citrusjava: (Default)
Title: Wish You Were Here
Gifter: [livejournal.com profile] citrusjava
Pairing/Characters: Dean/Sam
Word count: 3000
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Angst, angst, angst. Pining. Dub-con. Ableist notions. Background mentions of spoilers up to 12x07, rape, torture, self harm, self sacrifice. Mentions of canon character death, mourning.
Fic-spoiling warning: hurt no comfort. Be warned.
A/N: Beta by the awesome [livejournal.com profile] tipsykitty, who was so wonderful, kind and encouraging, who made things much better. Any remaining mistakes are just mine!
A/N: side note about my writing experience

A/N2: This is for [livejournal.com profile] amypond45, who asked for Winchester angst, as part of [livejournal.com profile] spn_j2_xmas. I really hope you enjoy it, and have a wonderful winter!

Summary: Dean hasn’t died, not permanently. Still right there at the Bunker.



Wish You Were Here






For Sam, it was always Dean. )
citrusjava: (Default)
Title: Took my chances on a big jet place
Pairing: >Dean & Sam
Words: 850
Warnings: recreational drug and alcohol use, brief mention of sex work
Spoilers: small spoiler for 11x19

Summary:
It was probably oregano anyway

Dean feels around the cooler for his last beer. It's warm and damp, but it's not like he's wearing a top hat either. Tried to get all the dust and mud off his clothes before touching Baby, but even stripped half naked he's dragging some forest onto her leather. He pats the seat, swipes the filth away with a gentle thumb. Gonna give her a nice tuneup when they're outta there, he promises her, himself.

Five days he hasn't seen a living soul, or a dead one for that matter, trail's cold, and he's getting twitchy in all that nothin. Dad's in Colorado, looking into reports of localizes hurricanes, coming out of nowhere, going nowhere, plenty of eyewitnesses but no blip on the meteorological radar. Dean hasn't heard from him since he left. Tells himself it's the reception in the forest, but he knows it's crystal.

He thumbs the phone, good five bars of reception.

Drinks his beer.

He could step right out of the world, no blip. He might not even notice if he did.


Calls information, asks for the number of one Robert Singer. Listens to his voice, unsure for a moment, that he still knows how to talk with anyone. There is a lot of empty in the forest.


Information hangs up. Shoulda kept the number of the girl with the cowboy boots from the bar last year. Or the chat line card someone stuck on his windshield wiper.

He's asleep by the time his phone rings. The tinny cellphone notes of Brown Eyed Girl. Hasn't played it in almost two years, and Dean's heart is beating hard before he's awake, before he registers the sound.

"Sammy? You ok?"

"Dean?" The voice sounds small and distant.

There's some rustling, then Sam swallows.

"What's going on?"

"Dean, did you ever- The parties you went to, did you never- The girls you-"

Dean's mind is racing. Halloween haunted house come to life? College succubus? Pregnant college succubus?"

"Sam, spit it out!"

Sam's voice goes meeker. "Did you ever try-"

Orgies? A girl's underwear on?

"Did you ever try smoking?"

Dean sputters. "Sammy!"

"Like - weed?"

"You smoke now?" California takes Dean's geek baby brother, it should have the decency to give him back the way it got him.

"Dean" Sam's voice is part way between annoyed and pleading. "I don't know if - if it feels right".

"What's it feel like?"

"I just - I - I - wanna puke and throw up, and" Sam's breathing gets sharp, and Dean can't hear if it's fear or tears. Dean knows shit about getting high, but he knows his brother, and he knows his Mick Jagger Mars Bar lore.

"Listen, Sammy, you got anything with sugar on you?"

"No, but it's fine, Dean, I'm fine".

"the hell you are. Listen, Sammy" Dean does Dad voice, like there's no doubt in the world. "You're stoned, you're paranoid, that's all. You don't gotta fight it, you're golden. All you gotta do is ride this out. Will be over in an hour".

Sam swallows. "What if it was - you know, what if there was something in it?"

Dean's thinking about the same lines, but that's not comin out of his mouth. "Dude, you're not in Em City, you're in college, it was probably overpriced oregano. You jonesing for pizza?"

Sam snorts, but he's still breathing wrong. "Dean, there was - in the paper - about someone like you, missing and I know it wasn't you because - but his picture looked a little - and I started thinking what if you or Dad - and I - you are missing and I - this guy Don had a joint and I - I just didn't want to think about it"

"Woah, woah, Sammy" Dean says, quiet. "Didn't go missing". I didn't go missing. "'m right here, you hear me?"

"Yeah, yeah. I know" Sam tries to sound grown up, and only misses by a few years. Like Dean's voice sounded in his ears when that spirit had Dean by the throat, and Dad was bleeding out - grown up and messed up and scared. "Just you're not here, and I just, I didn't want - if something wasn't gonna be ok with you - or - me - I didn't want to never - just wanted to I wanted to-"

"'s alright"

Sam's breathing a bit better now, and Dean's chest unclenches. "So what, you're embracing the ways of the locals? Flowers in your hair?"

