embarrassment amnesty: part 2

[obstinatrix]

Dad never approved of Dylan; said he was
some kind of communist, who never gave the soldierboys due credit, and
nothing anyone said could change his mind.
Still, cassette tapes come from nowhere and everywhere, like
fireflies, or the dust that grimes window-ledges,
and Dean plays Blonde on Blonde as they watch the night
unwind.

Somewhere inside himself, Sam is unwinding
too -
curling his tongue around the gold
in his mouth;
tossing it metal-wet burning
down his throat.

"Don't waste the whisky," Dean snaps;
shoots out his hand for the bottle, gets Sam's wrist instead.

"I won't," Sam says,
and screws the cap back on real good. "I won't, Dean."

He shrugs down, knees falling apart.
Sam is falling apart, strung out on the scent of Dean's body,
the earth-smell of his sweat.
Dean's fingers drift upward, scrape the soft inside of Sam's elbow.
Sam feels, through the blur of his thoughts,
a sort of rightness of being, whatever his mind might say.

His mind has never served him very well.

Sam is mind; Sam has always been mind, but Dean
Dean is body, the rawness of him vivid and hot and alive.
The music swings through Sam's chest, discordant, and he wants
to be also body,
he wants,
he wants.

Dean says, "Sammy," uncertain and low, and full of
sex Dean has no idea is there.

But Sam hears it,
lets himself be body, and tastes it.

The seat isn't big enough for both of them, so many arms and legs
and feet,
so much boy becoming man here in this car.
It doesn't matter, though;
real things exist only inside her,
and Sam wants this to be real.

When Sam pushes, Dean lets him,
and that is the most surprising thing of all.

Dean's mouth is sweet under Sam's, a little smoky with drink,
and their teeth clash awkwardly until suddenly,
abruptly,
it's perfect.
The car smells of gasoline and corn chips, and Dean
where he's leaking.

"Sammy," he pants, thrusting into Sam's hand,
sammysammysammy and perhaps
it should be awful; should be the wrongest note
in a symphony played off-key from beginning to end,
but it isn't. It isn't.

"Sammy," Dean says; pushes Sam's hand lower, and it's the most
transcendental instant
of harmony
in fifteen years of ragged music,
a life played by careless hands on an untuned piano.

"Sammy," Dean says, and Sam
swallows him, presses inside him,
and the night outside breaks free of its spool
and ascends.

here for ~archiving purposes. *clears throat* See previous post about needing to catalogue everything.

And now I am going to bed.