.0094
Characters: Dean & Sam / Dean/Sam
Genre: Non-AU, slightly AU, pre-series, series...
Wordcount: 45 x 1 sentence
A/N 1: Prompt Set Alpha @ 1sentence. I didn't join the challenge, I just shamelessly copied the prompts when I was looking for some inspiration. Originally, there are 50 words, I have 45. That's because I've written all of them basically in one draw and didn't feel like going back to finish the rest. My Beta went through them quickly and said there's nothing wrong, if you spot a mistake/error, let me know...
A/N 2: Nothing deep or thoughtful. And, please, ignore the fact that the sentences are mostly ridiculously long and grammatically incorrect.
Dean’s hands are hard, bruised and burned, scarred and calloused, made for killing and wars, and not for loving, but when they run down Sam’s sunburned back and thighs, there’s nothing but gentleness and comfort in their touch.
Dean’s lips are soft beneath Sam’s, full and pliant, tasting like the raspberry ice cream they shared and the beer Sam was allowed to only sip on, and when Sam’s tongue brushes over his, smooth and hot, Dean sighs, trembling under Sam’s touch.
Skin smooth like plush, unmarked and in one piece, no scratches, scars, bruises or bloody shreds hanging on broken bones; just the dark swirls of a tattoo and a swelled brand burned by the hand of an angel.
No blood, no tears, no visible wounds that need to be cleaned and sewed, no scars - just the deep, endless crater gaping inside of him, never to be sealed, and the loss that still squeezes his heart like a vice.
Dean crawls out of the bed on unsteady legs, whole body shaking with the effort to stand upright, and fights with Sam who tries to get him back in… but, finally, after sinking to the floor like a sack of potatoes, he admits that he does feel “a little weird”.
Rhythmical bouncing on the fogged up window pane, quiet and lulling, streaks of water that slide down the glass like tears, and Dean’s thighs, parted and trembling and clutching Sam’s hips, his blunt fingernails that draw unrecognizable patterns upon Sam’s back, the breathy moan he lets slip into the heavy, stuffy air in between them.
Wiping away the annoying tears that slide silently down his cheeks, Sam sits down onto the faded grass, in front of the slightly crooked wooden cross, and blows out the candles on the small chocolate cake in his hand, “Happy birthday, Dean”.
A bottle of chilled beer and a piece of hot apple pie, Sam’s smile and the sound of his laughter, full fuel tank and miles of an open highway.
They’re getting there; Sam’s got Dean pinned to the flaked wall, the buttons on his jeans half open, his hands firmly settled on Dean’s hips, and Dean’s lips on his throat, moist and hot and leaving a mark of ownership, when Dean’s back pocket starts to vibrate and Bobby’s ringtone cuts through the silence of the room and the haze of their want.
Dark, thin and thicker lines that spread over the pale, delicate skin of his inner wrist; three simple letters written in a quick, but elegant handwriting, so easily identifiable, so hard to really understand, matching the four-lettered design on Sam’s own hand.
The way Dean moves; slow and titillating, rocking his hips into Sam’s, guiding their movements in the rhythm of the song that only he can hear, and refusing to give in and give Sam what he really wants.
No accident or a stray bullet, no monster attack, disaster or a long-term illness, just a fall; a voluntary jump into an open maw of the Earth - the price for peace that no one noticed has been maintained.
The first time it’s wild and possessive, urgent and bruising in their desperate need to feel; each other, their heartbeats, the rush of blood running beneath a thin layer of skin - proofs of life and presence that regular people rarely acknowledge or truly appreciate.
The first thing Sam does when they’re finally alone, just the two of them and the four months, forty years of separation, between them, Dean’s memories and horrors he swears he doesn’t remember, stripping him naked and running his fingers over a baby smooth, absolutely undamaged skin.
The two dimples that dip into Sam’s cheeks when he smiles, and the way his eyes color changes in the light, in shadows, when he’s happy or sad, angry or aroused, saying, “Now”.
