I Need To Be Under Ur Skin

Current

Mon, 16 Nov 2009 22:08:54 GMT

OMG *iz tired*
So, I'm writing J2 story for my doll secretlytodream.
And I love this story to the bits, and I'm crazily over protective of my characters, especially Jared.
But, it's ~10000 words already. And I can't see the end of it *whines*
And I wanna sleep and not spend my evenings writing it.

But–yes, another but–I'm into this story. It's eating my brain and it makes my heart ache.
I love it *sighs* Though, I think it'd be the end of me))

P.S. new part of HMWIKY will be posted soon.

Who wants some angst?

Thu, 12 Nov 2009 20:12:53 GMT

I wanted to write some angsty dark drabble, Sam/Dean, but! I ended up writing some porny drabble.
I don't wanna post it coz I still want to write that angsty drabble *sighs*

SPN fic: Do you love those shattered pieces left of me?

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 20:13:42 GMT

Title: Do you love those shattered pieces left of me?
Author: SanAnn
Pairing, characters: Sam/Dean
Spoilers: pre-series and through s1
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~8000
Beta: billysgirl5
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Summary: "He could literally feel himself falling, his breaking heart beating louder and louder until all he wanted was for it to stop. Stop beating. Stop completely. He wanted it all to be over".

Huge thanks to secretlytodream for beautiful banner

A/N: This story was born after listening to Bright Eyes's "Lover I Don’t Have to Love", and I just have to write all that angst, but with a happy ending))
This is a present for my sweet beta billysgirl5
Huge thanks to secretlytodream and gaelicspirit for your help.

Any feedback is highly appreciated.

Also, huge thanks to secretlytodream for making AMAZING ART to the soundtrack of this story. Love you, doll!!!

You can download the goodies here

The first day in Stanford, Sam spends in haze.

He finds himself standing on the big territory of campus full of the people. Everybody either is running somewhere, hands full, or trying to organize the ones that are running.

There are also families that came to support freshmen, assisting with moving in and embarrassing the hell out of their kids. Sam feels the sting in his heart watching them interact with each other, notes of envy and loneliness try to seep into his emotions, getting control over them, and he bites his bottom lip, looking away.

The taste of the freedom, the sweet wine taste he sipped, turned into the bitter wine, and Sam blindly searches his jeans pockets for the chewing gum.

When he calls himself on it, he shrugs, straightening, and raises his head proudly, hovering a head over everyone else. He should get used to living without his family. After all, it’s what he was aiming for, right?

Sam swallows down the bile of isolation and smiles widely. He will be fine.

Later, when he unpacks his bag and falls face down on the bed, exhausted and numb, he instinctively turns to face another bed, eyes searching for Dean.

When his dull mind finally accepts that there’ll be no more Dean, Sam’s body cries without tears or sound.

The first time Sam attends a party is after five weeks of hard studying, head buried deep in the books, eating while reading, tearing himself away only for a couple hours of sleep that leave him with the memories of Dean’s face, waking up with a stabbing pain in his heart.

His roommate, Shawn, tries to break through to sullen Sam, assuming that Sam mourns the death of his whole family, considering that they haven’t heard a word from them, and Sam neither confirms nor denies his suggestions, ignoring his questions, and proving him right.

One Friday, Shawn puts a red label Johnny Walker in front of him for a sharing and caring evening, but Sam prefers taking big gulps of whiskey to speaking. Mercifully, the desperation tides ebb away with each gulp, and Sam drinks to survive.

They somehow end up on the floor, dizzy and high, and Shawn suggests attending some party for a perfect end to the night. Sam thinks that it’s a brilliant idea.

It ends with Sam in front of the Sigma Alpha Epsilon fraternity house, and Sam spells out the letters, drawling, his tongue is big and awkward in his mouth.

Not letting Sam finish his spelling out process, Shawn drags him in, and Sam feels like he was thrown into an anthill. He feels fuzzy and out of place, too many people are moving, talking and laughing. And abruptly, he’s less drunk than he was; his hunter’s instincts are sobering him up, straightening his shoulders.

Shawn leaves him and then comes back with the two beer bottles and two giggling girls. Shawn introduces them, pushing one of the girls in front of Sam, and gives him a smirk. Sam knows this scene’s scenario: to glare at Shawn, then, start talking to the girl, charm her, and if he’s lucky, he’ll end this night with the girl’s body wriggling underneath him.

But, suddenly, Sam’s mind goes to dark places, to the past that he is running from. And, when Sam takes a closer look to the girl, he only sees the girl Dean would like to fuck. When he watches her mouth open to greet him, he sees a mouth that likes to take his brother’s cock in. The curves of his body are the ones that would like to lock with his brother’s perfect body, and his twisted mind has the same reaction as it did before – hurt them for taking away his brother, his lover, from him.

Sam jerks his head in order to clear his mind, scared of what he wants to do, and excuses himself, walking away and leaving Shawn and the girls behind.

Shawn screams out his name, but the voices inside Sam’s head are louder, calling Sam coward and freak.

Sam doesn’t leave the party. He prefers to get lost in the crowd, loading himself with enough booze to cloud his fucked-up mind. At some moment, his mind registers him standing in the middle of the crowd, the slick with sweat bodies pressing to his own body, giving him the illusion of being close to someone. The music is loud, and Sam is almost dancing, holding the beer bottle and not feeling a thing. Perfect.

Then, someone knocks into him. It catches Sam off guard, and he loses his balance, the beer spilling. Sam falters and then, there are hands on his shoulders, holding him, giving him a false feeling of support.

Sam holds back, coming closer to the stranger, eyes unfocused. The guy, definitely the guy. Almost like him. Almost. Sam’s fingers dig into the guy’s shoulders, the scent of his body filling Sam’s nostrils – something bitter and sweet, body scent and perfume – and the guy isn’t pushing him away, isn’t moving, just holds Sam like he wants something, like he has a right to want something.

I will hold you, Sammy.

And it’s all lies. Big, fat lies. He lied.

The anger is rising from Sam’s core supported by the bleeding heart, and Sam pushes the guy in front of him hard, hearing in answer, “Woah, easy! Just trying to help you here, jackass.”

The guy doesn’t fall, doesn’t go away, just stands there looking at him, waiting, wanting something. Through haze, Sam looks back at him, scrutinizing, from head to toe, then, his gaze lingers on his hands, strong and muscular, and Sam thinks that if he keeps looking at his hands, he can continue to lie to himself. Why not?

He crosses the small distance between them to catch the guy by his wrist and rasps out, “Let’s get some beer.” It’s not even a suggestion, more like an order, but the guy follows Sam anyway.

They stand in the kitchen, the music is not deafening here, allowing them to speak and being heard, and Sam looses count to the beer bottles, pretending to listen to what the guy says, thinking, “How much longer should I wait till he lets me fuck him?”

Despite his foggy mind, Sam knows how he wants this night to end; it’s the only thing that is perfectly clear to him now.

And when the guy smirks at him, asking, “what’s your name, anyway?” – tongue darting out to slowly lick his lips, provocative – it’s Sam’s cue.

He grabs the guy by the shoulders and pushes him toward the back door, and then, fresh air, and no people around. The illusion is more real under the blue sky with no one to witness his fall, and maybe if Sam keeps holding to the body, he won’t cry.

There’s this strong body under his hands, and Sam needs to push it, to control it, slamming the guy against the wall, avoiding his eyes.

Sam bites into the guy’s neck, breathing hard, and spills it out, thickly, “I’m gonna fuck you. I’m so gonna fuck you. And if you don’t want… go now.” These words are exactly what Sam has in mind, and he doesn’t feel a need to sugar them up.

Sam backs off enough to give a guy some room to think. One of them is able to think, and it’s not Sam. One of them is able to breathe and to think about something except fucking the body with the curves more similar to Dean’s than anyone he’s met before.

There are long seconds, or minutes, Sam is not sure. Sam’s fingers and eyes concentrate on the skin above the collarbone, on the pulse point. Just a squeeze of Sam’s fingers and this body will fall down helpless to Sam’s feet. But it’s not what Sam needs; he needs to feel wanted back.

When there’s a hiss of breath and the guy leans to touch Sam’s lips with his own, there’s no leash to hold Sam back anymore.

Sam palms the guy’s cock through his jeans, feeling the hardness of it under his fingers; the guy’s want is a neon sign for Sam to read loud and clear. Sam fumbles with the zipper, and the guy helps him get the offending material, along with boxers, down to his feet and out of the way, throwing them nearby.

Sam has little work with his own zipper, just enough to let his own cock out, hard and leaking.

And it’s not enough, not how he wanted it, not enough control. Sam manhandles the guy, pushing him up against the wall, until he has to hold onto Sam’s shoulders, legs tight around Sam’s waist.

Sam smiles and snorts. Just the way he wanted. Nothing to hold on to except him, handing him the power and control on a plate.

Sam traces the outline of the guy’s hole and then, pushes one finger inside, feeling as the muscles clench tight around it.

“Do you have something?” guy rasps, as Sam’s finger is working inside his ass.

“No,” Sam answers blatantly, looking into his eyes, pupils wide with lust.

Sam spits onto his fingers and adds one more finger, fucking the guy’s ass, getting inpatient. He just wants his cock inside this ass, simple as that.

When the guy is finally ready, or when Sam feels like he is, he doesn’t need any invitation, he pushes until he’s right where he wants to be, and breathes out a sigh of satisfaction. And then, he just fucks into him, hard thrusts, demanding and not caring, losing himself, forgetting about the body in front of him, lost in his own fantasy.

“Hey,” the guy gasps and reaches out to touch Sam’s cheek, tilting his head and forcing Sam to meet his gaze.

Sam’s illusion is breaking down, taking away Dean’s face with it, and Sam growls, looking into the guy’s eyes.

What he finds there disturb him. The guy is looking like he wants Sam, not just someone to fuck him, but Sam. Sam gives the guy a somewhat confused look and receives back want you with the side of affection in the mix. Sam winces at that. He doesn’t need that. Not from this guy.

Sam’s next moves are to let the guy down, cock slipping out of his ass, then, to turn the guy and bend him, forcing him to hold onto the wall with his hands.

There’s no protest from the guy, no sound except a growl of appreciation when Sam’s cock is driving back into his hot hole.

And it’s better to fuck without the guy’s eyes on him, not caring about anything except his own desires, surrendering to the dark corners of his soul, fucking hard into the body, fingers clawing into the hips, mercilessly pushing in and pulling out.

The guy comes screaming, and Sam tries to kill the sound, concentrating on keeping the same pace, not slowing down, keep using the body beneath him until his own orgasm slams into him hard, and Sam comes with the quiet sob of his brother’s name on his lips.

Sam lets himself breathe for a moment, holding on to his dream, not letting go of the guy, lying to himself and postponing the moment when reality hits him, fingers digging into the poor substitution of Dean in front of him. Sam closes his eyes and keeps on lying. Just for another moment.

After, he releases the guy, and stands beside him, while they both dressing up. Sam zips up his jeans, turning his profile to the guy and keeping his breathing on a low level, not wanting to let any sound disturb the silence.

Sam knows the guy keeps looking at him, and he prefers to pretend that it’s not happening.

“So, what’s your name after all, hot stranger?” The guy finally says. The question should come out as flirting and easy, but it hangs in the air awkwardly.

And Sam doesn’t know what to answer. There’s a hollow feeling inside him, swallowing down his attempts for small talk.

He feels cheated as the wound inside him isn’t patched up. He stands there, empty and numb, not having anything to ease his own pain, much less this guy’s.

“I gotta go,” Sam finally manages to say, trying to be honest by finally meeting the guy’s gaze, showing his emptiness, and then, he leaves without looking back.

The wind is picking up, ruffling Sam’s hair, and Sam thinks he can hear the guy calling out for him, or maybe it’s just the wind playing tricks with him.

Sam calls him when he gets back to the campus, using his new cell phone number. Shawn is still out, and Sam is happy to have the place to himself. He doesn’t need any witnesses for his breakdown.

Sam dials the number he knows by heart and listens to the long dial sounds before the voice on the other end speaks.

“Hello,” The voice is rough from sleep, and something tugs in Sam’s heart.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam drawls.

“Sammy,” Dean’s breath hitches. Sam thinks, he has no right, no right to sigh out his name like he still cares, like he loves.

They both keep silent for a moment; the time is loaded with unanswered questions and confessions of guilt.

“I was out at the party.” Sam adds hurriedly, afraid of stretching out the silence, of the consequences it might bring, as he tries to catch the sounds of Dean’s breathing and store them into his memory for later recall.

“Sammy,” there’s the regret in Dean’s voice, and Sam hates it, wants to break those pitiful sounds, wants to cut them out.

Sam rushes in, “I think I know what you find so fascinating about parties now”. The fake smile on his face tries to soften the bitter words, creeping into his voice, but it’s not helping. He sounds as miserable as he is. “Remember you said, what I had, what I felt–” the lump in his throat is suddenly hard to swallow, but Sam manages, “that I would feel it for another person, would burn for him as well–”

There's no answer. Sam might have thought the line went dead were it not for the harsh breaths that betray the presence of the person on the other end of the phone. The sound shows Sam that he isn't the only one having a hard time getting used to breathing with his heart ripped out.

“Looks like it doesn’t work that way, Dean,” there are remorse and damnation spilling from the tip of his tongue, and Sam decides to go all the way down, to the deep end of the bottom. “There was this guy, and I fucked him. Oh, I fucked him hard, trust me on that, Dean.” His confession easily slips out, and the sound close to sob on the other end doesn’t bring the satisfaction Sam thought it would.

Sam digs his nails into the palms of his hands hard, trying to induce the pain to help him go through this, and finishes, “Looks like, you are the only one, brother.” Sam shuts his eyes tight listening to the sounds on the other end, and repeats the words to himself, confirming that hell is the only way for him to go. “The. Only. One.”

Dean answers in a whisper, “Sam.” The word is painted in all colors of desperation, but there’s finality in it. It’s not Sammy; it’s Sam. It’s Dean defining their relationship, drawing lines, putting end to anything that is crossing these lines.

Sam never realized how far he could fall. He'd never truly realized how high he'd gotten–riding on the secret thrill of his brother's need. Dean needing him, wanting him to be around, wanting his help sent Sam spiraling. But having Dean turn from him–deny him, in a way–crushes him more completely than he could imagined. He can literally feel himself falling, his breaking heart beating louder and louder until all he wants is for it to stop. Stop beating. Stop completely. He wants it all to be over.

Sam looks down at the phone in his hand, dumbfounded, not knowing what to do with it; then, he ends the conversation by throwing the phone hard against the wall, watching as it breaks into the pieces along with all his hopes and his love.

That night the dream finds him, the same dream he’s seen every night since he left his family, left Dean. There’s no mercy in this dream, no blurring images or twisted imagination. No, Sam sees the naked truth, bright colors and clear, sharp outlines.

The things Sam witnessed are chasing him, hunting him, not leaving him a chance to forget a second of it.

On the bed, Sam’s breath hitches as the memory starts poisoning his dream.

Sam wakes up to find an empty place beside him in a bed, the warmth of Dean’s body and the scent of him makes this place theirs. And Sam smiles involuntary, fingers tracing patterns on the bed where he felt Dean under his fingers, had Dean only to himself, changing brothers to lovers for the first time, changing their lives, creating a piece of the world that only belonged to them.

But Dean is not around, and Sam is perplexed; getting up and dressing up, he calls out for Dean, but there’s just a silence in answer.

The understanding that he is alone in the room makes him nervous; confusion along with the worry gets a hold on his mind and his moves.

Sam calls on Dean’s cell phone and listens to his voicemail, “Hey, you reached Dean Winchester–”, and Sam hangs up, not wanting to hear the imitation of his brother’s voice, needing Dean himself.

The next step is to call their dad, but the man is out on a hunt; he isn’t answering his phone either.

After finding that Impala isn’t parked by motel anymore, Sam leaves the room in a hurry, praying that his brother is okay and not doing anything stupid like hunting by himself.

Sam finds Dean nine hours later, when the worry drove him nuts, when his imagination already painted Dean bloody and dead, and God knows where. He finds Dean alive and safe, and perfectly fine as Dean makes out with the waitress behind the bar, his tongue shoved down her throat, his hand down her panties.

And the world spins out of control for Sam, turning upside down, breaking down his reality and throwing the pieces of it into his face like broken toys. Sam doesn’t remember approaching them, doesn’t remember punching her.

Then, there’s Dean pinning him down to the ground and whispering into his ear, “it’s for the best. Trust me, Sam. You don’t need it. You need someone else.”

Sam doesn’t know why he can’t hit his brother, despite the fact that his blood boils with the desire to hurt Dean; Sam wants to scream out loud, beat Dean bloody, break the mocking truth of what he was for Dean, just another fuck.

But he can’t do any of that, keeping silent, unmoving, eyes locked with Dean’s green eyes, desperately searching for the answers and not finding one.

When Sam’s eyes begin to water, he bites his lower lip, hard, feeling the metallic taste in his mouth, and it’s all fine as long as it keeps him from spilling out “I love you” and “why”, and “take it back”. Instead, he closes his eyes for a moment, and then, he shrugs Dean off himself, flinging him down. Not casting another glance towards his brother, Sam stands up and leaves, feeling numb, leaving a ghost of his old self behind.

