"show you fear in a handful of dust," Sam/Dean, R.
My writing is getting more and more casual, but I think I'm okay with it.
title: show you fear in a handful of dust
pairing: pre-series Sam/Dean
rating: R
word count: 370
Dad picks up a hunt in the middle of nowhere, out in some backwoods desert town they've been driving to for days. Eventually the roads meander down to almost nothing, gravel that gets in the wheels and mud the Impala sinks into; more than once, Dad swears up a storm, rolls up his sleeves as the car stalls in the summer heat. Dean and Sam stay alone in the backseat, sticky with sweat, heat-tired, Sam's head lolling onto Dean’s shoulder as his eyes ease closed.
In the run-down house they end up staying in, all creaky floorboards and bats fluttering in the corners, they’re the only people for miles. Lights don't work, and the radio's just giving static static static and whispered fragments of words, picking up shadows of the ghost Dad's out salt-and-burning. Sand and tumbleweed stretching out seemingly infinite outside the windows, no sound except coyotes far off in the distance, it's like they don't exist.
Sam's hand on Dean's thigh, it's barely real, out here.
Dean pauses, stops cleaning his gun, hair raising on the back of his neck. He nods.
They tangle together on an ages-old twin mattress that smells vaguely of mildew, and outside it's drop-a-pin quiet. The ghost on the radio's whispering, "blood, so much blood," as Sam's fingers push into Dean's ass, as Dean moans and presses back against Sam even as he takes his fingers away.
Sam's lips meeting Dean's, Dean's fingers fisting in the sheets as Sam pushes into him, it's just what's keeping them sane. Leading lives like this, you have to cope however you can.
Afterward, after Sam collapses his head on Dean's shoulder and just breathes for a while, after that Dean takes out a flashlight from his duffel bag, slowly illuminates all the cobwebs in the room, dust in the corners, frenzied scratches in the walls like something clawing to get out.
Something crashes downstairs, glass breaking, and the radio static shoots up a notch. The ghost, deep eyes vacant, she flickers in front of them and hisses, "so much blood and none of it's mine." Sam looks at Dean, and neither of them are afraid.
The two of them, together, they can do anything.
title: show you fear in a handful of dust
pairing: pre-series Sam/Dean
rating: R
word count: 370
Dad picks up a hunt in the middle of nowhere, out in some backwoods desert town they've been driving to for days. Eventually the roads meander down to almost nothing, gravel that gets in the wheels and mud the Impala sinks into; more than once, Dad swears up a storm, rolls up his sleeves as the car stalls in the summer heat. Dean and Sam stay alone in the backseat, sticky with sweat, heat-tired, Sam's head lolling onto Dean’s shoulder as his eyes ease closed.
In the run-down house they end up staying in, all creaky floorboards and bats fluttering in the corners, they’re the only people for miles. Lights don't work, and the radio's just giving static static static and whispered fragments of words, picking up shadows of the ghost Dad's out salt-and-burning. Sand and tumbleweed stretching out seemingly infinite outside the windows, no sound except coyotes far off in the distance, it's like they don't exist.
Sam's hand on Dean's thigh, it's barely real, out here.
Dean pauses, stops cleaning his gun, hair raising on the back of his neck. He nods.
They tangle together on an ages-old twin mattress that smells vaguely of mildew, and outside it's drop-a-pin quiet. The ghost on the radio's whispering, "blood, so much blood," as Sam's fingers push into Dean's ass, as Dean moans and presses back against Sam even as he takes his fingers away.
Sam's lips meeting Dean's, Dean's fingers fisting in the sheets as Sam pushes into him, it's just what's keeping them sane. Leading lives like this, you have to cope however you can.
Afterward, after Sam collapses his head on Dean's shoulder and just breathes for a while, after that Dean takes out a flashlight from his duffel bag, slowly illuminates all the cobwebs in the room, dust in the corners, frenzied scratches in the walls like something clawing to get out.
Something crashes downstairs, glass breaking, and the radio static shoots up a notch. The ghost, deep eyes vacant, she flickers in front of them and hisses, "so much blood and none of it's mine." Sam looks at Dean, and neither of them are afraid.
The two of them, together, they can do anything.