Dean can hear the weak smile in Sam's voice. "You'd love it. They put broccoli on their pizza".

Dean makes the expected a disgusted voice, like it's a normal conversation, like they still know how to talk with each other proper.

"It's better than fried spam for breakfast".

"It's good enough for Commander Sheers, it's good enough for me".

"Commander Sheers never ate fried spam".

"You're high".

Sam laughs.

Dean tries for more.

"Little Sammy, a space cowboy, riding shotgun on the Great Red Shark!"

"You're such an ass" Sam's voice is warm, and he sounds ok, sounds regular.

"Rock on gold dust woman! Don’t Step on the Grass, Sam"

"Dean" Sam asks, like there's too much space in his world too, too many miles of room.

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"Stay on the phone with me till the hour's over?"

"Sure, kid".
citrusjava: (Default)
Title: Sam and Dean's Ghostly Adventures
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13?
Words: 705
Warnings and tags: Show level violence/hurt, casefic sort of, crack, unbetaed, poor research on my part

Summary: Sam fights ghosts to save Dean

"Dean!" Sam screamed as the ghost slammed his brother against the wall.

"Behind you!" Dean called, a flash of bloody teeth. Sam ducked and rolled out of the way, just missing the killing touch of another ghost. Fuck, fuck. There were now two on him, three. A pac.

Sam dashed through the dark house's angled corridors, frantically searching. They stepped right into it, no investigation, no EMF reader - the second they were inside the house, they wre running for their lives.

The entire house was thrumming with sirens, Sam couldn't say whether they were intended to warn them or against them. All he could see was Dean's face, Dean being erased from existence, done.

Nothing worked against these ghosts. As Sam ran - a flicker of memory, maybe something Dad said when they were kids, said to Dean - - the ghosts are tied to orbs. Nothing would work, no salt, no iron - nothing unless he managed to find the orb.

Behind him he could hea r furniture crashing, the thud of a body - hitting the floor, flesh, reverberating through Sam's legs. Knee against the floor, then the body. Sam wished, not for the first time he'd never gotten clean. Not if the price was losing Dean again. Not again. Couldn't live through that again, not again. Wouldn't get a dog next time, wouldn't ever stop.

He put the bitterness into running, the desperation. He was a tiny bit faster than the ghosts, and that margin was the only hope he and Dean had. Sam took a sharp turn at a run - to find himself in a small passage - and from its other side, was approaching a ghost. There was nowhere to run, nothing left.

Then Sam realized, between him and the other side of the passage, there it was - a glowing round orb. If only he could reach it before the ghosts touched him, he could buy them some time. Could buy Dean some time to run outside - but Dean wouldn't, not unless Sam was there to make him.


Sam flung himself at the orb and crashed into the approaching ghost midair. The orb was gone. In a moment suspended in time, world took a breath, and the ghost exploded and shriveled into nothing but its burning eyes. Sam rounded on the ghosts behind him, perusing them down the corridors, back to Dean. The ghosts fled before Sam, frozen to Sam's touch and melting under it. Sam would have been terrified at his power had it not been for the ache in his chest, Dean -

The power of the orb was pulsing through him, he could hear his own steps remaking the house on his way to Dean.

Something in this new knowledge made Sam stop in his track. Something - in the house. He would need something.

Wouldn't be able to help Dean without it.


A space opened up before him, the way they walked in, but different. And casually set there, waiting - the gift of life. Small red fruit in the dark light.

Maybe ghost fruit. It could be a mistake. But could also be the only thing that could help.


Sam grabbed it and sprinted to Dean, back to Dean.

Vanquished the last ghost, pulling it off of Dean without thought. "Dean! Dean" Sam grabbed for a pulse, a gleam of recognition in Dean's eyes.

Dean's body was pliable, warm in Sam's arms, but here was no reaction, no echo of Sam's erratic breaths.

"Dean, please, Dean" Sam was whispering, "please".


Nothing.




Sam pushed the fruit between Dean's lips, its skin breaking against Dean's teeth, red. A breeze rose around them, sun-ripened tart and sweet, sticky hands at the back seat, Dean's lips at night in summer. The tips of Sam's fingers at the dip of Dean's neck as Dean's eyes blinked back, wide, and Dean's heart was beating again.

"Sammy", Dean looked up at him, bare to the quick, then Dean was smiling, "Sammy", he was removing the cherry pit from his lips, "You know I can tie a knot in one of these babies with only my tongue?"

"Dean", Sam was on him, damp faces soft under stubble, under rifts and years, fruit lingering on their tongues, between their grins.

