This Holy Longing

zagzagael @ 2009-11-07T10:00:00

2009-11-07T18:00:26Z

For kittymaru who believes as much as I do that some angels are horned....

zagzagael @ 2009-11-06T17:34:00

2009-11-07T01:34:33Z

* A quick, flisty update. Took kidling back down the hill today to see the GP and the look on his face when he peered insider her throat was not good. He was visibly disappointed and concerned. Said some folks just don't "rally" as quickly as others with mono. She's on pain killers now....and the flist probably remembers my own dark wrestling with that myself before my surgery last spring....I'm not happy but she needs something to get relief so she can swallow and eat. She's one sick kiddo. And she's been put on another week of bed rest. It's concerning and...

* And its pulling me out of my headspace. *shrug* But Life happens and so it goes. I'm worried and that stress is making me twitchy....so I'm reading instead of writing and tomorrow am dedicating to doll pix.

* "Signing the Body Poetic" is currently in rotation and I'm humbled and somewhat stunned. Things are becoming more and more clear for me regarding ASL and signing in general. We, as a human species evolving, need to augment, improve, add to our linguistic uniqueness with sign. The astonishing and amazing and validating resurgence in this intuitive language after the oppressive oralism of the past one hundred years is beyond thrilling. It. Just. Makes. Sense. Here's a Whitman quote that opens this astonishing book about the Art of Sign Language.

A song of the rolling earth, and of words according,
Were you thinking that those were the words, those upright lines?
those curves, angles, dots?
No, those are not the words, the substantial words are in the ground
and sea,
They are in the air, they are in you.

Were you thinking that those were the words, those delicious sounds
out of your friends' mouths?
No, the real words are more delicious than they.

Human bodies are words, myriads of words,
(In the best poems re-appears the body, man's or woman's,
well-shaped, natural, gay,
Every part able, active, receptive, without shame or the need of shame.)

Wow!!!

* Last night's brilliant Supernatural episode had me grinning like a monkey on crack. It was fantabulous!!!

* It's been raining for two days and that's making me happy, too.

zagzagael @ 2009-11-04T05:43:00

2009-11-04T13:43:32Z

Eldest has been diagnosed with mono. It's shifting what I'm doing on the homefront and will likely keep me busy for the next two weeks. Just an update.

zagzagael @ 2009-10-31T16:43:00

2009-10-31T23:43:14Z

I ended up working all day down at the community building trying to get ready for this party tonight. Not much got done here, didn't finish the scarecrow, but here's a progress pic. I will return messages and do the things I need to do tomorrow. After I write my first 2000 words of NaNo. See you flist on the flip side - don't forget the clocks.

zagzagael @ 2009-10-31T07:46:00

2009-10-31T14:46:25Z

You will pee your pants. I'm not kidding. Courtesy thistle_verse. :)

IT'S DECORATIVE GOURD SEASON, MOTHERFUCKERS.

zagzagael @ 2009-10-29T10:37:00

2009-10-29T17:37:15Z

Title: Blood
Characters/Pairing: Sam/Dean (wincest)
Theme: Table 03: Paranormal State
Prompt: 2. blood
Rating: G
Word Count: 300
Disclaimer: Only playing with what Kripke has generously given. Nothing belongs to me.
Summary: In the car, always in the car. Written for agaitis_byrjun. XO.

“I would have let you, you know.”

“Don’t talk about it, okay?”

“All you had to do was ask.”

Silence.

"You should have asked me for it."

Another hundred miles disappearing beneath the wheels of the Impala. Behind them, all behind them now. Sam closed his eyes, laid his head against the cool glass, sighed.

Dean cleared his throat. “I could never....ask...for that. Never.”

"I wish you could. I would have said yes."

"I know you would have. Isn't this enough? Shouldn't this be enough?"

How could their sun be setting so quickly now? He narrowed his eyes and let his focus drift, between the smudged window and the orange yellow red sunset. It had been a glorious day and they had spent it inside the car. Driving always driving. And getting where? No closer to one another, not really. Outside of the safety wrought by glass and steel and motor, the dark night was bleeding up out of the earth, down from the Heavens, and it was bleeding blackly back into the car.

No radio, nothing but the air as it moved between their bodies, filling his ears. Hours and miles. Miles and hours.

Sam reached over for his brother’s hand, circling the hot wrist with his long fingers, pressing finger tips deeply into the pulsing vein, coaxing Dean’s hand and arm across the space that divided them. He pulled it into his own lap, pressed himself off the door and across the bench seat just slightly. Moving himself closer. He counted out the rapid beats of Dean’s heart in the heavy bones in his wrist, then he twined his fingers deeply into around between Dean’s fingers. Defiantly, he settled their mated hands on the seat and Dean allowed it. Sam lay his head back and closed his eyes, his brother's hand fast in his own. The Impala shot on through the dark night towards morning.

zagzagael @ 2009-10-29T07:55:00

2009-10-29T14:55:05Z

RIP Matthew Shepard

http://www.whitehouse.gov/blog/2009/10/28/about-whether-we-value-one-another

Finally, finally, finally.

If anyone on the flist hasn't read Hal Duncan, why not? The outrageously gifted gay Scottish author has written two books in which Shepard features prominently...."Vellum" (one of the most amazing books ever ever ever to be written in the history of writin' books and one of my top three favourites of all time all time all time!) and "Escape From Hell". Read these books.

"Do not walk away in sorrow. Do not be consoled. ~ Patricia Henley

zagzagael @ 2009-10-27T16:48:00

2009-10-27T23:49:00Z

Title: Happy Anniversary
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating/Warnings: R, crack
Word Count: 381
Disclaimer: Only playing around. The boys *sobs* don't actually belong to me.
Summary: One year anniversary.

One year. It had been one entire full-of-amazing-sex-and-being-kissed-awake-and-sated-to-sleep-and-jokes-in-the-car-and-footsies-under-the-Formica-tabletops-of-a-hundred-hundred-greasy-spoons year. Twelve full months of whiskey chasers, enough to probably fill a bathtub, and there had been a bath, too, a glorious bubble bath the one time he had been able to coerce Dean into a bed and breakfast with an old fashioned claw foot tub big enough for two hippopotamuses and then only because the inn was haunted and then only after he’d convinced Dean he deserved a bath due to a rigorous salt and burn, hadn’t mentioned the bubbles until it was too late for Dean to back out on account of by that time he was sporting an outrageous boner. Fifty-two weeks of the occasional panic attack, one full blown, but Dean had talked him down, and a fistful of fights but each had ended with mind-blowing make-up sex. Three hundred and sixty-five days of eating and sleeping, showering and dressing, and still hunting, together as never before. If the Universe handed outW-2s it would be time to file.

So, Sam stood for what seemed an eternity in the druggists, reading each and every single anniversary card they stocked. Finally he found one and it was perfect. At the checkout he threw a Snickers bar on the counter, too, and walked out with a smile. The next morning, he tucked the card and the candy bar next to their pillow, Dean still snoring softly, and took a shower.

Towel-drying his hair, wearing only a pair of black knit boxers, he walked into the room.

“You are such a girl.”

Sam shrugged. “Maybe. But I do think you and I and an entire revolution of the earth around the sun needed some kind of recognition.” He could tell Dean was pleased as punch.