That night Sam spends alone, sleeping on another bed, with Dean Hell knows where, and Sam tries really hard not to care, tries to find a way to forget and move on. There’s only one way to forget his brother – not being around him, stop breathing one air with him.

That night Sam decides to mail send the necessary documents to Stanford. That night, he pretends that the tears streaming down his cheeks are not about his brother at all.

The next day, Dad comes back and breathing around Dean gets little easier.

For the next several weeks, Sam tries to avoid talking to his brother, tries not to look his way, preventing Dean’s attempts to talk to him, but one time Dean grabs him by shoulders and starts shouting some shit about how it was all for him, how he should find some nice girl, and how he deserves something better, something normal.

And Sam can’t listen, won’t listen, his whole body starts shaking uncontrollably, hard, and he can’t manage to stop it. When Dean lets him go, confused and scared, Sam hisses, teeth clenched, “Don’t you ever touch me again, Dean.”

Before Sam leaves, he starts fights with their father, not strong enough to confront Dean instead, and he screams out loud in a try to hide his whisper, “don’t you see how broken I am?”

The day Sam leaves for Stanford, Dean comes back drunk off his ass and mumbles only one word, “stay”. Sam looks at his brother long, and then, takes his bag and leaves.

Sam wakes up with a cry of desperation. As he returns to reality, Sam lays unmoving in the dark, eyes open, while his brain tries to wipe away this image off his head for good.

It’s the last time he sees it.

For years after, Dean appears in Sam’s apartment, and Sam is cold and insensitive, not reacting, not feeling his brother. Four years was a long enough time to cut Dean out of his heart and his memory, and Sam catches his brother’s confused glances, giving an empty stare in answer.

When Sam points out that Dean doesn’t need him to find dad, that he can do it on his own, Dean says, “well, yeah but I don't want to”, looking at him with a plea and regret, and Sam looks away, suddenly uncomfortable in his own skin.

Later, Sam returns home to find Jessica burning on the ceiling, and his carefully constructed world comes tumbling down, pressing Sam with its weight.

Two weeks after Jessica’s death, Sam stands alone in the bathroom looking at the mirror, door wide open, half-listening to the words Dean says to him from inside the room, when the realization of her death knocks him down, and the tears start chocking him. When Dean comes closer to give him comfort, his arm reaching out to touch Sam’s shoulder, Sam shoves him out of the bathroom and shuts the door firmly in his face.

They don’t talk about it.

The first time Dean says please and leans in to kiss Sam is when he is drunk off his ass, and they are back from Lawrence, sharing the motel room. In answer, Sam punches him hard in the jaw and watches Dean land flat on the floor. Sam stands looking down at Dean, fists clenched, nostrils flaring with anger.

Dean looks back, teeth set, and then, he gets up and storms off, slamming the door behind him.

When Dean returns five hours later, right before the sunrise, coming to stand beside Sam’s bed, Sam pretends to be asleep. The smell of booze and sex coming from Dean hits him hard in the stomach, pushing him over the edge, forcing him to stand up and punch his brother, but he lays unmoving, controlling his every breath.

Sam feels as his bed dips under his brother’s weight, and he tries to stop the tension from seeping into his body.

“Sammy,” Dean whispers and stills. Sam feels his brother’s gaze on his skin, hot and urging. The minutes pass by and Sam starts losing his control, feeling as his resistance slips away under the weight of the darkness that stirs all the borderlines and the yearning of his heart that wants to beat to Dean’s rhythm.

When Dean swears quietly, annoyed with himself, and stands up to go to the bathroom, shutting the door softly behind him, Sam tries not to cry.

They don’t mention it later. After all, they never did.

The second time Dean tries to kiss him is when they both are sober, standing close to each other under the blue sky, leaning on the hood of Impala, after a dinner in a nice place that Dean insisted on paying for, and just enjoying the peace and company of each other.

Sam tells some stories, and Dean listens, laughing a little, eyes crinkling when he smiles. For the first time, in a long time, Sam feels happy, and then, all of the sudden, Dean brushes his lips with his own, and Sam freezes.

Sam is not answering, and Dean pulls back, frowning.

Sam’s mind catching up with him, recalling all the events of the day, and it leaves Sam shaking, boiling with anger till the point where he wants to crush everything around him, preferably starting with his own brother.

“Who do you think I am, Dean?” Sam says through clenched teeth, his voice is trembling with rage. “Some whore you can pick up, feed some dinner and fuck on the hood of Impala?”

Dean backs off in confusion, and it winds up Sam even more.

“Cut it out, Dean!” Sam yells, looking into his brother’s green eyes, wanting to hurt back. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want you! Not anymore. I don’t care what you do and whom you fuck, just stay away from me.” To get his message clear, Sam comes closer, confronting Dean, eyes turning into the slits, “I. Don’t. Want. You.”

Dean blinks, stepping away, looking around like he suddenly lost and blind, eyes searching for something.

Sam’s head hurts and his heart is right there with Dean, not listening to Sam, but Sam just had enough. He won’t let Dean toss him around like some second-rate whore, bending over for Dean whenever his brother feels like it; he won’t let Dean play with his heart.

Sam doesn’t know where they are anymore, doesn’t care anymore, because Dean is dying of a heart attack. Dean is dying, and there’s nothing he can do. And Sam finally stops lying to himself.

He watches Dean in the hospital bed while he jokes around, pretending he isn’t scared that he’s dying, and Sam thinks, I love you, you sonofabitch, and you are not gonna leave me.

When Dean says, “I'm gonna die, and you can't stop it”, Sam accepts his challenge, “Watch me.”

Sam calls everyone, searching for a cure under every stone. He’s so desperate that he even calls their father.

In the end, Sam finds a faith healer. Sam doesn’t dig too deep to know how exactly this man can help his brother as long as there is a promise of Dean staying alive.

After Dean is healed, after Sam receives a confirmation that his brother is not dying anymore, Sam locks himself in the bathroom and finally let’s himself breakdown, fingers digging into the sink, while his body shakes with unshed tears.

When Dean realizes that his life was exchanged for another man’s life, Sam says, “I’m sorry”, meaning “I’m sorry you found out, I’m sorry it hurts you,” and not saying, “I would do it again if I had to.”

They are in Kentucky, when Dean gets a call and insists on driving to Missouri.

Apparently, one of the girls Dean hooked up with needs his help, and Sam bites his tongue from spilling, “are you the only one she can get her panties wet over?”

But there’s nothing unusual in it for Sam, just another ex of his brother dying to get her hands on Dean’s body one more time, and Sam tries to get his jealousy under control, keeping his mouth shut, until Dean reveals that their family secret was spilled out to that girl.

Sudden swirl of emotions is overwhelming, swallowing him up, and Sam screams at Dean, “You told her? Our big family secret? Rule number one: we do what we do and then we shut up about it,” asking, was she that special? The thought itself is frightening and gets stuck in his throat, burning.

The line of the girls Dean fucked was something Sam knew how to deal with, aching every time when Dean brought them, sometimes fucking them into the bed with Sam pretending to be asleep on the next bed, and then, letting out a sign of relief, driving away with Dean and leaving them behind.

But this is different. This means Dean wanted more from her that just a quick fuck. It means he wanted to spend his time with her, hell, maybe he even wanted to spend his whole life beside her, and Sam is scared. His head spins, he hopes they’ll make a stop soon, because he’s gonna be sick.

When they finally meet up with her, Sam can’t stop acting weird around her, can’t stop from examining every word, every movement Dean and Cassie make while being in the same room, scrutinizing them like they are the case they came to solve.

He keeps asking Dean about their relationship, digging deep into the topic he wishes to bury and forget it ever happened.

When Dean opens up a bit more, and Sam voices his own fear out loud, “you loved her”, the realization crushes him, creating the whirlwind that makes a good job of ripping Sam’s heart. Sam knows he needs to push further, ask his brother if he loves her now, get the last confirmation and cut any strings of hope his heart started to have the minute Dean returned to Sam’s life. But he’s too chicken, too afraid that his heart won’t be able to patch up this last wound, as well as the previous ones.

Dean goes to talk to Cassie, and he doesn’t come back for the night. Sam lies in bed, eyes wide open, looking at the crack in the ceiling, feeling like he already lost his brother as his mind works on the plan of living without Dean, calculating his chances of shutting down his heart one more time, the last time, as an act of self-preservation.

When Dean comes back, Sam tries to distance himself from Dean, putting as much space between them as possible, trying to take the first steps to his life without Dean. But the case comes first, and Sam swallows down his hurt and concentrates on doing their job.

Then, when everything is done, the case is closed, and Dean hands him the keys, pointing out for him to take the driver’s seat. Sam is silent the whole time, eyeing his brother, dreading the moment when Dean will say “I’m staying,” and Sam will have to accept it.

Sam obediently occupies the driver’s seat, glancing accusingly at the empty passenger’s seat beside him, while his brother goes to say goodbye to Cassie.

Pathetically, Sam just wants it to be over. No matter what kind decision Dean will make, he wants it to be over; sitting on a knife’s edge is eating him up from the inside.

Sam tilts his head to stare blatantly at his brother and Cassie in the mirror, not a bit ashamed, watching them kiss, thinking, that’s it; that is the moment where Dean will choose her over his fucked-up life, over Sam.

When Dean gets in the passenger seat, Sam starts up the engine with shaking fingers, fumbling, and then, there a light touch of Dean’s fingers to his own, helping him, making him content, and after a moment, it’s gone. Sam turns to his brother, baffled, but Dean already put his glasses on, trying to fall asleep. And Sam can’t stop the small smile from tugging at his lips.

When they take off, leaving Cassie in the rearview mirror, just like the other girls before her, Sam lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

They are in New York, exploring a case with a creepy painting, and Dean tries to push him into the arms of a girl they’ve just met. Her name is Sarah. She is beautiful, smart and funny, and Sam is content that they would make a good couple, except now that Dean is back in Sam’s life, Sam’s love life is pretty much ruined.

But, Dean is impossible, keeps pushing him, keeps insisting for him to meet her, and Sam snaps, looking at his brother that occupies the bed leaning against the headboard, “Thanks, Dean, but I can get my own dates.”

Dean looks back at him, and Sam catches a hint of sadness in his eyes before his brother gets hold of emotions. Sam is confused; he doesn’t know what to make of it. Dean shakes his head lightly and continues with an unreadable expression, “You can, but you don’t.”

And Sam wants to know what it all means. They don’t talk about it, don’t touch that hidden topic, but Sam is tired and hurt, he’s worn out with keeping himself in check all the time, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can take before fracturing.

“Why do you want me to get laid so much, Dean?” Sam asks, gaining his strength for this conversation.

“Hey, I am awesome like that,” Dean retorts, spreading his hands and smiling. He is back in his comfort zone, and Sam thinks, you don’t even know what’s coming, Dean.

“When was the last time you got laid?” Sam says in the same steady voice, trying to keep his emotions from creeping into his voice.

“Dude, last night,” Dean quirks his eyebrow at him. “The girls you left me with at the bar?” He smirks, self-content, and Sam can see right though him, wincing at the lies.

“I can always smell sex on you when you come back from another quickie, Dean. I had the years of practicing.” Sam says tiredly, showing his cards one by one, not knowing if he already lost this game.

“Hey! TMI?” The question catches Dean off guard, and he shifts away from Sam’s words, awkwardly, avoiding his gaze. He moves to sit on the edge of the bed and starts fumbling in his bag, pulling out weapons and starting to clean them.

Sam gives his brother a minute before asking another question, collecting his own thoughts.

Dean is the hardest exam Sam ever took, with the worst consequences to follow if he fails. Sam’s heart is on the line, and he calculates the worst scenarios of how this scene can go wrong, trying to choose the right words.

It feels like jumping out of a plane without parachute. “Why did you kiss me, Dean? After we got back together. Why did you do it?”

Dean grumbles something in answer, but Sam won’t have any of it.

“Dean?” He exclaims impatiently.

“I said, don’t get your panties in a twist, princess.” Dean barks. “It was a mistake. Won’t happen again.”

Sam comes closer, legs almost brushing Dean’s knees, and Dean’s body visibly tenses. Sam watches him cleaning the weapons, movements calculating and accurate.

Not tearing eyes from the weapons, Dean states, “personal space, dude.”

“Dean, look at me,” Sam pleads. He knows he’s gonna throw it all at Dean now, and he’s not sure Dean won’t bail out. If Sam had a choice, he’d tie his brother to the bed to make him listen. But all Sam has got now is hope that is slowly leaking away.

Dean finally raises his eyes to him, and Sam startles.

Dean is mad, scratch that, Dean is pissed, eyes full of rage, and Sam’s first reaction is to back off, but he keeps himself still.

“What do you want, Sam?” Dean spits the words in a barely controllable voice. “You told me to fuck off – I did. What else do you want?”

Sam looks at his brother, not knowing from where to start explaining. He decides to go all the way back, to where it all started.

“You know, it was inevitable,” Sam starts firmly; he collects his thoughts like pieces until they make a perfectly clear picture. “Our night together was something that we’d come to one way or another. It was something I dreamed of since I started to realize what my body wanted. It always wanted you. I always wanted you in any form I could have you. You were my permanent thing, Dean. Sex was just an additional part to the ways I could have you.”

Dean glares at him the whole time, but he keeps his mouth shut and that is a lot already.

“But you couldn’t deal with the consequences. You freaked out,” The accusing notes sneak into Sam’s tone, and it’s too late to take it back.

Dean’s head jerks in answer, “What was I supposed to do? Keep fucking my baby brother?”

Sam has waited for this confession for so long, to know what Dean keeps in that messy head of his, that all his regained composure breaks down in a face of blatant truth. Sam’s voice is harsh when he speaks, “I wanted it, Dean. I wasn’t a baby anymore; I wanted it!”

It hits a nerve in Dean. He stands up, confronting Sam; his body is a taut string. “Well, I’m sorry I wasn’t a perv enough for you, and my little freak out messed up your plans.”

Sam’s eyes sting. He feels stupid, hurt, and betrayed all over again. It’s like he’s back to being 18, young and desperately in love with his brother, watching Dean make out with some nameless girl in front of his eyes. “And you had to go and fuck anyone that crossed your path the next day? What did you want to prove to yourself? That you still were a man-whore?”

“That I’m not a freak, okay?” Dean yells. “That I can look at someone the same way I look at you! That it was just a mistake!”

“Well, bang-up job on that, brother.” Sam’s eyes turn into slits as his lips curl into a mocking smile, “I just hope that I was a lousy enough fuck, so, you had no problem with finding something better.”

Dean’s fist hits hard, crushing Sam’s mouth, breaking his lower lip. Sam jerks his head trying to clear it, and obviously, it was the very wrong thing to do as it feels like his head is going to explode.

“Maybe I should have done that years ago, right after you hit that girl,” Dean says though clenched teeth, eyes burning with fierce determination.

“She was touching what was mine,” Sam growls.

Dean looks at him, stricken, probably wondering if Sam has lost his mind. Finding firmness in his brother’s eyes, Dean’s anger raises, “I’m not yours, you bitch,” he yells.

“Yes, you are,” Sam says, nodding, confirming, mouth a thin line. It’s not a challenge; it’s Sam baring his heart.

Dean would always be his no matter how many girls pass through his bed. Dean was his first. Sam opened his eyes to find Dean, and he never let him go. Dean was his, completely, before they grew up and Sam had to start sharing his Dean with others.

But Dean doesn’t get it. Arms crossed, he looks at Sam with disdain and states, “What do you want from me?”

Sam screams out loud, in an attempt to cover up the sound of his heart breaking with his voice, “I want you. Are you deaf? I love you, you stupid bastard.”

The words are out, and Sam freezes. He stands in the middle of the room, feeling hollow and empty, ruined without anything left to give. Sam closes his eyes, and the tears squeeze through his tight-shut eyes.

Sam hears Dean’s steps approaching him, but he doesn’t wanna face his brother.

Dean’s palm cradle his cheek, touch gentle and precious, calloused thump wiping away his tears, and Sam’s breath hitches.

“Dean,” he says helplessly, opening his eyes and begging his brother for something he can’t have.

“Shut up,” Dean says firmly in a quiet voice. “God, you are so stupid, Sam, so stupid.”

Dean’s mouth covers Sam’s, and a strangled sob escapes Sam’s throat, dampened by Dean’s demanding kiss.

Sam kisses back, not knowing if this is this his last kiss, putting all this heart into it. Sam’s hands come to cradle Dean’s face, deepening the kiss; tongue tracing the outline of Dean’s lips, eyes unfocused, yet, not completely closed.

Sam wants to see it, to watch Dean’s bare emotions mirroring on his face, to remember it. Sam sucks gently on Dean’s lower lip while Dean concentrates on his upper lip, and Sam is dizzy. He starts exploring Dean’s mouth like it’s their fist time, like he’s 17, and Dean finally gave up, after Sam left him no choice but give up, cornering his brother and putting claim on him.

Sam’s tongue is pushing inside Dean’s mouth. The kiss is more urgent, demanding, no more asking, but taking what is his. Dean moans in answer, and Sam’s cock is already hard, jerking in his jeans. Sam pushes Dean, their bodies moving till they reach the bed.

They fall on the bed, and Sam tries not to smash his brother, falling down on him. He compensates it by devouring Dean’s mouth, tongue licking into his brother’s hot mouth, finding Dean’s tongue, and Dean’s complaint dies on his lips.

Sam is not satisfied with the layers of cloth keeping him separate from Dean’s skin and he tears himself away from Dean’s mouth–God, that mouth–concentrating on getting rid of Dean’s clothes instead.