"Thanks for giving me your cherry, Sammy" Dean was mumbling into Sam's hair.

Why couldn't it have been a watermelon.




Notes: I don't know why Pacman. I'm sad, wanted to write something silly. Also it turns out that while (probably?) the version I played for research gave me an extra life for that cherry, it changes from version to version and that is not even an official possibility? so - yeah, sorry to purists.
citrusjava: (Default)
Rating: soft R
Pairing(s): Sam/Lucifer, Sam/Dean
Spoilers: up to and including 11x14
Warnings: ptsd, past rape, not exactly comfort in your h/c, self loathing, shamealso - this can be read as very anti Dean. I don't exactly men it that way, it's a story of a moment, not the whole picture. But if that bothers you - be warned.
Summary: At least Lucifer was never the only monster living in Sam's head.

That night, alone, Sam dared to look, to touch the thought -

Had Dean not been in trouble that moment, 'gotta save Dean', to carry him through that moment....

Lucifer.

There.

In Sam again. Touching him, making him scream.

Felt like the end of everything. No point fighting anymore, never was.

Distraction from the stark dread and hopelessness, had him reaching into his pants.

Coming is better than that. Self loathing means there is at least someone there. Anything is better. Disgust. It should be disgust. Shame. Being like this - being turned on by this, he'd mostly forgiven himself that. Been turned on by worse.

But he deserved no forgiveness for being Lucifer's bitch.

Ten seconds around him topside and Lucifer in him again.

It wasn't even compulsion - he might recognize compulsion, might be able to work with it.
This was not even that.


A moment around him and Sam was offering his soul to him, take it, take it, please.

It was like Stanford, like Sam could fight it. It wasn't even compulsion. The world would rearrange itself to make things right. Nothing about Sam mattered but who he was made for.

Self loathing added an edge, sticky on his hand.

What if Dean called through Sam's door, came in. What if Dean held Sam’s face, held Sam through it. What if Dean kissed Sam and told him he was worth living. Was Dean’s. Again, like he once used to ....

Sam curled around the thought, around his bunched up blanket.

He had always, every moment of his life, been a bit more Dean's.


citrusjava: (Default)
Title: Beautiful on the Inside
Pairing: Anna/Ruby
Rating: R
Words: about 1000
Warnings: Vessel sex, true form sex, unnegotiated kink, mild: blood play, unsafe kink, verbal humiliation, self harm, drug use, careless mention of past breach of body autonomy.... weird things.... Unbetaed

Note: This is for the beloved and wonderful [livejournal.com profile] balder12 - hope you like it, BB!

Summary : Ruby isn't naked, like Anna. She's wearing her meatsuit, the way Anna likes




Anna is milk and honey, plains and horizon. Ruby floats in her, hair silking, slipping, slithering around her, caressing her shoulders.
Ruby isn't naked, like Anna. She's wearing her meatsuit, the way Anna likes. It makes her feel gorgeous and and naughty dressing up for Anna, knowing how much Anna wants it. Angels and their fetishes, she knows. But Anna's so pure, it makes kinks interesting again.

Ruby walks around the rim of Anna, ground meeting to support the arch of her foot, hold the curve of her toe. Ruby picks up speed, and her steps echo in the land, or maybe the sounds are Anna's delight. The banks are pooling liquid, Ruby's prints filling, softening, and Ruby stumbles through it, Anna pleasantly slippery between her toes. She makes a quick sprint, smiling, and jumps, crash-slides across it, picking up speed, laughs slick and sweet and filthy. Lands on Anna's bank, covered in Anna, hair sticking to her grin, feet dipping in the lake.

"I'm just gonna lie here and make my fragile human form quiver" she informs. American English, authentic, almost the real deal. It makes Anna squirm. Ruby knows Anna is listening, but can't reply, if she doesn't want to break Ruby's vessel. Just has to stay quiet and gentle under Ruby. It makes Ruby squirm. Anna would stay quiet even if she didn't worry about the meatsuit's well being, would never want to break this. You need to be pretty dedicated to your kink for fetish tourism, and Anna's remade her life around it, just to live among humans.

"You can't get this body off, Anna" Ruby says. Sweet heavenly colonialist. Ruby likes this body for being soft, comfortable and hers alone, after hell. It is extremely useful, too.
Anna likes this body for being exotic.
"You're too foreign, you're not human, can't even communicate".

Ruby dips her arm up to the elbow in Anna. Non just Anna's juices, but Anna herself, sentient, as Ruby uses her to slick herself.


"You Can't get this body off" Ruby repeats, ignoring the way this body swells and thumps around her fingers. "But you could get me off". Anna must notice it as well, curved around every dip of her . They are fucking this vessel together, inside and out.