“Doesn’t make you less of a girl.”

Sam smiled and tossed the towel back into the bathroom. “You know, I would take the smallest bit of offence at that if you hadn’t nearly woken the entire place up last night begging me to fuck you. Hmmm....Hard. Weren’t those your exact words, Dean, ‘Sam, fuck me hard. Harder!’? That last part was difficult to make out because of the screaming. Now who exactly is the girl here?”

“Keep that up and you can guess who ain’t gettin’ laid on his anniversary.”

Sam laughed and ditched the boxers. “I love you, too, dude. Happy Anniversary.”

“Happy Anniversary, Sammy.”

zagzagael @ 2009-10-26T10:42:00

2009-10-26T17:42:10Z

Hope Forlorn – for Sarah Graves

We had nine months to teach each other about flesh
How it locks together, joined as one, and the blood heats beneath the skin
The brain implodes within; the heart beats to a near bursting
And how it feeds what is between us.

My sister and I refused the last words on our father’s lips
frozen spittle, mouth rubbed with snow
Skin chapped and drawn tight over the bones.
We refused flesh of our flesh blood of our blood bone of our bone
Emptied by God we turned away, turned inward.

But not I you.

And did we not become one
Did I not take you inside of me and make your flesh my own?
You sustained me
Alive
And
In your death.
Beloved.

So hungry you would whisper
Voice choked with need
Of me.
So hungry for you.
In our bed
In our wagon.

So Hungry you prayed in your empty voice
The flesh I had tasted again and again
Given out in this bed of snow
I laid my own body down beside you
And hope was forlorn
On our way to God’s country.

We have to rethink God I whispered in my sister’s arms.
No we have to rethink Hell she answered.

The Literati book "Desperate Passage" about the Donner Party and the Forlorn Hope is kicking my emotional ass. I just wrote this poem. And it hurts. Yes, if you don't know Sarah's story....she did. She did. *weeps*

zagzagael @ 2009-10-25T10:00:00

2009-10-25T17:00:30Z

Barnes&Noble had a piss-poor selection of books on Deaf Culture. But they did have "Talking Hands" and it's proving to be a truly inspirational and insightful read. My attraction to the language is beginning to make sense now. I just finished a chapter on the history of ASL which has answered some of the questions I've been having about Contact Signing versus Sign Language. Of course Sign Language should not follow English grammar and CS is as awkward and inelegant as the broken attempt of the beginning student to shove English grammar into a Russian sentence, a Slavic language that is not a Romance language. ASL is not Romanic. However, it is HIGHLY poetic and symbolically metaphorical. It has a syntax and grammar which are both economical and beautifully sequential. And this is important because I think....in images, not in words. I think "subject" "descriptor" "feeling" "action/verb". This is an important distinction and one that writers have been discussing for millennia. Perhaps this is why I'm more drawn to a poetic prose, the poetic voice, than a sterile Third Person Omniscience. I know that there are many who think in words - this is a true, if completely astonishing to me, fact. Thinking in pictures is most probably why ASL is speaking to my heart.

With a bit of research, I've delightfully and a bit frighteningly - dare I disturb the Universe? My universe? - discovered that a junior college about two hours from here offers both a cc and an aa in Deaf Studies.

Thinking. Weighing. Pondering. Polishing the elusively misty looking glass.....

Fear, Prompt 1, Table 3

2009-10-25T14:42:07Z

Title: Fear
Author: zagzagael
Characters/Pairing: Sam/Dean (wincest)
Theme: Table 03: Paranormal State
Prompt: 1. fear
Rating: G
Word Count: 700
Disclaimer: Only playing with what Kripke has generously given. Nothing belongs to me.
Summary: The Civil War, America, 1864
Warnings/Author Notes: Replying in my own ‘Verse – Sheath&Knife. An AU exploration of Sam and Dean’s relationship to one another throughout time. Character death.

“Right here, Samuel, look right here in my eyes.” Deane’s voice was low and shaking around the edges, but it rang true with authority and pulled his brother's shallow gaze to his own, locking it there.

Beneath him, spread out on the table, ignobled but elegant even in this pain, this injury, Samuel was trembling, shaking with the mortal fear the wound had inflicted. He was reaching up between their bodies, searching out in a desperation that pulled hot tears down Deane's cheeks.

He reached and found his brother’s hand and held it hard. “That’s right, it’s alright. Here, Samuel. Right here.”

“Did we kill them, Deane? Are they dead?” His eyes weren’t focusing, his words slurring around welling blood.

Deane leaned in closer, wiping the blood away, whispering, nodding against his mouth. “As dead as dead things can get. Yes, we killed them. But, oh, God, Samuel, you shouldn’t have...”

Samuel cut him off, head racking back and forth on the table, throes of pain. “I had to, it was the only way. The South ain’t going to win, are they?”

“Three less battle ghouls on their side. We did our part.”

Deane watched Samuel squeeze his eyes closed and he wanted, needed, nothing more than to meet his brother’s mouth with his own lips, instead, he laid his forehead against the flesh of his flesh, the blood of his blood, the bone of his bone. Their sweat and blood and tears mixing in the space between them.

Samuel was being pulled away from him, out of his arms, into the dark void. Fear was cramping down, inside his guts, his chest, his head; fear for Samuel, and fear for himself. He closed his own eyes, mouths so close, inhaling his brother’s laboured breath, filling his lungs, breathing his own breath back into him.

Behind him, he could hear the field surgeons murmuring, but he dare not turn his head, he pulled back and Samuel’s eyes were open again and distant. Deane locked his gaze onto his brother’s face, his heart beating to near bursting at what was about to happen. And suddenly, he wanted Samuel to get to wherever he was going, knew he couldn't be without him but wanting to leave off the need to pull him back into the blood-filled present. At that moment, two soldiers jostled close up against him, grabbed for Samuel’s legs, Deane leaned down into his brother, one hand pressing on his shoulder, the other gripping his hand between their bodies and Samuel screamed as the bone saw bit into his knee.

Outside the tent, artillery fire punctuated the night.

He screamed again and Deane squeezed his hand, his lips hard against his temple, whispering hoarsely into his brother’s ear. “Oh, Sam, Sam, hold on, that’s it, that’s okay, you go ahead and scream if you have to, I’m right here, oh, god, Samuel.” He turned his head, “Hurry up with that god-damned saw!”

Beneath his hands, beneath his breastbone, he felt him go and then he kissed him.

***

Deane dug his brother’s grave. He washed the body, dressed him in his Sundays, tucked a tintype of the two of them, taken the summer before, underneath the homespun shirt, over Samuel’s heart, shrouded him in linen.

He hefted his baby brother into his arms, stepping down into the hole, going to his knees with the weight of the body he knew so very well, lying him down in sheets of mud. For a long moment that became longer minutes he knelt beside Samuel, holding himself back from fitting his own body beside the body of his brother, stretching out, toe to head, wrapping him in his arms. He stepped away from this dark desire and back out onto the lip of the grave. He shovelled in the wet Louisiana dirt. Then he sat in the torn grasses, crafting a cross, carving Samuel’s name into the hewn wood along with intricate signs and sigils that no one recognized.

