SPN/Ten Inch Hero ficlet for dramaqueen469, NC-17 - 726 words-
The first of these requests. FINALLY. Stupid writer's block. dramaqueen469 wanted Priestly/Sam Winchester, while Dean's in Hell..
Possibly this will be awful due to a combination of the facts that it's the first thing I've written in ages and I'm currently operating in a state of semi-consciousness that means that this could all be incoherent garbage full of typos. Plus, I think that I may have been somewhat sarcastic. Yeah, DON'T YOU JUST WANT TO READ IT NOW.
I want to peel the skin from your face (before the real you lays to waste)
Sam/Priestly (past Sam/Dean) - NC-17 - stupidly long title from Alice in Chains
Sam Winchester's life is a mess. He knows that of course; it's hard not to when you smell worse than a brewery and the closest you come to caring is making a note to pick up another bottle of whiskey. He's not even too sure where he is. It doesn't matter, he's still alone. Sam has nothing but a demon who won't fucking leave him be and a car that makes his heart clench just looking at it. Some goddamn existence this is, and then he thinks of the price for it and feels sick to his stomach.
The fucked up, cosmic joke that is his life only gets more and more twisted, Sam thinks as he slides his hand up his dead brother's doppelganger's skirt in an alley behind a sandwich shop. Okay, to be fair it's a kilt and the guy doesn't look exactly like Dean but the differences are superficial. It feels like Dean's body beneath his hands when he hoists the guy off his feet, pushing the kilt up and his own jeans down. Strong legs wrap around Sam's waist and the lips that press against his shoulder are soft and full, but they come with the metal scrape from one of many piercings. Sam's fingers tangle into the ridiculously coloured, over gelled hair; yanking back hard to expose his throat, soft and vulnerable under Sam's teeth and tongue. He licks the outline of a tattoo on the guys neck and thinks about how much Dean bitched about the sting of the needle and how fucking gay it looked, the two of them getting matching ink. He thinks about the way Dean came undone underneath him when Sam sucked him off with one hand splayed possessively over the still tender flesh of the tattoo.
Sam thinks about Dean and he drives up and into the tight warmth that should be Dean but isn't. He bites down on the flesh beneath his lips and fucks into him harder and tries not to listen to the breathless laughter and all the, "Yeah, like that. Fuck, fuck!" in an accent and pitch that sounds off to Sam's ears. Sam cuts the words off with a kiss, harsh and painful and wrong. Green eyes flutter closed and then open again, fixing on Sam's face and making part of him want to smudge away the eyeliner and another part just wanting those eyes to stop looking at him, sending a wave of guilt twisting through his gut. A particularly brutal thrust gets them closed against the pain, eyebrows drawing together and lips parting. Sam finds himself getting increasingly violent until finally, finally he comes, one hand pressed against the wall with the rough concrete biting into his palm and the other digging blunt fingernails into the warm skin of the guy's back. Almost as an after thought Sam reaches back up under his kilt and jerks him to completion, his breath quickens as he comes and he lets out a strangled moan that Sam can barely hear. Dean was always loud when he came; moaning, swearing and screaming out Sam's name.
Sam steps back quickly, practically dropping him to the ground but he gets his legs under him and leans back against the wall for support.
"Shit, man," he says, giving Sam a painfully familiar grin. "That was some fuck. You gonna be sticking around?"
"No," Sam says distractedly, pulling up his jeans and groping his pocket for the keys. "No, I'm moving on today. Now."
"Oh," he looks a little disappointed and Sam should feel like a total dick but he just can't bring himself to care. Instead he just starts walking, cursing inwardly when the guy calls after him. "You at least want to get sandwich before you go? Come on, it's on the house."
"Sorry," Sam replies, not bothering to turn around or even look over his shoulder. "Got a long drive and I'm already running late."
Sam strides out of the alley, purposely not hearing if he gets any reply. The Impala is sleek and shiny in the sun light and the seats have been baked warm by the heat. Even his clothes are sticky with sweat but when he starts the car and heads out of town Sam shivers; cold permanently locked into his skin and bones, seeping right through to his soul.