"You're so angelic, Anna. So you know what I've been doing - you know what I like. Everybody in heaven does". Ruby feels around for Anna's blade. No angel would be without one in these days of unrest, regardless of form. It meets her hand. "Did you ever watch me? Ever want to be back down on earth, to taste for yourself?" It's awkward to use a blade this long,but Ruby can deal with weapons. She uses Anna's blade to make a long, shallow cut across her arm. "Did you wonder how angels react to demon blood? What it could do for you?"

The ground quivers, pulls away, sways, Ruby cradled, cupped, held, but her arm untouched.

"Did you stay there alone, wondering whether it could dim th e glare of your grace a bit, the grace they shoved into you? Make you feel more yourself again?" Cuts another thin line, across the curve and dip of her belly. Presses her lips, open mouthed, to her arm, making a show of taking it in, soft, tasting it. She likes the flavor of her blood in this vessel. Adds, offhand - "Or maybe it'll just get you high". she smiles, but it doesn't come out the practiced seductive smile, just the shy dark one that always met her in the mirror unbidden, always too much her own .


She could just turn around and dip her arm into the lake, simple, have her way, done. Instead she slashes a long cut across her chest, slow, slow and deliberate. The world feels like it is leaning in to watch, mesmerized, motionless. The ground istelf holding its breath. Ruby reaches her nipple, blood gems rising on her skin, transparent.




A pause, then the world tilts, Ruby slides into the folds of Anna, blade safely removed, blood smearing, licked off in tingling burns, grace-cold, wild grin against Anna's curves sticking to her smile, warm, her entire world.... Anna's pool is blush, now, Ruby can't say whether it's her own blood mingling with the essence of Anna, or Anna's reaction to it. The water is building a rhythm to it, fast. Ruby's blood flow brings heartbeats.


The whole lake thumps around her. Her breasts shine in the pearly red, slippery, sensual, comical. Ruby experiments, moves an arm through the liquid, fragrant and weirdly heavy, and Anna ripples around her, shivering small waves in the rhythm. She wriggles, splashes and kicks. The lake gasps in surprise, maybe pleasure or pain. Ruby wants Anna to tear this disguise off her already .

Anna tosses her gently out to the water's surface, slick like before, and Ruby slides across it, wind in her face, drying her hair. Tries to imagine the multiple awarenesses of droplets flying, surrounded in crisp air, lake rippling hard, the feeling of Roby's blood seeping in, Anna soaking, covering and beating with Ruby's body, this vessel that Anna loves, what it must be like to sync heartbeats when neither of them really uses blood - not in that way .


Ruby breathes in wonder. Within the heartbeat, red darkening into it's depths, inviting, pumping, swirls a huge whirlpool. Ruby's mouth goes dry at its magnitude, the power running through it . She circles its rim with her momentum, not pulled it. Puts her fingers in the flow. It sucks her fingers with force, and she smiles, breathless. Likes the way people get, on her blood. "Yes" she says, for whatever angelic requirements she doesn't want to have to deal with. The speed of her glide increases, then she is in free air - over the middle of Anna.


She smiles, and dives.
citrusjava: (Default)
Title: Two days from then, around, 07:30
Rating: gen
Character(s): Amelia
Words: ~700
Warnings: Read more... )
Notes: this is for [personal profile] kalliel - this is not the I was supposed to write, I hope it's still a bit enjoyable (though it's ok if not!).
This is very rough but I'll probably leave it like that - I like it enough to post
though it's ok if i am the only one.... Also - I feel like I might have stolen one of the lines here, if you recognize it, please let me know so I can return it home.



Summary: Why Amelia left for Texas

She'd planned it for a long while. Not the sort of planning that's about tickets and movers and dates, the sort of planning where you fantasize for four months about setting fire to your house, and the neighbor's, and running and running forever, and four months in you realize you're ready to go, all you need is your car keys and you run.

It was the pity she couldn't stand- that was true - but that was only part of it. It was the constant reminder. She'd lost him. He'd left her- just up and left her, no warning. That is- that's a lie- there were a thousand little warnings. In the slant to his tone, in the way his palm felt on her belly. In telling her- I'm unhappy, Amelia, I hate it here.

Everybody was unhappy.

No one left, really left.

Enlisted, like olden days, like she was the woodsmith's daughter and he needed out of an arranged marriage. She'd loved him so simply, before. Can't believe she'd even done something so wholeheartedly. Tried since to talk herself out of naivety, gotta stop, like everybody does . He's not coming back to you, don't let yourself hope for it. Be smart, Amelia, don't be an idiot, please, she begs herself. Still.

She didn't even have time for shock when he left, was still standing there hands wet clutching her dish towel for weeks. Don was off, kisses and hugs and a duffle, because there are not enough roads in the desert and trolleys get trapped in the sands - not even a letter yet and her mind filled with images of that trolley wheel sand-logged, hands still holding her dishtowel and she was coming back home with her paper bag, didn't know how to buy groceries for one, seemed pointless to cook for no one - not even a letter yet and he has no internet still - or he'd have texted her he would have texted her.

