fic: MMOM #13: The Led Zeppelin Poster Fic (Dean/Castiel, Dean/girl)
Title: The Led Zeppelin Poster Fic
Author: eggblue
Pairing: Dean/Castiel, some Dean/girl
Rating: R (young Dean)
Disclaimer: Supernatural, Dean, Sam, and Castiel are not belong to me.
Word Count: 1100
Notes: Dean has a guardian angel, who, with a Led Zeppelin poster, inspires Dean to explore wing!porn. In other words, the absolutely lovely marcillac mentioned going to the fair and having guardian angels and more young!Dean and Cas and this is what happened. Plot bunnies, unite!
Also, this classic Zeppelin swan song image:
C'mon, I had to do it. Right? Right?? Sigh. Apologies.
Dean held onto the poster with pride. It was a Led Zeppelin knockoff of the swan song image, the naked angel in ecstasy before a desert sun.
He carried it under his arm the whole way home. Home was a newly abandoned trailer in a park next to the fairgrounds.
It was awesome.
In one afternoon, Dean could leave his brother (reading on the couch), could eat all the fried green tomatoes and fried Coca-cola he could stand, could pick up a local 8th grade girl and make out behind the House of Love for an hour, could win a Led Zeppelin poster by shooting water into the face of a plastic monkey, and could hang out by the carousel at dusk. Truly, awesome.
The carousel was like a different world - like heaven - if you could just catch it. The calliope drove him nuts, but there was something to the rest of it. The music somehow made the lights glow brighter, or maybe that was the dark blue dusk creeping in. Mirrors and gold shone from every surface, and the whole thing revolved like a giant crown for a lost king.
The faces of the horses were horrible, nightmarish. He loved them. It was like something out of hell, the horses made to run ever faster, never stopping or resting. Little kids rode them mostly, which kind of added to the creepy effect. Sometimes there were adults too, usually parents holding onto the gilded poles. And this one man he saw sometimes, wearing a black peacoat, riding in the swan loveseat alone. The loser. He would smile at the children but it looked to Dean like he wasn’t smiling at anyone in particular, or seeing much of anything at all.
He carries the poster under his arm and watches the golden crown turn on the empty head of the world. He thinks of the children riding it, and all that they don’t know, and he thinks of all that he does.
When Dean finally gets back to the trailer, it’s late and Sammy is asleep with a book on his chest. He lets him take the bedroom and goes back towards the wooden front porch. The screen door is open and letting in steamy hot air. The south in the summertime could be rough.
Dean rolls out his poster on the ground and sets some books on it to hold it flat. The phone book and the Bible are heavy enough and all he can find anyway. Now that he’s alone, he thinks of the girl he met that night. Her name started with an A. He couldn’t remember. She was cute though; kinda sweet, the way he thought most girls were. But you couldn’t talk to them about any of the important stuff of life, like hunting. And anger. His lonely life. Her mouth kinda smelled like strawberries, though, and she had ripped holes in her jeans. Her little perfect fingernails were painted pink. Lots of little things like that he liked. Things he never would have thought about, but now that he can recall them, yeah, they’re worth remembering.
He rolls his jeans and underwear down to his knees and pulls off his socks to use as towels. It’s too hot to have a blanket or anything, and he likes to sleep in his clothes anyway. Makes it easier if something comes up and he’s gotta run.
He never got very far with the girls. Too much trouble usually. But holding his dick in his hand and moving it, pushing it through the tight ring of his fingers, was still so intense. He’d yet to find something better.
He shuts his eyes tight and lets his mouth go slack. When he closes his eyes, he sees lights flashing, the hideous mouths of the horses and the flare of their nostrils, the crazed look in their eyes. He breathes and hears their sounds, their hot snorting and stamping. He imagines their ecstasy.
The carousel spins faster. He sees the man in the black peacoat, collar pulled halfway up, bright flashes of blue in his eyes, his hair wild with the spinning, the swan suddenly real, spreading out her wings…
They’re white, like the angel’s in the poster. The swan and the man are alien, otherworldly creatures, something from dreams. He realizes he’s seen feathers before in his dreams, white like these, but he can’t remember why.
