This is an old game that we played - SN drabble - R
tenth of the icon drabbles
not my characters; title from Anne Sexton
Wincest for
sadelyrate
“Sam.”
His voice is shredded, torn, broken, with the sound of your name rolling off as if he’s in pain. You like it.
(Everything’s new.)
“No, man, what’re you doin’?”
He tries to push you away, but you don’t even strain and he can’t move you. The power rushing through your veins(virus) gives you more strength than you’ve ever felt before, even when you embraced Azazel’s gifts for those fleeting moments.
(He pulled you back. He always has. But not this time.)
“Sam, stop-dude, please.”
Please. Your brother, the greatest man you’ve ever known, your idol and your god and your dream… he is begging. His eyes are wide, his skin flushed, his hands uselessly pushing against your chest.
He is terrified. Dean is terrified.
It’s a good look on him. You reach out, pull him close, maneuver him just so. You nuzzle into his neck, licking and nipping. He groans. He whimpers.
“Please,” he whispers, no longer even feigning to fight. “Stop, Sam.”
But he is yours. He has always been yours. And now you finally have a way of keeping him forever. “Hush, Dean,” you reply softly, stroking his hair, cupping his face in your hand. “It’ll all be over soon.”
You’ll make it good for him, gentle. Not violent, like your own turning was. He deserves only the best, your brother. After all he’s done for you over the years, you can give him this.
Dean sighs, sinking into your grip. “Please,” he whispers again. He doesn’t want this.
And that doesn’t matter, because you do.
Your fangs slip out and you gently sink them into his throat. He groans-at the end of the breath, it becomes a moan.
“Sammy,” he says. One final plea: “No.”
Then he’s silent, as you drink out his life, cradling him close as his heart stops. You sink down, your brother’s shell in your arms.
But he’ll wake again. Just like you did. And then you’ll be together until the end of the world.
(Forever, and it just feels right.)
not my characters; title from Anne Sexton
Wincest for
sadelyrate
“Sam.”
His voice is shredded, torn, broken, with the sound of your name rolling off as if he’s in pain. You like it.
(Everything’s new.)
“No, man, what’re you doin’?”
He tries to push you away, but you don’t even strain and he can’t move you. The power rushing through your veins(virus) gives you more strength than you’ve ever felt before, even when you embraced Azazel’s gifts for those fleeting moments.
(He pulled you back. He always has. But not this time.)
“Sam, stop-dude, please.”
Please. Your brother, the greatest man you’ve ever known, your idol and your god and your dream… he is begging. His eyes are wide, his skin flushed, his hands uselessly pushing against your chest.
He is terrified. Dean is terrified.
It’s a good look on him. You reach out, pull him close, maneuver him just so. You nuzzle into his neck, licking and nipping. He groans. He whimpers.
“Please,” he whispers, no longer even feigning to fight. “Stop, Sam.”
But he is yours. He has always been yours. And now you finally have a way of keeping him forever. “Hush, Dean,” you reply softly, stroking his hair, cupping his face in your hand. “It’ll all be over soon.”
You’ll make it good for him, gentle. Not violent, like your own turning was. He deserves only the best, your brother. After all he’s done for you over the years, you can give him this.
Dean sighs, sinking into your grip. “Please,” he whispers again. He doesn’t want this.
And that doesn’t matter, because you do.
Your fangs slip out and you gently sink them into his throat. He groans-at the end of the breath, it becomes a moan.
“Sammy,” he says. One final plea: “No.”
Then he’s silent, as you drink out his life, cradling him close as his heart stops. You sink down, your brother’s shell in your arms.
But he’ll wake again. Just like you did. And then you’ll be together until the end of the world.
(Forever, and it just feels right.)