Jan. 20th, 2016

citrusjava: (Default)
Title: Longer than the Road
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13?
Words: ~900
Warnings: drinking, passing mention of hentai, very much unbeta'ed
Notes: For [personal profile] kalliel, who wanted Winshesters and wind slice of life

Summary: It's been some time since Sam came drinking with Dean

Sam walks next to Dean, jacket and mouth and eyes tight in the wind, rigid and withheld, only his hair raging unleashed. It makes Dean's stomach drop - or it would be funny. Sam isn't angry anymore, hasn't been in ages.

It's one of the good nights . Sam comes with him to the bar. Drinks with Dean, more than a beer or three, and Dean is pretty sure it isn't even to push down something, not more than usual. Dean buys him hunter drinks - Silver Bullet, Rusty Nail, and doesn't tell Sam their names. Sam sticks to his tequila, but he drinks with Dean, and they talk. Sam 's forgetting about his research for longer and longer breaks, Dean's eye absentmindedly following the Windows logo across the screen, calculating pool angles. Dean is not sure what they talk about what anymore, probably some horrible mush he'd rather not remember, but Sam's eyes go softer and Dean's limbs go warm and happy with scotch and company. Sam's cheeks redden, like earlier in the wind, and his eyes go starry like a girl about to enjoy some artistic triple tentacle penetration.

Dean orders sandwiches for tomorrow morning, they'll be soggy but food. Jalepinio guacamole makes a good breakfast. The waitress hands Sam the bill and Dean grabs it, ruffled. He leaves her a good tip, though, it's a slow night.

They walk out again, Dean has to put some weight against the door to get it to open, to step out. "Com'on, Sammy" Dean challenges with a smirk. Smething soft that meant to be a smirk.

The street is black gray and Dean loses their napkins in a fluttery flurry. They crash land into a black puddle, and for a moment Sam looks like he'll try to get them out. He lets them go.

Breathing makes the back of Dean's throat itch with dry particles, like the time with Rhonda - sex on the beach should only ever be a drink, sand in bad places, Sammy. But this air is frozen, thunderstorm on the way. The sort of cold that comes with bat outta hell motorbikes an' electric guitar lightning .

Dean feels like he could be lifted by the wind, is tempted to jump, just a little bit, just to find out. his muscles and weapons and heavy jacket, floating, complete with beer and tacos warming his belly. His insides thrill to it, small pulsing excitement like magic, like he hasn't been picked up or tossed around by demons, angels, forces unknown

For a moment it's so cold Dean has trouble breathing, but that doesn't make sense. A torn windsock man vindictive, store signs bangoverhead, and Dean wants to pull Sam to him, under the wing of his jacket, suddenly wary of flapping electricity lines, windborne debris .

Sam's hair is in his eyes again, but they are still shining under there, as he hurries past Dean, wind catching in the open arms of his jacket. Sam's smiling silly and wide, old enough to be boyish like once. Smiling at Dean - shy, but not backing off. Sam doesn't back off from a challenge.

And in a moment Dean runs after him, half lifted by the wind, almost laughing. It's ok, they're just a little drunk. Sam was always faster than him, but they are banging together, Sam's hair lashing, how is Sam always so warm. Sam's belly is soft despite his training, under Dean's frozen hand, and Sam's yelp is almost as pleasant as the sensation of Sam.

Baby's solid and chilly even through Dean's jacket, through the gap under Dean's shirts. Sam's leaning against him long limbed, looking up at Dean - bending to open the door. Sam's eyes reflect the lines of light reflecting off her, even through the layer of dust, through everything . Sam's hair gets in Dean's mouth, and Sam straightens, warmth undulating, belt to collarbone, and Dean's thoughts scatter, flutter, why are they always the idiots with their overshirts open in the storm. Dean wants to close their shirts, close their shirts together, to share heat, buttons and holes and mouths -

They're finally inside, The windshield is covered with dust, leaves caught in the wipers and flapping around outside, looks as if it is so noisy outside. A few sharp raindrops, thin and brilliant across the filthy glass, a mistake to try and clean the windows now anyway, it'd just make a mess and clog his Baby's washer spray jet.

Street lights are hazy in the muddy air, traffic lights brilliant out of focus like fair candy, sweet and bright, strawberry, orange, lime. Sam's breath warms Dean's cheek, like blowing on Sam's fingers long ago, through gloves, without gloves.

He puts the guacamole in the back seat. Digs in the glove compartment for Metallica, something soft to put Sam to sleep. The rain waited for them to be in, bangs on the roof rhythmically, wave after wave with the wind, and Baby's almost shaking too, or maybe dancing .

Dean has the urge to stick his head out in the rain, his naked torso out, to run outside and yell, and maybe howl, like a werewolf or a frat boy douchebag, to crash into streetwater and have Sam collect him.

Doesn't know whether he's brave, scared, or just so tired.