Salt and wet, full of sorrow and desperation, the heartbreaking reality that is only slowly sinking in, cutting deep and mirroring in the words he says, “I was dead, and I should have stayed dead”.
The grass is soft beneath his naked back, smelling of summer and the morning dew, the sun warm and tiring, and the air heavy and unmoving, anesthetizing… and Sam is amazed of how fast he goes from practically asleep to fully aroused when Dean’s tongue dips into the hollow of his navel.
The smoke rising off his burning corpse, dancing in between the tongues of the orange and yellow flames that lick on what used to be, to breathe, swirling and drifting up towards the starless sky.
A fast, strong car; oiled and waxed, sleek, and a stretch of an asphalt carpet, miles and miles of an open road, no monsters, no fights, no war, just his brother’s hand on his thigh, soothing and warm.
Blessing for most, but what seems to be nothing but a curse for the Winchesters.
She’s smaller than Sam and beautiful, blonde with big eyes the color of summer sky and full lips painted in cherry red - she’s perfect, actually - but Sam isn’t jealous, because when they’re alone, Dean hooks his finger in the loop of Sam’s jeans and tugs him closer, whispering, “I want you” against his lips.
Big and strong, with long, slender fingers that know just how to touch, to caress, to grip and slide to tip Dean right off the edge.
Sam’s skin is salty and hot, tasting of summer and sea, of rocks and the burning sand that’s covering his body, clinging to every inch of him, every curve and dip… just like Dean wants to.
Sam doesn’t remember their mom, or her fragrance, or the lullabies she used to sing to them, but when he looks in the eyes of his brother, deep and green, full of love and fear and all the memories he treasures so dearly, he can find her there.
Hands washed so many - too many - times, brushed and disinfected, dry and chapped, and still smelling of copper, like the blood of the body Sam’s buried more than a week ago, and that still clings to the brass horned face dangling around his neck.
Dean is running fever, sweating and shaking with chill, hallucinating and babbling nonsenses that Sam no longer tries to decode; demanding once a bucket of ice, then another blanket, and still insisting that he’s alright and more than capable of joining John on his ghoul hunt.
Sam is hurt; the top of his thigh ripped open by a pair of dirty claws, his blood streaming down his leg and dripping onto the floor, while Dean’s skillful fingers clean the gash and sew the skin together, and Dean’s humming the melody of Sam’s favorite song Sam never knew Dean knows.
His back leaned against the windshield, Sam can feel the slowly cooling engine beneath him, Dean’s fragrance and heat beside him, the leather of his jacket when he leans a little closer, following the direction of Dean’s finger up and higher, towards the scattered points of white, distant lights.
Four wheels and a rambling engine, smooth, black paint, and a hard metal above, toy soldiers and pieces of Lego stuck in places where they definitely don’t belong, and two sets of initials carved into the secret place beneath one of the backseat’s windows.
Summer nights in Texas are hot and long, dry, with no waft of wind, no fresh air, and Sam doesn’t know how to fight his desires, how to fortify himself against the sudden, unexpected waves of want that flood his mind, his body, every time he as much as glances at his sleeping, half-naked brother.
When Sam was a kid, around six or seven, he was afraid that he’ll die one day - now he’s only afraid that he’ll live forever, or at least long enough to see his brother die again.
White and blue lightning, simple or forked, crossing the sky and hitting the wet ground, sizzling, and a deafening thunder that follows each one of them - startling and scary, but nowhere enough to surpass a frightened, worried-to-death and angry Dean.
Dean’s whispered, breathless and terrified, scarily scared, “I love you”.
Letters, e-mails, cable phones and cellphones; miles of wires and thousands of satellites… and not a single way how to reach the other side.
The ability to stand up again, after so many downfalls and stumbles, all the obstacles lying in his path; dead monsters and people, all the things that go bump in the night, both heaven and hell, to cover pain and grief with a smile and careless jokes.
Sam is four years old, sunburned and smudged from vanilla ice cream, from head to toe, and when he grins, he shows the gap that’s replaced his front teeth after he took a free fall off the swing on the playground of his preschool.
