[fic] minchout: Silk
[ Challenges: Sam/Dean ]
Title: Silk
Writer: minchout
Alternate links: The 'verse tag on the writer's journal
Status of work: Complete
Characters and/or pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warnings, kinks & contents: [Click to read]discrimination/slurs from another hunter
Length: ~3k
Summary: No summary given
Reccer's notes: I'm a little in love with the Sam from minchout's Silk 'verse. The initial story uses the tag for feminisation, though I think genderqueer is probably more descriptive as Sam's gender identity is shown over the other stories to be maybe a little fluid, defined by being undefined. But this is the one that started it all, a short piece for the 2012 spnspringfling, in which we meet Sam and Dean at a point in their adult lives where they're comfortable with themselves and each other, and get a little taste of their world. I've chosen an excerpt from the middle for a little exposition/description.
[Short excerpt]
Sam had left Dean and John Winchester behind when he was seventeen. It wasn’t the hunt Sam didn’t like, it was the life, the ever changing scenery, the lack of any real connection to anyone besides Dean and his father-his father who’d never really been able to accept Sam as he was, and who’d ridden him twice as hard to turn him into the man he thought Sam should be. But Sam had never bent. He was unabashedly himself, always, and though he’d grown stronger and faster over the years, though he’d gotten just as good with guns and knives as Dean, he wasn’t ever going to be good enough for his father. He walked into diners and turned heads, a perfect mixture of boy and girl in a way that seemed almost mystical to Dean, like at some unknown point in his life, his short, chubby little puppy-eyed baby brother had staked his soul to a crossroad so that he could grow and stretch into the strange and beautiful androgynous creature that Dean lived with now and wanted in a way he’d never wanted anything before in his life.
Dean watched now as Sam walked out of their hotel room, all controlled grace like a fucking panther. His jeans were skin tight, tucked into a pair of calf-high black boots, laced halfway up, and he wore a slouchy sweater half hanging off one shoulder, his duffel slung over the other. His hair was half up in a messy knot at the back of his head. A cigarette dangled from his lips, and he cupped both hands to his face to light it, then walked toward Dean in the impala, smoke trailing after him into the cold morning air.