And he's kissing Sam long and sweet, heart pounding up to his throat, as if they've never done it before, as if they've never stopped doing it.
citrusjava: (Default)
I used to love pasta. At least, I believed i did?
I used to love eating spaghetti messily - which I still get - and I loved the tomato sauce from powder (because I didn't know better) and I loved loved loved bits of cheese in it - never mozzarella, but this yellow kiddie cheese. Any bit of cheese was worth it all, it made the dish. And I'd cook the sauce in this small pot myself when I wanted it. My mom had this notion of adding the cheese to the sauce as you cooked it, idek why! But she allowed me to do it on the plate. It was never, or almost never, grated cheese! It was slices of cheese and we had to cut it into pieces with out hands, piece by piece, and place the pieced around the dish on our plate - not even just stick a slice on there or in there and let it melt. The cheese and sauce were PERFECT, I say! PERFECT :) :) :) :)

My mother was not opposed adding mushrooms to this. Which as everything that's wrong with this country. Or something. She once suggested I made sauce out of the two powder bags we had - tomato and mushroom!?! I tell ya. Or I am pretty sure she'd ever added canned sliced mushrooms to that tomato sauce that I loved! What what what what no!

When I was a bit older, I loved mushroom Alfredo. Or spinach, any interesting thing.

I wanted to taste black spaghetti for so long, and the green and red types, but I was a vegetarian, so no black - and the others were not available, or it turned out they tasted just the same as ever?

I found this glorious sauce recipe that was finely chopped fresh tomatoes, a lot a lot of fresh herbs, and iinm plenty of lemon juice and some very fine onion.
Though M claimed it was no longer pasta/spaghetti, truly, because it was not so much a sauce as it was food on its own.

One time, I didn't want the sauce I made, don't remember why, so I just seasoned mine with a ton of cumin, some vegetable oil and salt, and it was so so good. One time, I made pasta, and after I gave my brother half, the rest fell to the floor. My brother wouldn't share with my sister and I, and there weren't even ingredients for the sort I liked left.

Pasta is the stuff that every "normal" place has for vegetarians/vegans instead of something good. It is never ok.


M loved/loves rose' sauce - tomato sauce with a touch of cream.
I spent literally years trying to perfec a sauce that she'd like, to meet her very exacting needs on this ....

A lot of tomato puree, a lot of oregano, some basil.
Start by frying onions - they have to be in big pieces, no puny finely cut onions.
A lot a lot of onions, preferably the golden kind, but since the sauce mostly hides the purple of the others - those can do too.
Add some garlic - preferably the dry, roughly ground type. Never ever powder ever ever! (this last one is a rule of mine in general!)
Add a cup of single cream (pref vegan), or - I've tried this with a few cups of milk and about an hour (?) (more?) reducing it - that worked too, and let it simmer gently for a bit (or just move on)
Add three cups of tomato puree, maybe 2/3 cup of dried oregano, a spoon of dried basil, or if you're out of those, hyssop or other green things will probably do.
Cook for 10-20 minutes (if there is no liquid, add very little water just so it doesn't burn)
Turn off the heat, add another cup or so of tomato puree, a lot of olive or vegetable oil, salt to taste, adjust seasoning (you'll probably want more garlic). Carefully adjust sourness with maybe one spoon of rich brown sugar (or molasses or honey - it has to be something that has its own flavor, not just sweet, or the whole dish goes off balance. Also, this needs to be added the way you'd salt to a chocolate dish - only to balance and bring out the existing flavors, putting too much in will make it a disgusting tomato desert - don't do it!)

Serve on whole grain wheat spaghetti (which has a touch of sweetness itself, and tends to be less soggy )
MUST be served with salt and cucumbers pickled in brine, not vinegar.
Pref with Parmesan or plain gouda style cheese.
Pref with light beer or red wine.


She really loved it, but then it was almost impossible to make it *just right*, there was always *something* :(


Anyway - for my own tastes - I don't like pasta anymore. I am not sure why people enjoy pasta, and must hold backk from just assuming that like me, pasta for them is an excuse for sauce. I love many sorts of sauces. I'd put them of veggies or legume or grains or potatoes or tofu or friggin eat it with a spoon, why why why why stick it on an entire plate of flavorless pointless nullness? Why ? Why? Spaghetti I kinda still get because it is fun to eat, and the Disney thing and childhood memories - but really, wouldn't you prefer just the same stuff without spaghetti in it? All the flavor, without this stuff that at the best times it mostly texture, and at bad times is not even that? Not in a good way that, that is - it gets doughy or melts or gets sticky, or worst, oily, this lunchroom food you know in gonna taste gross and then gonna make you feel gross, and without even feeling pleased and nourished and good and happy!

I have a friend who doesn't like a lot of flavor. She likes pasta but no sauce.

So far we have managed to overcome this and remain friends.

At least we can agree on heart of palm.

Previous/future days )


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