“Too many clothes,” Sam rasps, hovering over Dean, trying to switch on his brain in order to strip Dean. Dean’s shirt is mocking him, not willing to leave Dean’s body, and Sam tugs hard, ripping it, the buttons flying off.

Dean glares up at him, “Bitch, cliché much? You’re buying me a new one.”

Sam laughs out loud, freely and happy. Dean makes him shut up, pushing up on his elbows to kiss Sam roughly, driving him crazy, and Sam whimpers and gives in, going along, letting Dean have his way with him.

Dean, being the sneaky bastard that he is, hooks his right leg over Sam’s hip and rolls them over until Sam is beneath Dean, blinking in confusion at his brother.

“Payback is a bitch,” is Dean’s way of warning Sam before he rips his brother’s shirt. Dean smirks down at Sam, and not giving his brother a second for a witty comeback, goes down Sam’s body, fumbling with the zipper of Sam’s jeans.

Sam has a problem thinking, eyes watching Dean intently as his brother tugs down his jeans, and Sam’s cock has less pressure, covered by already damp underwear, pleading for Dean’s attention. Dean cocks his eyebrow at Sam, enjoying his brother’s desperate gaze at him, and then, busies his mouth with sucking lightly the head of Sam’s cock through his underwear.

“Dean,” Sam whimpers, feeling like he’s gonna cry if Dean won’t stop being an evil sonofabitch. Dean raises his head to look at Sam, taking in the image of his brother – wriggling, begging for Dean – enjoying the picture, and then, in one smooth movement, Dean pulls Sam’s boxers, along with his jeans, off his legs to throw them aside.

Dean looks at Sam’s naked body in front of him, putting his hands flat on Sam’s thighs to keep him from squirming; his eyes trace the lines of Sam’s body, not saying a word. Dean’s gaze drifts up to meet Sam’s eyes, biting his lower lip, and suddenly, Sam is out of breath, looking into Dean’s green eyes.

Dean whispers something that Sam can’t make out, but then he adds “Sammy”, eyes not leaving Sam’s, and it always meant Dean is giving his heart for Sam to keep.

Dean bends, his mouth goes down on Sam’s cock, lips stretching from the width of it, and Sam is gone. He can’t bear looking down at Dean, lips plump around his cock, but he can’t tear his eyes away. Dean’s mouth starts slowly moving up the length of Sam’s cock, Dean’s eyes watching Sam with lust.

“Ohhh, fuck,” is Sam last coherent thought before he starts begging and swearing, unaware of the words that tumble out of his mouth.

Dean uses his mouth to drive Sam nuts, his tongue licking the underside of Sam’s cock while his fingers lightly massage his balls. Dean wraps his lips around Sam’s cock head, licking the ring, gently, making Sam moan out loud, and then, Dean goes all the way down and up, tongue working the underside of Sam’s cock. Sam is losing his mind, lost in the sensations.

Sam’s head is thrown back against the pillow as he pants hard and fast, naked body glistening with sweat, his heart threatening to explode out of his chest. Sam’s orgasm builds, spinning up and he screams “Dean” as a warning, as the only word he has in his mind, coming hard down Dean’s throat while his brother swallows it all.

Sam thinks he passed out as he opens his eyes to find Dean naked, laying beside him, leaning on his right elbow and watching Sam.

“Wuss,” Dean whispers, aiming for a teasing tone and failing as he looks down at his brother like Sam is the one and only precious thing in this world.

In answer, Sam reaches out to place his right hand on the back of Dean’s neck and pulls his brother down for a gentle kiss.

They kiss for long minutes, nibbling and licking, tongues chasing, kisses changing from the sweet and gentle to demanding and rough, savoring each touch.

When they break apart to take a breath, Sam looks at his brother’s eyes, searching for the things Dean won’t ever voice, and Dean can’t hold Sam’s blatant, hungry stare. Leaning down to kiss Sam instead, answers are whispered against Sam’s lips, sealed with kisses; they are forever and you are the one that makes me happy, and then, insistently, don’t you ever leave me again.

Sam’s head spins after Dean pulls away. He tries to turn on his brain, but Dean manages to ruin all his chances.

“And now you’re gonna fuck me,” Dean says matter-of-factly, smugly smiling down at Sam, the tone of his voice leaving no room for any other option.

It’s pretty much a blur from that point. Sam tries to be gentle, touching his brother, tracing the lines of his beautiful body with his lips and tongue, gently kissing every part of him, but Dean demands more. Dean demands the roughness of his kisses; Dean demands the harsh moves of Sam inside him.

Sam maps every inch of Dean’s body, inside and out, marking his brother, leaving bruises, fingers digging and teeth biting, making Dean his.

When they both come and fall down on the bed, breathing hard, they keep holding each other, not letting go, and there’s a strange content feeling that it was the only way for them to end.

Sam turns his head to look at his brother. Time passes by as they keep holding their gazes on each other, and suddenly, there’s a lump in Sam’s throat that is hard to swallow, and Sam wants to say something but he can’t find the words.

Maybe he should say “thank you” or “forgive me”, or “I forgive you”, or maybe he just should let out a breath and forget the past. And Sam does.

Dean reaches out to brush his knuckles against Sam’s check.

“I love you,” Dean says to Sam for the first time since Sam was 18 and awake, not being asleep to for these words to stay intentionally unheard.

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Thu, 05 Nov 2009 22:52:39 GMT

So, I'm writing a new J2 story for my doll secretlytodream, and it's kind of a sweet story actually.
And, I don't write sweet stories))

Also, it's a long story. Yeah.. *suffers*
And why can't I write the short ones anymore?!

SPN fic: Hold Me While I’m Killing You (8/?)

Tue, 20 Oct 2009 19:45:47 GMT

Title: Hold Me While I’m Killing You (8/?)
Author: SanAnn
Pairing, characters: Dean/Sam (established relationship), Meg/Tom
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3884
Beta: my one and only billysgirl5
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Summary: “When you were in Hell, all I could think about was you.” – “When I was in Hell, all I could think about was coming back to you.”
A/N: I wanted to write this story for a very long time, since the moment I knew that Sam wasn’t the one to bring Dean back.
Any feedback is highly appreciated.

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Part VIII

Sometimes Sam wonders where they would go from where they are.

Years ago, he was mourning over the past, aching with how their lives turned them into what they’ve become.

Now, he only thinks about the future. He doesn’t stop to register what they’ve got on their hands now. He doesn’t wonder in which fight they’ll find their end. No, Sam wants to live long, because he wants Dean to live long, and that’s how it works.

They don’t talk to each other; practically don’t look at each other while they help Pamela and Bobby to come round.

Dean avoids him, Sam can almost feel the «back off» scream Dean suppress every time Sam’s eyes linger on Dean’s skin. And Sam just lets it go, gives his brother the space he needs, literally stepping away. He knows it won’t last long, and it’s not like he has any choice but to accept it.

But, in exchange, his body demands something for himself, something to not feel the hurt of Dean’s rejection, and Sam gives in. He shuts his mind down, refusing to process anything, choosing the numbness over hurt.

Frozen, Sam watches Bobby’s reaction like he’s sitting in the back row of the movie, failing to feel involved in the character’s lives in front of him.

Bobby’s first question is What the hell is going on? And Sam’s eyes shift from Bobby to Dean to watch with interest what the Dean has got to say.

Dean doesn’t disappoint his expectations as he fills in the blanks for Bobby, revealing that hell has nothing to do with the visitor, giving away some parts of their conversation with Castiel.

Some parts mean that he leaves out the details of how demons made themselves a toy of the Winchester family, turning the Winchester brothers into two fucked-up-beyond-repair lovers.

Sam watches them all through half-closed eyelids, until he can’t anymore, feeling tired to the bone. He tries to move away from the conversation, as far away as possible, stepping back, pressing his forehead against the farthest wall of the room, closing his eyes, and trying to distance himself from everyone, at least for a moment.

The voices of the conversation turn into buzzing as Sam looses his hold on reality, half-dreaming.

He sees their old house in Lawrence, leaves falling from the tree, running down the road towards the house, chased by a brisk wind.
The air is filled with peacefulness, and Sam breathes in the scent of autumn as he takes a long look at the house.

He knows this place, remembers how they visited it with Dean years ago and saved a woman with children. But the house seems different, homier somehow, and not as worn-out as he remembers.

Suddenly, the door opens and there’s a beautiful young blonde woman in a light green dress coming out, tilting her face up to the clear sky, closing her eyes under the streams of the sun, and smiling happily.

Her hands lay protectively over her swollen stomach.

Sam knows who she is. He doesn’t think the image of her would ever wipe from his memory. “Mom,” he whispers as his eyes sting.

Mary bends her head down and runs her hands lovingly over her stomach, “The world is so beautiful, Sammy. I’ll show you.”

Sam’s tears are falling uncontrollably down his cheeks as he looks at his mother, wishing she could see him, touch him, give him the comfort only mothers can.

He watches her smile, and thinks of how happy she is, how free she is, and wonders how their lives would turn out if they stayed normal, if she didn’t die. Sam is utterly positive that they would be happy.

Sam glances at her stomach and thinks of the child she carries and wonders whom this kid could be. Would he become as stubborn as he is, as rebellious as he was? Would she still love him as she does now?

Sam looks at her smiling and quietly talking to the unborn child, and he has no doubt that she would, his mom would love that child unconditionally.

Then, the thought strikes him that if there was a chance for them to meet now, if she knew what her son turned into, how twisted and fucked up he turned, she would regret giving a birth to someone like him.

Why wouldn’t she?!

Sam’s face darkens; the tears are drying on his cheeks as he looks gravely at his mother, trying to imprint every line of her face into his memory.

“Sam!” Dean’s shouting breaks through to him, and Sam regrettably lets go of the past, coming back to the reality.

The image in front of his eyes is blurred, and then fades away leaving no tracks behind, except the dull ache in Sam’s chest.

Sam blinks as he finds himself standing in the circle of his brother’s arms, Dean’s eyes searching Sam’s.

“Where were you?” Dean asks in a low voice, unreadable expression on his face. “Another nightmare?”

Sam feels weary and old, giving up on any efforts to say a word. He tightens his lips and looks away, hearing Bobby and Pamela’s voices from another room.

“I didn’t want them to see you like that,” Dean explains as Sam makes no move to turn and face his brother.

The silence falls thickly over the room for long minutes as they make no move, each brother deep in his own thoughts.

“You’re back.” Dean finally interrupts in a confirming voice, speaking to himself, voicing his fears out loud.

Dean’s words give away the swirl of emotions he was going through while Sam was unconscious, but Sam can’t even bring himself to look at his brother’s eyes, hiding behind a comfortable numbness.

Dean’s hand lands on Sam’s forehead, cool and pleasant, and it takes Sam a moment to perceive the gesture. Dean’s intentions break though to Sam, and he snaps out of his haze.

“No, Dean,” Sam tilts his head to meet his brother’s gaze, shaking his head lightly, “no headache.”

He opens his mouth to continue, to explain, and, suddenly, he just can’t. He can’t talk about their mother right now. It hurts to even remember her, standing under the sunlight and loving someone she should not.

At Dean’s puzzled look, Sam shifts, and carefully untangles himself from his brother’s arms, their eyes locked.

Dean backs away a couple inches, dumbfounded, and gazes intently at Sam in attempt to figure out the meaning behind Sam’s actions. Sam looks back, desperate, hoping that Dean won’t push and just let him get away with it.

Then, something in Dean’s eyes shifts and he looks away, awkwardly stepping back, arms falling from Sam’s body, face set. Sam immediately feels a shiver going through his limbs at loss of Dean’s body next to him.

“Okay,” Dean says, nodding to himself lightly.

His tone is cold and emotionless, putting distance between himself and Sam.

Dean half turns away from his brother – his perfect profile reminds Sam of solid Greek statues – body tense, and opens his mouth to throw words to the wall behind Sam, “I told Bobby we’re leaving. I’ll be waiting in the car.” The words are ricocheting off the wall and, unexpectedly, hitting Sam.

Dean leaves the room, steps heavy and rushed. Sam looks at his retreating back and wishes he could make things better.

The next day starts with Sam waking up in the Impala’s passenger’s seat, blinking up sleepily at his brother behind the wheel. The rest of his dream is fading away as Sam slowly returns to the reality where his brother is the only solid presence Sam knows.

Sam watches Dean driving his girl, humming to the Pink Floyd’s song that flows quietly from the tape deck, noticing Dean’s strong hands on the wheel, breathing in the air that is filled with the confidence and sureness Dean provides.

The blanket slides off Sam when he tries to sit up to look out of the window in order to process where they are. Sam stupidly looks down at the blanket, not remembering covering himself with it. He turns to Dean and catches his brother’s quick glance. Before Dean’s eyes shift back to the road in front of him, before he escapes Sam’s gaze, Sam’s eyes pierce into his brother’s, holding Dean’s gaze for a moment, trying to deliver his feelings to the only person that cares about him.

“Thank you,” Sam says pointing at the blanket and meaning so much more than that.

“Yeah, whatever,” Dean shrugs it off, clearly not understanding the fuss about it. Sam knows it’s nothing for Dean, just one of his habits of taking care of his brother, and maybe Sam, himself, didn’t pay it as much attention as he should.

“No, Dean,” Sam catches his brother’s wrist – his tan skin looks somehow rough in contrast to Dean’s pale skin – in attempt to make Dean understand, looking straight into his brother’s eyes, “I mean it.”

Dean glances at Sam’s hand on his wrist, and then, raises his gaze at Sam. Whatever Dean catches in Sam’s eyes, makes him fidget in his seat, self-consciously, unable to take a compliment.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, a bit hoarsely, and turns to the road in front of them, clearing his throat. “It’s your turn to drive for the next 12 hours. Get ready, bitch.”

The tiny smile lingering on Dean’s lips makes Sam laugh happily in answer.

Dean finds them a job; nothing special, just a couple of ghosts not wanting to leave the old house that was once theirs. And it feels like old times, before Heaven and Hell, before special abilities. They are just two hunters killing any evil thing they can find.

It makes Sam careless; he fights like it’s one of his first hunts, like all he has is the knowledge learned from Dad, salt, and the usual hunter’s tricks, like he didn’t lose a thing to these supernatural creatures, like he enjoys it, like he’s better than them.

And he feels like he is, being reckless and free, bold with a side of foolishness, until the ghost’s fingers tighten on his neck suffocating him. Sam looks aside to catch the glimpse of Dean destroying another ghost, and then, he tries to concentrate on evoking his power, looking into ghost’s eyes, trying to force him back away, but something is off, and Sam’s powers are not working. His time is slipping away, and there’s a thought that maybe he’s human, after all.

The ghost’s grip is deadly and final. Sam’s brain is playing tricks on him, scattering his thoughts like the pearls from a tearing strand, and it’s hard to breathe. Sam tries to keep fighting back, forcing his powers to come to the surface, but all he gets is helplessness and despair.

As his strength leaves him, Sam thinks Dean, Dean.

Abruptly, the grip on his neck weakens, and Sam can breathe again. He opens his eyes to watch, weakly, as the ghost turns to the side. And then, there’s Dean.

Dean and the unbearable heat. Everything is surreal. Dean looks as himself if not for the heat that surrounds him like a shielding substance threatening to burn everything except the master. The heat is progressing, getting stronger and swallowing the oxygen around them, and something inside Sam wants to crawl and join this power.

Sam watches his brother through the heat haze, barely recognizing him. Sam saw a lot of scary things till the point where they all turn into everyday job. But this one is terrifying.

Dean comes closer to them, yielding the pulsating heat; his body generates an incandescent force as the anger in his eyes becomes almost flammable. The air moves around him, bowing to him, letting him through, offering him the space.

The ghost is no longer touching Sam, as they both can’t take their eyes off Dean, staying frozen in the heat that envelops them, making them paralyzed, unable to move.

Dean’s body almost floats, and when he comes close enough for them to get burned, there’s a wild scream. The ghost next to Sam is burning like a flame, bawling. Sam’s ears ring as he watches the ghost convulsing with pain and disappearing into the thick air.

And there is heat, so much heat that it burns Sam’s vision, and Dean is only a blur in front of him. Sam closes his eyes tightly; the tears leaking from his eyes drying quickly on his cheeks.

Sam feels as the heat licks his body, threatening to swallow him whole. Sam raises his arms, covering his head, his body instinctively clenching in attempt to protect himself.

But then, there are arms on him, Dean’s arms, cool and gentle. Safe.

“Sonofabitch,” Dean mutters, his caressing movements inspecting Sam’s skin for any evidence of wounds don’t match with his angry tone. “What the hell were you thinking? Going against the ghost cocky and bare? Wanted to die here? Bastard!”

In answer, Sam’s hands find Dean’s body, his Dean, and don’t let go.

The anger inside Dean is still boiling. Dean is so pissed off that he can’t manage to say a word to Sam. He screamed at him alright, blew off some steam, but it’s not enough.

The panic he felt there, watching as some ghost almost took his Sammy’s life due to the stupidness of his brother, is still eating at him. He doesn’t register exactly what happened there as his mind is still fixed on the dreadful possibility of losing his brother.

They drive to their motel in heavy silence. Sam tries to open his mouth in attempt to give some stupid apology, but Dean predicts his every try, feeling it in the air, and turns to give his brother a hard glare in order to keep his mouth shut.

