#3 - I'm in the air (creepy little sneaky)
Title: I'm in the air (creepy little sneaky)
Author: matty_parkman
Rating: PG17
Characters/Pairings: Z!Sam/Dean (you'll get it XD), Sam/Dean preslash
Warnings: Cracktastick Pr0n? Please, don't have me committed after this.
Wordcount: 3.400ish
Summary: Sam Winchester, I suggest you learn to choose your words carefully when you don't know who you're talking to, since you should know by now that sometimes a few of them will be all that it takes. Three of them, in this specific case.
Disclaimers: Not mine, nothing is. Pic for the header snatched from the (inspiring) Dean sleeping picspam on jensenated.
More disclaimers and notes at the end of the fic or I'll spoiler you.
Note: written for watermelon_wave's third challenge, "Three Words", basically because I wanted to make burned_phoenix happy XD
Thanks to: eryslash, juliettesaito and hay1ock for their unrelenting help, support and neverending patience *_* Love you girls!
I'm in the air (creepy little sneaky)
Sam is sitting on his own at a back table, his eyes glued on the bar.
Dean is there, flirting shamelessly with a girl that is probably the human version of a Barbie doll. He grimaces and looks into his glass, almost empty, and motions for the waitress to come by and refill him.
She does come by, exaggeratedly swaying her hips, and then exposing all of her impressive cleavage bending on Sam's table.
Sam spares a glance at her. She's hot, no doubt about it, but he's definitely not interested.
They're back from a pretty hard hunt, and even though neither of them has been hurt, he would have gratefully turned in; but no, Dean said that after an injection of adrenaline like that, they had to go and blow off some steam.
He's blowing alright.
Sam narrows his eyes when Dean's hand cups the chick's neck and pulls her closer to kiss her deeply. He feels his blood boil, then huffs in frustration. He doesn't own Dean, he can't tell him what to do and who to do it with. He hasn't any right on him. He never will.
Red nails tap on his arm and he turns his attention, briefly, on the girl.
"Why are you sitting here drinking alone, baby? Such a waste, you know. There are lots of people here that would kill for the chance of...drinking with you." She ends her sentence with a suggestive wink.
Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, while shifting uncomfortably. "I-uh- thanks for the offer, but I'm really not in the mood tonight."
The girl gets even closer to him.
"I can get you in the mood pretty quickly" she purrs directly into his ear, while drawing circles on his thigh.
Sam flinches back.
"Really, I appreciate your efforts, but I'd prefer to be alone."
Just as she's about to add something, a giggle makes Sam's head turn and sure, Dean's there, in front of his table, with the Barbie chick pasted on his side. The giggle was from her.
And Dean has her lipstick on his neck.
He has to fight back the disgust the entire situation awakens in him, while his eyes throw daggers at Dean. He doesn't notice or, if he does, he doesn't care, because he talks in an overexcited way like everything's fine.
"Sammy, I was thinking...why don't you stay here for another couple of rounds, hm?"
"I sure hope it takes us a little more than a couple of rounds before we're done" the girl mutters, and Sam feels sick.
"Sure thing, Dean" he answers, his voice dry and emotionless.
Dean blinks, probably surprised by his tone, but shrugs and nods at him.
"Later, bro" he says, waving his arm, while he exits the bar, the skank all wrapped around him.
Sam clenches his jaw, and it takes him a little to get back in control of himself. When he does, he realizes the waitress is still there.
"Look-" he starts, his voice tired, but she stops him with a finger on his lips.
"I get it" she whispers, slowly, sitting on top of him. Sam freezes. What the-
"You want him, he doesn't want you. Well, his loss, babe, and believe me, you can do so much better. He's not all that good looking, he's short and bossy, and a total slut. Come on, you don't really think-"
Sam has had enough. He stands and she shifts, hanging onto the table to avoid falling down.
"You don't have any right to talk about him like that" he snaps at her, his eyes narrowed. "He's more of a person that you'll ever be."
Her surprised expression slowly mutates in an angry one.
"You-how do you dare-"
He snorts.
"You have been annoying me, throwing yourself at me, for hours. I'm tired of it. I asked you to back off, I told you I'm not interested, so now leave me the fuck alone!" the last part of the sentence is hissed with a dangerous edge, and the girl steps back.
Sam grabs his jacket and moves around her to leave.
"Wait" she growls, grabbing his sleeve "you don't know what I can do to you. You don't want me mad." her eyes shine with fury.
Sam smirks.
"Yeah? Bite me."
And without another word, he leaves.
The girl narrows her eyes, then takes her necklace out of her shirt and caresses lightly the pendant.
"Oh, I won't" she whispers, a sly smile curving her lips.
"But you'll have to."
***************
Sam doesn't make it to the next corner before he falls hardly on his knees, his breath coming out in short pants. His body is shook by spasms, and he doesn't understand what's wrong with him. He didn't drink that much! He curls on himself, coughing, then a white, blinding pain explodes in his chest and he passes out.
