I’m falling over and over and over and over again now
Calling over and over and over and over again now
Morcheeba, “Over and Over”
this one will go on madison’s door
from left to right it reads “poker face,” “challenge accepted,” “what.” “IDGAF,” “let me die,” “shaking and crying,” and “feel ALL the feelings!”
Sam couldn’t sleep. It was ten o’clock, way past his bedtime, and he tossed and turned fitfully on the too-big bed with the scratchy blue comforter. His eyelids were heavy but his eyes wouldn’t stay closed.
There was a weight on the bed. A shifting of the covers. A warm body pressed up against behind him, an arm slung across his waist.
“Good night, Sammy,” a voice murmured in his ear.
Sam slept.
The entire time, they didn’t say a word.
The hospital was abandoned. Everyone had evacuated - except for one man, sitting quietly on his bed, trying to ignore a brother who wasn’t really there.
He didn’t need to fight his way in. There was no one there, after all. Just the man on the bed. And now him, the hunter who didn’t need to fight, who kicked open the unlocked door, took the stairs two at a time, and pushed past cold metal carts of medical equipment to barge into the room with the man.
They stared at each other, the patient terrified of something in the space between them. The standing man crossed, walked through the invisible evil, and put his palms on the other man’s cheeks. They rested there for a while, noses brushing, sharing the air, and then they were kissing, slow and soft and scared.
They pulled back. Green eyes sought blue, but they were unseeing, unfeeling, unfocused, unsure.
The whole long, dark night, they lay wrapped around each other, so close they were almost one flesh. One trembled. One held steady, his embrace like iron, doing the only thing he could to keep the things in the shadows at bay - and the entire time, they didn’t say a word.
Title: Genesis
Pairing: Dean/Sam/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Dean and Sam and Castiel all get drunk and things get a little…dirty. Toppy!Cas and mild cumplay ahead.
Dean will blame the tequila until he dies. Why else would he be squeezed onto a too-small couch, Castiel and Sam on either side of him, Sam giggling like a teenage girl while Castiel flushes from his neck to his forehead?
Penance
First, he loses his words. He tries to put them together, tries so hard it hurts, but he can’t even manage single nouns that mean what he wants them to mean. Lucifer taunts him: cat got your tongue, baby bro? No, he wants to reply, a fallen angel.
He stares, words tumbling in his head but never making it to his lips, at his brother, singing his way through the complete Led Zeppelin discography. He knows he does it because of Dean. To remind him of Dean. It works, and it hurts.
Next, he loses his hearing. He knows the world continues to make sound around him, banging hospital doors and the kind words of the orderlies and the buzzing of the lights, but all he has is a dull muffled thrumming. He can still read lips, though, can still see the things that Lucifer is telling him, even behind his eyelids when he tries to close his eyes. He can feel him, too, the firm grip of his hand on his shoulder, mimicking Dean’s. He knows it isn’t Dean’s, though. Dean left him.
He bends, but he doesn’t break. He takes his penance with stoicism and stillness. He can live without words, without sound, and eventually without smell or taste. He is an angel. He is strong.
When he rouses from his quiet meditation to realize he can no longer sense his wings, all of that is forgotten. He finally - finally - allows himself to bury his face in his hands, dry sobs shaking his shoulders, and accept his state: small, and frail, and helpless, and human.
the only one for me is you
mitochondria/chloroplast <3
Sam’s first dirty thought about Dean was wondering about his hands. He liked watching Dean’s hands, cleaning the guns or turning pages or teasing his gelled hair into that perfectly unkempt look he spent so much time on in high school. He wondered what his callused thumb would feel like running over his lower lip, what his fingers would feel like pressing down on his tongue, how it would feel to suck on them, to have them running down his back and over his stomach and wrapping around his cock and pressing up inside him.
But mostly he thought about them getting twisted up in his hair as Dean kissed him hard and better than any pretty girl ever could.
Way, Way Down Inside
second person alert!
You feel his hair tickling your thighs, his breath hot on your cunt even through the cheap black lace of your flimsy g-string. His cheek is rough with a single day’s worth of stubble, and you know it was smooth earlier when you first saw him that morning, when he first walked into your life with a brilliant smile and deep dimples and a powerful body restrained in pressed fabric, making you soak your panties with a single glance. The first press of his tongue on the crease of your hip is like burning heaven and you squirm, fingers tangling in his hair, trying to force him down, but he’s determined to take his time, strong hands holding your legs firmly apart as he teases, mouthing along the line where lace meets skin. You beg him for more and he just laughs against your stomach. You can practically feel the vibration in your clit.
He hooks his thumb around the lace strip covering your pussy, pulling it aside to expose you fully to him, and you bite your lip against a gasp. You’re dripping already, throbbing with need, while you wait desperately for him to finish looking his fill and get his mouth on you, needing his tongue and lips and wanting the harsh rasp of stubble on the inside of your thigh. He’s slow to start, sliding his tongue lazily over your slit, dipping just inside but not quite enough. You plead with him, in your moans and tiny twitches of your hips, in how you spread your legs wider and tug at his hair, and he finally - finally! - humors you, fucking his tongue deep into your cunt, savoring your taste, your slick covering his lips and chin. He teases at your clit with his tongue, with his lips, sucking on it just enough to get you crying out with need, flying towards a screaming orgasm.
Your back is arched, your legs trembling, your eyes rolled back, and he doesn’t let up, relentless in his sensuous kiss, driving you back up to a delicious second peak, a mind-blowing multiple that’s even better than the first.
Only when you’ve screamed yourself hoarse with a third climax does he slow the sweeps of his tongue and release your thighs, eventually allowing your sex-soaked panties to cover your pussy once again. He kisses your hip, eases your legs back together, and smiles that brilliant smile at you.
You think you may be in love.
How Many More Times
Dean loved Sam. Dean loved fucking Sam, his little ass clenching hard around him as his brother moaned like a five-dollar whore and drew him deeper with his ankles locked behind Dean’s waist. Dean loved being on top.
Dean also loved Sam’s cock. It was beautiful, thick and long and especially large on Sam’s lanky sixteen-year-old frame, and Dean couldn’t stop thinking about feeling it inside him. He fantasized about Sam fucking him when he jacked off in the lukewarm motel shower, one hand twisted behind him to get two fingers inside himself, but it wasn’t ever enough. Dean wanted more, and he resolved to get it.