Possibly this will be awful due to a combination of the facts that it's the first thing I've written in ages and I'm currently operating in a state of semi-consciousness that means that this could all be incoherent garbage full of typos. Plus, I think that I may have been somewhat sarcastic. Yeah, DON'T YOU JUST WANT TO READ IT NOW.
I want to peel the skin from your face (before the real you lays to waste)
Sam/Priestly (past Sam/Dean) - NC-17 - stupidly long title from Alice in Chains
Sam Winchester's life is a mess. He knows that of course; it's hard not to when you smell worse than a brewery and the closest you come to caring is making a note to pick up another bottle of whiskey. He's not even too sure where he is. It doesn't matter, he's still alone. Sam has nothing but a demon who won't fucking leave him be and a car that makes his heart clench just looking at it. Some goddamn existence this is, and then he thinks of the price for it and feels sick to his stomach.
The fucked up, cosmic joke that is his life only gets more and more twisted, Sam thinks as he slides his hand up his dead brother's doppelganger's skirt in an alley behind a sandwich shop. Okay, to be fair it's a kilt and the guy doesn't look exactly like Dean but the differences are superficial. It feels like Dean's body beneath his hands when he hoists the guy off his feet, pushing the kilt up and his own jeans down. Strong legs wrap around Sam's waist and the lips that press against his shoulder are soft and full, but they come with the metal scrape from one of many piercings. Sam's fingers tangle into the ridiculously coloured, over gelled hair; yanking back hard to expose his throat, soft and vulnerable under Sam's teeth and tongue. He licks the outline of a tattoo on the guys neck and thinks about how much Dean bitched about the sting of the needle and how fucking gay it looked, the two of them getting matching ink. He thinks about the way Dean came undone underneath him when Sam sucked him off with one hand splayed possessively over the still tender flesh of the tattoo.
Sam thinks about Dean and he drives up and into the tight warmth that should be Dean but isn't. He bites down on the flesh beneath his lips and fucks into him harder and tries not to listen to the breathless laughter and all the, "Yeah, like that. Fuck, fuck!" in an accent and pitch that sounds off to Sam's ears. Sam cuts the words off with a kiss, harsh and painful and wrong. Green eyes flutter closed and then open again, fixing on Sam's face and making part of him want to smudge away the eyeliner and another part just wanting those eyes to stop looking at him, sending a wave of guilt twisting through his gut. A particularly brutal thrust gets them closed against the pain, eyebrows drawing together and lips parting. Sam finds himself getting increasingly violent until finally, finally he comes, one hand pressed against the wall with the rough concrete biting into his palm and the other digging blunt fingernails into the warm skin of the guy's back. Almost as an after thought Sam reaches back up under his kilt and jerks him to completion, his breath quickens as he comes and he lets out a strangled moan that Sam can barely hear. Dean was always loud when he came; moaning, swearing and screaming out Sam's name.
Sam steps back quickly, practically dropping him to the ground but he gets his legs under him and leans back against the wall for support.
"Shit, man," he says, giving Sam a painfully familiar grin. "That was some fuck. You gonna be sticking around?"
"No," Sam says distractedly, pulling up his jeans and groping his pocket for the keys. "No, I'm moving on today. Now."
"Oh," he looks a little disappointed and Sam should feel like a total dick but he just can't bring himself to care. Instead he just starts walking, cursing inwardly when the guy calls after him. "You at least want to get sandwich before you go? Come on, it's on the house."
"Sorry," Sam replies, not bothering to turn around or even look over his shoulder. "Got a long drive and I'm already running late."
Sam strides out of the alley, purposely not hearing if he gets any reply. The Impala is sleek and shiny in the sun light and the seats have been baked warm by the heat. Even his clothes are sticky with sweat but when he starts the car and heads out of town Sam shivers; cold permanently locked into his skin and bones, seeping right through to his soul.