When he comes to, he blinks a couple of times, his head feels heavy and confused. He can't see very well. Everything around him is fuzzy and blurred, he seems to have lost peripheral vision and he probably has hair in front of his eyes, because apart from blurred the image looks, for fault of better definition, splitted.
I probably hit my head when I fell he reasons, and moves a hand towards his face to move the hair away.
Nothing happens.
He tries again.
Nothing.
He forces his neck to look at his hands, and he's about to faint again: he doesn't have hands anymore. Instead of them, he has legs.
Long, slender, insect-like legs.
He desperately tries to stand up, but the legs move all together and he skitters on the wet asphalt. After a dozen intents, he gives up. Looking closely at the legs, he quickly counts six of them. Meaning, he's not a spider.
Besides...he can feel something flap on his back. He tries to move whatever it is, and he feels like levitating a little, before his concentration breaks and he falls again, not that hard, this time, since he didn't really take off. Wings.
O-kay.
He moves them again, with more force, and he goes up, then a little more, and even if he sways at the beginning and it's hard to maintain balance, he succeeds staying mid-air, thanks probably to the small knobbed thingies that keep moving restlessly on his sides following the breeze.
Sam tries to understand where he is, and in which direction he's supposed to go to get back at the motel (Dean is there and the only thing he can think about now is to go to him) but his poor eyesight doesn't allow him to. He wants to cry in frustration, but he already sees everything blurred with no edges, and he doesn't think that tears will improve his already precarious situation.
He starts feeling tired after a while spent flying with no direction, that's probably why he doesn't realize he's going towards a car until he hits it full frontal. He groans on the floor, trying unsuccessfully to stand up, until he finally gets how his legs work: they move paired up, two by two. After some more attempts, he stands up on them, even though they tremble slightly, and then he looks at the car he bumped against. His heart (that's probably really small, anyhow) fills up with relief when he recognizes the Impala.
That takes him to two conclusions: a) when he's less than 3 mt from things, he can see them. Not well, of course, but enough to make out what they are (or who they are, probably). b) he's at their motel.
He takes off again, getting close to the windows and trying to look inside, hoping to recognize-
"Oh, Jesus Almighty! Harder, Dean, harder! You're a God! You feel so good! Take me, take me, I'm yours!"
The bimbo Barbie screams so loud that Sam feels it in his head, and he's not even sure he has ears.
Resigned to his destiny, he flies slowly towards the noise. He's surprised people didn't come out to complain, but he guesses they've been going at it for a while now, so the other motel guests have probably tuned them out already.
The closer he gets, the most the girl screams.
"Come inside me, Dean, mark me!" she shouts. Sam would roll his eyes if he knew how to. When he's right outside their room (he can make out the contours of some of their stuff inside) he's relieved to find out the window is slightly open and he flies in. The relief of being able to enter, though, doesn't last.
Window open and no salt? What the fuck, Dean?
Sam doesn't know if he's naturally masochist or if there's any other reason why he gets closer to the bed, but he does.
The girl is bent in a way that hurts him just watching, and she keeps screaming (he doesn't even make out the words anymore) but Dean just pants and doesn't say anything.
He growls something between her neck and her shoulder, before a shiver runs through his body and he falls on the girl.
"You are awesome" she says, awe clear in her voice.
"Yeah, I guess the whole condo knows it by now" Dean mutters, and Sam snorts. What actually comes out is something like 'nznznz'.
Without noticing, Sam got even closer, because now he can smell the sweat running down Dean's back, and then, suddenly, something happens: Dean's body heat seems to call out to him and the straw-like thing he has on the front of his face (he didn't notice it before) points straight at Dean's neck.
He stops himself just an inch before contact, gasps and wants to cry all over again, because, God, he's a mosquito. A female one.
***************
Ok, let's rationalize. I've been turned into a female mosquito by that bitch at the bar, there's no doubt about it. I can see the irony. I obviously need blood to survive, and my body seem to want my brother's (again, love the irony); I can probably drink whoever's but yuck. The question is: how do I go back to normal? And how do I let Dean know what happened?
Actually, that's probably the most urgent problem at hand, since Dean has been pacing restlessly around the room during the last half an hour, after he sent away the skank, repeatedly calling Sam and cursing at him for not answering. By the way, where the hell are my clothes? Sam asks himself. The answer to that comes after a second, together with a noisy sound that he recognizes as his brother's message tone.
Sam sees blurred Dean taking the phone (mainly because it was a flash of light on the bed and after the blurry figure passes by the light isn't there no more) and then sitting on the chair next to the small desk.
Sam flies towards the desk and lands on his dad's journal. He sees his brother punching some buttons on the phone, and then a new series of curses comes flooding out of his mouth.