When he turns his head, he sees the angel body in the poster, face and sex gone, just long brown wild hair flying and giant white feathered wings. All of those big muscles on a body flexed in a spasm of ecstasy.
Dean breathes against his finger as he sucks it into his mouth. He imagines the angel’s voice, howling in the hot unforgiving desert air.
Dean sucks his finger until his cheeks make obscene sounds collapsed against his teeth. And his hand makes obscene sounds against his dick, moving with a frenzy.
He imagines the angel forever suspended in that moment of pleasure, his body taut, wings ruffling as he shakes, his whole body humming. Feathers fall out at odd angles.
Dean imagines that pleasure, enough pleasure to cry out or die or surrender or all of those things he can’t do. He sucks and pulls and moans.
Dean imagines feathers everywhere, wiping away his salty sweat in the humid night.
Feathers fall and the angel’s wings never look less than full. In fact they look broader, thicker. Still the feathers fall, singly, pairs.
Dean imagines he’s being buried in them.
The feathers fall from above. The image of that hard body looms above him, and the desert sun beyond that, bright, enveloping his vision.
Dean covers his mouth with his hand. His hand never stops moving on his dick, going faster, faster so his hips can’t keep up, because he’s so close, so close…
The feathers fall until they’re suffocating. There’s sweat and light and smells like blood and water and gold. Children laughing. Blue eyes flashing. Sound is only coming in dizzying pulses, revolving like the carousel. The night coming on and the world revolving and flashes of blue and gold. Distantly, a calliope plays.
When Dean falls asleep, he covers his lap with a flattened old pillow and he rests his head on a scratchy armrest.
When Dean falls asleep, he imagines his head is resting against soft, clean, warm silk, faintly vibrating and pulsing against him, smelling like blood and water and gold.
The End
(for marcillac!!!)
Your guardian angel:
- is the most faithful of friends, from the day you’re born
- inspires you and assists you in works of zeal
- represses your vices
Zeal, maybe, but I’m not sure about the last one… ;)
Author: eggblue
Pairing: Dean/Castiel, some Dean/girl
Rating: R (young Dean)
Disclaimer: Supernatural, Dean, Sam, and Castiel are not belong to me.
Word Count: 1100
Notes: Dean has a guardian angel, who, with a Led Zeppelin poster, inspires Dean to explore wing!porn. In other words, the absolutely lovely marcillac mentioned going to the fair and having guardian angels and more young!Dean and Cas and this is what happened. Plot bunnies, unite!
Also, this classic Zeppelin swan song image:
C'mon, I had to do it. Right? Right?? Sigh. Apologies.
Dean held onto the poster with pride. It was a Led Zeppelin knockoff of the swan song image, the naked angel in ecstasy before a desert sun.
He carried it under his arm the whole way home. Home was a newly abandoned trailer in a park next to the fairgrounds.
It was awesome.
In one afternoon, Dean could leave his brother (reading on the couch), could eat all the fried green tomatoes and fried Coca-cola he could stand, could pick up a local 8th grade girl and make out behind the House of Love for an hour, could win a Led Zeppelin poster by shooting water into the face of a plastic monkey, and could hang out by the carousel at dusk. Truly, awesome.
The carousel was like a different world - like heaven - if you could just catch it. The calliope drove him nuts, but there was something to the rest of it. The music somehow made the lights glow brighter, or maybe that was the dark blue dusk creeping in. Mirrors and gold shone from every surface, and the whole thing revolved like a giant crown for a lost king.
The faces of the horses were horrible, nightmarish. He loved them. It was like something out of hell, the horses made to run ever faster, never stopping or resting. Little kids rode them mostly, which kind of added to the creepy effect. Sometimes there were adults too, usually parents holding onto the gilded poles. And this one man he saw sometimes, wearing a black peacoat, riding in the swan loveseat alone. The loser. He would smile at the children but it looked to Dean like he wasn’t smiling at anyone in particular, or seeing much of anything at all.