Sam loses his when Dean’s fingers, cold and wet from the snow, catch in the collar of his jacket, keeping him from falling onto the snowy ice and the lake beneath it - their feet unsure and shaky on the skates, Dean’s lips full and right there, and his eyes smiling, crinkling at the edges - and Sam leans in, closer than he’s supposed to, and presses his mouth to Dean’s, trembling and almost blue.
When Sam puts away the shovel and wipes the dirty mixture of sweat and tears off his face, he looks up at the ashy dark, angry sky above, at the first small flashes of lightning that sporadically flicker in between, and thinks that maybe heaven does give a crap after all.
White fluffy clouds on a smurfy blue background, yellowish white stripes of sunrays and white lines of vapor from airplanes… and behind all that, supposedly, heaven.
Free beers and the well-known melodies of his favorite songs, old friends, dead, he hasn’t seen in years… alleged perfection that only hurts, because heaven without Sam is no heaven for Dean.
Dean dies, bleeding and screaming, and fighting invisible monsters that no one but he can see, leaving Sam on his own and insane with grief… and the world doesn’t even falter in its hinges to care.
Dots of freckles sprinkled like the grains of cinnamon on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, darker and more visible now, spreading to his forehead and ears, his shoulders, and, gradually, significantly lower.
The moon is full, slipping in through the open window, bright and intrusive, and Sam watches, captivated and bewitched to silence, how the light glides over Dean’s body, polishing his features to the perfection of marble statues and his skin to porcelain softness.
The sun is leisurely setting down, bleeding into the lake and painting the whole vicinity to yellow and red, and the water is quiet, soothingly cool, caressing their bare ankles and easing the never-fading ache and fatigue.
Dean’s breath is heavy in Sam’s ear, scented with bitter coffee and sweet waffles, his movements firm and sure, and Sam watches, half angry and half aroused, as the long, dark curls of his hair fall to the foot-worn, stained linoleum of another unimportant motel room.
Genre: Non-AU, slightly AU, pre-series, series...
Wordcount: 45 x 1 sentence
A/N 1: Prompt Set Alpha @ 1sentence. I didn't join the challenge, I just shamelessly copied the prompts when I was looking for some inspiration. Originally, there are 50 words, I have 45. That's because I've written all of them basically in one draw and didn't feel like going back to finish the rest. My Beta went through them quickly and said there's nothing wrong, if you spot a mistake/error, let me know...
A/N 2: Nothing deep or thoughtful. And, please, ignore the fact that the sentences are mostly ridiculously long and grammatically incorrect.
Dean’s hands are hard, bruised and burned, scarred and calloused, made for killing and wars, and not for loving, but when they run down Sam’s sunburned back and thighs, there’s nothing but gentleness and comfort in their touch.
Dean’s lips are soft beneath Sam’s, full and pliant, tasting like the raspberry ice cream they shared and the beer Sam was allowed to only sip on, and when Sam’s tongue brushes over his, smooth and hot, Dean sighs, trembling under Sam’s touch.
Skin smooth like plush, unmarked and in one piece, no scratches, scars, bruises or bloody shreds hanging on broken bones; just the dark swirls of a tattoo and a swelled brand burned by the hand of an angel.
No blood, no tears, no visible wounds that need to be cleaned and sewed, no scars - just the deep, endless crater gaping inside of him, never to be sealed, and the loss that still squeezes his heart like a vice.
Dean crawls out of the bed on unsteady legs, whole body shaking with the effort to stand upright, and fights with Sam who tries to get him back in… but, finally, after sinking to the floor like a sack of potatoes, he admits that he does feel “a little weird”.
Rhythmical bouncing on the fogged up window pane, quiet and lulling, streaks of water that slide down the glass like tears, and Dean’s thighs, parted and trembling and clutching Sam’s hips, his blunt fingernails that draw unrecognizable patterns upon Sam’s back, the breathy moan he lets slip into the heavy, stuffy air in between them.