"You little fucker!" he exclaims. "What do you mean spending the night? With which waitress? Are you out of your fucking mind? And how do you think I'm gonna be able to contact you if something happens if you turn your damn phone off?! Call me back immediately as soon as you hear this, you bitch, or I swear to God next time I see you I'm gonna break your spine!" Dean throws his phone on the desk, making things jump and, obviously, Sam with them. He rolls over, stopping a few inches before falling off the desk. He fights with his damn legs, and as soon as he's standing again he tries to recollect the info. The waitress (who else?), that's the one who has Sam's clothes and phone, apparently, just sent a message to Dean, probably because she was sick of him calling. Why didn't she simply turn the phone off when Dean started to call, he doesn't know, but that gives him some hope she's not a total nutjob and maybe she'll turn him back at some point.
Dean's fuming, Sam can see it in his (blurry) stance and he can smell it. That should be totally gross (smell your brother? After he just had sex?) and still, it isn't. Dean smells good, he smells of warmth, and intimacy, and home. Sam shakes his head a little, trying to clear it. He's not thinking straight (maybe because he's a female now? Damn hormones) and he starts to think even less straight when blurry Dean stands up and starts to take his clothes off. It's not like Sam can see him (all he sees is pink, a big, enormous field of pink) but he feels it, he feels the body heat and it makes him feel dizzy.
Dean keeps muttering insults at Sam, and when he walks into the bathroom (probably to take a shower) Sam can't help following him. He flies as fast as he can, and gets in just before Dean closes the door (out of habit, most certainly).
He turns on the water and steps in; Sam lands on the top of the shower curtain, lost in the smell of Dean's skin and the warmth that comes from the water and Dean's body. He didn't realize he was cold before now.
Dean probably soaps himself (Sam sees his arms moving around the pink block) and then he starts panting slightly. Sam is so surprised he almost falls down.
He-he's not-right? He has just had the best fuck ever (at least if you listen to the girl) how can he still-
But are Dean's words that shock him the most.
"Yeah, come on, Sammy. Come here, show me what you've got. Oh, yes, like that, fuck, that's it" Dean's breath is shattered and he pushes his back against the shower's tiles.
"Tell me you didn't want her. I know you were just trying to make me jealous, because you're mine" Dean growls possessively, and the little blood that may or may not be running through Sam's current veins starts to boil, exactly as it did at the beginning of the night. It didn't feel like this, then.
"You look so pretty on your knees, Sammy, your mouth stretched around me...you'll take it all, won't you? Such a slut for me."
His movements get frantic, Sam can tell because the blurry pink block shakes violently and the shower curtain too.
"Fuck, fuck, oh, Christ-" and with those words Dean goes down, on the shower floor.
He probably just came so hard his knees couldn't hold him up; neither can Sam's knees, and he finds himself sliding down the curtain, unable to stand. He falls on the floor, so dazed that if Dean was about to step on him he wouldn't be able to move. So, he just hopes Dean won't see him.
His brother comes out of the shower, legs still shaking (the pink block looks like Jell-O now) and then braces himself on the sink, starting to talk, with his reflection, probably.
"You're sick" he spits out "you're sick and you should be ashamed of yourself. He'd be if he knew, and then he'd leave again." Dean leaves the bathroom, but it takes a couple of minutes before Sam can find the strength to fly back into the room.
Dean is sitting at the desk, and Sam thinks he's writing, since he can see one elbow moving while the other stays put. At first he thinks he's writing something on their dad's journal, but landing on the desk he finds it exactly where it was. Where is Dean writing then? And what? It doesn't matter, though, because he drops the pen and slams whatever it was shut.
"Stupid prick" he mutters "he'll never read it anyway." Sam's multiple eyes widen in further shock. Dean writes to him?
Ok, he definitely needs to sleep.
Dean stands up, goes to his duffel and takes out a bottle, starting to drink directly from it. Sam feels his chest clench assisting to Dean's way of solving problems: drown them.
He simply stands on the desk, listening to Dean babble about all and nothing, alternatively apologizing to him and cursing him, just to apologize for cursing him immediately after.
It's a circle game that last until he's too tired to keep drinking, so he turns off the light and lays down.
Sam was afraid that the darkness was going to be terrifying for him, but he realizes that he gets relaxed, instead.
Looks like mosquitos, having a so poor eyesight, prefer to rely on their other senses to move. He feels Dean's body heat calling to him, and he's too tired to resist to it anymore. Besides, he doesn't want to die, and something tells him that if he doesn't eat soon he will. He flies slowly towards Dean's sleeping form, and his instinct can actually make out him better now that the lights are off.
He's laying on his belly, with only his boxer briefs on, and he snores loudly, as he always does when he drinks.
Sam lands on his shoulder, and a shiver runs through his little body at the contact of his legs with Dean's soft skin. He starts exploring it, slowly, too afraid he'll wake him if he moves too fast.
He follows every scar that marks his brother's body, recognizing some of them and discovering new ones Dean probably got while he was at Stanford.