Mrs Snyder said hi, rummaging in her mommy bag - Amelia expected words about trash day or porch lights, about painting the front of their house pastel to match the neighborhood plan, and she'd be making those decisions on her own now. Mrs Snyder asked instead about Don, already went over that, didn't want to do it out again. Looks like she might make it a coffee invitation, they'd never gotten along, come have dinner with me and the kids some night, a neighborly patriotic thing that no one would need to follow up on - instead she pulled out a copy of Trauma and Recovery. Squeeze Amelia's arm sympathetically and Amelia's throat clenched with bile. The end of their life. "How bad do you think Don's flight was?" she deadpanned - but Mrs Snyder had left, family matters, offspring making his proud way to the middle of the road, only a moment unsupervised.

Don was missing, and she hated him for putting this unchangeable thing in her life, always, always going to be there, wanted to kick herself in the kneecaps for not knowing, not running on time, for never being this American wife right. The officer at her door barely legal to drink and she wanted to slap him hard and ask whether he was good to his girlfriend, slap him and tell him and America hands off my man you homewrecking slut.


She'd wanted to go to Texas for so long, fantasized about big people and big hearts, all of those families, surely she could find her own. Big dogs jumping of the back of a truck, jumping into the kid's pool like on all those YouTube videos, and she'd finally know the difference between normal BBQ and the real sort she'd never tried.

Once she was there, she was unable to say why she'd found her way to this big empty desert, to this town named after a Muppet.


Then a haunted eyed man hit a dog and messed with her AC, and she wore his shirt, and she needed that book again, and she knew better than hoping, in retrospect.
citrusjava: (Default)
Title: Two days from then, around, 07:30
Rating: gen
Character(s): Amelia
Words: ~700
Warnings: slurs, fantasy fire/violence, military canon badness, unbeta'ed
Notes: this is for [livejournal.com profile] kalliel - this is not the I was supposed to write, I hope it's still a bit enjoyable (though it's ok to say if not!).
This is very rough but I'll probably leave it like that - I like it enough to post
though it's ok if i am the only one.... Also - I feel like I might have stolen one of the lines here, if you recognize it, please let me know so I can return it home.



Summary: Why Amelia left for Texas

She'd planned it for a long while. Not the sort of planning that's about tickets and movers and dates, the sort of planning where you fantasize for four months about setting fire to your house, and the neighbor's, and running and running forever, and four months in you realize you're ready to go, all you need is your car keys and you run.

It was the pity she couldn't stand- that was true - but that was only part of it. It was the constant reminder. She'd lost him. He'd left her- just up and left her, no warning. That is- that's a lie- there were a thousand little warnings. In the slant to his tone, in the way his palm felt on her belly. In telling her- I'm unhappy, Amelia, I hate it here.

Everybody was unhappy.

No one left, really left.

Enlisted, like olden days, like she was the woodsmith's daughter and he needed out of an arranged marriage. She'd loved him so simply, before. Can't believe she'd even done something so wholeheartedly. Tried since to talk herself out of naivety, gotta stop, like everybody does . He's not coming back to you, don't let yourself hope for it. Be smart, Amelia, don't be an idiot, please, she begs herself. Still.

She didn't even have time for shock when he left, was still standing there hands wet clutching her dish towel for weeks. Don was off, kisses and hugs and a duffle, because there are not enough roads in the desert and trolleys get trapped in the sands - not even a letter yet and her mind filled with images of that trolley wheel sand-logged, hands still holding her dishtowel and she was coming back home with her paper bag, didn't know how to buy groceries for one, seemed pointless to cook for no one - not even a letter yet and he has no internet still - or he'd have texted her he would have texted her.

Mrs Snyder said hi, rummaging in her mommy bag - Amelia expected words about trash day or porch lights, about painting the front of their house pastel to match the neighborhood plan, and she'd be making those decisions on her own now. Mrs Snyder asked instead about Don, already went over that, didn't want to do it out again. Looks like she might make it a coffee invitation, they'd never gotten along, come have dinner with me and the kids some night, a neighborly patriotic thing that no one would need to follow up on - instead she pulled out a copy of Trauma and Recovery. Squeeze Amelia's arm sympathetically and Amelia's throat clenched with bile. The end of their life. "How bad do you think Don's flight was?" she deadpanned - but Mrs Snyder had left, family matters, offspring making his proud way to the middle of the road, only a moment unsupervised.

Don was missing, and she hated him for putting this unchangeable thing in her life, always, always going to be there, wanted to kick herself in the kneecaps for not knowing, not running on time, for never being this American wife right. The officer at her door barely legal to drink and she wanted to slap him hard and ask whether he was good to his girlfriend, slap him and tell him and America hands off my man you homewrecking slut.