He sat beside the grave for an entire day and slept beside it until dawn when he returned to the battlefield and fought like a man possessed. Within two days of Samuel’s dying, he lay his own body down in the trampled grasses of a fall-dried meadow, bleeding out into the October earth, Samuel’s name drying on his lips in shades of blooded sweat and tears.

zagzagael @ 2009-10-24T14:53:00

2009-10-24T21:53:39Z

I've got some SPN ficfans on the flist now....and until I can get filters back on the lj, I don't want to ~~scare the crap out of~~ spam non-doll folks with dolls. Eep! So, dolls behind the cut - a beyond amazing gift I was given this week *hugshugshugs* and a Pipos Dali who is for sale. In the meantime, "Love" prompt on DoA. Go do this.

zagzagael @ 2009-10-24T12:55:00

2009-10-24T19:55:35Z

*amuses self*

zagzagael @ 2009-10-24T06:38:00

2009-10-24T13:38:22Z

Drabble Prompt: By queenklu Dean/Sam, movie date, smuggling food into the theater, popcorn winding up in uncomfortable places.

Dean was grumbling under his breath, again, and Sam was clamping down on the inside of his cheek to keep from rolling his eyes, snapping at him, and snatching at the supersized Pepsi Dean had wedged between his thighs.

“What is it now?” he hissed instead.

“What the hell happened to good old fashioned drive-ins?”

“I think they’ve torn them all down. This is an iMax theater, Dean, the seats, the surround sound, digital HD, we’re here for that experience.” He stared forward and mumbled, “For the last time.”

“Did you say for the last time? Because you know what, you are so right; this is going to be the last time. The first and last time I listen to your bone-headed ideas and take you out to the movies.” He hefted the giant soda and slurped at it loudly. “When is it going to start?” He looked around the mostly empty seats. “And why isn’t it packed in here? Do I really hafta turn off my cell? What if someone needs to get hold of us?”

“Just stop, okay? Put it on vibrate, you'll like that. This is the last week of the run, it’s not going to be that crowded, beside it’s an early show. Can’t you relax and enjoy being here?”

“I’m trying. Why are all the guys sitting with one seat between them? And when are you gonna get the snacks out?”

“I want to wait for the lights to go down. We paid a mint to get in here, why risk getting kicked out?”

“I paid a mint to get us in here, princess, and I think this soda cost a mint and a half, actually. Good thing you thought about sneaking in the Cracker Jacks and Starbursts. Gimme.” He held out his hand.

“No, not yet.”

“Hey, did you know these armrests go up? That is very cool.” Dean leaned across, bending into Sam’s space, shoulder against his chest, hand scrabbling along his thigh.

Sam pushed him out of the way and slammed the armrest back down between them. “Would you please wait? Please.”

Several movie-goers craned around to give them dirty looks. They were seated in the last row. Sam smiled tightly and concentrated on the dancing box of popcorn on the screen.

“That was the king-size Starburst pack, where’d you hide that?” Dean waggled his eyebrows.

The lights began to dim. Dean held out a hand again, waving impatiently with his fingers.

Sam bent over and hiked up his jeans leg, pulling one box of Cracker Jacks out of his sock, Dean’s hand snaked up under his t-shirt, a sudden, hot-palmed warmth on his lower back. He fished the other box out of the other sock and reluctantly sat back in the seat. Dean moved his hand accommodatingly to his thigh, feeling for the Starburst. “Is that it?” he smirked quietly.

“Very funny.” Sam leaned back in the seat, canting his hips in the just-right direction of his brother’s searching fingers and was rewarded with a gasp. He smiled to himself in the dark and then plunged a hand down into his front jean pocket and pulled out the candy. “Here, take it.” He snapped the candy into Dean’s hand and dropped both Cracker Jack boxes into his lap. He sat back and focused on the screen, the trailers beginning to unroll in vivid high definition, the surround sound exquisite and perfect. He breathed deeply. Beside him, Dean had torn open the caramel corn and the fruity candy and was, unbelievably, eating both simultaneously. Sam smiled to himself in the dark.

One third of the way into the film, his heart breaking at the storyline, he pushed the armrest up and out of the way and gently, gently slid his arm around Dean’s shoulders and pulled his sleeping brother against himself, holding him there. With his free hand he tenderly leveraged Dean’s head down onto his own shoulder and pressed his mouth quickly against the short hair before looking back up at the movie.

zagzagael @ 2009-10-22T11:54:00

2009-10-22T18:54:10Z

Title: Beginnings&Endings
Character: Castiel, Dean
Ratings/Warnings: G
Word Count: 645
Summary: pre-Jimmy vessel/post Hell pull

He knew, of course, that every Beginning creates an Ending and that each Ending also signals a type of Beginning. That was the mathematics of it, the design of it, and the circularity of it. And for some, knowing that blood must wend itself back to the heart, that sleep leads to wakefullness and back to sleep and then awake again, that the snow will fall and melt and the ground will drink and the rivers flow back to the sea and the clouds will slake their thirst...knowing all that brings comfort to some. He mused on it, on the comforting. And he realized that actually he had been following Dean for the entirety of his life musing on it all because he found no comfort in the Knowing. No comfort in the Endings. And not finding comfort was discomforting. He smiled. He refused to create a beginning because he refused the Ending. He feared and dreaded and agonized over the domino effect of putting it into motion to its invariable end.

He was not comforted, God, thank you very much. And he shook his fist at the Heavens and then had to sit on the edge of the motel queen and laugh. Sit down beside him.

Dean had settled heavily on the bed, plastic bag full of beer on the floor at his feet, one opened in his hand. He held the cool bottle to his forehead, then to the back of his neck, then he put the mouth of it to his own lips and drank with his eyes closed.

The angel could see the air move around him because he could see things like that and he considered for only a brief moment, letting him breathe in the scent of himself. But, no. Not yet. First he had to finish this three-decade in the making grapple with Beginnings and Endings. Until he could come to the place where he accepted the ending, he would not begin. Could not.

He sighed and he pulled his attention back to him. He was so breathtakingly beautiful and he wondered what he would look like to him. How he would appear in his limited vision. Could he be a man? If so, a man, then how old? What skin would he manifest? What shape of a man? And would it matter?

He watched Dean swirl the bottle, peering distractedly at the liquid inside, before finishing it in one long gulp, the muscles in his neck moving as he tilted his head back and drank.

He remembered another beginning.

He had followed him into this world, holding him in the womb in his arms, wrapped in wings, for those glorious nine months, until finally he stood stretching in all his angelic length, limbs and wings, in the dimly-lit room in which his womb-mate had been born. There were others present to hold him, mother and father, he waited impatiently until the child lay sleeping in the hospital bassinet and he bent over him and brought him to his breast and rocked him awake and his newborn eyes looked up into his ancient, bloodspattered gaze and he knew the babe saw him. But that wasn’t surprising, all humans saw their daimon when they were fresh to this world. He remembered that he had lifted him to his face and placed his lips on the downy softness of his head, right on the place his bones had not yet knitted themselves closed and his mouth just there, feeling the baby pulse beneath his lips, causing him to tremble and he breathed in deeply and filled himself with the smell of him, his mother’s womb, blood and amniotic fluid, and himself. He smelled himself on the child.

His. He belonged to him then as now.