He walks all over Dean, from his head to his toes, his legs trembling when they step on his ass, and only the fact that there is a piece of clothe to cover it up saves Sam's heart from going through a stroke.
Finally, he gets back up, stopping where Dean's collarbone meets his shoulder.
There's a purple mark right there, and he thinks about the skank from the bar. He's blinded by anger and he feels like he has to purify Dean, somehow, so he simply lets himself go and plunges his proboscis (how else can he call it?) into Dean's tender neck.
At the beginning he feels it releasing something under the skin, then his instinct pushes him forward and he sucks.
The first drop of Dean's blood in his body is like liquid fire burning him inside out. The hunger he felt tenfolds and he can't help taking more, and more, and more, until his little body is full and he feels sated. He withdraws, his legs shaking, and he moves towards the center of Dean's back.
Fuck. Who knew this could be so...so... Sam can't find words. He's in shock and that's why he doesn't feel Dean's hand coming towards him.
Spat.
Sam hears the wooshing of the air just before the impact, and succeeds in avoiding to be completely smashed against his brother's skin, but he probably can't fly anymore. One of his directional thingies has been broken, and without it he can't go straight. He has to try, though, he can't stay or Dean will kill him. He flaps his wings and starts moving, up, down, then back up, left, right, just trying to get to the door.
As he hoped, there's enough space under it to leave the room.
He sees red, red everywhere, blurry red fields and he doesn't like it. He tries walking a little, but his legs don't seem to be able to support him anymore. When he looks at them, beneath the red he realizes he misses one of them.
He stumbles in the hall, knowing that if someone sees him, he's done for. Then, a voice.
"Here he is, the little motormouth." Sam doesn't even have to look up to know who that is.
He would like to tell her Leave me alone, I have the right of dying with dignity but she kneels next to him.
"I think this is enough, for now. But just because I don't want to have your death on my conscience. I suggest you learn to choose your words carefully when you don't know who you're talking to, since you should know by now that sometimes a few of them will be all that it takes."
Sam falls forward, rolling on his back, breathing an almost impossible task.
He closes his eyes when he sees the shadow of her heel coming towards him and just hopes it will be quick.
***************
"Sam! Dude, what the hell are you doing in the hall?!"
Sam groans, and slowly opens his eyes.
No red.
Dean's face.
Dean's eyes.
Dean's freckles.
He snaps up abruptly and his head stings so bad that he has to grab it with his hands.
He blinks and looks at them again.
He has hands again!
"I'm back" he mutters.
"About damn time, you asshole, you didn't even call me back like you were supposed to. Don't think I'm gonna go easy on you just because you look like shit: you'll pay for it, since it's your own fault to begin with. First of all, laundry's on you, this week."
"Sure, Dean" he agrees cheerfully, before extending his hand towards Dean so that his brother helps him standing back up.
"Sam, are you sure you're alright?" He asks, his smug expression tinged in worry.
Sam's smile is so wide his dimples dig holes in his cheeks. "Never better, bro. Never better."
While they walk back towards their room, Sam's gaze falls on Dean's neck and his smile gets impossibly wider: where there was a purple hickey bruise, now there's a red blotch.
***************
Dean claps his hand against the back of his neck, and then glares at it.
"Fucking mosquitos" he mutters "why can't they leave me alone?"
"Probably your blood's too sweet, Dean" Sam answers, distractedly.
"Ah fucking ah" Dean growls "Bite me, Samantha."
"I already did" Sam says to himself, hiding a wicked smile behind the menu of the diner.
And with some hope, he will again, soon.
*END*
Final note: Z!Sam = Zanzara!Sam (zanzara=mosquito in Italian). Same goes for the tag zanzafic.
Final disclaimers: Inspiration came from "Fly on the wall" by Tatu.
When you're naked in the shower, when you're sleeping for an hour, when you're big, when you're small: oh, I wish I was a fly on the wall.
When you're with her after midnight, when you kiss her in the dim light, when you break barbie doll: oh, I wish I was a fly on the wall.
Wanna see who you are, every inch, every scar.
From your head to your toes, I would be there, from your bed to your clothes: I'm in the air.
When you think you're alone, I'll be down in the hall: I could see it, if I was a fly on the wall.
What you do in your room, when your on your own, I could see it all; you undress, I wish I was a fly on the wall.
For the drama that you're drinking and the dark thoughts you are thinking, and the love notes that you scrawl, I wish I was a fly on the wall.
Silently, I arrive: you don't know I'm alive.
Ever closer, ever nearer; when you're looking in the mirror, I would know who you call, if I was a fly on the wall.
http://www.sendspace.com/file/pjejj8
Sam hates me from the icon. *iz afraid* Assistant, please. *pushes her Assistant!Jensen in front of her*
A!J: hey! It's not in my contract that I have to take a bullet for you!
Trini: *shrugs* you should learn to read the small prints.
