no recipe, had no smudged notecard passed down from grandma or a cookbook inherited through the family line. He simply added and simply stirred before pouring the sweet-smelling mix into the empty crust. When he was done, he opened the door on the oven and in went the filled pie.
Then he turned to Sam and said, "It'll take about an hour, c'mon." He smiled and wrapped his arm around Sam's shoulder.
They walked to the bedroom they shared, where they shucked out of their too-thin, thrift store coats and fell together on a too-old, creaky, stained mattress. They fell together, holding onto shirt collars and faces, kissing desperately and sweetly because, this, this right here in each other was all they had. Mom was gone. Only a gravestone across the country to see her in and only smoky visions to remember her by. Dad was gone. Might be home for Thanksgiving, he'd said before he left. Called last night from a payphone a three-hundred miles away and said it looked like Dean and Sam would be alone for this holiday again.
They lay side by side, facing each other, and Sam curled into Dean, kissing and touching and holding. They didn't ruck up their shirts, didn't unzip their jeans, didn't stroke their cocks. They left things quiet, caught in this precious moment as the pumpkin pie scent wafted through the rooms, warm and comforting.
The light coming in through the makeshift curtain of a towel hung over the window was the golden yellow of a winter sunset. It painted their faces and wiped away the shadows.
"Dean," Sam whispered, top of his head tucked under Dean's chin.
"Yeah, Sammy?"
Sam swallowed, watched his fingers curl and uncurl in the pilled fabric of Dean's sweater. "Thanks," he said after a long pause.
Dean didn't say anything. Simply pulled Sammy closer, pulled him tighter and kissed the top of his head.
There, embraced in his brother's warmth and the aroma of cinnamon and ginger, Sam closed his eyes. He closed his eyes, and he knew exactly what he was thankful for.
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
He swiped the can from school, even though Sammy looked away when he did it and later said, "Dean, that's for the poor," and Dean smiled and replied, "They won't miss one can, will they?"
At home, a two-bedroom, gray apartment on the third floor, Dean pulled out eggs from the back drawer of the refrigerator and an old yogurt container filled with pure white crystals of sugar. He revealed plastic baggies filled with pinches of cinnamon and ginger.
Sam let his backpack drop to the floor, startled and astonished, not sure what to say, so he gaped, his mouth flopping open in amazement.
Dean said nothing. Lifted aside their few chipped plates and out came a plastic-wrapped pie crust. He opened the lid of the pumpkin pie can with his swiss army knife, dumped the orange mush into a bowl, and mixed in the sugar and eggs, spices stolen and hidden. He used no recipe, had no smudged notecard passed down from grandma or a cookbook inherited through the family line. He simply added and simply stirred before pouring the sweet-smelling mix into the empty crust. When he was done, he opened the door on the oven and in went the filled pie.
Then he turned to Sam and said, "It'll take about an hour, c'mon." He smiled and wrapped his arm around Sam's shoulder.
They walked to the bedroom they shared, where they shucked out of their too-thin, thrift store coats and fell together on a too-old, creaky, stained mattress. They fell together, holding onto shirt collars and faces, kissing desperately and sweetly because, this, this right here in each other was all they had. Mom was gone. Only a gravestone across the country to see her in and only smoky visions to remember her by. Dad was gone. Might be home for Thanksgiving, he'd said before he left. Called last night from a payphone a three-hundred miles away and said it looked like Dean and Sam would be alone for this holiday again.
They lay side by side, facing each other, and Sam curled into Dean, kissing and touching and holding. They didn't ruck up their shirts, didn't unzip their jeans, didn't stroke their cocks. They left things quiet, caught in this precious moment as the pumpkin pie scent wafted through the rooms, warm and comforting.
The light coming in through the makeshift curtain of a towel hung over the window was the golden yellow of a winter sunset. It painted their faces and wiped away the shadows.
"Dean," Sam whispered, top of his head tucked under Dean's chin.
"Yeah, Sammy?"
Sam swallowed, watched his fingers curl and uncurl in the pilled fabric of Dean's sweater. "Thanks," he said after a long pause.
Dean didn't say anything. Simply pulled Sammy closer, pulled him tighter and kissed the top of his head.
There, embraced in his brother's warmth and the aroma of cinnamon and ginger, Sam closed his eyes. He closed his eyes, and he knew exactly what he was thankful for.
End
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no subject
Date: 2008-12-04 06:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-12-04 08:56 pm (UTC)