When they stop in front of the motel, Dean barks a “get out” to Sam, and practically slams his girl’s door while getting out himself.
Sam fumbles with the keys in front of the door, movements awkward and hasty, when Dean slams into him from behind, pressing him against the door. Sam looses his keys, but still, turns to face his brother, confused and a bit hurt.

Dean uses this chance to shove him against the door, hard, grabbing Sam by the collar of his shirt, fists clenched, and then, he follows Sam’s body, leaning to put a claim on his brother’s mouth. Dean doesn’t kiss; he attacks his brother’s mouth, tongue thrusting into Sam’s mouth, teeth biting Sam’s lips and the inside of his mouth.

And Sam lets him, mouth hot and pliant.

When Dean pulls away for a moment to catch his breath, he eyes Sam for any sign of discomfort. And Sam– Sam is almost purring under Dean’s claim, satisfied with the fact that Dean finally put his hands on him. Bitch.

Growling, Dean bends Sam over, forcing him to pick up the dropped keys and open the door.

They stumble into the room, Dean’s hands never leaving Sam’s willing body.

The floor is the closest surface that Dean sees, and he decides to settle there. He’s pushing Sam down, down till there’s nowhere to push, till Sam is where Dean wants him to be – underneath him, on his knees, ass in the air. Sam goes down willingly, with shining eyes and a satisfied grunt. Dean doesn’t let Sam move while he strips him almost violently, yanking Sam’s hands away, pinning his body down with his hands and knees until Sam is completely naked, plastered on the floor, not caring about the torn clothes or the gentle skin under his hands.

Dean holds Sam’s wrists with one hand, his knee on Sam’s back holding his brother’s body in place as he unzips his own jeans in one quick move, yanking down the jeans and underwear, and takes his already hard cock in his hand. He loosens his grip on Sam’s body in order to dig his fingers into Sam’s slim hips, push them up for Dean’s liking and swiftly entering Sam without any preparation. Dean’s first slam fills Sam till Dean’s balls are settled against Sam’s ass. Dean is firm that Sam feels pain along with pleasure, but if Sam’s moans are any indication, his brother welcomes this pain as the priest – God.

Dean doesn’t give Sam time to breathe before pulling away and slamming back in hard, again and again. The zipper of Dean’s jeans leaves red marks on Sam’s skin, and Dean takes a notice with the pride of an owner.

Dean fucks Sam like he’s on a mission. He feels his blood boiling with the animalistic instincts to bend a rival to submission, to over-power him. He leaves bites on Sam’s neck and back when Sam arches back to be closer to Dean. Sam moans aloud, not holding himself back, meeting Dean’s thrusts and trying to fuck himself on Dean’s cock.

The guttural sounds that come from Dean’s mouth don’t belong to him. It’s something wild and animal, something primal. Maybe it’s what Dean is now.

Sam writhes underneath him, the curves of his body are glistening with sweat, and Dean thinks, beautiful, breathtaking. Dean bends down to lick the sweat off his brother’s skin, tasting the lust and pleasure, cherishing Sam’s skin with his tongue.

Dean can see the red, bloody scratches on his brother’s upper body that Dean left with his teeth and fingernails, and it makes him fuck into Sam even rougher, marking as much skin as he can.

Sam comes first, painting the floor in white, crying out Dean’s name in a horse voice and going slack in Dean’s arms.

Dean slows down for a moment letting Sam’s climax pass, covering Sam’s back with gentle kisses, and after, he grasps Sam’s hips and starts pounding his ass roughly feeling himself getting close.

Dean is so high, he’s afraid he won’t bear the coming down. He lingers a moment in an attempt to hold himself off a bit longer, closing his eyes and catching a breath.

And then, there’s a gentle touch to his slick thigh, and Sam’s husky voice, “c’mon, Dean.”

Dean gasps and comes so hard that it hurts. His head spins, and he closes his eyes, letting the pleasure take hold of his body, trembling; his heart is trapped in chest, beating violently. Dean falls down onto Sam, covering his brother’s body, wasted and dizzy.

As they both lay on the dirty floor, half of Dean’s body is heavy precious weight on his brother, breathing hard and calming down, Dean tilts his head to catch Sam’s gaze, and reaches out to cradle Sam’s head in his palms. The words that were previously stuck in Dean’s throat are finally coming out in a firm voice, “you have no right to let yourself get killed. You’re mine.”

Thomas Ryan leaves his office at 10PM on Friday night, and all he wants to do is to get home, crawl in bed and have a nice date with his pillow. But his younger sister, Jamie, is celebrating her birthday at some bar, and she threatened to post his naked childhood pictures on his company’s website if he doesn’t appear, and Ryan’s always keep his promises, so he had to suck it up and go and play good brother.

Tom leaves the car in the parking lot and catches a cab, predicting that his sister will find a way to load him with the booze.

When Tom enters the bar, the aura of smoke, loud music and possibilities of sex welcomes him and genially takes him into its arms. Tom’s eyes are beginning to water from the smoke as he makes his way through the crowd, blaming the new contact lenses he bought.

Tom finds his sister pretty quickly; he just has to look for the noisiest crew. When he’s a couple of steps away from her, she spots him and practically jumps on him making him almost fall backwards.

Tom groans, but hugs her in answer. “Thank mom and dad for good genes. If I wasn’t tall and well-built, we’d have both ended up on the floor.”

Jamie grins and then, mockingly glares, pinching his shoulder, “And whom should you thank for being so modest? Uncle Marley?”

“Hey! He’s our only uncle, brat.” Tom answers sternly, pointing his finger at her. “Have a respect for elders, even if they walk with their head up their asses.”

“Be careful with the things you say, Tom. I could record your every word for a fresh blackmail material.” She winks at him, and Tom’s eyebrows go up as he wonders if she really turned on her cell phone recorder.

Jamie laughs in answer. “C’mon, brother, you need to get drunk to enjoy this party and understand my humor,” she drags him to her friends, and Tom concentrates, trying to pay attention as she introduces him to the crazy bunch of people.

Tom smiles and nods, repeating his name and shaking hands, and he desperately hopes that it will end soon. The crowd scatters and there is only one girl left, sitting somewhat aside, looking a bit out of place, and not paying attention to anyone around her.

But she is the one catching his attention for more than a second. Somehow, Tom can’t take his eyes away from her.

When Clare introduces them to each other – Hey Meg; this is Tom, my big, boring brother I told you about. And this is Meg. She moved in right next to me, and she is the only one who knows how to make a perfect mochito – the girl finally looks up at Tom. Not just looks up, she peers at him searchingly. There’s hope in her eyes like maybe Tom can hold the answers to all her questions, and, somehow, Tom desperately hopes he does.

Suddenly, the brightest smile lights up her face. Tom stands, mesmerized by it, as she reaches out her little hand for him to shake.

“Meg,” she says, smiling at him gently, and letting him keep her hand in his longer than necessary.

“Tom,” he answers, smiling back, and all of the sudden, feeling content.

Meg’s smile slips a little, “I know.”

On their first date, Tom makes reservation for a table at a fancy restaurant aiming for a classic dinner with candles and roses, something she deserves. There’s a feeling of firmness when it comes to her, the surety of what she deserves – the best, of what he’s willing to give her – everything.

The strongest impression the posh restaurant leaves Tom is Meg’s bright eyes, shining, looking at him like he is the center of her universe.

Throughout the whole dinner, Tom looks at her and keeps asking himself, if this is it, if that’s her, but he already knows the answer. The crazy feeling of knowing, of understanding, of sensing her, deep inside him, doesn’t fade away, it only grows stronger.

After, she drags him to Burger King to eat properly, and when he looks at her, absorbing, taking in every piece of what she is, while she sits next to him in her beautiful black dress wearing high heels and eating burger, smiling happily, Tom falls in love for a first time in his life.

TBC

Web Counter

Current

Sun, 11 Oct 2009 20:44:19 GMT

I'm writing a very disturbing story. Sam's POV, Stanford time, kinda wincest'ish.
I'm not sure if anyone would like it.
Also, it's a present for my beta, though I'm not sure if she'd find it pleasant. Disturbing, remember?
Anyway, I just had to let it out.

SPN 5X05 "Fallen Idol"

Sat, 10 Oct 2009 09:19:24 GMT

Amazing episode.
Another monster of the week, and i didn't care that it was Paris. She was just a background, it was all about Dean and Sam, about coming back to DeanSam, about making relationship work.
When a couple tries to get back together and be better, they need to forgive each other, stop blaming one another, get over it, realize the wrongs they did on both sides, and find a new, better way to be better, to be stronger as a couple.
And it's what they are. A couple, with their ups and downs.
But, in the end, if there's still love between you two, you can make it work.

SPN 5x04 "The End"

Fri, 02 Oct 2009 21:24:14 GMT

I started crying right after Sam's Dean, don't do this and Dean's answer bye, Sam... i think they broke me.
That is my weak spot, I can't stand seeing them saying good-bye to each other.
I just wanted to go there and give Sam a hug..

Also, Dean vs. Dean is always a perfect chemistry.

And, OMG, Jared wearing white suit, being Lucifer and all... amazing and too much to handle))
I loved the Lucifer he portrayed. Also, HOT, OMFGHOTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT.

And when Sam was holding the rose my brain whispered to me, What's in a name? that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

The last scene was perfect. Finally!!!! though I was waiting ~~for a kiss~~ for some hugs st least.

SPN fic: Hold Me While I’m Killing You (7/?)

Sat, 26 Sep 2009 17:46:31 GMT

Title: Hold Me While I’m Killing You (7/?)
Author: SanAnn
Pairing, characters : Dean/Sam (established relationship), Meg/Tom
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3100
Beta: my one and only billysgirl5
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Summary: “When you were in Hell, all I could think about was you.” – “When I was in Hell, all I could think about was coming back to you.”
A/N: I wanted to write this story for a very long time, since the moment I knew that Sam wasn’t the one to bring Dean back.
Any feedback is highly appreciated.

Banner by secretlytodream

Part VII

Sam’s nightmare is like a slap from the past.

It feels like drowning under the water.

You try to fight it, but the water is closing above the top of your head, and as you scream, your lungs are filling with the water. Some force is dragging you deep down to the bottom, and there’s nothing you can do to survive.

Some things will find you no matter how many years and miles you put between you and your past.

Sam feels as the headache, accompanied by nausea, hits him causing him to bend double in the seat. Sam moves forward, holding his head in the hands, and takes deep breaths, opening his mouth and trying to catch some air.

“Sammy?” Dean’s worried voice comes through the fog in Sam’s head as his brother’s hand lands on the back of Sam’s head, soothing.

Sam swallows the bile in his throat and stretches his hand blindly out to grip Dean’s wrist tightly.

“I can pull over,” Dean offers, no question in his voice, just a statement and will to do so instantly if Sam gives him just a nod, but Sam shakes his head lightly.

“Just give me a minute.” Sam says through clenched teeth, Dean’s warm skin under his hand is the only thing his body craves at the moment.

“Sammy,” The slight protest in Dean’s voice should be annoying as an additional part to Sam’s headache, but Sam distinguishes a panic in his brother’s voice, and Sam’s emotions are pale shadows in comparison with his brother’s.

Sam tries to compose himself, screwing his eyes shut, hand moving to grip the fabric of Dean’s shirt and bringing his body closer to warm up under the heat of Dean’s body.

The ripping sound of the fabric brings Sam to reality and soothes him. It’s just a nightmare. I brought him back. He’s not going anywhere.

Sam turns his head to look at Dean, searing the image of his brother – one-handedly driving Impala, breathing one air with Sam, green eyes piercing into Sam’s and trying to watch the road at once – into his brain, and coming back to life under Dean’s intent gaze.

Gradually, Sam’s pain ebbs away like a wave retreating away from the shore, leaving him with only a bitter taste in his mouth, and Sam can’t stop a relieved smile from spreading across his face, his touch on Dean’s skin becomes gentle, fingers brush warm skin deliberately.

Dean lets out a small sigh of relief in answer.

Sam watches as Dean’s body shakes off the worry, letting go of the tension, yet not entirely, and Sam shoves Dean’s shoulder playfully, “Eyes on the road, Dean. I’m gonna break only if you crash us into the nearest tree.”

“Bitch,” Dean mutters under his breath without any hint of irritation. Sam’s words do the trick, and Dean visibly relaxes.

In spite of Sam’s reassurance, Dean’s eyes scan Sam’s face one more time before turning back to the road in front of them.

As they drive, air dry and thick, seats hot under them, eyes fixed on the road, they try not thinking about the past or future, and everything in between, it’s just now, them, and the road.

The road is wide and smooth, comforting, safe; the part of their lives that is always ready to let them leave the memories behind and give a temporary peace.

The silence stretches between them, comfortable and easy.

“You scared the crap out of me, man,” Dean says after a while in a quiet voice, and Sam knows Dean refers to not just the nightmare, and he hears the end of the phrase without Dean opening his mouth, “don’t do that again”.

Sam glances at his brother’s profile, and after, turns his gaze back on the road.

The little diner in Waite Park, Minnesota, serves an amazing turkey burger with fries, and Meg notices it, absentmindedly, as she takes another bite, her eyes fixed on little TV screen on the wall.

A tiny blonde girl, the local reporter, tells the news of a recent plane crash. No one has survived. There is no living witness to reveal the details of the crash and make the story “to kill for” even more entertaining, but reporters are happy to show the mourning families, focusing the cameras to show close-up shots of the tears streaming down people’s cheeks. Grief always sells well.

The sun’s rays stream through the diner’s windows, glinting off the glassware and blinding Meg. She turns away from TV, wincing.

Meg slowly takes a sip of coffee watching people around her through half-closed eyelids. Everybody keeps the silence, not tearing their eyes away from TV. Some people’s mouths hang open in shock and disbelief, some - have tears in their eyes, and some - try very hard to show any evidence of sadness, clearly being indifferent to the suffering.

Every city is the same, Meg thinks. The same picture of people trying to react to the tragedy, taking each drama as an individual event and not understanding that each event is just a grain of sand in time. They can’t see the big picture. They don’t know it’s just the beginning.

A couple of days ago it was Appleton, Wisconsin. A school bus with the kids crushed with the same consequences – no one survived. And no one should have. It is a clean-up process, no garbage is gonna be left, no man will survive.

Meg takes another sip and thinks that there’s not much time left to find a decent body suit for Tom. It’s bugging her, making her twitch in her seat. It’s another thing she hasn’t done for him.

The guilt washes over her, overshadowing the permanent sorrow. Meg looks at the cup in her hand, and angrily registers the little tremble in her fingers, then, she grits her teeth putting her useless, weak emotions in the back of her mind.

She recalls the deal they made a long time ago – to choose the body suit for each other. With their father obsessed over psychic kids and pretty out of their lives, at first they were left to themselves, and then – to each other. It was one of their ways to show care without saying the words. Words didn’t suit them.

She doesn’t remember what the reason for this tradition was at first – to choose what kind of body you’re gonna fuck or to choose the body that will be healthy enough for them.

Tom said once that it was about choosing a spirit, choosing someone who had the similar core they did. They were not some pathetic demons that didn’t give a damn about the suit as long as it was walking and breathing. They were better; they were special. They were the one.

They knew each other better than they knew themselves; and choosing the body that would carry your half made perfect sense.

Now, she needs to bring him back so the world can make sense again.

Meg’s attention is drawn back to the TV as the reporter’s voice gets louder announcing a special report. Turns out that there is a flood threatening to cover Waite Park, and Meg can hear real worry in reporter’s voice now that it involves her.

Meg stands up, leaving the tip on the table, not wanting to examine the theory of no living soul after the disaster more closely.

As Meg steps outside to the blinding sun, she wonders if Dean and Sam have any idea what kind of consequences their happy reunion brings.

Pamela is flirting with both of them, but it feels good, easy, as they are just two guys knowing nothing about Heaven or Hell and having an eye for anyone except each other.

The difference is that years ago, Dean would be in her panties right after he introduced himself; he liked his women to know what name to scream when they came. Now, though, he just enjoys looking at her, appreciating the beauty. After all, Dean Winchester is not blind, but he can’t even let himself fuck her in his own imagination; everything he is, including his body, mind, and even thoughts were given to his brother a long time ago. It’s not something he did on purpose, hell, they’ve never even talked about it, but it’s just the way they are: so tangled in each other, that sometimes Dean doesn’t know where he ends and Sammy begins.

Dean watches Sam from the corner of his eye, keeping his patented smirk in place for Pamela.

Sam looks almost scandalized by the prospect of a threesome. When Pamela turns away from Sam and flashes her smile at Dean, Sam’s expression changes from confusion to jealousy in a blink of an eye. Pamela’s friendly tap on Dean’s shoulder on her way into another room doesn’t help Sam’s mood as he looks daggers at her back.

Dean finds it all pretty amusing.

“Easy, Sam,” keeping pace with his brother, Dean comments only for his brother to hear and receives a very expressive bitchface in answer.

When they occupy their places at the table and hold hands, beginning the séance, Sam squeezes Dean’s fingers tightly like he wants to break them and Dean tries to hide his wince, turning to give his brother a hard glare.

Sam glares back and Dean is the one to turn away in the end.

“Whenever you, princesses, are ready,” comments Bobby dryly.

Both boys glance at him and then quickly turn their gazes on the table.

“Close your eyes,” Pamela insists, and they all obey.