A!J: *sweating profusely* Damn.
Author: matty_parkman
Rating: PG17
Characters/Pairings: Z!Sam/Dean (you'll get it XD), Sam/Dean preslash
Warnings: Cracktastick Pr0n? Please, don't have me committed after this.
Wordcount: 3.400ish
Summary: Sam Winchester, I suggest you learn to choose your words carefully when you don't know who you're talking to, since you should know by now that sometimes a few of them will be all that it takes. Three of them, in this specific case.
Disclaimers: Not mine, nothing is. Pic for the header snatched from the (inspiring) Dean sleeping picspam on jensenated.
More disclaimers and notes at the end of the fic or I'll spoiler you.
Note: written for watermelon_wave's third challenge, "Three Words", basically because I wanted to make burned_phoenix happy XD
Thanks to: eryslash, juliettesaito and hay1ock for their unrelenting help, support and neverending patience *_* Love you girls!
I'm in the air (creepy little sneaky)
Sam is sitting on his own at a back table, his eyes glued on the bar.
Dean is there, flirting shamelessly with a girl that is probably the human version of a Barbie doll. He grimaces and looks into his glass, almost empty, and motions for the waitress to come by and refill him.
She does come by, exaggeratedly swaying her hips, and then exposing all of her impressive cleavage bending on Sam's table.
Sam spares a glance at her. She's hot, no doubt about it, but he's definitely not interested.
They're back from a pretty hard hunt, and even though neither of them has been hurt, he would have gratefully turned in; but no, Dean said that after an injection of adrenaline like that, they had to go and blow off some steam.
He's blowing alright.
Sam narrows his eyes when Dean's hand cups the chick's neck and pulls her closer to kiss her deeply. He feels his blood boil, then huffs in frustration. He doesn't own Dean, he can't tell him what to do and who to do it with. He hasn't any right on him. He never will.
Red nails tap on his arm and he turns his attention, briefly, on the girl.
"Why are you sitting here drinking alone, baby? Such a waste, you know. There are lots of people here that would kill for the chance of...drinking with you." She ends her sentence with a suggestive wink.
Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, while shifting uncomfortably. "I-uh- thanks for the offer, but I'm really not in the mood tonight."
The girl gets even closer to him.
"I can get you in the mood pretty quickly" she purrs directly into his ear, while drawing circles on his thigh.
Sam flinches back.
"Really, I appreciate your efforts, but I'd prefer to be alone."
Just as she's about to add something, a giggle makes Sam's head turn and sure, Dean's there, in front of his table, with the Barbie chick pasted on his side. The giggle was from her.
And Dean has her lipstick on his neck.
He has to fight back the disgust the entire situation awakens in him, while his eyes throw daggers at Dean. He doesn't notice or, if he does, he doesn't care, because he talks in an overexcited way like everything's fine.
"Sammy, I was thinking...why don't you stay here for another couple of rounds, hm?"
"I sure hope it takes us a little more than a couple of rounds before we're done" the girl mutters, and Sam feels sick.
"Sure thing, Dean" he answers, his voice dry and emotionless.
Dean blinks, probably surprised by his tone, but shrugs and nods at him.
"Later, bro" he says, waving his arm, while he exits the bar, the skank all wrapped around him.
Sam clenches his jaw, and it takes him a little to get back in control of himself. When he does, he realizes the waitress is still there.
"Look-" he starts, his voice tired, but she stops him with a finger on his lips.
"I get it" she whispers, slowly, sitting on top of him. Sam freezes. What the-
"You want him, he doesn't want you. Well, his loss, babe, and believe me, you can do so much better. He's not all that good looking, he's short and bossy, and a total slut. Come on, you don't really think-"
Sam has had enough. He stands and she shifts, hanging onto the table to avoid falling down.
"You don't have any right to talk about him like that" he snaps at her, his eyes narrowed. "He's more of a person that you'll ever be."
Her surprised expression slowly mutates in an angry one.
"You-how do you dare-"
He snorts.
"You have been annoying me, throwing yourself at me, for hours. I'm tired of it. I asked you to back off, I told you I'm not interested, so now leave me the fuck alone!" the last part of the sentence is hissed with a dangerous edge, and the girl steps back.
Sam grabs his jacket and moves around her to leave.
"Wait" she growls, grabbing his sleeve "you don't know what I can do to you. You don't want me mad." her eyes shine with fury.
Sam smirks.
"Yeah? Bite me."
And without another word, he leaves.
The girl narrows her eyes, then takes her necklace out of her shirt and caresses lightly the pendant.
"Oh, I won't" she whispers, a sly smile curving her lips.
"But you'll have to."
***************
Sam doesn't make it to the next corner before he falls hardly on his knees, his breath coming out in short pants. His body is shook by spasms, and he doesn't understand what's wrong with him. He didn't drink that much! He curls on himself, coughing, then a white, blinding pain explodes in his chest and he passes out.
