and when her edges soften, her body is my coffin
I wanna beg bloodred0_4 ’s forgiveness for taking so long with her one-sentence prompts! I remembered and then I forgot and then I remembered and then I felt bad, so. Here! Have some drabblets instead? [WARNING, THIS POST IS AN UNBETA'D ZONE!!!]
*crawls back into your good graces on hands and knees* *sends you flowers* *bakes you cupcakes*
Dean/Dean: I know how you like it.
He thinks it started with future-Dean and his dirtiest smirk, the one he’d perfected as a sixteen year old in spotty motel mirrors, the one that made his eyes all dark and sly, twisted his lips in a way that said, yeah, he knew exactly what they were good for. He’d said something, something provocative about maybe learning a few new tricks in the last five years, things past-Dean would not fucking believe, man. And Dean couldn’t ignore a challenge like that. Not from himself. Of course the other him would have known that, when he’d -
Or maybe it started with the Glenfiddich; two bottles of which were knocked back like water, burning the backs of their eyes, their throats. Scotch, as they both knew, fucked him up royally - made him do stupid shit that he’d usually think better of. Doesn’t matter, really - the fact is, they drank a lot of it, and weren’t exactly sober when -
Hey, maybe it was the situation? People do fucked-up shit when they’re in a bad place, and that future was definitely a bad place. Fucking awful. Probably the adrenaline and the combination of fear and anger and desperation writhing in his flesh had gotten to him, so he’d -
You know what? Fuck that noise. It’d started with future-Dean, slumped against his shoulder and mumbling something about those long-lost pink panties, and what other kinks he’d kept hidden from everyone, but couldn’t keep from himself. Mumbled them into his shirt, and then the skin of his throat, and then pressed the scotch-soaked words into his lips like he could hide them inside Dean’s mouth.
And it was weird. Dean knows how attractive he is, sure, he uses it to his advantage more often than not. But that never meant he wanted to fuck himself. He’d never been that much of a narcissist. (Until 2014, apparently.)
He wasn’t exactly thinking then, though - future-Dean was doing that little flick with his tongue he’d taught himself in ninth grade, licking into his mouth with just the right pressure, skimming his teeth along his bottom lip. And it figures that of course he’d be perfect at it. That he’d know exactly how to get Dean hot, stomach twisting, pulse jumping, his fingers clawing at his twin’s shoulderblades.
Any way, the point is, how it started doesn’t really matter. What matters right now is future-Dean, tonguing him open and leaving fingerprints with his thumbs, curling into him in ways that, fuck, make him hump sloppily into the twisted sheets and moan, desperate and sobbing and turned-on, hearing his own voice tell him, “Yeah baby, that’s it, take it, fuck, take it all.”
Sam/Dean: one last time.
“Please Dean? Please?” Sam said, all big brown eyes and pleading and milk moustache.
“No,” Dean said.
But he couldn’t say that word to Sammy for long, ever, especially not with his little brother looking at him like this again, five years old and all tiny chubby limbs, dwarfed by his chair, feet swinging off the edge. He was wearing one of his shirts, one of the ones that had fitted him too tight just yesterday and now puddled around him like a tent, big enough to come down almost to his wrists, his ankles.
Sam didn’t even have to say it again. He just pursed his mouth a little, wrinkled his brows. The bitch-face basics. So of course Dean had to do his walrus impression again.
Just one last time.
J2: dancing.
Jared can’t sing to save his life. Everyone else in the world probably thinks it’s endearing, but no one else has to live with it.
No one else has to live with Jared, who sings in the shower - stupid shit like Britney and Avril and the Spice Girls, ‘coz he thinks Jensen’s still asleep and can’t mock him for it.
He sings eighties music in the kitchen, and Tainted Love when he’s finally gotten desperate enough to do some of his mountainous pile of laundry (Jensen refuses). He mumbles snippets of indie lyrics in the car, driving, tapping his fingers on the wheel out of time.
He croons ridiculous nineties love ballads in Jensen’s ear when he wants attention and hums Metallica when he’s going down - it gets so that Jensen can’t hear Enter Sandman without getting hard, and that’s never not gonna be awkward.
He sings when he walks the dogs and he sings with his earphones on (even more horribly tonedeaf than usual) and he sings while he cooks.
And if you think that's bad? Well, don't even get Jensen started on the the dancing.
J2: tomorrow.
So maybe its not perfect - maybe there’s some stuff they regret, or some things they wished they could do, say, feel without worry. Maybe they wish they could just live their lives. Maybe they sometimes wish they'd never met. Maybe they worry about getting caught, maybe some days they’d prefer the waiting to be over. They're not very discreet after all.
Maybe they love each other, and that’s about thick and thin, for better or worse.
Maybe it’s still growing and changing and adapting, maybe it’s hard and sometimes they wonder if all the secrecy is worth it. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. But they still have it. And today, right now, they still wanna keep it. They’re both pretty sure they have a good thing here.
Maybe that’ll change tomorrow. Or maybe tomorrow’ll never come.
Guess we’ll see.