When Dean closes his eyes, the darkness welcomes him like an old foe, making him breath uneasily, offering to throw the Hell memories back at him, and he concentrates on Sam’s breathing next to him instead.

Pamela tries to contact the force that brought Dean back, and Dean thinks that maybe, just maybe, he should have told Bobby, before the séance, that he knows what force pulled him from hell, who was accountable, maybe he should have told him that Sam is the one responsible for all this mess, but there are some things about his brother that Dean is the one to know, some secrets about Sam’s power that he wouldn’t reveal even to his father if the man himself was still here.

The table starts shaking, and Dean thinks for a moment that it’s not just a table but the ground underneath them. Pamela screams, and Dean immediately opens his eyes. His gaze lands on Sam at first, and it takes him a second to check that his brother is okay, and then he turns to Pamela.

Pamela stops screaming, sitting with her eyes wide open in fear.

All of the sudden, the loud awful noise fills every corner of the room, rasping their ears and forcing out almost all the air from the place, practically leaving no room for breathing.

Without a word, all of them jump up from the chairs, gasping, hands covering their ears, and move away to the nearest wall for some kind of support.

When they lean on the wall, the glass windows are shattering into tiny pieces with the lights going off.

In the darkness, Sam’s hands find Dean and pull him against Sam’s body; Sam is solid and shielding against Dean’s skin.

And then, all the sounds are abruptly cut out, and it is oddly louder than it was before.

The quiet, demanding voice sounds like a thunder in the dreadful silence of the room. “Why did you call for me?”

Dean’s eyes adjust to the darkness, and he discerns some guy in a trench coat in front of them.

Dean doesn’t need any more confirmation to understand who this guy is. Castiel. The Angel. The angel that dragged him out of Hell.

Bobby moves faster than anyone, stabbing Castiel with Ruby’s knife, but it has not the slightest effect.

Bobby’s gaze travels from the knife in his hands to the face of the angel, lightly shaking his head in disbelief, while Castiel looks uninterested and bored. With the raise of his hand, the angel casually renders Bobby and Pamela unconscious.

“I need to talk to both of you alone,” Castiel says moving closer to them.

Sam is the first to recover and start speaking with a hint of mockery in his voice, “Looks like you found someone that fit your tastes after all.”

Castiel flatly states. “He was a man of faith. He willingly chose his path.”

He turns his gaze to look at Dean, scrutinizing, and Dean feels as every nerve in Sam’s body tenses next to him.

“I’m not willing to waste any more time, Sam Winchester. You have to tell me where Lilith is.” He looks straightforwardly at Sam, and Sam tilts his head to the side considering his options.

And Dean has had enough of being the blind one here. “Why are the Angels so interested in this Demon? You have some big plans for her up there?” He knows he sounds pissed, voice rough, but he’s had enough with all the secrets. He takes a step closer to Castiel shaking Sam’s hand off himself.

Castiel shows no emotion except giving Dean a pensive, thoughtful look before answering. “And why the Demons are so interested in you and your brother?”

Dean looks back at him, feeling like there’s something else, something that he needs to know. It feels like he’s one step away from figuring the things out, from understanding why his family was thrown into angels’ and demons’ playground. Just the thought of it takes his breath away and lays heavy on his heart.

Castiel knows more than he’s willing to share, and Dean is ready to beat the shit out of him to get some answers. Eyes locked, they measure each other.

Sam’s hand landing on Dean’s right shoulder feels heavy and possessive.

“You need to erase the mark,” Sam interrupts, voice dark and demanding.

Castiel turns to look at Sam, saying in colorless voice, “I don’t see the point of your request.” His face is emotionless.

“You still need Lilith, so don’t question my requests.” Sam comes closer to Dean, standing behind him.

Dean feels as the heat of his brother’s body envelopes him. He is certain that if it was possible, Sam would lock himself in Dean’s body.

“You should understand whom you are talking to,” Castiel lowers his voice, and Dean thinks that he catches the glimpse of anger in angel’s eyes.

Now that the angel’s calm state is having a small crack, Dean doesn’t waste his time, although he understands his chances - he can ask only one right question. His heart is pounding in his ears when he speaks, and he’s afraid he won’t hear an answer behind the heart beating. “Was my mother in the way of your higher games?”

Castiel looks at him with understanding in his eyes. He wasn’t fooled, and it’s his own choice to give an answer or reject. “The demons are playing their own chess, not notifying us.” Each word is deliberately spoken when he continues, “She was supposed be one of the queens.”

Dean freezes, the words reached his ears and mind, but he has hard time processing the meaning. The only thing that revolves in his head is the word “mom”, that his mind numbly repeats over and over again.

He remembers her happy, smiling, warm, and so full of love. And she was just piece on chessboard?!

The memories are suffocating him. “Mom,” the word is stuck in his throat, and Dean lets it out choking. He knows he’s shaking a bit, and he doesn’t know if it’s the anger or grief that gets hold of his body.

Castiel’s lips tighten into a thin line, and Dean knows he won’t hear one more word of revelation.

Sam’s hands come to lock around Dean’s chest, holding Dean’s body tight against his chest, trying to soothe and ease his brother’s pain.

“I want you gone,” Sam says to Castiel, voice dull, his chin is on his brother’s shoulder, not caring about anything except Dean’s needs.

“I don’t think so,” Castiel moves, he’s one step away from entering their personal space, looking thoughtful. “I think that you’d do anything to keep your brother. And it goes the same way for him. A deal is a deal, Samuel. I don’t take well when someone tries to play me.”

Castiel raises his hand pointing to Dean’s shoulder, “This mark will be nothing in comparison to the bloody trails I leave after.”

In answer, Sam is plastering his whole body to Dean’s. The waves of anger, desperation, and fury are rolling between them, growing stronger. The tattoos’ beat are getting louder, like a thundering drumming to their ears. Sam entwines his fingers with Dean’s, seeking more closeness, each cell of their bodies feels connected, and then some force is breaking loose from the depth of the bodies, bringing to the surface a blinding light that destroys any other power, taking away Castiel and all the sounds around.

But it’s not enough. The primal force inside them isn’t gone; it demands more, threatening to burn them alive. Sam’s lips find the spot on Dean’s neck; he licks the tender skin, eyes open, enjoying the salty skin he tastes, thinking that he almost hears the sound of blood running through the vein.

It’s almost unbearable. He’s so close, but not close enough. He craves for more, Dean’s body begs for more.

When Dean turns slightly in his arms, arching his head backward to give Sam’s access to his throat, eyes finding Sam’s, the need in his eyes is raw and blatant. Sam sees the reflection of himself in his eyes, and he feels like they are one step away from being under each other’s skin.

With a satisfied grunt, Sam bites the skin under his lips, teeth tearing into the flesh almost gently. The pumping blood is echoing in his ears and blowing the taste buds out in his mouth. Sam licks away the tiny drops of blood feeling as they are seeping into his blood. He feels high with the taste of Dean around and inside him.

Instantly, the rest of the force inside them frees itself, separating their bodies for a few inches to find a way out, and disappearing into nothing, leaving them breathing hard and looking into each other.

Dean is the one to move. He finds Sam’s mouth and kisses him hard, biting Sam’s lips till the drops of blood color their kiss.

TBC

Happy Birthday, billysgirl5!

Wed, 16 Sep 2009 19:03:15 GMT

Sweet billysgirl5 is celebrating her B -day today!
She's all kinds of awesome, and I'm lucky to have such amazing beta!
And she's much more to me than just my beta)))

Happy birthday, darling.
I hope you're having a great time!
I love you!

So, under the cut there's the picspam of the guy we both love and adore.
Smiling Jared is only for you)))

See, Jared gives you the flowers)))

the pictures are so not mine.
Credit goes to people from SPN comms.

Goodies for my wincest story. WOOT!

Sun, 13 Sep 2009 14:30:06 GMT

My doll secretlytodream made awesome goodies for my story HOLD ME WHILE I'M KILLING YOU, including the walls, icons, banners, posters and even trailer.
OMFGIMABSOLUTELYHAPPYGHTDSRYKJLL!!!!

You should go and check her JL for all the goodies, and download the trailer here

Ficking amazing trailer.

SPN fic: Hold Me While I’m Killing You (6/?)

Tue, 01 Sep 2009 16:14:52 GMT

Title: Hold Me While I’m Killing You (6/?)
Author: SanAnn
Pairing, characters : Dean/Sam (established relationship), Meg
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3110
Beta: my one and only billysgirl5
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Feedback: any feedback is highly appreciated
Summary: “When you were in Hell, all I could think about was you.” – “When I was in Hell, all I could think about was coming back to you.”
A/N: I wanted to write this story for a very long time, since the moment I knew that Sam wasn’t the one to bring Dean back.

Part VI

Somewhere between the truth and lies, Sam found his own place to be.

Four months ago, he would have chosen one side to stick to and fight for. But then, the colors blurred, leaving a big, grey mess behind, and Sam lost the right brush to draw the black and white lines.

Now, that the bright colors are back in Sam’s life, he doesn’t know if he should go back to choosing the sharp black/white colors or find a comfort in all shades of grey. Sam not knowing doesn’t mean he actually wants to know. The bright brush strokes that Dean brought to his painting are supported and greeted by the tiny, deliberate grey strokes that were the ones his painting started with.

Two brothers sit on the opposite beds, knees lightly brushing, and Sam starts scrutinizing Dean’s face. Now, that Sam has to reveal the four months he tried to block out with the scent of Dean’s body, the memories are falling down at him, all at once.

Sam recalls his dark desperation when the lines of Dean’s face started to slip away from his memory, and the one day he enclosed himself with the poor supply of Dean’s pictures in attempt to scorch every line of his brother’s face back into his memory.

The first month is days full of research and nights full of whiskey. Sam gives up the family business easily, immediately. Saving people didn’t save the one person it had to. No matter how many souls they’ve saved, the family business, like a hidden thief, stole everything from Sam and then, finished him by taking away Dean. Sam starts to avoid people in order not to harm any of them, hating them for being alive while the person that was saving them all along is tortured in Hell.

Sam finds a deserted house, as far away from people as it can be, the perfect place to hold on to what’s left of him and to keep on searching.

When the world stole Dean from him, it flipped the hourglass, and with each passing day, with each fallen grain of sand, Sam is counting down the last days.

One morning, he can’t make himself get out of the bed. He lies there, unmoving, eyes open and hollow, the growing beard itching his face, when the ravaging tide of desperation crushes him, forcing him to squirm violently, screaming out loud like a wounded animal. The sounds of his voice are mercilessly ricocheting off the walls.

The old house takes the destruction silently and cold-bloodedly, watching him scream himself hoarse until all that his body can give are the tears streaming down his face. When there is nothing left of him, he lies there waiting for the visit from the ripper.

Meg is the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes the next time. She is sitting on the bed, looking at him with emptiness in her eyes. She is someone he doesn’t know, someone unfamiliar and alien, someone whose eyes reflects the death wish he has.

“Long time no see, Sam.” She says quietly and runs her fingers through her hair. “I think we need each other.”

Sam greets her with dull eyes.

“You believed her,” the half-question, half- statement hangs in the air as Dean interrupts Sam’s narrative in a croaky voice.

“I had nothing to lose.” Sam says and places his right hand, palm flat on Dean’s knee. It’s okay now. I’m okay now. You are here.

Six days pass before Sam gets back to his former self. Meg is there, demanding, insisting.

“Get your pathetic ass up. You can drink yourself to death after we finish,” she spits while looking at him with disgust.

She is always there. The loud reminder of Sam’s fall, the demon wearing a face of a human, both forms that he hates. Sam wants to kill her so much. Sometimes, he looks at her and dreams of the ways he’d kill her.

It could be night or day, she could be laying cautiously, resting, eyes opened, with the moonlight illuminating her face, or she could be standing in the daylight looking at him. He dreams how he would twist the demon-killing knife in her belly, with a pleasure, looking into her eyes, or how he’d shoot her with the colt, watching her die and then, would shoot one more bullet, enjoying her pain.

Sam hates her fiercely. The ugly truth is that he doesn’t give a damn about the past, about the things she did to them, about her dad, about his dad. It was a long time ago; it was with someone whom he isn’t anymore. It is nothing compared to Dean. She is a demon, and the demon killed Dean, made the hellhounds tear him apart into pieces while Sam was watching, unable to move. While Sam was useless.

The thought makes his blood boil. The memories of his helplessness are big, hard, insisting raindrops, smashing into his scalp, drenching the seeds of his self-destruction.

Sam tries to block the memories of who he was, the times he shared with Dean, the smile on Dean’s face, the freckles on Dean’s back under Sam’s fingertips when his brother laid asleep and sated, protected under Sam’s body while the sun streamed through the window.

Sam tries to focus on bringing Dean back. He tries not to think about the whole year he had, about the chances he didn’t use, about not killing everything and anyone to keep Dean safe, about a broken promise, And I don't care what it takes, I'm going to get you out of this, about hope and trust in Dean’s eyes.

It is safer this way, for his sanity.

When he looks at Meg, he can’t stop himself from thinking – he helped the demons kill his brother, and now they want his help again.

Sam is one step away from fracturing, his skin a thin glass protecting him from bursting out.

One day when Meg is training him in the use of his abilities, she crosses the line.

They are in the house, standing against each other; the only obstacle between them is the old wooden table; the knife upon it lays readily, the bright blade a gentle reminder of the blood treatment it can give you.

Meg is leaning against the wall, muscles tense and arms crossed, tousled, dark short hair, blue jeans and white T-shirt, the perfect picture of a girl next door if not for the look of scorn on her face, watching him try to move a knife from the table. “Concentrate, dammit, the knife won’t lift itself.”

Sam closes his eyes for a second. Make the gun float to you there, psychic boy. Some memories are deep under his skin, like toxins seeping into his blood.

Sam grinds his teeth hard and tries to force his mind to control the knife, blocking all the memories and fixing his mind and will on the knife in front of him. The knife moves an inch and stops, freezes despite his attempts, making Sam growl low in frustration.

Meg lets out an uncontrollable cry of desperation, “You are useless. What was I thinking? That you can save my brother? You even couldn’t save yours!”

Her words burst his carefully constructed dams, and Sam doesn’t register his next actions.

Instantly, the knife floats to him, and Sam catches it easily, holding the knife tight in his right hand. Then, he appears right in front of Meg and slams her hard against the wall trailing the point of his blade over her neck. Sam says nothing, eyes locked with hers, while the knife moves on her skin leaving a shallow cut behind. “Tell me, again, why should I believe you?”

“You want to see you brother again,” she spits, hatred in her eyes.

“And you want your brother back as well,” Sam deliberately moves the knife along her neck, the sharp blade marking her skin with another tiny cut. “The vicious animal that had to be put down.”

“He was my brother,” she answers, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

“The psycho that had no control,” he continues in a steady reasoning voice.

“He was my brother,” Meg raises her voice, eyes burning with loathing.

“A thing that deserved to be cut off the world,” Sam states, driving every word into her skin with a tiny cut.

“He was my brother,” she screams angrily and shoves him hard enough that Sam almost hits the floor.

Sam backs away; the hard wooden floor under his feet is a steady ground. He succeeds in calming his breathing and finally raises his head to look straight into her eyes. Really look at her.

Meg’s body is a taut string. She fails in trying to compose herself, the desperation and anger crossing her face make her more vulnerable than the tears streaming down the cheeks ever could.

Sam looks at her as if he’s looking at a reflection of himself. She isn’t complete. She isn’t broken enough, not like him. Sam’s state is the shattered pieces of the stained mirror. She just needs one friendly step down to feel what he feels, so he can look at her and recognize himself in her.

Using her vulnerability, not tearing his eyes away from her, Sam says matter-of-factly, “He’s dead, and you couldn’t do a thing to save him. You were the one to let him die.”

When she falls down on the floor, Sam steps away without a glance towards her and heads to lie down. Without any hint of remorse, he gets comfortable in bed and closes his eyes, knowing she is no longer a threat to him.

It isn’t cruelty; it is just the way he is. They both made their own beds, and if Sam made a personal hell out of it, it doesn’t mean he wouldn’t bring a partner to share the consequences of killing the only person they loved.

“And you…,” the uneasiness in Dean’s voice grabs Sam’s attention more than any word could. Dean lightly shakes his head in disbelief, clearly surprised by what he’s going to say, “you felt no mercy for the thing that was going through the same hell that you did.”

Hell? Sam thinks. Wrong word choice, Dean. You were the one there. You.

Before the emotions grab him by the throat and get hold of his voice, Sam continues firmly. “We both deserved it.” As Dean opens his mouth to protest, Sam sets his jaw tight and looks stubbornly at his brother, “no, Dean. Don’t.”

Sam knows Dean won’t accept it, will try to prove him wrong, will react the same way Sam would, but it’s different. And Sam would never tell Dean how it hurts, how it feels, even now, the knowledge of betraying the only person you loved.

Predictably, Dean chooses another way to say the words, giving Sam a long look and delivering his point through the softness and fondness in his eyes. No, Sammy. You didn’t deserve any of it.

Sam doesn’t dare to look away, longing to soak in all the infinite love and trust Dean has to give.

Maybe he doesn’t deserve it, but it’s his, and Sam is not willing to refuse basking in Dean’s love or share it with anyone else. Dean is his. And Sam wants every part of him, every bit of emotion and attention Dean has. Dean is the only human being Sam knows that loves without holding back or asking for anything in return. Support and sympathy are laid open to take if you need, and Sam will make sure that he’s the only one on the receiving end, not trusting anyone in appreciation of the gifts Dean can offer.