When he comes to, he blinks a couple of times, his head feels heavy and confused. He can't see very well. Everything around him is fuzzy and blurred, he seems to have lost peripheral vision and he probably has hair in front of his eyes, because apart from blurred the image looks, for fault of better definition, splitted.
I probably hit my head when I fell he reasons, and moves a hand towards his face to move the hair away.
Nothing happens.
He tries again.
Nothing.
He forces his neck to look at his hands, and he's about to faint again: he doesn't have hands anymore. Instead of them, he has legs.
Long, slender, insect-like legs.
He desperately tries to stand up, but the legs move all together and he skitters on the wet asphalt. After a dozen intents, he gives up. Looking closely at the legs, he quickly counts six of them. Meaning, he's not a spider.
Besides...he can feel something flap on his back. He tries to move whatever it is, and he feels like levitating a little, before his concentration breaks and he falls again, not that hard, this time, since he didn't really take off. Wings.
O-kay.
He moves them again, with more force, and he goes up, then a little more, and even if he sways at the beginning and it's hard to maintain balance, he succeeds staying mid-air, thanks probably to the small knobbed thingies that keep moving restlessly on his sides following the breeze.
Sam tries to understand where he is, and in which direction he's supposed to go to get back at the motel (Dean is there and the only thing he can think about now is to go to him) but his poor eyesight doesn't allow him to. He wants to cry in frustration, but he already sees everything blurred with no edges, and he doesn't think that tears will improve his already precarious situation.
He starts feeling tired after a while spent flying with no direction, that's probably why he doesn't realize he's going towards a car until he hits it full frontal. He groans on the floor, trying unsuccessfully to stand up, until he finally gets how his legs work: they move paired up, two by two. After some more attempts, he stands up on them, even though they tremble slightly, and then he looks at the car he bumped against. His heart (that's probably really small, anyhow) fills up with relief when he recognizes the Impala.
That takes him to two conclusions: a) when he's less than 3 mt from things, he can see them. Not well, of course, but enough to make out what they are (or who they are, probably). b) he's at their motel.
He takes off again, getting close to the windows and trying to look inside, hoping to recognize-
"Oh, Jesus Almighty! Harder, Dean, harder! You're a God! You feel so good! Take me, take me, I'm yours!"
The bimbo Barbie screams so loud that Sam feels it in his head, and he's not even sure he has ears.
Resigned to his destiny, he flies slowly towards the noise. He's surprised people didn't come out to complain, but he guesses they've been going at it for a while now, so the other motel guests have probably tuned them out already.
The closer he gets, the most the girl screams.
"Come inside me, Dean, mark me!" she shouts. Sam would roll his eyes if he knew how to. When he's right outside their room (he can make out the contours of some of their stuff inside) he's relieved to find out the window is slightly open and he flies in. The relief of being able to enter, though, doesn't last.
Window open and no salt? What the fuck, Dean?
Sam doesn't know if he's naturally masochist or if there's any other reason why he gets closer to the bed, but he does.
The girl is bent in a way that hurts him just watching, and she keeps screaming (he doesn't even make out the words anymore) but Dean just pants and doesn't say anything.
He growls something between her neck and her shoulder, before a shiver runs through his body and he falls on the girl.
"You are awesome" she says, awe clear in her voice.
"Yeah, I guess the whole condo knows it by now" Dean mutters, and Sam snorts. What actually comes out is something like 'nznznz'.
Without noticing, Sam got even closer, because now he can smell the sweat running down Dean's back, and then, suddenly, something happens: Dean's body heat seems to call out to him and the straw-like thing he has on the front of his face (he didn't notice it before) points straight at Dean's neck.
He stops himself just an inch before contact, gasps and wants to cry all over again, because, God, he's a mosquito. A female one.
***************
Ok, let's rationalize. I've been turned into a female mosquito by that bitch at the bar, there's no doubt about it. I can see the irony. I obviously need blood to survive, and my body seem to want my brother's (again, love the irony); I can probably drink whoever's but yuck. The question is: how do I go back to normal? And how do I let Dean know what happened?
Actually, that's probably the most urgent problem at hand, since Dean has been pacing restlessly around the room during the last half an hour, after he sent away the skank, repeatedly calling Sam and cursing at him for not answering. By the way, where the hell are my clothes? Sam asks himself. The answer to that comes after a second, together with a noisy sound that he recognizes as his brother's message tone.
Sam sees blurred Dean taking the phone (mainly because it was a flash of light on the bed and after the blurry figure passes by the light isn't there no more) and then sitting on the chair next to the small desk.
Sam flies towards the desk and lands on his dad's journal. He sees his brother punching some buttons on the phone, and then a new series of curses comes flooding out of his mouth.