And now he was marked as so. The fierce handprint a brand that herded him back home with love. I love you I love you agape I love you.

zagzagael @ 2009-10-22T11:02:00

2009-10-22T18:03:21Z

*aches and aches and aches and cries for all the lost years and omfg Richard you were so so so beautiful so beautiful and your gift here is astonishing you ARE the greatest living picker...come to me, Richard....come to me*

zagzagael @ 2009-10-18T14:28:00

2009-10-18T21:28:32Z

*weeps* OMG - Billy Bragg's "Mr. Love & Justice" has wrecked me today. Just got it in yesterday's post and it's....well...flawless.

daisydayes asked me if the Soom jointed hands could "sign" in resin. Hmmm....I thought. And already had a photoshoot idea in mind. So....I managed to get part of one sign, apparently this boy is left-handed.

Sleep Sweet Darkling Angel and....Dream....

kittytoes face-up

zagzagael @ 2009-10-18T11:37:00

2009-10-18T18:37:16Z

Title: Save Me From This Darkness
Characters: Dean/Sam
Ratings: PG-13
Spoilers: through 5x05
Warnings: spoilers, wincest
Word Count: 2600
Summary: Trying to fit some good old fashioned boy-on-boy in between current S5 episodes.
Author's Notes: For the handful that so generously read and commented on the first two chapters of my last fic, this is taking the place of that deleted story. Sorry about that, but introspection coupled with outraged, anonymous comments led me to the place wherein I decided it's best not to put too many words in Sam's mouth. Hope this satisfies in place of. :)
Disclaimer: I only take what Kripke so generously gives. Nothing belongs to me, especially them boys. (And if they did, believe me, I'd be waaaay too busy to be writing fanfic on lj.)

‘My best unbeaten brother
This isn’t all I see
Oh no I see a darkness
And did you know how much I love you
Is a hope that somehow you you
Can save me from this darkness’ ~ Bonnie Prince Billy

Sam was miserable and it was infecting him like a disease; his head aching, his lungs constricted, his guts cramping. Even his teeth hurt. His throat was burning with accusations and recrimations trapped inside, held inside. Misery and mourning. Regret. And longing. Huge gouts of longing bleeding out of him and no one applying a tourniquet. Or even attempting to move towards him with a ligature. He sighed. And that felt self-indulgent and whiny. He didn’t want to be the whinge anymore, had snapped at Dean about letting him grow up, why then couldn’t he act the grown up? He moved uncomfortably on the seat, cranked down the window and leaned his head out, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of wet highway drying in the morning sun.

“Gotta see a man about a horse?” Dean asked, glancing quickly away from the road and back.

“Nah. I’m good.” He couldn’t hold himself still, felt how he was being wound tighter and tighter, lashed to a wheel spinning between them. Set in unstoppable motion by all the events of the last year, and even more, by the mere fact of being born into the world. Existing. And there was that whining again. He squirmed, he actually squirmed.

“You sure? You seem, I dunno, squirrely.”

“Do I? I feel like I swallowed a handful of fire ants, if that’s what you mean.”

A one-shoulder shrug. “Not exactly. Why would you feel like that?”

“Nerves? Tension?” Silently, “Unparalleled desire”. He rolled the window back up and turned towards Dean. “None of this is really going away, is it?”

“Dammit, Sam. Can we just not?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s what we’re doing, isn’t it? Just not-ing?” He smiled at the grammar of it, looking down at his hands in his lap, wiping sweat down the length of his thighs. “It doesn’t feel like it’s working, Dean. Doesn’t feel like things are getting better, doing it like that.”

“How about we try? For me? Can we try to not talk the shit out of something for once?”

Sam nodded, misery like bone marrow. “Yeah.”

***

Dean castaneted his phone and dropped it into the pocket of his leather. “That was Bobby. New job.” He shook his head. “A corpse eater. In Helmsplace. ‘Bout a hundred and forty miles from here.”

Sam raised a lazy eyebrow and leaned in the window of the Impala, dumping the plastic bag of snacks and drinks on the seat, turning to lean against the door, watching Dean watch the pump.

“I swear to god, demons must be in charge of oil prices,” his brother groused.

“That seems pretty obvious, Dean.” Sam laughed. “Maybe after the Apocalypse we can all drive muscle cars and land yachts on pennies a gallon.”

Dean glanced up, looked through him, suddenly remembering the Impala up on blocks, field stripped, rats nested into her upholstery, and he shook his head once, twice, to clear it. “Yeah, that’d be nice.” He reached out and caressed the deck lid.

Sam gave him a long look and wondered, for the hundredth time why Dean had called him back at four in the morning. He bit down on it and folded himself in shotgun.

***

Sam lay back on the hotel bed, feet on the floor, forearms crossed over his eyes. Exhaustion was pressing down on him, a slow execution by the piling of lethargic stones. Dean was in the bathroom, showering, scrubbing away at his own fatigue.

Bone-weary and yet still on a mental edge, some kind of brotherly Damoclean sword suspended above his head, keeping him brain-alert. He let his mind cast back to simpler sibling times and found that there really weren’t any, excepting when he was truly small and Dean was everything, surrogate mother, substitute father, best friend, everything. But he didn’t want to think about such intense dependency right now. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, pushing away at the images of the small boys they had once been, and wasn’t at all surprised when the crazy year before he left for Stanford spread itself out in his mind, a tableau of intense love and longing. He had known that entire year he would leave, knew he was going, abandoning Dean. He kept his secrets and hid himself away inside the person Dean was most comfortable having around. But there were....those other things, shared times....that were not hidden, not a secret, laid out silently between them, treasured. And during that time he needed Dean in the same way he needed to eat and breathe and sleep. For months after he left, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t sleep and could not slake his hunger and his thirst.

His eyelids relaxed, his face fell lax, his rolled his shoulders into the cheap mattress, releasing the tension as he played the precious memories out. Wondering now, nearly a decade later, how he could have ever left it behind. What a selfish creature he had been. He dug the edges of his hands against his closed eyes, breathing deeply.

He remembered when Dean had solidified out of the shadows that night in Stanford, inside the apartment he shared with Jess, how he seemed to be formed wholly out of Sam’s years of unspoken longing, how his actual physical presence inside that room negated every single thing Sam had convinced himself he wanted, needed. In that moment, he knew.

He heard the shower dial off and he dried his eyes and laid his wrist across his brow bone. The door opened after a long moment. Sam listened as Dean traversed the room, he shifted his hand to watch his brother, clad only in sweatpants, wet hair still spiky from being towelled.

“What? No tv? No porn?”

Sam shook his head. “Too tired to get it up. And what else is the point?”

Dean nodded, a small smile. “If I didn’t think it would make me a menopausal bitty, like you apparently are, I’d agree. This job has worn me the hell out.”

“It’s over now.”

“Yep.” Dean was rustling through the plastic convenience store bag, pulling out two long-necks. “Here, this will take the edge off and then you can sleep like a baby, baby.”

Sam sat up and took the beer. “Thanks.”

Dean fell onto his own bed, leaning back against the headboard, tipping the mouth of the bottle to his lips. Sam watched the taut length of his throat as he swallowed and he had to look away.

“Dean?” he asked and it sounded a bit like throat clearing.

“Mmmmm.”

“Do you ever think about that year before I left for Stanford?”

“I don’t know. What do you mean? What about it?”