Sam leans closer to brush Dean’s cheek with his fingers, knees bumping, eyes registering every breath Dean makes, trying to breathe in every bit of air Dean lets out.

Sam’s heart settles down, putting aside the hurt that the memories of the past bring, concentrating on the sensations that come with Dean being close, fingers caressing the lines of Dean’s face.

The next breaths Dean let out come with the words that he says deliberately slow, his gaze fixed somewhere over Sam’s shoulder, “Sometimes, you make me blind with how much you love me, so don’t – Just stop hurting. It’s over, Sammy.”

Lilith’s name comes out when Sam is torturing another demon in some random basement, too deep down to hear the screams, fishing for the information he needs. The exorcizing of the demon brings him no emotion, no hint of satisfaction as long as there is nothing about the location of the bitch that killed his brother.

Meg brought him this present insisting that the demon had some connection to Lilith, and Sam has already spent six days coming up with new ideas and exploring every way to bring more pain to the squirming creature in front of him.

The words are so quiet that Sam doesn’t register them at first, using salt as a perfect patch for his handiwork on the demon’s flesh. The next time words spill out with the screams and curses, Sam stops dead in his tracks catching Lilith’s name.

“Come again,” Sam says, barely restraining himself from pulling the answer out from the demon’s throat with his bare hands.

“I’ll tell you where she is,” the words are muffled against the knife that Sam holds to the demon’s lips.

“I’m sure you will,” Sam smiles reassuringly, every cell of his body boiling with anticipation.

Sam thinks it’s too easy, that there should be a catch.

Lilith uses a body of some powerful businessman’ wife, playing good little wifey and using her husband’s resources to connect with other powerful men and provide them with the demon’s filling.

Sam steals her right from her husband’s house, the daylight illuminates his path when he turns off the security system and knocks out the bodyguards. He doesn’t need any human abilities for that, he‘s well-trained to turn off everything and everyone with the simple raise of his hand. The bodyguards inside the house are demons, but they don’t last long against Sam, falling down at Sam’s feet.

Sam just clears his way through the rooms, not caring if anyone survives. He has no time for caring; killing the demons along with the humans is the fastest way to move past the obstacles in his path. Sam has learned the prioritizing lesson the hard way a couple of months ago. And he won’t forget.

Lilith is the next and final target. Sam finds her in the bedroom, sitting on a chair in front of a vanity and brushing her blonde hair.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, dear,” she says mockingly when Sam reflects in her mirror.

Sam steps in the room and immediately, a wave of the power hits him hard in the chest.

“Your welcome greeting is poor. Wanna try harder?” Sam asks warm-heartedly, brushing the invisible specks of dust off his shirt.

Lilith finally turns in her chair to face him, her eyes turning into slits. “Oh, you came prepared. I’m flattered.” The next wave of the power is strong, so strong that Sam’s catches his breath, and he can’t move for a couple of long seconds.

“All right,” Sam says afterwards, “you showed me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

Sam raises his right hand at her, watching her through half-closed eyelids, losing himself in the sensation of the inhuman dark power swirling inside him, boiling through his veins, pulsing outward in wave after wave to Lilith.

Sam stops when she falls down on the floor and her screams are no longer heard. Sam comes closer and chants a spell to knock the demon and human inside the body unconscious for hours.

Time is running out, and he moves as quickly as possible, every move sharp and precise. There’s no room for slow motion, no time for letting any thought stand in his way, he just follows his own plan, step by step.

Sam leaves the house, his body tense, every sense on edge, cataloguing every sound, eyes registering every move around him, holding the body tight over his shoulder as a precious gift.

There’s only one thought disturbing his cold mind: how come it was so damn easy?

Lilith’s hands are tied tight with the heavy chains above her head, her legs are chained to the floor; she is trapped inside the metal cage. Every side of the cage is painted with ancient symbols, holding her inside the human body. If her hands or legs touch any side of the cage, jolts of unnatural pain go through her form, and Lilith tries to shrink into herself but the body can’t hold it more than a couple of minutes or so.

But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is that there’s permanent pain. The feeling of the hellhounds tearing her body into pieces, and this pain never stops, never ends, inducing her screams even when she thinks she can’t scream anymore.

Outside, Sam sits on the chair in front of the cage, listening to the screams and watching as Dean’s pendant rocks under the wall, over the cage.

Sam is interrupted by Bobby knocking on their door; he’s pulled from his memories back to reality and looks up at Dean.

Dean’s expression is unreadable, jaw set, and Sam’s stomach drops. Dean stands up to open the door, visibly pleased to share the room with someone else besides Sam, to let some fresh air into the room to clear the tension, and it hurts Sam more than he expects.

Later, they drive the Impala following Bobby’s truck. Dean sets the silent, tense mood by answering Sam’s casual questions like Did Bobby say how long the trip would take? with the eloquent “yes” or “no”, and it’s Sam’s cue to shut up, which Sam does, trying to quiet his loud beating heart along with his mouth.

Sam falls asleep somewhere along the way. Sam’s dream is vivid and unnaturally colorful. He dreams of the motel bed, the blue with yellow flowers sheet; Sam lies across the bed as the quiet emptiness surrounds him. Sam is strangely calm with the feeling of being cold and alone; he lies unmoving, looking up at the ceiling and swallowing his own tears, feeling a stabbing pain at the loss of Dean.

Sam wakes up with a scream, eyes burning; the taste of ash in his mouth is strong. It’s the same taste he had after waking up from the nightmares before Jess’ death.

TBC

SPN fic: Hold Me While I’m Killing You (5/?)

Thu, 30 Jul 2009 20:38:04 GMT

Title: Hold Me While I’m Killing You (5/?)
Author: SanAnn
Pairing, characters : Dean/Sam (established relationship), Meg
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3137
Beta: my one and only billysgirl5
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Summary: “When you were in Hell, all I could think about was you.” – “When I was in Hell, all I could think about was coming back to you.”
A/N: I wanted to write this story for a very long time, since the moment I knew that Sam wasn’t the one to bring Dean back.

Part V

At night, the streets of New Orleans are lit up by the bars' neon signs and streetlights, shedding the lights of joy and easiness. But the dark corners hold the memories of the past, secrets rising from the ashes.

If it's not Mardi Gras or Jazz Festival season, there are less tourists inspecting the streets, hanging out in the bars, denying their real lives, hiding behind the lamplights and beer bottles.

The hookers and fortune tellers are your best friends, saying and acting the way you want them to. A small loss of cash is not a big price to pay for finding someone who knows you so well.

The neon sign proclaiming Find out your destiny flickers as Meg opens the door and steps in.

The inside is darker than outside, the minimal light provided by the trays of candles scattered sparsely around the room. The candles burn unsteadily, throwing dim shadows dancing on the walls.

Each steady step Meg makes, the dancing shadows convulse with fear and send a silent warning to their mistress in the next room.

Meg is greeted before she pulls aside the thick red curtain for entering another room.

“Don’t you think you’re tempting your fortune by coming here, Meg?” The deep voice belongs to an old black woman that sits on the floor covered with the thick carpets. The candle in front of her illuminates her form as she bends forward to light a cigar.

Meg steps in, half-smiling, and looks down at the woman, huffing in disbelief, “Isn’t that what you provide poor bastards with by taking their lucky fortune away instead of reading their future?”

The woman ignores the accusation and takes a long draw on the cigar, looking at Meg from head to toe. Meg suppresses the irritation and meets her eyes, unblinking, cautious, trying to catch every tiny movement.

A slow grin starts spreading on Meg’s face. The face of the old woman is not covered enough in the darkness to hide her worry.

“You are not welcomed here. Locals are dying to get their hands on you, and I won’t be the one to stop them,” she says, fixing Meg with a glare and blowing out smoke.

The darkness surrounds them both, and one tiny light between them threatens to die out and to leave it to the darkness to decide which one is worthy of its attention. Meg secretly craves complete darkness, the one thing that is friendly and familiar to her.

When the candle’s light decides to dance upon the old woman’s face, the candle’s flame is a poor challenger to woman’s pitched black eyes.

Meg’s patience is slipping, and she struggles to keep a firm grasp on what little remains, not letting the anger take control over her. It’s hard without him. Tom had a leash for her emotions.

Memories of Tom are a trigger for the ticking time bomb she has turned into. The red tips of flaming rage tickle her insides, begging to spout out lava. This ungrateful world has no idea how much it owes Tom. Now that he’s gone, it’s fair enough that this blindfolded world know the price of being without him.

“Tell me what I came here for.” Meg’s voice changes to a barely controlled whisper.

“I can feel your power getting stronger without looking at you. Why didn’t you just write me a letter?!” The old woman laughs loudly, the cigar ash falls on the floor agreeing with her mockery.

Meg comes closer, the color of her eyes match the old woman’s. “I suggest you not fuck with me, Missouri. I’m not John, and I certainly won’t listen to your shit.” Meg’s next step brings her close enough to step on the woman’s dress. “Tell me, is it enough?!”

Missouri raises her voice and then, there are angry whispers filling the room, accompanying her. “Why don’t you give it a try like you did before? You think bringing Katrina on our heads wasn’t enough?”

Meg answers without missing a beat. “Do you see Tom somewhere near me? That’s your answer, woman. It isn’t.”

The whispers are getting stronger, and suddenly, there’s a wind rising from the floor and starting to howl. “Your father wouldn’t approve of it.”

Meg has to raise her voice to be heard. “Like I give a shit about the old man. He’s dead.”

“Just like your brother.” The words cut an open wound that has never stopped bleeding, and Meg flinches unwillingly. “You can’t give life to dead demon. You think there’s something left of him to bring back? There’s nothing.”

It’s not a revelation; it’s not like she hasn’t asked herself the same question. Each failed attempt of bringing her brother back pushed her down, turning her into a useless sobbing mess with ashes for hopes, an unpleasant shadow of the old Meg.

But now, it’s different. The smirk returns to Meg’s face. She stretches like a cat, smiling and eyeing the woman like a canary. “I can’t. But there’s someone who can.”

The wind gets stronger; it ruffles Meg’s hair and brings dust trying to cloud her vision.

Missouri’s exclaims proudly, “Sam Winchester was born for bigger things than to bring your brother back.”

Meg moves, and her right hand tightens around Missouri’s neck. Her voice is bitter when she speaks, “You think daddy wouldn’t approve me messing with his plan?! What can be bigger than bringing Tom back? It’s pretty big to me.”

The old witch finally shuts her mouth, and Meg enjoys every minute of it, tempted to squeeze the neck tighter just to hear a bone crack. She’d never get what is so fascinating about wearing this old suit, but the knowledge of how much this body is appreciated gives her power. And it’s always about the power.

The wind and whispers stop, and the candle flames follow them, dying out. The darkness and complete silence welcome Meg, bringing a thankful smile to her face.

It feels like home. Darkness is the demons’ zone, their world, the place where humans don’t belong. Demons are the ones that have a right to walk through it, dividing the territory between the strong ones and never stopping to fight for power and control. It is a constant war, it is the way they exist, and people are just the mere tools to be used and broken.

Meg eases her hold and bends lower to look in Missouri eyes, face to face. “Tell me, woman, is my plan working?”

“Yes.” Missouri croaks out, and Meg lets her go stepping away.

Meg stands still, straightening her shoulders, letting the realization calm her restless spirit for a moment. Then, it starts to come back, to take over her, the power, the feverish urge, the burning flame for him. Meg’s thoughts are already far away, working out and collecting the pieces of new information.

Missouri massages her neck with one hand as she glances at the other hand; the fingers holding the cigar are slightly trembling. Her voice is filled with loathing, and some part of it is directed at herself. “Now, that you have already brought a big mess on the earth by crushing this city, your new plan will start with burning up the sky for him?” She doesn’t raise her eyes to look at the dark-haired girl.

Missouri’s question stops Meg as she is already on a way to leave. The gentle smile on her face is only for Tom. “No, not the sky. Tom likes to look at the sky. I’ll save it for him.”

The clock on the wall ticks quietly, lulling them to sleep. The room is bathed in semi-darkness as the scant moonlight streams through the window demanding to own a piece of the room.

Dean lays half-covered with a blanket along with Sam’s body as additional cover, radiating heat and possessing as much of Dean’s body as asleep Dean allows him.

The clock’s ticking sounds like a frightening beat when a color of Dean’s dreams turns dark red.

Deep, artful cuts on a body are beautiful. The blood and tears of an ex-meat suit complete each other, forming the fluid where each crystal tear drop contains a red cell of blood. And it’s pure blood, the one that is not coagulated. It took so long to bring it to this level, and now it is perfection.

If you take a close look (and you should take a close look to appreciate the beauty), you will view the crystal blood drop as a new artwork, a new creation of your own. It feels like being God. Almost.

It takes a lot of time and effort to create something truly amazing and impressive.

Yeah, that is the correct word. Impressive.

But it is all worth it. When your work is done on a higher level, when you amaze yourself with the result of your exertions, you feel satisfied, and, in some way, even happy.

Dean takes two steps back and looks at the body in front of him. Such a lowly, ugly creature contains the sources that might be turned into something beautiful. Isn’t it disturbing?

“Skillful,” Alistair comes closer, standing by Dean’s side and eyeing his work in appreciation. “Your work is surpassing all my expectations.”

The pride in Alistair’s voice conflicts with his constant arrogance.

Dean lets his lips quirk upwards in a smile. He knows it without anyone mentioning it. Alistair’s words are just a statement of fact.

Still, he can let himself feel this thing, this pleasure of taking the appreciation from someone else, let this feeling run through his veins. It feels okay.

The body laid out before him moves slightly, sobbing, and Alistair raises his hand intending to touch him.

“Don’t,” Dean corrects Alistair in a quiet voice. “It’s my work.”

Even though Alistair turns his head to look at Dean with disapproval, he pulls his hand away from the one who once was a human.

Sweat breaks out on Dean’s forehead when he opens his eyes. Though the chasing memories make him want to run to the bathroom and vomit, Dean fights against his own body, trying to lay quietly, the throbbing of his heartbeat pounding loudly in his ears is the only sound he hears. He tries not to make any noise or sound, foreseeing Sam’s reaction and trying to prevent it. He’s not ready to deal with Sam’s worry as well. It’s just a nightmare, nothing to fuss about. But he’d better not to fall asleep again. Just a caution.

With his eyes wide open, Dean peers into the darkness of the room, busying himself with discerning the objects in front of him, hanging to the reality, desperately trying not to fall asleep.

Abruptly, his head jerks, and while opening his eyes, the panic rises in him like a tide when the realization that he drifted off hits him.

Under a looming shadow of desperation, Dean shifts to slide out from under Sam’s weight without disturbing his brother. He pulls Sam’s hand away from his hip and attempts to free himself. He perceives his failure as Sam’s hand tightens on his hip and succeeds in bringing Dean’s body back.

“Dean,” Sam says in a rough with sleep voice, the word is a hot breath on his neck.

Dean should lie still to avoid any explanation, but his mind is half-trapped in his nightmares, dreading, and his body starts pushing his brother off to get away.

In a second, Sam is on him, pinning him down with his weight and inspecting Dean’s face for answers. “What is it? Is it a nightmare?” Sam takes the meaning of worry to a whole new level.

Dean looks at his brother; his face blank, controlled, as the anger starts to fill the holes abandoned by fear, holding Dean’s sanity in one piece.

“Go to sleep, Sam,” the words are cold and harsh. He doesn’t have any soothing word for himself or anyone else.

“Dean.” His name comes out as a plea, and Dean’s had enough. It’s too early for any deep revelations and never a right time for opening up a can of worms. Right now, he hates Sam for his habit of never letting things go, not allowing for an easy way out.

Sam likes to dig deep; always has to look into your soul and know everything, eager to turn you upside down just to reveal the truth you don’t want to share. Sometimes, Dean misses dad’s way of dealing with a problem – to bury the problem, piss on its grave and forget.

Why can’t it be just as easy with Sam? Why the hell he can’t let it go?

“Just fucking go to sleep, Sam!” Dean growls, shoving his brother away, and almost sends him flying off the bed.

Dean gets out of the bed to sit on the edge of it, holding his head in his hands while turning his back to Sam. He intends to storm off, to take the keys and drive his baby somewhere far away from the nightmares and thoughts, from Sam’s questions, from Sam himself.

He just needs to be left alone and not be forced into feeling things. And Sam always takes so much of him. Always pushing him. Taking over him. Sometimes, it gets hard, sharing the same air, the same breath, one heart with Sam.

As Dean considers leaving, his heart starts to defy his mind, thumping violently in his chest, yearning to know how Sam is. It’s frustrating and annoying, and Dean scowls at himself. He doesn’t want to turn back, doesn’t want to face Sam just now.

But the mocking truth is that he craves to know if his brother is okay. It’s not even an instinct; it comes as natural as breathing. To breathe in and out - check. To watch over Sam – check.

Exasperated with himself, Dean glances over his shoulder to find Sam gazing back at him. Sam wears his heart on his sleeve; the hurt and confusion are written all over his face. And just like that, all Dean’s anger and frustration fly out the window. What he feels - it doesn’t matter anymore. Sam matters. Dean finds himself sitting there, helpless against Sam’s pain, fidgeting on the edge of the bed and fishing for the right words to say.