She'd wanted to go to Texas for so long, fantasized about big people and big hearts, all of those families, surely she could find her own. Big dogs jumping of the back of a truck, jumping into the kid's pool like on all those YouTube videos, and she'd finally know the difference between normal BBQ and the real sort she'd never tried.

Once she was there, she was unable to say why she'd found her way to this big empty desert, to this town named after a Muppet.


Then a haunted eyed man hit a dog and messed with her AC, and she wore his shirt, and she needed that book again, and she knew better than hoping, in retrospect.
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)
Title: Longer than the Road
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: PG-13?
Warnings: drinking, very much unbeta'ed
Notes: For 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 fratboy douchbag, 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)
Title: hard to take courage
Pairing: Sam/Dean / Sam&Dean
Rating: :gen
Word: 550




Summary: for [profile] balder12's prompt: Dean plays with the giant rainbow slinky

At first, Dean just - kinda, holds it- shut up! He's wanted it for years! )
citrusjava: (Default)
Pairing/rating: Sam/Dean or Sam&Dean
Words: ~1190
Warnings: spoilers for aired episodes, quick, unbeta'ed, blood and patching up, self harm themes
Notes: For [livejournal.com profile] kalliel, who prompted for Sam and Dean interacting in that way that isn't clearly yes or not romantic or sexual, without being aware of it.

Summary: It's been a long while since Dean stitched up Sam after a hunt.




The memory is copper in Dean's mouth )
citrusjava: (Default)
Title: hard to take courage
Pairing: Sam/Dean / Sam&Dean
Rating: :gen
Word: 550
Note: I am writing quick, unbeta'ed stuff, mainly to distract myself from the holidays. If you like, come donate a prompt (anon/pm is fine, more than one is fine, though I might not write everything). Details are here

Summary: for [livejournal.com profile] balder12's prompt: Dean plays with the giant rainbow slinky

At first, Dean just - kinda, holds it- shut up! He's wanted it for years!

It rests in Dean's lap as he drives them away, and he feels up the shape of it as he drives, fingers under the top circle, smooths the curve of the column, the ridges inside.

Dean can see Sam hiding a smile, but it's a fond one, like when he can't help but laugh at Dean's jokes. Doesn't say a word. Knows what is good for him, bitch is covered in glitter.


~
Dean steps out to get the gas pump, and when he's back, it's gone.

"Give it back" Dean makes Dad's hand gesture, Dad's tone. This is important hunter business.

"What?" Sam asks, voice casual innocence. Dean glares. Sam raises an eyebrow, shrugs big, fake-smiles. But there is a real smile there too, the sort Dean hasn't seen in a long while, and Dean knows he is smiling like an idiot too. He dives for under Sam's seat, and of course there it is. Sam pulls it away, but in the car Sam can't use him monster arm reach, and Dean's got him pinned in a second, sitting on him like the bitch he is and grabbing what's his.


Sam gives up easy, smirks, like all he wanted was to prove Dean would fight for it. Dean goes for Sam's hair, something between a ruffle and a noogie, and that is a mistake.

"Sam! The car!" he yells, incredulous. His Baby might never again be free of glitter. Bedazzled hairy sasquatch of a brother. Always said Sam was a pussy.

Gonna vacuum her all better soon as possible.


~
When Sam is asleep that night, Dean slips out. There are five steps leading up to the motel's entrance.

~
The steps are too wide, that's what it is.

~
OK, a slinky as large as this just needs more acceleration power behind it, not like the puny metal things that kids get their fingers stuck in.


~
Dean can just go on a beer run, they'll need beer - at some point . And if he happens to find a good, steep staircase, driving around looking for a place to get beer - well, then, he'll be prepared.

~
It's like parkour, really, who else goes around searching for steep danger-stairs at midnight? It's good for a hunter.

Really, Sam should be practicing this too.

~
It's why Dean wanted the slinky to begin with, after all, playing with Sam.



~
Sam wakes up with Lucifer whispering in his ear. Dean is not there.
Maybe back in hell? Maybe shot by Dick Roman, or eaten by a ghoul?

Sam isn't surprised to find Dean behind the motel, in a dark alley, racing his slinky down some steps.

He isn't surprised, but he can breathe again without feeling like his ribs are cracked.

Dean is smiling, winded in his t-shirt, eyes crinkling like he doesn't remember there is anything else in the world.

He starts a little when he realizes Sam is there, then his smile widens with pleasure. He hands Sam a beer and it looks too grown up for dean's smile at that moment, but Dean opens it with his ring, one smooth move, capable hands. Dean.