Sam smiled, keeping his lips from breaking into a splitting grin; Dean knew exactly what he was referencing. He swung around so he was sitting on the bed facing his brother and slowly he began undressing. Sipping at the beer between discarded shirts. Long fingers tugging at the hoodie zip pull, and then feeding the bottom few buttons through the placket on his flannel, tossing the clothes to the end of the bed. He reached up, over his head, and pulled the t-shirt off and ran one hand over his chest, smoothing at the curling hair there, lightly tapping at the tattoo, paying homage of sorts. He reached for the beer and glanced under his lowered lids at Dean, he was being watched carefully but cautiously. He drank and set the bottle on the floor, bending over, and began untying the practical five-hole Docs he’d scored at a thrift store the week before.

“You gonna tell me why or is that it - do I ever think about that year?”

Sam grabbed the sloppy ends of both socks and tugged them off his feet, wriggling his toes, pulling one foot up onto his knee and massaging each digit slowly, see-sawing his fingers deep into the webs, gently pulling each knuckle until it popped with a satisfying release. Listening to Dean exhale. “What’s to tell? Just wondering if you remember it,” he paused, sucking his lower lip in under his top teeth, “and you do.”

“Maybe we’re remembering different things, Sammy.”

Sam grinned over at him, nodding, reaching for the almost empty beer now and sucking down the last of it, foamy backwash and all. Then he shook his head. “I don’t think so, Dean.”

Dean got up and fished two more beers out of the bag, then reached for a third and returned to the bed, handing one to Sam.

“How come, tell me this, Sammy, how come in all these years, all we’ve been through, you’re bringing that up now?”

“I’ve just been thinking about it, that’s all.”

“That’s all? Huh.” Dean swallowed half a bottle of beer with one pull. He let out a shaky breath. “Like, just now you’ve been thinking about it?”

“No. Not just now,” Sam said softly. He unbuckled his belt, then let himself fall backward, kicking both feet up onto the bed, crossing his ankles. “Sometimes,” liar, he thought, always always always, “I miss that closeness. We felt inseparable then. Unstoppable.”

“Yeah. So inseparable you split.” Dean snapped his fingers, “Just like that,” and finished the second bottle. “I didn’t even know you’d applied. I had no idea you were going. Anywhere. Guess you don’t remember that part of how inseparable we were. You left and...”

Sam had both hands up over his eyes again, pressing until he was seeing blue and white explosions. “And what? And what, Dean?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Of course not.” Sam turned on his side, away from Dean, curled his knees up towards his chest, rolled his fists below his chin and began solving equations with two variables until he fell into tormented sleep.

***

Poor Boy sandwiches, bags of chips and two drinks; the Impala hood a makeshift picnic spread. The glorious autumn afternoon still damp from the early morning rain. They were parked on the edge of a field that Sam’s iPhone identified as a Civil War historical site. A rather intimidating, large flock of blackbirds had gone to ground in the centre of the yellowed long grass, a shallow lake of feathers rustling in the small breeze. In a poetic fit, Sam imagined them all as the souls of the long-dead soldiers who had given up their lives in that meadow. He smiled ruefully at himself, “given up, lost”, musing silently at the language of sacrifice.

Dean was eating noisily and with a relish that made Sam ache. Everything was so wrong, so broken between them now. They were occupying separate shores that could not be breached. Sam swallowed hard at his food and it stuck painfully in his throat, he washed it down with a gulp of soda and that hurt, too.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he said softly, looking down at the sandwich in his hands.

With a quick and furious movement, Dean put his sandwich down. “You’re like a dog with a goddamned bone.” He swiped at his mouth with a napkin and threw that onto the hood as well, turning to Sam. “Let’s do this, then, okay? Because I can’t keep having you poke at me. It doesn’t feel good.”

Sam looked at him, his eyes narrowed, his mouth grim, a worry line that seemed permanently etched into his forehead stood out as stark as a scar.

Dean looked at him, eyes flinty. “Talk! That’s what you want then fine, talk it out, lay it on me, tell me whatever it is you need to tell me. The fact that I don’t want to hear it, can’t hear it, doesn’t really seem to matter to you. So, c’mon, Sammy, bring it on.”

Sam carefully wrapped his sandwich back into its waxed paper, snapped open the crumpled paper bag and placed it inside.

“I get it. Now you don’t wanta fucking talk.” Dean held up both hands. “I give up.”

“Don’t give up. Don’t give up on me, Dean. Don’t say that. I think....I need you to be my big brother again.”

“I thought you needed me to let you grow up? Treat you like a grown up. I thought,” and here he paused and Sam trembled, “you needed to get away from me.”

Sam dropped his hands to his side, turned towards Dean, leaving all the vulnerable parts of his body open. “I can’t believe that you think about that year as though it were some sort of adolescent circle jerk. I can’t believe that.”

“Okay, whoa. I know I’m not the college-educated conversationalist, but that seems like a strange leap. What’s really going on here, Sammy?

“I want,” he clasped his hands in front of him, an unconscious gesture, “I want...damn, damn, damn. Dean, I need...”

“Oh, Sam.” Dean’s voice was choked.

“I need you to save me.” He hung his head, his shoulders falling forward away from his strong back, folding in, still holding his own hands, one inside the other, two dead birds cradled pitifully. He closed his eyes, holding back tears that he refused to cry. Held the air inside his lungs. Listening to the slow time bomb ticking of his heart, his pulse counting down inside his ears, in the long length of his jugular. “Dean,” he whispered.

And Dean moved towards him.

He wrapped him in his arms, pulled him in as tightly as he could and Sam’s knees buckled beneath the weight of two entangled lifetimes. Dean let himself be pulled to the ground, still holding on for life, falling through.

The two men went to their knees and Dean leaned back on his heels, pulling his brother with him, cradling him against his chest, one hand coming up to hold Sam’s head tight against him, pressing his ear right over his heart, rocking him down onto his haunches, a fistful of the back of Sam’s hoodie in his grip. “I know you do, Sam, I know you do.” He moved his mouth down into Sam’s crazy long hair, mouthing the words around the brown locks.

Sam’s arms so tight around his waist they would be pulled to drowning depths beneath dark waters.

Then Dean tipped Sam’s face up, forehead to forehead. “Open your eyes. Yeah, shhhhhhhh, now, shhhhhh. We’re going to save each other.” And then he was kissing Sam’s face, kissing away the unshed tears, crooning through his lips, trembling against Sam’s temple, kissing into his eyelids, licking up under his brow bone, kissing down the side of his nose and finally finally finding his mouth and slanting his own just there. His hand at the back of Sam's neck, the other pulling at the rounded ball of his shoulder, moving himself deeply into this other man’s body.

Then both of Sam’s hands went to his face and held him and he answered the searching kiss with a searing need of his own, drawing him down to him.