Dean has an awkward history of dealing with the words. Sam is the one who knows how manipulate words, turning them into weapons at his will. His wishes and desires will be screamed out loud till you give up yours or will be shoved down your throat after the silent treatment he gives you.

Dean, on the other hand, doesn’t trust words. Lies and betrayals are built up using words as their foundation. Dean trusts his eyes, his gut, and his actions are the ones that speak his mind.

In complete silence, Dean rolls back into bed and turns to face Sam, not touching him, just being closer.

“Let’s go back to sleep, Sam,” he offers, voice rough from tension.

Sam looks down at him, easily reading Dean’s intentions to let it go and forget. The stubbornness against giving way to Dean and his desire to give his brother what he needs are fighting for control over Sam.

Dean waits, intently watching Sam’s every move, eyes searching Sam’s face for signs of giving in. Patiently waiting for a change, waiting until - until he can’t anymore, until the desire to bring Sam close and hold on to him makes him clench his fists, digging his fingernails painfully into his palms and preventing himself from touching Sam.

“Sammy,” Dean says hoarsely, looking desperately at his brother, and that’s all it takes. All the walls are falling down, desperation and pain are ebbing away, and Dean can breathe without his heart ripping out. Sam throws himself down on Dean’s side, buries his head in the crook of Dean’s neck and mumbles the words that Dean understands without recognizing.

When an hour later Sam sits in the chair in front of the TV trying to look occupied, and hiding the fact that he’s actually watching Dean talk on the phone with Bobby, amazed by the tone of Dean’s voice as if everything is normal and peachy, he thinks about the nightmares Dean has, about the secrets Dean keeps from him, about the pain he buries deep inside, and he wonders how long it will take Dean’s breakdown to crush him, how fast Sam can heel him afterward.

Sam knows he can’t prevent Dean’s falling apart no matter how desperate and determined he is to stop any pain Dean feels or to kill anything that cause it. Dean won’t allow him, won’t let him see his vulnerability. All Sam can do is to wait and be ready whenever Dean needs him. And if it is breaking Sam inside, he won’t admit it.

Dean ends the call and comes closer to Sam, a smile on his lips. Sam looks at this practically shining Dean and, abruptly, his heart drops remembering the hollow days without his brother, being terrified of living without him. The reminder that now he can come close and simply touch, to feel Dean’s skin under his fingertips makes Sam take a deep breath and slowly breathe out, letting the feeling finally sink in, to erase the primal, uncontrollable fear of losing his brother again.

In this moment, Sam is deadly sure that the price for bringing his brother back was low.

Dean waits till Sam’s smile returns to his face and closes the distance between them. Dean places his right hand on Sam’s shoulder and gently pulls him up until their foreheads are touching; they look down, not closing their eyes, sharing the same steady breathing. The minutes pass by as they stand this way, letting go of four months, pulling the loneliness out and erasing Sam’s desperation lines off his forehead and his soul.

“Sammy,” Dean breathes out, lightly pulling Sam back far enough to look into his eyes, putting his right hand over Sam’s heart. “Bobby is on the way; he’ll be here soon to take us to meet some psychic, a friend of his. Before he does-“, Dean bites his lower lip, face determined. “You didn’t return my pendant. You have to tell me where my pendant is, yeah?” He nods hesitantly, not taking his eyes away.

Sam’s breath catches in his throat, but he doesn’t dare look away from Dean. Dean knew, Sam thinks, feeling a weight come off his shoulders. “Yeah,” Sam lets out a sigh of relief, covers Dean’s hand with his own and reaches to taste the trust from Dean’s lips. Thank you. “Yeah,” He says in return, letting the promise to linger on Dean’s lips.

TBC

Notes: I'm leaving for vacation, the next part will be posted by the end of the August. Sorry, guys.
And let me know what you think about this part))

Hilarious!

Wed, 29 Jul 2009 18:30:35 GMT

This vid is AWESOME!
Author's summary: Hitler reads spoilers for Supernatural's fifth season.
Even so, I'm not really on the same page about Misha/Cas stuff, but OMG!!! the other things were taken right out of my mouth.

Thinking

Mon, 20 Jul 2009 19:23:39 GMT

sometimes, i don't understand why the fuck do i keep on writing.

Happy birthday, Jared!

Sun, 19 Jul 2009 06:50:46 GMT

Aren't you a big boy now, Jay?
Though you're still a dorky dork)) Don't change.
Keep on shooting for the stars!
And let your love flow and show.

WE LOVE YOU!

Thank you.

Sat, 18 Jul 2009 22:39:23 GMT

I've received a poscard from deanvica23
It is so sweet and awesome!
Thank you so much, darling! *squishes you*

Heads up

Sat, 04 Jul 2009 22:50:10 GMT

As my sweet and amazing beta is on vacation (and I hope she'll have a lot of fun and rest there, she deserves it), the next part of "Hold me.." won't be posted till the end of the month.
But, I can give away a tiny spoiler))
One of the big revelations is coming in the next part with someone/something from the past.
Sorry, that's it((
So, any ideas?
C'mon, you can give it a try.

P.S. Also, huge thanks to the ones who are reading and leaving the comments *loves you all*

SPN fic: Hold Me While I’m Killing You (4/?)

Mon, 29 Jun 2009 18:54:52 GMT

Title: Hold Me While I’m Killing You (4/?)
Author: SanAnn
Pairing: Dean/Sam (established relationship)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2136
Beta: my one and only billysgirl5
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Summary: “When you were in Hell, all I could think about was you.” – “When I was in Hell, all I could think about was coming back to you.”
A/N: I wanted to write this story for a very long time, since the moment I knew that Sam wasn’t the one to bring Dean back.

Part IV

When you’re nineteen and horny and can’t take your girlfriend out to a movie premiere on Friday night when all of your friends are going, and it makes her bitch at you for a half hour with the promise of not getting any in the near future, because your perfect job behind a motel counter is more important than her, your life officially sucks.

An hour later, when your best entertainment is to count the cracks on the ceiling, your life still sucks. As you dream about coming back home and having some private time with the latest issue of Maxim, something weird happens. At first, you hear the screams and weird noises, and then, something in the air shifts, and it gets eerily quiet.

As you look around the lobby, confused and dumbfounded, trying to register any change, the annoyance starts to creep into you. You’re sure as hell this has something to do with that tall, weird guy.

Thing is, this guy checks in a week ago, and suddenly, it takes two minutes for every potential client to change their minds about staying here. And maybe you are overreacting, as your girlfriend has pointed out, but you saw The Silence of the Lambs; you know a psycho when you see one.

Then, the shorter guy moves in with him, and loads of money is shoved down your throat by the tall guy to not disturb them. As if you’re dumb enough to do anything to piss this guy off.

The shorter guy hasn’t come out of the room, and you suspect him dead and cut into pieces by his roommate, if not for the screams and headboard smashing against the wall loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. And if this guy is crazy enough to get involved with the bat-shit crazy lover of his, it’s not your problem.

So, now, you try to listen for any disturbing sound that may come, but nothing happens. You relax, sighing, and say into the emptiness of the room, “My life totally sucks.” And it does, royally, as you stay gaping like a fish, because no sound is coming from your mouth. Oh, fuck.

Dean sits on a bed beside his brother and screams out loud, straining his ears in attempt to indicate, at least, the squeak of his voice, but the deafening silence laughs at him, stretching and spreading its force over the room.

Dean moves away from Sam, uneasy and rushed, eyes looking everywhere but at his brother’s face, and tries to get his breathing under control, sitting on the edge of bed and counting from one to ten and back, eyes fixed on the wall.

It takes a couple minutes for the fear and confusion to lay low, and Dean briefly wonders if a person can explode without letting his emotions out.

Dean darts a look toward the window, feeling the burn of Sam’s eyes on his skin. Dean catches sight of birds flying and playing, wings flapping, and he swears he can see them singing, but there’s no sound. No sound at all. It’s like the half of the world is hidden from him, and he’s the one left to the empty nothingness. Alien to the world. Seems like hell found new ways to reach out for him.

Something close to a hysterical cry escapes his throat, and he cringes, anticipating hearing it out loud, but there’s nothing, just a puff of air and a shot of pain through his heart.

God, he wants to scream out loud, to strain his lungs and let it all out, to let his heart scream for him, to demand the answers from someone, from Sam. Damn, Sam owns him one hell of an explanation. But there’s just a silence eating up the room, greedy to swallow Dean’s questions and Sam’s answers.

Dean turns to look at Sam, turning his whole body to meet Sam’s gaze with an open and challenging gaze of his own. Dean’s anger is flaring on the surface and shielding the confusion that is hidden under his many layers.

Sam looks straight at Dean, not holding back. Then, he swallows as if something is stuck down his throat and it’s hard to breathe, and Dean can almost taste the soreness of his brother’s throat. His gaze follows Sam’s every movement.

Sam opens his mouth, lips moving, letting air ghost over his lips as he fights to frame a word. Dean recognizes his name in an instant, catching the shape of it before it fades away. Sam stubbornly repeats it one more time, his lower lip involuntary trembling. The third time, it comes with tears shining in Sam’s hazel eyes.

The fourth time is better; Dean’s name is a silent cry against Dean’s cheekbone, wet trails against his skin. Dean tries to catch Sam’s tears with his lips, take away the insulting weight of it and make them fade away, erasing the memory of it from Sam’s skin.

The stretching silence devours everything around making the world shrink to the size of the room, proclaiming the words overrated and useless.

When Dean enters Sam, no preparation, no teasing, just an urge to be in him, to possess each cell of his body, his skin burns with the restrained feeling. His blood thumps in his veins angrily, demanding to take control over the silence.

Dean’s body knows only one way out of it. Dean digs his fingers into his brother’s slim hips, lifting them, pulling almost all the way out and slamming into his brother with a muted grunt.

Sam opens his mouth, eyes wide and open, and arches his back, inviting to take him deeper.

Dean’s second thrust is rougher, words rushing through his skin into Sam’s. What have you done to yourself?

Sam sobs silently as another thrust follows unexpectedly fast. What the hell did you do, Sammy?

Dean doesn’t let Sam find comfort in touching Dean. He slaps Sam’s hand away, gripping his brother’s wrists tightly one with one hand, pinning them above Sam’s head.

The next several thrusts are hurried questions, outranging each other. Were the whispers about you in hell were true? Were they right about me? Who are you now? Who am I? What did they do to us?

The thrusts become frantic, and the world spins around them, pressing them with its weight.

Dean comes first, he fills Sam completely and pulls out to paint Sam’s ass with his rest of his come.

As Sam opens his mouth to beg silently, Dean sucks on his own fingers and then pushes three of them into Sam’s ass, watching Sam intently while hitting his prostate over and over again. It doesn’t take long for Sam to grab hold of Dean by his hair, pulling his brother’s head down to cover his mouth in a rough kiss and finally shoot on both their bodies.

As they both lie trembling, Dean is a solid weight on Sam’s body; Sam summons all his strength to wrap his hands around his brother.

One state away from Winchesters, there is an old house on the side of the road near the filling station, dark and silent. The clacking sounds of the grasshoppers’ wings are the only sounds to disturb the peaceful night.

On the second floor of the house, inside the bedroom, a man in mid-30s, the proud owner of the filling station, lies on a bed, convulsing. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling, his throat is cut open and the blood is painting the snow white sheets underneath him.

The clock on the wall is ticking quietly, striking 2:00 a.m.

The bed dips as Meg sits down next to the man. An irritated line crosses Meg’s forehead as she casually pushes away the man’s hand without looking back at him in order to sit properly.

Meg concentrates on a goblet in her hands, smiling warmly as she starts to swirl the blood with her finger.

The moon through the window lights her form as she chants in Latin, the blind faith and devotion are evident upon her face. The man’s rattle accompanies the chanting, coloring her words with death’s signs.

The minutes pass by, and the rattle stops. The Latin words are the only sounds left to fill the room.

The wind is kissing Meg’s lips as she pauses, and after, it takes away one word from Meg’s mouth, “Brother.”

Meg slowly pulls out her index finger from the goblet, blood dipping from the painted-black nail. She tilts her head to the side to catch the drops of the blood with her tongue, and then, places the finger between her pink lips licking away the blood.

“Tom.” she whispers, eyes black. She sits on the bed in silence, unmoving, watching the sun rise.

As the sun light breaks through the window in a useless try to warm up Meg and the lifeless body behind her, exposing the blood stains on the sheet, Meg closes her eyes and lets out a little sigh.

Another morning for Bobby starts with a call from his fellow hunter.

Bobby pulls the covers away, rolling out of bed, and half-blindly reaches for his cap, pulling it on, before reaching for his cell phone on the night stand.

It’s not the alarm clock to wish for, and there’s no snooze button. Though he’s not one to complain, he has experienced worse substitutions for a wake up clock.

As Bobby’s mind concentrates on the received information and processes the facts, he steps into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.

As it turns out, some strange activity was registered in the south where a couple of towns went silent for hours, with TV cables and phone lines switched off, and people unable to hear each other.

Bobby finishes the talk and sips his coffee, looking out the window, wondering what wheels are working and how fast he can reach one of the named towns and visit the Winchester boys. Damn! Boys.

Sam’s voice returns to him when Dean fucks him for the third time in a row, and Sam is too fucked out to register his own please coming out in a whisper.

Through blurry eyes, Sam watches as Dean keeps pounding into him, rough and merciless, not easing up, and Sam thinks that his heart might stop any minute, but his fingers tug at Dean’s hair, bringing him closer, while turning his head aside and purposely exposing his neck for Dean’s bites and licks.

Sam hisses as Dean catches sensitive skin with his teeth, burning the mark into Sam’s neck and not bothering to lick away the pain.

Sam’s legs are almost sliding off Dean’s slick with sweat shoulders. Sam tries to concentrate on clutching onto his brother, but Dean is the one to keep Sam in place, in one piece. Dean’s body is pressing Sam’s down, come and sweat are the combined mess between their bodies, and Dean is like a constant owner of Sam’s body, keeping him from breaking apart until Dean lets him fall into million pieces for Dean to pick up.

When they both come, unexpectedly crying out loud, they find their own voices alien and strange, intruding on the bubble they locked themselves into.

After, they lay in silence on the bed, bodies close to feel the heat of the other’s body, but not close enough to touch, sated and worn out, both more than willing to postpone the inevitable questions.

When the silence changes, taking the intense notes, starting to separate them, Dean turns his head wanting to catch Sam’s every expression, and offers a peace for both of them.

“The voice I’ve heard when-”, Dean starts, eyes fixed on Sam. In the back of his mind, he registers that the world is filling with sounds, but the most important thing is still here, with him.

“Castiel,” Sam helps him, turning on his side to face Dean properly, the bed dipping under his weight.

Dean’s forehead wrinkles with lines of confusion. And Sam is the only one who has the right to witness Dean lost and uncertain. “How could I - Was I suppose to hear him?”

“No,” Sam answers straight away. “And I don’t know how or why it happened.”

Dean believes, without a doubt, that Sam is sincere, but the fog in his head isn’t clearing. “What is he doing visiting your head?”

Sam winces but doesn’t take his gaze away from Dean. “It’s the angels’ way of controlling my actions.”

Dean considers Sam’s answer. Knowing what a stubborn son of a bitch his brother is, something is definitely wrong with that. Dean gives Sam with a doubtful look, “Huh. Does it work?”

And predictably, the smug smile spreads across Sam’s face. Bastard. “No, but they believe it is.”

TBC

Happy Birthday, Chris!

Sat, 27 Jun 2009 09:35:20 GMT

I love this man like... I don't know, it's beyond the words.
It's been more than seven years since I fell in love with the guy (Lindsey, yeah).
I wish him to have the BEST, and never change.
You are one crazy motherfucker and we love you!

SPN fic: Hold Me While I’m Killing You (3/?)

Tue, 16 Jun 2009 20:39:40 GMT

Title: Hold Me While I’m Killing You (3/?)
Author: SanAnn
Pairing: Dean/Sam (established relationship)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2089
Beta: my one and only billysgirl5
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Summary: “When you were in Hell, all I could think about was you.” – “When I was in Hell, all I could think about was coming back to you.”
A/N: I wanted to write this story for a very long time, since the moment I knew that Sam wasn’t the one to bring Dean back.

Part III

Dean slowly takes the knife away from Meg’s throat and half turns to meet his brother’s eyes.

“Forgot to fill me in on some details, huh?” Dean’s voice is balanced and calm.

Sometimes Dean is like the unseen weather that gets eerily quiet right before the storm, gathering his strength before attacking.

Now, Sam looks through his brother’s carefully constructed walls and finds anger and fear, a hint of betrayal that lays hidden from everyone but Sam to see.

And Sam has to make sure that Dean is not a vessel to contain these feelings. Sam blinks and comes closer to Dean, not tearing his eyes away from him. Sam puts his palm flat against Dean’s tattoo, feeling the heat of Dean’s skin through the layers, the loud pounding of his heart combined with the racing beat of the tattoo.

For a moment, Sam thinks he can feel the blood pumping through Dean’s veins, red and thick.

Dean slowly, ever so slowly, exhales, and his breath hitches. He looks at Sam and closes his eyes, and Sam follows him into the dark, closing his eyes as well.

It’s a comforting darkness with the sensation of Dean surrounding him. Even through the layers, Dean’s skin under Sam’s palm feels smooth, familiar and so Dean.