~
Sam bumps Dean's shoulder and sits down with him.
citrusjava: (Default)
Title: Who Knows What We Might Become
Relationship: Dean/Sam
Rating: NC-17
Words: 795
Warnings: very mild mentions of gore, the sex is never official
Notes: Thank you KnottedString for the beta, and for being such a wonderful person too.
Inspired by this lovely prompt - thank you, prompter!
(as always, I'd be glad to dedicate the fic to you if you wanted)
And thank you mods!
Notes 2: I intentionally left the time this takes place unclear, but I enjoy imagining it is current day Sam and Dean <3



Summary:
It's not weird, it's just this thing they do


Sam moves his hand up Dean’s cock, and Dean holds back a groan. He is almost dripping excitement, eagerness, terror. His body is confused. That is why it works. It is just stimulations. Dean is a healthy young man and Sammy’s stupid hair is soft like a girl’s.

Dean stopped believing those some time back, but he still repeats them every time. Still goes back and forth cause it can’t be, cause he can’t like – it. Can’t like it like that.

“Eyeballs scum,” Sam says, and Dean lets out a breath as he reigns his cock back to mostly soft .

Dean doesn’t really care about the eyeballs.

But whoever’s hard is an eye scum perv.

Victorious, Dean holds tighter onto Sam’s wet cock. “Maggot burger,” he offers offhand. Sam’s lips are parted, eyes stuck to Dean’s neck. He's not listening. Dean allows himself just another pull, two, the way he knows Sam likes it. Shit. Doing this thing means Dean knows how Sammy likes his dick touched. The realization sends a sick shiver whirling through Dean’s stomach, making his cheeks flush high and thrilling down between his legs.

Sam swallows, eyes closed, hand still wrapped around Dean’s twitching cock. Sam’s voice is a little weird when he says - “you sick fuck.” Dean’s mouth goes dry, hand frozen on Sam’s cock. The tension sends tingles to Dean’s dick, and he can’t even tell if they’re making him harder or softer

“Dean humps maggot burgers in bed.”

The thrill of relief is almost as good as Sam’s hand, that moment. “Yeah, Sammy.” Dean concedes easily. Would have agreed to anything Sam said about him right that moment. “I do." He smiles, wide and loose, almost can’t control it.
Sam smiles back, looking dazed. Dean wants every bit of that dopy grin, wants to rub himself against it, burrow in. live in it. He moves his hand lower, presses that sweet spot behind Sam’s balls. Breathes “Ghost mucus,” in Sam’s ear. Sam’s breath hitches, and Dean’s entire body tunes to it, nerves alight. He clamps down on the feeling, Sam’s cock completely hard in Dean’s hand. It’s socking, makes him want to pull his hand away on instinct, avoid a burn, but he doesn’t seem to have that sort of drive for self-preservation. His brother’s dick in Dean’s hand, it’s disgusting. It is, it must be. Dean clamps down on these thoughts, along with Sam’s cock. It’s against the rules to help each other out, get each other soft, but Dean is older and his rules are higher. Can’t lose Sammy. Can’t let them crash.

Sam’s eyes widen at the pressure on his cock, almost pained. His hard on fades, thank fuck, but his eyes blaze dark, like he finds satisfaction in it. Like he finds satisfaction in denying himself pleasure. Man, they are fucked up, Dean thinks, almost impressed, but without real drive. His mind is already wandering to more interesting things. It is Sam’s turn.

“Rotting zombie corpses,” he breathes, thumbing the head of Dean’s cock. It jumps.

“Cheat,” Dean says. “You know how I feel about zombies.”

Sam ignores him. Moves lower, face tender, holds Dean’s balls as if they were something precious – and Dean wants to squirm away or jerk off hard and dry or maybe tear up. Sam says Dean’s name and his voice is too soft, other hand on Dean’s dick, measured and persistent just like Sam when he’s making his point. The way Sam likes it, Dean realizes, and how did they come to have the same taste in dick fondling. Dean lets out a torn sound, shivers of nausea and warmth thundering through his body, too- too- “Sam,” he warns, but his voice doesn’t sound like his own.

Sam looks up, defiant, eyes hot and sweet, like he’s found the final, crucial clue to nail a vengeful ghost, like it’s the one Dean said wont pan out. This has to stop, gotta put an end to it now. Never play this thing again.

Sam meets Dean’s gaze. Stumbles. His hand tenses, then slows, and he lowers his eyes, swallows, hand just resting on Dean’s cock. His eyes are shining with something. Not anything good.

“Sammy,” Dean raises a damp palm to Sam’s face, hesitates, fingertips barely brushing it.

Sam chews his lip for a second, harsh. Pushes something down. Dean’s bad. Dean’s fault.
Gives Dean a soft half smile, a little sad but still glowing, because he’s Sam.

Dean cups Sam’s cheek, wants to touch his bruised lip, wants to touch, ruin everything.