"You little fucker!" he exclaims. "What do you mean spending the night? With which waitress? Are you out of your fucking mind? And how do you think I'm gonna be able to contact you if something happens if you turn your damn phone off?! Call me back immediately as soon as you hear this, you bitch, or I swear to God next time I see you I'm gonna break your spine!" Dean throws his phone on the desk, making things jump and, obviously, Sam with them. He rolls over, stopping a few inches before falling off the desk. He fights with his damn legs, and as soon as he's standing again he tries to recollect the info. The waitress (who else?), that's the one who has Sam's clothes and phone, apparently, just sent a message to Dean, probably because she was sick of him calling. Why didn't she simply turn the phone off when Dean started to call, he doesn't know, but that gives him some hope she's not a total nutjob and maybe she'll turn him back at some point.
Dean's fuming, Sam can see it in his (blurry) stance and he can smell it. That should be totally gross (smell your brother? After he just had sex?) and still, it isn't. Dean smells good, he smells of warmth, and intimacy, and home. Sam shakes his head a little, trying to clear it. He's not thinking straight (maybe because he's a female now? Damn hormones) and he starts to think even less straight when blurry Dean stands up and starts to take his clothes off. It's not like Sam can see him (all he sees is pink, a big, enormous field of pink) but he feels it, he feels the body heat and it makes him feel dizzy.
Dean keeps muttering insults at Sam, and when he walks into the bathroom (probably to take a shower) Sam can't help following him. He flies as fast as he can, and gets in just before Dean closes the door (out of habit, most certainly).
He turns on the water and steps in; Sam lands on the top of the shower curtain, lost in the smell of Dean's skin and the warmth that comes from the water and Dean's body. He didn't realize he was cold before now.
Dean probably soaps himself (Sam sees his arms moving around the pink block) and then he starts panting slightly. Sam is so surprised he almost falls down.
He-he's not-right? He has just had the best fuck ever (at least if you listen to the girl) how can he still-
But are Dean's words that shock him the most.
"Yeah, come on, Sammy. Come here, show me what you've got. Oh, yes, like that, fuck, that's it" Dean's breath is shattered and he pushes his back against the shower's tiles.
"Tell me you didn't want her. I know you were just trying to make me jealous, because you're mine" Dean growls possessively, and the little blood that may or may not be running through Sam's current veins starts to boil, exactly as it did at the beginning of the night. It didn't feel like this, then.
"You look so pretty on your knees, Sammy, your mouth stretched around me...you'll take it all, won't you? Such a slut for me."
His movements get frantic, Sam can tell because the blurry pink block shakes violently and the shower curtain too.
"Fuck, fuck, oh, Christ-" and with those words Dean goes down, on the shower floor.
He probably just came so hard his knees couldn't hold him up; neither can Sam's knees, and he finds himself sliding down the curtain, unable to stand. He falls on the floor, so dazed that if Dean was about to step on him he wouldn't be able to move. So, he just hopes Dean won't see him.
His brother comes out of the shower, legs still shaking (the pink block looks like Jell-O now) and then braces himself on the sink, starting to talk, with his reflection, probably.
"You're sick" he spits out "you're sick and you should be ashamed of yourself. He'd be if he knew, and then he'd leave again." Dean leaves the bathroom, but it takes a couple of minutes before Sam can find the strength to fly back into the room.
Dean is sitting at the desk, and Sam thinks he's writing, since he can see one elbow moving while the other stays put. At first he thinks he's writing something on their dad's journal, but landing on the desk he finds it exactly where it was. Where is Dean writing then? And what? It doesn't matter, though, because he drops the pen and slams whatever it was shut.
"Stupid prick" he mutters "he'll never read it anyway." Sam's multiple eyes widen in further shock. Dean writes to him?
Ok, he definitely needs to sleep.
Dean stands up, goes to his duffel and takes out a bottle, starting to drink directly from it. Sam feels his chest clench assisting to Dean's way of solving problems: drown them.
He simply stands on the desk, listening to Dean babble about all and nothing, alternatively apologizing to him and cursing him, just to apologize for cursing him immediately after.
It's a circle game that last until he's too tired to keep drinking, so he turns off the light and lays down.
Sam was afraid that the darkness was going to be terrifying for him, but he realizes that he gets relaxed, instead.
Looks like mosquitos, having a so poor eyesight, prefer to rely on their other senses to move. He feels Dean's body heat calling to him, and he's too tired to resist to it anymore. Besides, he doesn't want to die, and something tells him that if he doesn't eat soon he will. He flies slowly towards Dean's sleeping form, and his instinct can actually make out him better now that the lights are off.
He's laying on his belly, with only his boxer briefs on, and he snores loudly, as he always does when he drinks.
Sam lands on his shoulder, and a shiver runs through his little body at the contact of his legs with Dean's soft skin. He starts exploring it, slowly, too afraid he'll wake him if he moves too fast.
He follows every scar that marks his brother's body, recognizing some of them and discovering new ones Dean probably got while he was at Stanford.
