"Russian Roulette" (x2)
“Russian Roulette” (x2)
Disclaimer/Author’s Note:
I. For once I’ll proclaim that these boys don’t belong to me because I really can’t believe that they are doing the things I am making them do in this story. Seriously, I can’t believe I’m actually going through with this. Sam and Dean. As in… Sam and Dean together. Though, I did make it through a whole story without referencing Stephen King or having a ton of angst, so… hip hooray and black confetti at my welcoming to the dark(er) side?
II. My original characters got all jealous of Sam and Dean, so I had to write a similar story starring them.
Prompt: Can we get some sick!sex up in here?
Sam/Dean or Cas/Dean - Dean has a cold/fever and for some reason (witches made them do it, or maybe to break a sex-pollen spell, or just 'cause they love each other and want to make sweet, sweet love, idgaf.) they have sex.
During the sexytimes Dean is sniffly and sneezy, and every once in a while has to turn and try and cover his cough or sneeze into the pillow. His eyes are glazed over, and he's dazed and fever-hot.
I.
So there’s no misconception, the gun’s there the whole time. They don’t need to acknowledge it. It’s not like they really planned it, either, not like they planned any of it.
It’s something that happened. Nothing else, nothing more. It’s done.
At least that’s what they say.
“Fuck phallic symbolism,” Dean had said decisively, though the congested voice detracts from it a little.
“How come you can never put things back properly,” Sam had said.
He’d rescinded the statement later, though, when Dean showed him just how properly he could put things.
Sam’s reminded of Fight Club in the middle of it-the acid kiss, the withholding of neutralization until the pain is sweet like burnt sugar. That’s how his brother is in bed.
Sam always liked caramel, though.
Dean’s breaths are short, harsh, congested. He has to turn his face into the pillow to sneeze, and Sam can feel the root of all this, the fever-heat, radiating from him.
The vibration from his sneeze is both maddening and strangely erotic.
Well, maybe the illness wasn’t the root, but it was the catalyst.
Lying there, after, Dean’s head burrowed into his chest, his arm slung over Dean’s back, Sam’s wondering if the gun is loaded, or maybe that’s symbolic too.
Whatever the case, they’re here playing Russian roulette, and for once didn’t shoot a blank.
Dean had been sitting there on the edge of his unmade bed, carefully polishing some of their weapons. He’d insisted on it, determined to prove Sam’s diagnosis wrong.
He hadn’t made it too far, though, and by the time Sam had returned from the library, he was kind of staring into space, his favorite Taurus PT99 lying forgotten on the tangled sheets.
Amalgamation, is what Sam’s thinking as he’s hungrily pressing his lips to Dean’s skin, blistering in more ways than one. Sitting in his Poli Sci classes, he’d never defined it this way.
Corporate law, mergers and fusion.
Fusion: a thermonuclear reaction. Synonym, synthesis.
Maybe what they’re doing is wrong, but, God, nuclear Armageddon was never this beautiful.
~~~~~
II.
Scarlett’s cheek pressed into his stomach, he never thought they’d be at this point. The transition state of the reaction, she’d call it.
The transition state, the one that only existed on paper, that elusive in-between being and not-being and becoming something else entirely. Chemical bonds breaking and forming.
Russian roulette, she’d said, caressing a fiery path along behind his ear, the metal so cold it blistered.
Her tongue poked out between her teeth in concentration as she tucked it under her elbow to undo his buttons with nimble fingers.
“I do enjoy letter openers,” she was telling him as she transferred it from hand to hand, testing the weight.
He pictured her delicate wrist making an Olympic figure skating program in the air, conducting to the music only she could hear, the crescendo as it found its target. He wondered how long it would take the blood to freeze on the ice, would it clog up the Zamboni.
Would the audience applaud, he wondered, or were you supposed to be silent at those kinds of endings.
Juliet, Cleopatra, Ophelia. Yeah, he supposed you were expected to clap.
She would bring the house down, he decided; violence was ever-popular.
That, and sex.
She traced the revolver along his collarbone, and he shivered.
She set it down on the bed for a moment to undo his belt, and he had a brief longing to take it up himself, to change the tempo, switch conductors.
To tuck her hair behind her ear and to draw the knife across until it drew blood.
Down the road not across the street, whatever you do don’t cross the street by yourself Mom said so, you’ll get hit and-
Sex and violence.
Violence and sex.
Maybe he hadn’t meant to buy it, but then again auctioneers were always on the lookout for those little tics, the nudges your id gave, the slight movements that meant you were ready to buy, baby, and pay as much as it was worth and more.