Dean broke the kiss, whispering into his brother's mouth, “I don’t know how just yet, but we’re going to save each other together. Together.”

kittytoes' face-ups

2009-10-15T20:35:47Z

Didn't take a single damned picture of a doll for sale, but I couldn't resist the pull of my two Saints and this mask -

zagzagael @ 2009-10-14T12:36:00

2009-10-14T19:36:34Z

Self portrait challenge on DoA. Go there. Do this.

spn_30snapshots challenge

2009-10-12T14:01:53Z

01.	fear	06.	haunt	11.	ghost	16.	cemetery	21.	heaven	26.	hell
02.	blood	07.	possession	12.	bones	17.	magic	22.	angels	27.	demons
03.	ritual	08.	sacrifice	13.	omen	18.	death	23.	life	28.	purgatory
04.	monster	09.	faith	14.	power	19.	energy	24.	shiver	29.	vision
05.	prayer	10.	myth	15.	legend	20.	sacred	25.	holy	30.	fire

zagzagael @ 2009-10-07T08:02:00

2009-10-07T15:02:28Z

Title: And We Drown
Characters: Dean/Sam
Ratings: R
Spoilers: none, earlier SPN, maybe pre-S3
Warnings: wincest
Word Count: 2300
Summary: A potential "threesome" has planted the seeds. Sequel to "All the Unsaid Things".
Disclaimer: I only take what Kripke so generously gives. Nothing belongs to me.

He was outrageously drunk. Sam had come to pick him up after a garbled and unintelligible phone call, cut short with shouting in the background. The bar was just a three block stroll from the Motel 6 and Sam walked it quickly, pushing the door open and feeling his heart lurch to see Dean mixing it up with two figures. Not demons, two young businessmen from the looks of it. Sam waded into the brawl, swinging, reaching for Dean, and hauling him back with a handful of collar, pushing him to a staggering standstill.

Dean bent over, hands on his knees, breathing hard, then he straightened. “Thanks for nothing!” he shouted at all three of them, Sam and the two disheveled men.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Dean?” Sam hissed. Then turned and motioned apologetically to the two men. “I don’t know what the deal is. I’m sorry. I’m taking him home now.”

“You should take him home. Your friend’s a real asshole,” one of them spit out, pressing tenderly at the corner of his bleeding mouth.

Sam shrugged. “I guess.”

“And a serious creep to boot. Get him the hell out of here,” said the other, using a napkin on the first man’s face.

“Hey,” Sam held up a hand, “I got it. We’re leaving.”

He turned back to Dean who was trying to wave the bartender’s attention to himself. Sam rolled his eyes and grabbed his elbow. “C’mon, Dean. So not funny. We’re going home.”

“Home?” Dean slurred. “I wanta go home, Sam. Jesus, take me home.”

And something in his voice enraged Sam to the point of broken tears, something in the way he rolled the words in his mouth, acknowledging that if anyone could take him home it was his brother. He breathed deeply and deflected. “What the hell did you do to those two guys?”

“Nothing. Just asked them what the gay sex was all about, you know, if it’s better or worse than the straight sex.”

They were outside now and Sam shook Dean by the sleeve, hard. “What?!”

“Oh, dude, don’t shake me like that. Shit.” Dean moved quickly to the edge of the sidewalk and bent, retching, towards the gutter.

Sam ducked quickly back into the bar, grabbing a stack of cocktail napkins and returned to the street. Dean was still bent and heaving. “Here, here,” Sam murmured to him. One strong hand holding tight around the ball of his shoulder, he pressed half the stack of paper napkins against Dean’s mouth.

“Fuck,” Dean moaned, drawing the word out in one long exhaled syllable.

“You done?”

Dean nodded and moved up against Sam’s side, his body tense and uncomfortable.

“Relax, Dean, we’re going.” Sam wrapped a long arm around his shoulders and propelled them both back to the motel.

Once inside the room, he fumbled his hand along the wall, looking for the light switch, and suddenly Dean was on him, kicking the door shut, pushing him hard against the wall, forcing his body up into Sam, knee to shoulder. Then he had his head tight between his palms and was kissing him and Sam kissed back, wondering, wondering, wondering.

But Dean pulled away, panting against Sam’s collarbone. “This what you want, little brother?”

Sam licked at his lips, feeling an aching loss that started somewhere in the vicinity of the center of his chest. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I really don’t want anything, Dean.”

“Now, that’s not true. I thought you wanted me to kiss you.”

“Dude, you were just throwing up in the gutter.”

Dean slowly reared back, still trapping Sam with his thighs, the press of his knees; he swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Forgot about that. I am drunk drunk drunk.”

“Yep. Don’t apologize or anything.”

Even in the dark of the room, Sam could see the dark blush move across Dean’s face. “I gotta piss,” he said and stumbled away, towards the bathroom.

Sam flicked the light on. He moved over to Dean’s bed and pulled back the covers, plumped the pillow and sat heavily, hands between his knees, trying to find his way back from the strange kiss.

Dean was wearing only boxers when he walked out of the bathroom, veering towards the bed. Sam stood, moving out of his way, watching as he fell sprawled onto the mattress. He reached down and pulled the covers up over him, resisting the urge to tuck him in, letting the material float down and outline his body. “Sleep now, Dean,” he said softly.

Dean rolled over onto his back. “Sammy?” he called to him and Sam leaned down into his voice. Dean reached up and effectively put him in a triangle neck hold and hauled him down on top of him.

Sam fought the hold, the weight an albatross around his neck, rearing back. He had been brought to his knees on the rolled edge of the mattress and it hurt. With both arms flat palmed against the bed to hold himself off his brother’s body, he growled into Dean’s face, “Let go.”

“No.”

“Fine.” Sam unlocked his elbows and let himself fall to the side of his brother, wedging his thigh between Dean’s legs, rolling his hips on top of Dean's, putting his weight into it.

Dean’s fingers were keyboarding up and down his ribs, beneath his arm. Sam watched the digital clock on the table between the beds, red lights illuminating the minutes spent lying on top of his brother, both of them squirming around the place where their heated erections met.

“You put this in my mind, Sam. You did this.”

“It doesn’t work like that, Dean.”

***

“Dammit!” Dean spit out, tossing his wallet down onto the small motel desk in their room. “I just had it, Sammy, and now it’s gone.”

They had spent the past quarter hour tearing the room apart, looking for a scribbled name and address.

Dean sank into one of the chairs and shook everything out of the wallet. Plastic cards, business cards, banknotes, the spare Impala key, a condom, no, two condoms, and a tattered piece of folded paper slid across the desktop.

Sam leaned down and fished out the folded paper. “This it?”

“No!” Dean grabbed for it.

“What is it?”

“It looks like a mile of mind your own business,” Dean said, standing and reaching for it again but Sam held it over his head, well out of his reach.

Dean backed off; arms crossed angrily, the expression on his face injured.

Sam sat down on the edge of one of the beds and smoothed open the creased and folded and yellowed piece of paper on his thigh. “It’s a Valentine’s.” His finger traced the childish scrawl, “’Sam, be my Valentine. I love my brother. XOXOXOXO, Dean.’ You drew me a Valentine Card.”

“I was in the first grade.”

“Yeah,” Sam’s voice had gone low, “I can see that.” He held the paper up and tilted it slightly; the drawing was fading into oblivion. “Is this,” he touched the picture gently, “you and me, holding hands?”

Dean shrugged. “Just give it back, okay.”

“That’s a lot of x’s and o’s. Look, there’s a sun,” petting, finger-tracing over the childish rendition of a smiling sun, “that’s a pretty happy sun. You’re, like, taller than me.” His voice was catching now and Dean made another move towards him, but he held up a warning hand. “And, oh god, Dean. All these flowers, we’re standing in a meadow or something, and all these flowers are smiling, too. Look at how much we’re smiling.” He had begun to cry. “There are some trees. I think those are trees, could be telephone poles. But no house, huh.”