Wiping away the annoying tears that slide silently down his cheeks, Sam sits down onto the faded grass, in front of the slightly crooked wooden cross, and blows out the candles on the small chocolate cake in his hand, “Happy birthday, Dean”.
A bottle of chilled beer and a piece of hot apple pie, Sam’s smile and the sound of his laughter, full fuel tank and miles of an open highway.
They’re getting there; Sam’s got Dean pinned to the flaked wall, the buttons on his jeans half open, his hands firmly settled on Dean’s hips, and Dean’s lips on his throat, moist and hot and leaving a mark of ownership, when Dean’s back pocket starts to vibrate and Bobby’s ringtone cuts through the silence of the room and the haze of their want.
Dark, thin and thicker lines that spread over the pale, delicate skin of his inner wrist; three simple letters written in a quick, but elegant handwriting, so easily identifiable, so hard to really understand, matching the four-lettered design on Sam’s own hand.
The way Dean moves; slow and titillating, rocking his hips into Sam’s, guiding their movements in the rhythm of the song that only he can hear, and refusing to give in and give Sam what he really wants.
No accident or a stray bullet, no monster attack, disaster or a long-term illness, just a fall; a voluntary jump into an open maw of the Earth - the price for peace that no one noticed has been maintained.
The first time it’s wild and possessive, urgent and bruising in their desperate need to feel; each other, their heartbeats, the rush of blood running beneath a thin layer of skin - proofs of life and presence that regular people rarely acknowledge or truly appreciate.
The first thing Sam does when they’re finally alone, just the two of them and the four months, forty years of separation, between them, Dean’s memories and horrors he swears he doesn’t remember, stripping him naked and running his fingers over a baby smooth, absolutely undamaged skin.
The two dimples that dip into Sam’s cheeks when he smiles, and the way his eyes color changes in the light, in shadows, when he’s happy or sad, angry or aroused, saying, “Now”.
Salt and wet, full of sorrow and desperation, the heartbreaking reality that is only slowly sinking in, cutting deep and mirroring in the words he says, “I was dead, and I should have stayed dead”.
The grass is soft beneath his naked back, smelling of summer and the morning dew, the sun warm and tiring, and the air heavy and unmoving, anesthetizing… and Sam is amazed of how fast he goes from practically asleep to fully aroused when Dean’s tongue dips into the hollow of his navel.
The smoke rising off his burning corpse, dancing in between the tongues of the orange and yellow flames that lick on what used to be, to breathe, swirling and drifting up towards the starless sky.
A fast, strong car; oiled and waxed, sleek, and a stretch of an asphalt carpet, miles and miles of an open road, no monsters, no fights, no war, just his brother’s hand on his thigh, soothing and warm.
Blessing for most, but what seems to be nothing but a curse for the Winchesters.
She’s smaller than Sam and beautiful, blonde with big eyes the color of summer sky and full lips painted in cherry red - she’s perfect, actually - but Sam isn’t jealous, because when they’re alone, Dean hooks his finger in the loop of Sam’s jeans and tugs him closer, whispering, “I want you” against his lips.
Big and strong, with long, slender fingers that know just how to touch, to caress, to grip and slide to tip Dean right off the edge.
Sam’s skin is salty and hot, tasting of summer and sea, of rocks and the burning sand that’s covering his body, clinging to every inch of him, every curve and dip… just like Dean wants to.
Sam doesn’t remember their mom, or her fragrance, or the lullabies she used to sing to them, but when he looks in the eyes of his brother, deep and green, full of love and fear and all the memories he treasures so dearly, he can find her there.
Hands washed so many - too many - times, brushed and disinfected, dry and chapped, and still smelling of copper, like the blood of the body Sam’s buried more than a week ago, and that still clings to the brass horned face dangling around his neck.
Dean is running fever, sweating and shaking with chill, hallucinating and babbling nonsenses that Sam no longer tries to decode; demanding once a bucket of ice, then another blanket, and still insisting that he’s alright and more than capable of joining John on his ghoul hunt.