He walks all over Dean, from his head to his toes, his legs trembling when they step on his ass, and only the fact that there is a piece of clothe to cover it up saves Sam's heart from going through a stroke.
Finally, he gets back up, stopping where Dean's collarbone meets his shoulder.
There's a purple mark right there, and he thinks about the skank from the bar. He's blinded by anger and he feels like he has to purify Dean, somehow, so he simply lets himself go and plunges his proboscis (how else can he call it?) into Dean's tender neck.
At the beginning he feels it releasing something under the skin, then his instinct pushes him forward and he sucks.
The first drop of Dean's blood in his body is like liquid fire burning him inside out. The hunger he felt tenfolds and he can't help taking more, and more, and more, until his little body is full and he feels sated. He withdraws, his legs shaking, and he moves towards the center of Dean's back.
Fuck. Who knew this could be so...so... Sam can't find words. He's in shock and that's why he doesn't feel Dean's hand coming towards him.
Spat.
Sam hears the wooshing of the air just before the impact, and succeeds in avoiding to be completely smashed against his brother's skin, but he probably can't fly anymore. One of his directional thingies has been broken, and without it he can't go straight. He has to try, though, he can't stay or Dean will kill him. He flaps his wings and starts moving, up, down, then back up, left, right, just trying to get to the door.
As he hoped, there's enough space under it to leave the room.
He sees red, red everywhere, blurry red fields and he doesn't like it. He tries walking a little, but his legs don't seem to be able to support him anymore. When he looks at them, beneath the red he realizes he misses one of them.
He stumbles in the hall, knowing that if someone sees him, he's done for. Then, a voice.
"Here he is, the little motormouth." Sam doesn't even have to look up to know who that is.
He would like to tell her Leave me alone, I have the right of dying with dignity but she kneels next to him.
"I think this is enough, for now. But just because I don't want to have your death on my conscience. I suggest you learn to choose your words carefully when you don't know who you're talking to, since you should know by now that sometimes a few of them will be all that it takes."
Sam falls forward, rolling on his back, breathing an almost impossible task.
He closes his eyes when he sees the shadow of her heel coming towards him and just hopes it will be quick.
***************
"Sam! Dude, what the hell are you doing in the hall?!"
Sam groans, and slowly opens his eyes.
No red.
Dean's face.
Dean's eyes.
Dean's freckles.
He snaps up abruptly and his head stings so bad that he has to grab it with his hands.
He blinks and looks at them again.
He has hands again!
"I'm back" he mutters.
"About damn time, you asshole, you didn't even call me back like you were supposed to. Don't think I'm gonna go easy on you just because you look like shit: you'll pay for it, since it's your own fault to begin with. First of all, laundry's on you, this week."
"Sure, Dean" he agrees cheerfully, before extending his hand towards Dean so that his brother helps him standing back up.
"Sam, are you sure you're alright?" He asks, his smug expression tinged in worry.
Sam's smile is so wide his dimples dig holes in his cheeks. "Never better, bro. Never better."
While they walk back towards their room, Sam's gaze falls on Dean's neck and his smile gets impossibly wider: where there was a purple hickey bruise, now there's a red blotch.
***************
Dean claps his hand against the back of his neck, and then glares at it.
"Fucking mosquitos" he mutters "why can't they leave me alone?"
"Probably your blood's too sweet, Dean" Sam answers, distractedly.
"Ah fucking ah" Dean growls "Bite me, Samantha."
"I already did" Sam says to himself, hiding a wicked smile behind the menu of the diner.
And with some hope, he will again, soon.
*END*
Final note: Z!Sam = Zanzara!Sam (zanzara=mosquito in Italian). Same goes for the tag zanzafic.
Final disclaimers: Inspiration came from "Fly on the wall" by Tatu.
When you're naked in the shower, when you're sleeping for an hour, when you're big, when you're small: oh, I wish I was a fly on the wall.
When you're with her after midnight, when you kiss her in the dim light, when you break barbie doll: oh, I wish I was a fly on the wall.
Wanna see who you are, every inch, every scar.
From your head to your toes, I would be there, from your bed to your clothes: I'm in the air.
When you think you're alone, I'll be down in the hall: I could see it, if I was a fly on the wall.
What you do in your room, when your on your own, I could see it all; you undress, I wish I was a fly on the wall.
For the drama that you're drinking and the dark thoughts you are thinking, and the love notes that you scrawl, I wish I was a fly on the wall.
Silently, I arrive: you don't know I'm alive.
Ever closer, ever nearer; when you're looking in the mirror, I would know who you call, if I was a fly on the wall.
http://www.sendspace.com/file/pjejj8
Sam hates me from the icon. *iz afraid* Assistant, please. *pushes her Assistant!Jensen in front of her*
A!J: hey! It's not in my contract that I have to take a bullet for you!
Trini: *shrugs* you should learn to read the small prints.
A!J: *sweating profusely* Damn.