“Dad having sex in your car,” Sam says, hand squeezing Dean’s cock, sparkles reaching his eyes again.

“What the fuck?!” Dean beats Sam’s hands away and they are both laughing.

They are both ok.


~
citrusjava: (Default)
Title: Biblically
Character(s): Sam
Words: 125
Warnings: allusions to past torture/rape/psychological abuse, self harm
Spoilers: 11x02
Notes: This is apparently what happens when I try to write just one thing about an episode

Summary: Unclean. In every sense of the word.



People are essentially good. Sam tries to save them, perfect circle of holy fire and they are pure as babies, and they are clean. People are good in nature.

Sam can't afford that sort of move on himself. Sam is unclean. Could never be Sir Galahad. Could never be purified, only by trial, by fire. Nothing ever gets wiped. He hears the voices saying stop, you don’t have to burn your fucking face off. That is how Sam knows not to listen. Demons lie. Angels know the truth and they’ll tell you. You don’t have to burn your face off, bunkbuddy. You’re perfect just the way you are, Sammy, you belong with me. Every time they did it. And Sam knows it to be true.


citrusjava: (Default)
Title: This is not why
Characters: Dean, Sam
Spoilers: 11x02, earlier
Warnings: show level violence, quick and dirty writing

Dean can't take losing Sam again. But that is not why they're staying the hell away from that Regan MacNeil kid.

Sam hadn't felt right for some time, after the cage. Dean had kept explaining it away to himself. No one comes back from hell just right. Probably Sam had been kind enough to look the other way a few times for Dean, when Dean just got back topside. Finding out he'd been lying to himself, about a case, about Sam, that Sam came back wrong, that Sam really was still in hell, Dean's worst nightmare, and Dean was just letting him rot down there, lugging this monster around in his passenger seat across the country - that was a big one for Dean. So yeah, maybe he overstated the 'freak' just a bit .

But that Sam was never evil, not in the hunt-him-down-or-he'll-drink-the-blood-of-your-loved-ones sense. He killed innocents, but wasn't that always the ways, for them.


He chilled Dean to his core, the things he was willing to do, the things Sam was and this thing wasn't. Dean was never meant to be no one's moral compass.


Dean can't say how come Sammy was never a murderous fuck even without his soul. Maybe Sam's used to holding on in order to stay unevil. Maybe it's because Sam is Sam.


But one thing, Dean knows. No way is he allowing Sammy around that Darkness child.

Not because Sam could lose his soul again. Because if Sammy saw what it did to other people, he would never believe he wasn't the same.


citrusjava: (Default)
Years ago I've been interested in the boys in 12 step programs - more invested in that now -




1) Sam looking at meeting schedules for the next town they will be in

2) Dean on the phone with his sponsor at night when Sam assumes he is out drinking or with a woman

3) Dean trying to be a cynical shit but getting over that REAL fast, and going into that heartbreaking obedient, desperate to be good mode of his.

4) Sam having trouble with the 'higher power' thing more than Dean - Dean might be mad at God - but he is happy to give himself to powers bigger than his, like the program - and it is a relief - Sam - might have some gray, frayed concept of God left from when he was a boy - but it is harder to rely on, more nostalgic and grown up, less innocent than Dean's. Sam - just knows already that any little good thing is unexpected and a blessing, and will not last......



5) each of them covertly working the steps - Sam is better at keeping it to himself than Dean, had to learn to be, all his life....

Dean maybe getting taken by some monster and Sam accidentally finding stuff Dean wrote to himself for his step work - heart breaking at the things Dean thinks about himself, and swelling with hope when he realized that no, this is not notes Dean took for their case.... and if - when - Sam does manage to save Dean from this monster, the stakes are higher, because Dean might actually be better, might actually be happier, and they might be better too, and Sam had lost hope of that happening long ago....
citrusjava: (Default)
Title: AHBL Dean drabble
Warnings: all that that entails+some blasphemy maybe

Had there been some force for good in the world other than Dad.... )
citrusjava: (Default)
When Sam’s soulless, he has no praise kink. It is nice to know Dean is pleased, things are going well - but it’s never a NEED.

Dean tells Sam he’s doing so good - used to saying that when he sees Sam is trying so hard - and Sam just gives him a long, almost uncertain look, like he’s wavering on the verge of recognizing something, but is not really sure what to do with this.

And Sam just moves on,

and Dean hasn’t felt this lonely in years.

After Sam’s soul is in place,

Dean says - you’ve done so good, Sammy - hand reaching for Sam’s hair, and stops himself, automatically braces himself for the bitterness and loneliness after all those months -

and Sam shivers and swallows, catches Dean’s hand between Sam’s cheek and shoulder and smiles just a little, just a bit, and his cheek is warm against Dean’s fingers.

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