Sam is hurt; the top of his thigh ripped open by a pair of dirty claws, his blood streaming down his leg and dripping onto the floor, while Dean’s skillful fingers clean the gash and sew the skin together, and Dean’s humming the melody of Sam’s favorite song Sam never knew Dean knows.
His back leaned against the windshield, Sam can feel the slowly cooling engine beneath him, Dean’s fragrance and heat beside him, the leather of his jacket when he leans a little closer, following the direction of Dean’s finger up and higher, towards the scattered points of white, distant lights.
Four wheels and a rambling engine, smooth, black paint, and a hard metal above, toy soldiers and pieces of Lego stuck in places where they definitely don’t belong, and two sets of initials carved into the secret place beneath one of the backseat’s windows.
Summer nights in Texas are hot and long, dry, with no waft of wind, no fresh air, and Sam doesn’t know how to fight his desires, how to fortify himself against the sudden, unexpected waves of want that flood his mind, his body, every time he as much as glances at his sleeping, half-naked brother.
When Sam was a kid, around six or seven, he was afraid that he’ll die one day - now he’s only afraid that he’ll live forever, or at least long enough to see his brother die again.
White and blue lightning, simple or forked, crossing the sky and hitting the wet ground, sizzling, and a deafening thunder that follows each one of them - startling and scary, but nowhere enough to surpass a frightened, worried-to-death and angry Dean.
Dean’s whispered, breathless and terrified, scarily scared, “I love you”.
Letters, e-mails, cable phones and cellphones; miles of wires and thousands of satellites… and not a single way how to reach the other side.
The ability to stand up again, after so many downfalls and stumbles, all the obstacles lying in his path; dead monsters and people, all the things that go bump in the night, both heaven and hell, to cover pain and grief with a smile and careless jokes.
Sam is four years old, sunburned and smudged from vanilla ice cream, from head to toe, and when he grins, he shows the gap that’s replaced his front teeth after he took a free fall off the swing on the playground of his preschool.
Sam loses his when Dean’s fingers, cold and wet from the snow, catch in the collar of his jacket, keeping him from falling onto the snowy ice and the lake beneath it - their feet unsure and shaky on the skates, Dean’s lips full and right there, and his eyes smiling, crinkling at the edges - and Sam leans in, closer than he’s supposed to, and presses his mouth to Dean’s, trembling and almost blue.
When Sam puts away the shovel and wipes the dirty mixture of sweat and tears off his face, he looks up at the ashy dark, angry sky above, at the first small flashes of lightning that sporadically flicker in between, and thinks that maybe heaven does give a crap after all.
White fluffy clouds on a smurfy blue background, yellowish white stripes of sunrays and white lines of vapor from airplanes… and behind all that, supposedly, heaven.
Free beers and the well-known melodies of his favorite songs, old friends, dead, he hasn’t seen in years… alleged perfection that only hurts, because heaven without Sam is no heaven for Dean.
Dean dies, bleeding and screaming, and fighting invisible monsters that no one but he can see, leaving Sam on his own and insane with grief… and the world doesn’t even falter in its hinges to care.
Dots of freckles sprinkled like the grains of cinnamon on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, darker and more visible now, spreading to his forehead and ears, his shoulders, and, gradually, significantly lower.
The moon is full, slipping in through the open window, bright and intrusive, and Sam watches, captivated and bewitched to silence, how the light glides over Dean’s body, polishing his features to the perfection of marble statues and his skin to porcelain softness.
The sun is leisurely setting down, bleeding into the lake and painting the whole vicinity to yellow and red, and the water is quiet, soothingly cool, caressing their bare ankles and easing the never-fading ache and fatigue.
Dean’s breath is heavy in Sam’s ear, scented with bitter coffee and sweet waffles, his movements firm and sure, and Sam watches, half angry and half aroused, as the long, dark curls of his hair fall to the foot-worn, stained linoleum of another unimportant motel room.