“Sam,” Dean whispered hoarsely, “don’t. Just fucking do not.”

Sam wiped a desperate hand across his face. He looked up at Dean and then away. He folded the paper with care, his hands were shaking. “We look pretty happy. That’s good. Yeah.” He was nodding. “That’s good. And you carry this around in your wallet.”

"No. I do not carry it around in my wallet. Bobby found it a few years back inside one of Dad's books..."

Sam handed back the folded square, fingers tented on his forehead, sniffing loudly. Dean took it and looked from the paper back to Sam; he tossed it onto the desk and went down on his knees. He buried his face in his brother’s lap, his shoulders shaking.

Sam reached out for him and held him still. His voice was choked. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” he murmured. He could feel, through the thin fabric of the t-shirt, how close Dean was to flying apart beneath him. “Come here. Dean, come here.” He reached down under his brother’s arms and coaxed him up onto his chest, lying back on the bed, wrapping Dean into his embrace, holding him fast against the long length of his body. One strong hand moved to the back of his neck, the other snaked around his waist. Using one foot on the floor for leverage, he rocked them and hummed softly against the side of Dean’s head.

***

“This isn’t a game for me, Sam.”

“I know that, Dean.”

“I’m not trying things out, trying something on, testing the waters.”

Sam nodded. “Yeah.”

“If we go there, we can’t go back. We’re not going back. You got that, right?”

“Dean...”

“This already moves us into territory that, I don’t know...people have been stoned to death for just thinking about what we’re thinking about.” He rubbed a hand across his eyes. “And I’m not even talking about the truly twisted aspect of this whole thing. You think we’ve kept secrets before? This is the fucking mother of all secrets.”

Sam smiled shyly. “I thought I was the one who talked too much?”

“I’m over-thinking this thing, aren’t I?”

Sam thought about it for a moment, then simultaneously shrugged his shoulders and nodded.

“Thanks for letting me do that.”

***

“Sam?”

The whisper crossed the sea of space that lay between them, three am.

“Yeah. Dean,” he answered, turning over on his side, pillowing his head on his arm and staring across the divide between the motel queen beds. Dean mirrored the movement, each looking at the other.

All the unsaid things between them had slowly but with certainty become unspoken promises of love and vows of loyalty.

“C’mere,” Dean said softly and lifted the sheet.

And with not a moment’s hesitation but with great care and intent, Sam moved out from under his own coverings, through the cold air separating the two beds, through the gloamy darkness of the motel room, shucking his boxers, pulling the t-shirt over his head, then dipping down, lowering himself beneath Dean’s arm, into the heat, the promise, the ocean of possibility that called to him. With both hands, he reached out for this other body; this soul he knew as well as he knew his own. He pulled him into a fierce embrace and nuzzled his face against his brother’s head, mouthed into the whorl of his ear, “beloved secret.”

And with a deep, held breath Sam met Dean’s lips with his own, and together, together, they sank into each other. One into the other, they descended.

***

Someone was kissing him awake. He rose up out of the depths, feeling the temperature rise as he kicked himself upwards through the black, then blue, then topaz light, into the morning, up and out of sleep and into Dean’s arms.

“Hey,” he whispered around his brother’s mouth, through his lips. And in answer, Dean only nodded, pressing his tongue deep into Sam’s mouth, sliding it warm and tasting of sleep and last night against his teeth.

He murmured as Dean’s ear moved past his mouth, reaching for it with teeth and lips and tongue. Dean was laving from his ear, down the long length of his throat, across the collar of bones, into his armpit, teeth pulling fiercely at the long underarm hair and Sam’s surprised giggle became another moan. His head went back hard, mouth gasping open as Dean moved into the soft inside of his elbow and sucked bright red marks into the tender flesh there.

Then Dean was moving down his body, straddled knees carefully but purposefully moving across Sam’s thighs, between his knees now and Dean knelt back onto his heels, strong hands beneath Sam’s hips, pulling him forward against his own hips, into his erection.

Sam was already half-hard and his legs fell open, shoulders pushed back into the mattress, his eyes shuttered by lust, looking up at his brother. “You’re the king.”

Dean nodded, somewhere else, listening to his voice but not his words. Lower lip tight beneath his top teeth. Concentrating on feeling, on breathing. Sam reached out for both their cocks, wrapping his hands just there, grasping them together in his fists, tips of his long fingers pressing into his brother's flesh. He was rewarded with Dean’s eyes slipping closed, exhalation long and low and Sam closed his own eyes, stroking the hard lengths.

“Oh, fuck. Sam.”

“Right here. Right here, Dean.”

Dean leaned down, one hand on either side of Sam’s head, reaching for his mouth again, kissing into the corner of his lips. “Yeah, but where in Hell is here. Where are we, Sammy?”

Sam reached up and held Dean’s face firmly. “I know you think I’m a cornball, but we’re right where we need to be. I believe that.”

And then Dean was kissing all the words and justifications into silence and Sam swallowed them down willingly and kissed him back. With a slow movement, all muscle and yearning bone, Dean slid both his arms behind his brother’s back, slid his knees down the mattress, settled into the cradle of Sam’s open thighs, whispering now, “We just don’t need to talk about it anymore, huh?”

“No,” Sam kissed his eyelids, his brow, across his temple, “we just don’t.”

zagzagael @ 2009-10-03T11:21:00

2009-10-03T18:21:39Z

Title: God's Heart
Words: 381
Rating: G
Warning: Through 5x04
Summary: Sam wants to talk about names.

Another two a.m.. Both of them in their respective ratty motel queens, neither asleep but feigning sleep as though the shape would become the reality, shallow breaths, eyes flickering behind closed lids.

“Dean?” Sam whispered across the gloam.

“Yeah?”

Sam shifted, turned on his side, tucked his forearm beneath his head and looked over at his brother. The perfect profile, the cropped hair.

“What is it, Sam?”

“Do you know why Mom and Dad chose the name Samuel?”

“For Grandpa Campbell. You know that.”

Sam nodded and was quiet a long time.

Dean turned onto his side and looked over. “I can see the smoke comin’ out your ears from here. What is it?”

“Well, why didn’t they name you Sam? You were the firstborn.”

“I dunno. Why does anyone do anything they do? Go to sleep.”

“Dean, I think this is important. It feels important.”

An exasperated sigh. “Lay it on me.”

“Samuel, the name Samuel, means ‘God’s Heart.’”

Dean shucked the bed linens with two kicks and sat up, feet on the floor. “Okay. I cannot believe I didn’t know that.”

Sam shrugged beneath the covers.

Dean's voice was quiet and measured. “What does the name Dean mean? Or should I even ask? 'God's jackass'?”

Sam rolled his eyes to himself but spoke. “That’s what’s kind of weird. It means ‘valley’. And it’s not Biblical the way Samuel is, or John, or Mary.”

Dean sat forward, wrists dangling between his knees, his head tilted downward. Finally he nodded and then tucked himself back under the covers. “Gotta tell you, Sammy, I missed these two a.m. chat sessions when you were working in bars and what have you.”

