'Otherside' progress report
I think the draft for 'Otherside' is done. (Though, I said that two hours ago and have since added a new scene and 1000 words, but we're saying that was done in edits, *blows raspberries!*) Right now, it's edged past 28K, which makes this a bit longer than 'Phantom' -- hopefully the rest in the series will be SHORTER BY A LOT, THANKYOUVERYMUCH.
At any rate, I promised wendy some snippets, so.
First off, the warnings for this fic. More will be added as I go through in edits and pick out other things that may squick/offend.
Warnings: General spoilers up through 2x10. AU. Incest. Whoring. Drug use. Language. Tattoos. S/M. Bloodplay. Whips and make-up and attitude.
--
Sam’s sleeping with his mouth open again, eyelashes curved against his cheeks, hair tossed this way and that. His lips are swollen, the sheet’s riding low on his hips, and in the moonlight, with bruises, bitemarks, fingerprints, and the words of a tatttoo limned in silver, Sam doesn’t look like he belongs here, next to Dean, covered in the proof of Dean’s possession.
Dean would never say it out loud, hates thinking it, but Sam looks beautiful. Sam is beautiful, and he’s the only one who ever gets to see Sam like this, naked and unguarded. Sam is his, will be forever if Dean has anything to say about it.
It might be minutes or hours of staring later when Sam stirs, opens his eyes and gives Dean a bleary-eyed look that makes Dean smile, reach out to run a hand through his brother’s hair.
“Go back to sleep,” Dean murmurs, and Sam blinks, licks his lips, and closes his eyes, snuggling into Dean’s side.
--
Josiah leads Dean into a living room overflowing with books, moves a few piles off of a couch and an armchair onto the floor and lets Dean have his pick. Dean sits in the chair, shifting slightly to sink in to the worn cushion, and sips his coffee, looking around, while Josiah stands in the doorway, hands cradling his own mug.
Most of the books are old, hardbound, with stitched-in titles, and the great majority of the titles aren't in English. There aren’t more than a handful of Latin books, but there are a few Greek texts, closely stacked next to an army of Greek dictionaries and encyclopaedias.
"I hate Greek," Josiah admits, must have followed Dean's gaze. "Makes no sense to me, all those damned compounds. Latin, too, but old Norse, now there's a gorgeous thing." Dean smiles and nods, but the nod’s impatient and the smile’s thin, so Josiah sighs and shifts, says, “Jim called. Said you flew out of Blue Earth like a man possessed.” He pauses, glances Dean over, and adds, “Or maybe like a man trying to run from something.”
Dean takes another gulp of coffee, dark and bitter, and shrugs, looking at the books instead of the man. “I need to learn everything I can about runes. Jim said you were the go-to guy for that. I’m Dean. Dean Winchester.”
--
“Sam,” he says, quietly, but Sam’s hand on his chest curls, and his nails dig into Dean’s skin. Dean gets the hint, quiets.
There’s a pause from the person outside the door, maybe a shuffle of feet, and when Frankie speaks, Dean’s honestly surprised, because it sounds like he’s hesitant, like he’s wary.
“Sam? I know you have company, but you’re expected at O’Dell’s house in an hour and a half, and they’ve said traffic’s backed up. I. I thought you might like to know. Is there anything you need me to do?”
Sam tilts his head, lets his eyelids droop half-closed, and he pushes off of Dean, walks to the closet, opens the door and studies what’s inside. “Dean’ll drive me,” he calls out.
Dean’s head snaps to Sam at the same time Frankie says, “Are you sure? I can call a cab, or Liam would come to get you.”
“I’m sure,” Sam says, and looks at Dean over his shoulder, says, “Isn’t that right, Dean?”
At any rate, I promised wendy some snippets, so.
First off, the warnings for this fic. More will be added as I go through in edits and pick out other things that may squick/offend.
Warnings: General spoilers up through 2x10. AU. Incest. Whoring. Drug use. Language. Tattoos. S/M. Bloodplay. Whips and make-up and attitude.
--
Sam’s sleeping with his mouth open again, eyelashes curved against his cheeks, hair tossed this way and that. His lips are swollen, the sheet’s riding low on his hips, and in the moonlight, with bruises, bitemarks, fingerprints, and the words of a tatttoo limned in silver, Sam doesn’t look like he belongs here, next to Dean, covered in the proof of Dean’s possession.
Dean would never say it out loud, hates thinking it, but Sam looks beautiful. Sam is beautiful, and he’s the only one who ever gets to see Sam like this, naked and unguarded. Sam is his, will be forever if Dean has anything to say about it.
It might be minutes or hours of staring later when Sam stirs, opens his eyes and gives Dean a bleary-eyed look that makes Dean smile, reach out to run a hand through his brother’s hair.
“Go back to sleep,” Dean murmurs, and Sam blinks, licks his lips, and closes his eyes, snuggling into Dean’s side.
--
Josiah leads Dean into a living room overflowing with books, moves a few piles off of a couch and an armchair onto the floor and lets Dean have his pick. Dean sits in the chair, shifting slightly to sink in to the worn cushion, and sips his coffee, looking around, while Josiah stands in the doorway, hands cradling his own mug.
Most of the books are old, hardbound, with stitched-in titles, and the great majority of the titles aren't in English. There aren’t more than a handful of Latin books, but there are a few Greek texts, closely stacked next to an army of Greek dictionaries and encyclopaedias.
"I hate Greek," Josiah admits, must have followed Dean's gaze. "Makes no sense to me, all those damned compounds. Latin, too, but old Norse, now there's a gorgeous thing." Dean smiles and nods, but the nod’s impatient and the smile’s thin, so Josiah sighs and shifts, says, “Jim called. Said you flew out of Blue Earth like a man possessed.” He pauses, glances Dean over, and adds, “Or maybe like a man trying to run from something.”
Dean takes another gulp of coffee, dark and bitter, and shrugs, looking at the books instead of the man. “I need to learn everything I can about runes. Jim said you were the go-to guy for that. I’m Dean. Dean Winchester.”
--
“Sam,” he says, quietly, but Sam’s hand on his chest curls, and his nails dig into Dean’s skin. Dean gets the hint, quiets.
There’s a pause from the person outside the door, maybe a shuffle of feet, and when Frankie speaks, Dean’s honestly surprised, because it sounds like he’s hesitant, like he’s wary.
“Sam? I know you have company, but you’re expected at O’Dell’s house in an hour and a half, and they’ve said traffic’s backed up. I. I thought you might like to know. Is there anything you need me to do?”
Sam tilts his head, lets his eyelids droop half-closed, and he pushes off of Dean, walks to the closet, opens the door and studies what’s inside. “Dean’ll drive me,” he calls out.
Dean’s head snaps to Sam at the same time Frankie says, “Are you sure? I can call a cab, or Liam would come to get you.”
“I’m sure,” Sam says, and looks at Dean over his shoulder, says, “Isn’t that right, Dean?”