He carries the poster under his arm and watches the golden crown turn on the empty head of the world. He thinks of the children riding it, and all that they don’t know, and he thinks of all that he does.
When Dean finally gets back to the trailer, it’s late and Sammy is asleep with a book on his chest. He lets him take the bedroom and goes back towards the wooden front porch. The screen door is open and letting in steamy hot air. The south in the summertime could be rough.
Dean rolls out his poster on the ground and sets some books on it to hold it flat. The phone book and the Bible are heavy enough and all he can find anyway. Now that he’s alone, he thinks of the girl he met that night. Her name started with an A. He couldn’t remember. She was cute though; kinda sweet, the way he thought most girls were. But you couldn’t talk to them about any of the important stuff of life, like hunting. And anger. His lonely life. Her mouth kinda smelled like strawberries, though, and she had ripped holes in her jeans. Her little perfect fingernails were painted pink. Lots of little things like that he liked. Things he never would have thought about, but now that he can recall them, yeah, they’re worth remembering.
He rolls his jeans and underwear down to his knees and pulls off his socks to use as towels. It’s too hot to have a blanket or anything, and he likes to sleep in his clothes anyway. Makes it easier if something comes up and he’s gotta run.
He never got very far with the girls. Too much trouble usually. But holding his dick in his hand and moving it, pushing it through the tight ring of his fingers, was still so intense. He’d yet to find something better.
He shuts his eyes tight and lets his mouth go slack. When he closes his eyes, he sees lights flashing, the hideous mouths of the horses and the flare of their nostrils, the crazed look in their eyes. He breathes and hears their sounds, their hot snorting and stamping. He imagines their ecstasy.
The carousel spins faster. He sees the man in the black peacoat, collar pulled halfway up, bright flashes of blue in his eyes, his hair wild with the spinning, the swan suddenly real, spreading out her wings…
They’re white, like the angel’s in the poster. The swan and the man are alien, otherworldly creatures, something from dreams. He realizes he’s seen feathers before in his dreams, white like these, but he can’t remember why.
When he turns his head, he sees the angel body in the poster, face and sex gone, just long brown wild hair flying and giant white feathered wings. All of those big muscles on a body flexed in a spasm of ecstasy.
Dean breathes against his finger as he sucks it into his mouth. He imagines the angel’s voice, howling in the hot unforgiving desert air.
Dean sucks his finger until his cheeks make obscene sounds collapsed against his teeth. And his hand makes obscene sounds against his dick, moving with a frenzy.
He imagines the angel forever suspended in that moment of pleasure, his body taut, wings ruffling as he shakes, his whole body humming. Feathers fall out at odd angles.
Dean imagines that pleasure, enough pleasure to cry out or die or surrender or all of those things he can’t do. He sucks and pulls and moans.
Dean imagines feathers everywhere, wiping away his salty sweat in the humid night.
Feathers fall and the angel’s wings never look less than full. In fact they look broader, thicker. Still the feathers fall, singly, pairs.
Dean imagines he’s being buried in them.
The feathers fall from above. The image of that hard body looms above him, and the desert sun beyond that, bright, enveloping his vision.
Dean covers his mouth with his hand. His hand never stops moving on his dick, going faster, faster so his hips can’t keep up, because he’s so close, so close…
The feathers fall until they’re suffocating. There’s sweat and light and smells like blood and water and gold. Children laughing. Blue eyes flashing. Sound is only coming in dizzying pulses, revolving like the carousel. The night coming on and the world revolving and flashes of blue and gold. Distantly, a calliope plays.
When Dean falls asleep, he covers his lap with a flattened old pillow and he rests his head on a scratchy armrest.
When Dean falls asleep, he imagines his head is resting against soft, clean, warm silk, faintly vibrating and pulsing against him, smelling like blood and water and gold.
The End
(for marcillac!!!)
Your guardian angel:
- is the most faithful of friends, from the day you’re born
- inspires you and assists you in works of zeal
- represses your vices
Zeal, maybe, but I’m not sure about the last one… ;)