“Yeah?”

“Get some shut eye, bro.”

“Dean?” Sam’s voice was pitched low, the edges of it lined with emotion and in the dark Dean screwed his eyes shut against the sound of it. “I’m really glad you called me back. That,” he sniffed quickly, “whatever that was, it’s behind us now, you know, or over or something.” He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes and filled his lungs with air. “I’m going to try to sleep.”

Dean held himself very still, listening hard, waiting for Sam's breathing to become rhythmic. He knew the sound as intimately as any and when it came it wrapped around his head like velvet. He clasped his hands over his chest, the knuckles of his thumbs pressed hard into his sternum and when he finally fell asleep, he fell asleep with the words "God's Heart" locked inside his mouth.

zagzagael @ 2009-10-01T10:11:00

2009-10-01T17:11:16Z

Finally! Happy October!!!

Durer's Four Witches

* Have all the Americans noticed the crowned skulls at Target?!!?!?!?! *wanty*

* I do think....I'm going to be taking an internet break....in November...

* Supernatural. Tonight. Guh.

zagzagael @ 2009-09-30T08:59:00

2009-09-30T15:59:22Z

Title: Fit So Easy
Word Count: 721
Rating: PG-13
Summary: In which I crack!drabble my own fic - All the Unsaid Things. Got several requests for a continuation of that piece and a sequel is forthcoming but in the process of penning it, I got bit by this rabid slashy bunny. The first part of this is from the original fic - the second half is the crack alt ending.

In the car, Dean drummed impatiently on his thigh, on the steering wheel, on the seat between them, on the dashboard. “Dude, you are so cock-blocking me. You’re supposed to be acting my wingman.”

“Your wingman? What about you acting my wingman?”

“She wants me, Sammy.”

“And that means she doesn’t want me?”

“Right. She wants both of us.” He waved a dismissive hand.

Sam shrugged, non-committal. “Why not? We’re hot. Besides, she’s sure acting like she wants both of us.”

“Yeah, but that’s just....eww, no. Isn’t this backwards? Aren’t two chicks supposed to pick up one guy? You are seriously cramping my style. I’m going to drop you back at the motel, not sure why I didn’t think of that earlier.”

“Too late, bro. We’re here.”

They had followed her out of the parking lot and out onto the country highway, until she turned down a street lined with sagging bungalows and old farmhouses. She parked and Dean, out of instinct, backed in the Impala. “Damn,” he whispered. “Fine.”

They got out of the car and she was seated on the hood. “This is sweet,” she said, patting the hot steel. “And it feels, oooh, nice.” She wriggled suggestively.

Dean laughed and looked across at Sam who just raised both eyebrows.

“That right?”

“Mmmmm....C’mere, both of you,” she purred and Dean moved inbetween her legs and Sam hoisted himself up beside her, his arm around her shoulders tangling with Dean’s arms.

“Now, before we go inside and you both get your minds blown,” she laughed wickedly and Sam got even harder than he already was, “I need to know that we’re going to play this my way.”

“I’ll play anyway you deal the cards, baby,” Dean said and kissed her deeply. Sam leaned over and buried his face in the bend of her neck, his ear pressed against Dean’s forearm.

She pulled back and looked at Dean through her eyelashes. She reached out and grasped Sam’s chin in her hand, her thumb rubbing hot circles at the corner of his mouth. “Okay, then. Kiss this guy.”

Sam almost laughed out loud at the look on Dean’s face.

“Sweetheart, that guy is my brother,” Dean said.

She shrugged and pulled Sam down to her and kissed him. “And?”

For a long moment, time stretching itself as thin as flesh over bone, both men feeling their hearts still, Dean considered. He looked at Sam’s face; let his gaze drift down to his brother’s mouth, then back up to his answering look.

“Sammy?” he whispered. And his heart rate pounded through the top of his skull with the sound of his brother’s name in his mouth.

Sam nodded slowly, the beats of his own heart counting each impossible second as Dean moved out from between the legs of the girl and sidled up against Sam’s knees. The girl let go of his face and Sam took his arm from around her shoulder, both large hands dropping to his thighs, palms up, fingers in reposed supplication. He tilted his beautiful head away from her and the long column of his throat lay exposed, the streetlight playing off the thick tendon there and glinting across the drum tight skin over his clavicles showing above the worn collar of his t-shirt.

The hot metal hood of the Impala clicked as it cooled.

“Brothers?” whispered Dean and again Sam could only nod in answer, his voice lost in a shivering delicious anticipation.

With deliberation, Dean pressed himself up against Sam’s knees and with answering intent; Sam pushed his legs open and then tightened his knees around his brother’s thighs as he slotted himself between them. Hands moving now, finally freed, up to Dean’s hips, index fingers hooking into the belted waistband of his jeans, thumbs pressing like brands below his hipbones. Licking his top lip, waiting.

Dean reached out and took Sam’s face in both his hands, cradling, long fingers brushing against Sam’s ears, his jaw line, thumbs ghosting the corners of Sam’s mouth. Sam closed his eyes and Dean’s cock jerked watching the fluttering of his thick lashes against his cheekbones. Expectation. Closing his own eyes, he leaned into the kiss, slanting his mouth across Sam’s, pushing himself towards his brother, tasting salty sweat, beer and whiskey. Sam moaned his name through their closed lips and Dean fell forward, out of his skin, away from his arching back bone, into his brother. Soul of my soul, he thought and the line spun through his head, uncoiling, the words fish-tailing through his mind. His shoulders slumped and feeling him falling, Sam was suddenly there, his size, his strength, sliding forward on the hood, knees bent around Deans legs, arms coming up fiercely and wrapping Dean into a straightjacket of need and lust and love. Above all, love. Their mouths were locked, fused, tongues searching desperately. Dean dropped his hands to the edge where Sam’s ass met the hood of their car and he pulled himself even closer against his brother’s body, grinding his erection into Sam’s heated cock, growling down, through his teeth, breaking the kiss, gasping out Sam’s name like a prayer.

He brought a quick hand up to the back of Sam’s neck, pulling at the long hair, pulling Sam’s head back, exposing his throat again, then burying his face there, biting hard the thick muscle roped across the back of Sam’s shoulder.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said dragging his lips up the long length of throat, burying his tongue into the deep whorls of Sam’s ear.

He answered with a turn of his head, finding Dean’s mouth again, holding him fast and hard. Not letting go, ever. He broke the kiss and rubbed his forehead against Dean’s, eyes still closed, tighter now, whispering wishes, breath skating across Dean’s lips.

“Yeah,” he said and slid all the way off the hood, searching out one of Dean’s hands with his own, locking their fingers.

“Uh?” the girl stammered out. She was standing, hands in her back jean pockets, hip canted, watching them through slitted eyes.

“Thanks, Tammy,” Sam said softly, Dean moving him to the side of the car, opening the door for him.

“It’s Tanya.”

“Whatever,” Dean said, walking back around the front of the Impala, past her.

“Really, though, thanks,” Sam called leaning out the door.

“Fuck you. And fuck him.” Her voice was quietly furious.

“Oh, I intend to,” Dean said and climbed into the driver's seat, pulling Sam against him, waiting for her to sidestep out of his way before gunning the car out of the driveway and towards Home.