Disclaimer/Author’s Note:
I. For once I’ll proclaim that these boys don’t belong to me because I really can’t believe that they are doing the things I am making them do in this story. Seriously, I can’t believe I’m actually going through with this. Sam and Dean. As in… Sam and Dean together. Though, I did make it through a whole story without referencing Stephen King or having a ton of angst, so… hip hooray and black confetti at my welcoming to the dark(er) side?
II. My original characters got all jealous of Sam and Dean, so I had to write a similar story starring them.
Prompt: Can we get some sick!sex up in here?
Sam/Dean or Cas/Dean - Dean has a cold/fever and for some reason (witches made them do it, or maybe to break a sex-pollen spell, or just 'cause they love each other and want to make sweet, sweet love, idgaf.) they have sex.
During the sexytimes Dean is sniffly and sneezy, and every once in a while has to turn and try and cover his cough or sneeze into the pillow. His eyes are glazed over, and he's dazed and fever-hot.
I.
So there’s no misconception, the gun’s there the whole time. They don’t need to acknowledge it. It’s not like they really planned it, either, not like they planned any of it.
It’s something that happened. Nothing else, nothing more. It’s done.
At least that’s what they say.
“Fuck phallic symbolism,” Dean had said decisively, though the congested voice detracts from it a little.
“How come you can never put things back properly,” Sam had said.
He’d rescinded the statement later, though, when Dean showed him just how properly he could put things.
Sam’s reminded of Fight Club in the middle of it-the acid kiss, the withholding of neutralization until the pain is sweet like burnt sugar. That’s how his brother is in bed.
Sam always liked caramel, though.
Dean’s breaths are short, harsh, congested. He has to turn his face into the pillow to sneeze, and Sam can feel the root of all this, the fever-heat, radiating from him.
The vibration from his sneeze is both maddening and strangely erotic.
Well, maybe the illness wasn’t the root, but it was the catalyst.
Lying there, after, Dean’s head burrowed into his chest, his arm slung over Dean’s back, Sam’s wondering if the gun is loaded, or maybe that’s symbolic too.
Whatever the case, they’re here playing Russian roulette, and for once didn’t shoot a blank.
Dean had been sitting there on the edge of his unmade bed, carefully polishing some of their weapons. He’d insisted on it, determined to prove Sam’s diagnosis wrong.
He hadn’t made it too far, though, and by the time Sam had returned from the library, he was kind of staring into space, his favorite Taurus PT99 lying forgotten on the tangled sheets.
Amalgamation, is what Sam’s thinking as he’s hungrily pressing his lips to Dean’s skin, blistering in more ways than one. Sitting in his Poli Sci classes, he’d never defined it this way.
Corporate law, mergers and fusion.
Fusion: a thermonuclear reaction. Synonym, synthesis.
Maybe what they’re doing is wrong, but, God, nuclear Armageddon was never this beautiful.
~~~~~
II.
Scarlett’s cheek pressed into his stomach, he never thought they’d be at this point. The transition state of the reaction, she’d call it.
The transition state, the one that only existed on paper, that elusive in-between being and not-being and becoming something else entirely. Chemical bonds breaking and forming.
Russian roulette, she’d said, caressing a fiery path along behind his ear, the metal so cold it blistered.
Her tongue poked out between her teeth in concentration as she tucked it under her elbow to undo his buttons with nimble fingers.
“I do enjoy letter openers,” she was telling him as she transferred it from hand to hand, testing the weight.
He pictured her delicate wrist making an Olympic figure skating program in the air, conducting to the music only she could hear, the crescendo as it found its target. He wondered how long it would take the blood to freeze on the ice, would it clog up the Zamboni.
Would the audience applaud, he wondered, or were you supposed to be silent at those kinds of endings.
Juliet, Cleopatra, Ophelia. Yeah, he supposed you were expected to clap.
She would bring the house down, he decided; violence was ever-popular.
That, and sex.
She traced the revolver along his collarbone, and he shivered.
She set it down on the bed for a moment to undo his belt, and he had a brief longing to take it up himself, to change the tempo, switch conductors.
To tuck her hair behind her ear and to draw the knife across until it drew blood.
Down the road not across the street, whatever you do don’t cross the street by yourself Mom said so, you’ll get hit and-
Sex and violence.
Violence and sex.
Maybe he hadn’t meant to buy it, but then again auctioneers were always on the lookout for those little tics, the nudges your id gave, the slight movements that meant you were ready to buy, baby, and pay as much as it was worth and more.