Sam presses his palm harder, trying to smooth the waves of anger and discontent that comes from Dean. He shuts his eyes tighter, trying to concentrate on Dean’s feelings, to let him know, make him understand what Sam feels.

Sam’s negotiating skills and his ability to convince people to listen to him was always his strong suit. It has helped him to get through his school years while bouncing from one place to another, through Stanford. Unfortunately, it has never worked on Dean. Words are never enough for Dean.

Ironically, now Dean is the only reason for Sam to use his skills.

Sam focuses on calming his own breathing, coaxing Dean to follow his lead. Then, Sam takes notice of every move of Dean’s skin against his palm, anticipating any change.

After a few moments, Dean’s heartbeat is getting quieter, and Sam can’t wait any longer. He opens his eyes, anxious to see the proof of the changes with his own eyes. Dean opens his eyes at the same time, and Sam watches as the anger in his eyes fades away, replaced by warmth and love, so much love that, all of the sudden, Sam wants to close his eyes again, overwhelmed by the flood of emotions.

The fear passes within a second, and Sam looks back, letting Dean see and take everything Sam has to offer.

Dean studies him, eyes bright, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and it feels right. That is the only way Dean should look. Happy and stupidly in love, and so beautiful that Sam can lose himself in his brother.

The thought is burning fiercely in the back of Sam’s mind, smugly reminding him that he can give Dean everything, much more than just the world on a platter. In answer, Sam notices, absentmindedly, that it’s not what his Dean needs.

Unexpectedly, Sam hears a gasp coming from his right side, and he turns in confusion to find Meg. The recognition in her eyes mixes with understanding, and Sam watches her, unkindly, his eyes turning into the slits.

He takes a step toward her, his movements smooth and fast. What she saw, it was only for the two of them to have, and he’s not willing to share them with anyone else.

Sam tries to stand one step closer to her than Dean, but not in front of his brother. He knows better than to act like he’s shielding Dean; truth to be told, he is, but Dean won’t be happy accepting the fact.

Sam feels Dean’s tension without looking back. At the moment, his hunter’s habits must be screaming to kill a demon without asking any questions, and there’s only one obstacle between Dean and Meg. It’s Sam, and Dean won’t make a move until Sam is out of harm’s way.

Sam keeps looking at Meg. The tension doesn’t do anything but help to deepen his scowl, and he just wants her gone.

Meg tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and glares at Sam. “A deal is a deal. You will help me to bring my brother back”. As she states her demand, Sam looks at her. A frown crosses his forehead as he catches a glimpse of despair and something else that he can’t identify in her eyes, and it’s pretty damn unnerving until he gets why.

She reminds him of someone. His mind recalls the flashing images with the same look in the eyes, the ones he saw each time he took a look in the mirror: Sam-four months earlier, Sam-two months earlier, Sam-yesterday, the same dead to the world Sam – Sam-without-Dean.

He takes a long, hard look at her, watching as the understanding sinks in, the despair in her eyes changes to hope with a side of suspiciousness.

She knows he’ll help. At the moment, it’s good enough for her.

Meg leaves without looking back.

Dean doesn’t look at Sam. He hasn’t said a word since Meg left, and Sam accepts it, knowing he deserves it.

Unfortunately, the part of him that beats loudly in his chest doesn’t get it; his silly, uncomprehending heart is torn up, feeling unsure and rejected.

Sam sits on the edge of the bed, intently watching as Dean flips through the channels on the opposite bed. The heavy silence is starting to get to Sam, but he waits for Dean to make a first move.

Abruptly, Dean turns the TV off, stands up to put his leather jacket on, and turns to face Sam.

Sam’s stomach drops, and he fails at keeping the panic out of his voice. “You’re going somewhere?” It’s stupid. Of course he is. But this can’t be happening. Sam’s heart can’t quiet down.

“I need to take a walk,” Dean shoves his hands deep in his jacket pockets and looks away.

Sam’s heart falters. No, you don’t, NO.

He tries to catch Dean’s eyes. Gotta know what’s on his mind. But Dean is studiously avoiding his stare.

“Where?” Sam asks hollowly, feeling miserable and stupid. He tries to get his heartbeat under control and to balance his fears and trust in Dean like a house of cards, but he’s afraid it will come tumbling down the moment Dean steps out the door. It’s too soon.

Sam’s eyes cast down, folding his hands in his lap. He doesn’t want to hear a needless answer; he wants Dean to be here, to stop leaving him.

“Sam,” Dean offers gently taking a step closer to his brother. Sam glances up to meet Dean’s confident and firm look. Sam would believe it if not for Dean’s hand jingling the keys in his pocket.

“I was going for more booze and a local newspaper. Have to catch up with the news, Sammy.” Dean says half smiling, eyes serious.

The words fail to keep some resemblance of truth. They fall between them, odd and out of place, and they both notice it, eyes locking.

But it’s just Dean shielding himself, not lying to his brother, and Sam is not gonna call him on it.

Sam sighs, carrying the need to set words free as the burning inside becomes almost unbearable, “Stay - just stay.”

He manages to not choke on the words and to restrain himself from clutching at Dean and not letting go.

Not taking his eyes away from Sam, Dean comes even closer, nudges Sam’s knees with his own until Sam spreads his legs allowing Dean to stand between them.

Sam has to tilt his head back to look at his brother. Dean’s hazel eyes are so close, inspecting him, searching for some answer.

Dean seems satisfied with what he finds as he reaches out to squeeze Sam’s shoulder reassuringly.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You almost did.” Sam’s answer is covered up by a small sigh he breathes out.

“Hey, you have to let me go sometimes, y’know, like to get drunk or to take a piss after.” Dean hides behind the cocky smile. I can take care of myself hangs heavy in the air between them, and Sam can’t hold the pressure anymore. He looks down, eyes closed, trying to get a grip of himself.

He clenches his teeth in attempt to prevent himself from spilling his heart out loud, they sent you to hell, Dean, and I had to live without you, and I can’t bare it anymore.

Instead, he settles with a simple “Not without me,” and he hopes that Dean will take the suffocating words out of his throat and hear him.

Dean is silent, moving to cradle Sam’s face with his hands, forcing Sam to tilt his head and look into Dean’s eyes.

“Yeah, ‘kay. Got it, Sammy.” Dean says in hoarse voice, without any hint of smile, and bends down to kiss Sam.

The hours are passing by as they both lay in bed in complete silence with Sam’s back to Dean’s front, Dean’s hand possessively tight on Sam’s stomach, Dean’s soft breathing against Sam’s neck.

The blanket fails to cover them completely, but the heat of their bodies is enough to make their temples glisten with beads of sweat.

Sam lays with eyes open, arm covering Dean’s hand on his stomach, intently listening to Dean’s heartbeat after losing count somewhere around two thousand and four thumps.

Dean is asleep, his quiet breathing a safe leader for Sam’s breath to follow.

Dean’s heartbeat starts lulling Sam back to sleep when the familiar voice speaks to him. “Time to fulfill your promise, Sam.”

Sam shuts his eyes tight, trying to shield himself from the intruding voice by mentally voicing his displeasure towards the source of the voice.

“I find your behavior unacceptable. We expect you to follow through with our arrangement.” Castiel’s voice is flat, but Sam is not deluded by the tone of it. When it comes to angels, the words are what he needs to concentrate on, not the emotions. He would give it more thought if his mind wasn’t fixed only on one creature of a God.

Sam answers without opening his mouth, careful not to disturb Dean, “I’ll give you what you want, no need to force me into it-” He pauses for a second and continued dryly, “considering how unsuccessful the try would be.”

Castiel’s voice is stronger, “You are forgetting one thing, Sam. I was the one who dragged your brother out of hell, and I can easily-”

Sam doesn’t let him finish, the instantaneous fury inside him lets out a loud scream towards the voice, towards the darkness the voice came from, and his body begins to shake lightly under the pressure of the violent force he passes through himself.

The blow he receives in answer is powerful and unexpected. The pain shoots through him, and Sam curls in on himself for a moment, gasping. The dark oblivion threatens to swallow him, and Sam fights back against his own body, his shell, for not blacking out while meeting another attack from Castiel.

“Sammy, what is it? Sammy!” Dean comes into his view, and Sam is immediately grasping Dean’s shoulder for support.

“We just need you to be reasonable, Sam.” Inside his head Castiel states as if he’s not trying to slaughter Sam like a wild animal.

Sam concentrates on fighting back, collecting his strength, but, startlingly, Dean is the one to answer, “Leave him the fuck alone”. Dean screams into emptiness of the room, watching Sam, eyes wide in panic.

Sam’s senses sharpen, and suddenly, there’s need and desire for Dean coming from every cell of his blood. He looks at Dean and finds the same wild urge in his eyes.

Dean covers Sam’s body with his own, leaving no inch between. For a moment, there’s only the sensation of blood pumping and tattoos beating out the same rhythm. And then, they share the same breath, mouths finding each other.

And it happens. The unnatural, primal strength from the depth of their bodies comes to the surface, hanging in the air above them, then flashing for seconds, lighting up the room, and disappearing into the air, destroying all the sounds around them.

They break the kiss to look at each other, eyes wide open; their hard breathing is the only companion of the silence.

TBC

Writing

Sun, 14 Jun 2009 12:11:20 GMT

Oh God, I wanna write Stanford-fic.
I wanna write Dean visiting his brother from time to time without anyone knowing, wanna write them hiding and spending days at motels, 'coz the nights Sam shares with Jess. It'd be so angsty...

Weeds

Sat, 13 Jun 2009 15:09:04 GMT

I can't believe I'm watching season 5 already.
It is such a crazy show, and I'm enoying all the crazy storylines))

Also, I think Mary Louise Parker has a wonderful character to play.

SPN fic: Hold Me While I’m Killing You (2/?)

Thu, 04 Jun 2009 18:10:34 GMT

Title: Hold Me While I’m Killing You (2/?)
Author: SanAnn
Pairing: Dean/Sam (established relationship)
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2860
Beta: my one and only billysgirl5
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Summary: “When you were in Hell, all I could think about was you.” – “When I was in Hell, all I could think about was coming back to you.”
A/N: I wanted to write this story for a very long time, since the moment I knew that Sam wasn’t the one to bring Dean back.

Part II

Sam watches as the lights of the dawn try to sneak into the room through the thick window curtain. He throws an irritated glance towards the window as his hand flies to hover in the air over Dean’s eyes, shielding him from the intruding lights.

Dean has slept for seven hours now, Sam notes after glancing at the clock hanging on the wall. For Sam, it was seconds turning into minutes, and after several hours, he lost all sense of time. Somewhere along the way, it all turned into Dean-being-here. Sam wraps himself in this feeling, like a warm blanket; his senses are like the quiet waves lapping up against the fresh wood of the boat, of his Dean.

Sam looks down at Dean sleeping peacefully on his back, with the sheet settled over his lower half. Sam's hand is not enough to protect Dean's sleep from the sun, so Sam gingerly turns Dean over onto his side in order to keep him away from the sun’s rays.

As Dean starts snoring lightly, a smile appears on Sam’s face. As if nothing has changed…

Sam’s stomach rumbles, waking him, reminding him that it has been empty for hours, but Sam easily ignores it. He watches absentmindedly for an hour as the room sinks into the darkness, his mind a quiet, comforting place.

All of the sudden, a scream breaks the silence making Sam’s calming state shatter into tiny pieces.

“Dean, Dean,” Sam lightly shakes his brother’s shoulder, but Dean is trapped in his own nightmare. He keeps screaming without waking up, and Sam's despair is starting to cloud his mind, his lips move silently 'wake up, please, wake up'.

Suddenly, Dean’s eyes fly open, the fear and shock written all over his face, and Sam swallows his own panic, forcing himself to relax, placing his brother's needs before his own. Dean needs me.

Dean looks at Sam for a long moment. His stare is getting calmer, but then something in his eyes shifts, and his stare freezes. After several minutes of complete silence and heavy breathing as Sam tries really hard not to panic, Dean looks aside and stumbles out of bed, throwing the sheet away as if it's to blame.

Dean steps toward the window and stands still, leaving a dumbfounded Sam behind.

Sam looks at his brother, his gaze shifting from Dean's tense back to his clenched fists.

"Dean?" Sam says quietly.

"Bad dream," Dean states the obvious.

"How bad?" Sam knows he’s pushing his luck, but he's scared. He needs to know what causes Dean’s pain, to hunt and kill it later. It's pretty simple these days.

“Sam,” Dean sighs, not turning his back, “just forget it.”

Sam opens his mouth to start his whole speech, but Dean’s mind works faster. “Sam!”

Sam hears the finality in his name, but then, Dean turns to face him and says in a soothing tone, “It’s nothing, just forget it.”

Sam’s mouth twitches as he looks at Dean.

“For now.” Dean adds, and Sam nods, accepting. For now.

Sam orders in, not wanting to leave the room or drag his brother to some crappy place to eat. He’s not willing to share his brother with anyone, not now.

By the time a pizza and the six-pack of beer are brought to the door, Dean is occupied on the bed watching some show on TV with a guy running away from the cops.

Sam tips the delivery guy, and arms full, kicks the door shut with his foot. It earns him a quick glance from Dean, and Sam catches his brother’s questioning look before Dean turns away, mask slipping firmly into place. His rigid posture tells Sam that Dean is trying to pretend as though the look he gave Sam was a figment of his little brother’s girly imagination.

Sam looks at Dean’s profile, considering his options of getting an honest answer from his brother, but it seems insignificant in comparison with Dean’s state of mind, so Sam lets it go.

Sam has never had any control over his feelings toward his brother. It was always a wild dance of burning sensations sprouting up from his core, and after understanding it, after his lousy attempt to hide from it in Stanford, it got easier. Now, Sam will simply let Dean get away with anything, as long as it keeps Dean happy.

“So, who’s winning?” Sam flops on the bed next to Dean, and Dean fixes him with a glare and “easy, jumbo”. Sam shrugs unapologetically and turns around to empty his hands onto the bed behind them, taking two bottles of beer for Dean and himself.

Dean talks like Sam is ten again and teaching him to throw knives, the main rule - patience. “’s not a game, Sammy. It’s a shitty TV show about cops, and according to TV, the cops always win. Now, hand me the pizza, Sammish!” Dean takes the beer from Sam, chuckling to himself.

Sam smiles back at Dean even though his brother’s attention is back on the TV. The old nickname reminds Sam of the times when he was a kid, when things were black and white, demons were the bad guys and humans were the good guys, and you knew who you were. Now, there’s only one thing he has to hold on to – Dean. Dean was the ground Sam’s world stood on when he was a kid. Some things never change.

They sit in silence as they both try to concentrate on the poor bastard that is unsuccessfully trying to play hide-and-seek with the cops, and they pretend that it’s just one more ordinary day, that Dean didn’t come back from Hell, and Sam doesn’t want to lock them in the room and throw away the key.

Sam lets Dean eat almost all of the pizza while they finish the pack of beer and fails at keeping his eyes away from his brother. Dean acts like nothing’s wrong, that Sam isn’t trying to burn a hole in him, and Sam is profoundly grateful. Sam thinks he may stay this way forever.

Dean fidgets next to him, and Sam notices it, frowning, snapping out his bliss. “Sam,” Dean says in a quiet, tired voice as if he’s struggling with himself, turning to face him, “How did you bring me back?”

The unexpected question doesn’t give Sam enough time to build the lie, to postpone the truth. The oxygen leaves Sam’s lungs, and he tries to calm his breathing and force his mind to come out with the half-truth and hold off Dean’s inevitable storming out.

“I know you had something to do with it,” Dean continues matter-of-factly, but Sam hears loud and clear Dean’s desperate, “Don’t you tell me that you made a deal with a demon.”

And Sam wants to laugh. He’s gone much further than just dealing with demons. He always knew Dean wouldn’t approve it, and sitting here now, when he’s got his hands dirty with angels and demons, Heaven and Hell, with the mess just getting started, and Sam being the reason, he doesn’t give a damn. Dean is here.

“I didn’t sell my soul, Dean,” Sam says, and it’s truth. It’s what Dean wants to know, and Sam is not lying to him about that.

Sam leans in to brush his finger across the arch of Dean’s cheekbone. Dean’s eyelashes flutter, and Sam hesitates for a second, his mind tries to break through to him, reminding him that no, it’s not his imagination, no more imaginary Dean, and Sam surrenders, throwing up the white flag.

“Dean”, he whispers into Dean’s mouth before devouring his mouth. It’s been too long, way too long, and Sam can’t stop the despair and loneliness from seeping into his kisses, urging him to bite Dean’s lips, making Dean bleed into Sam’s mouth to color their kiss with metallic taste and red paint.

They fall down on the bed, smashing the empty pizza box and pushing it away. The thumps of their hearts and the tattoos are getting stronger, the loud beat of it is deafening. They’re cutting themselves off from the world, drowning in each other, surrounded by the loud drumming, giving in to the entanglement of lust and longing.

It feels like breaking the first sin, it feels like giving birth to love.

Dean wakes up to the sounds of raindrops violently beating against the windows. The room feels cold, and Dean shivers under the blanket, missing the warmth of Sam’s body. For a second, he’s tempted to cover himself with the blanket from head to toe and go back to sleep.

Sammy? Dean blinks his eyes open to find Sam sitting on the bed close to him, legs crossed underneath his body.

The minute Dean’s focus is clear, he feels the thick tension that fills the room, and he doesn’t know if it is from the anger with which the rain lashes the windows, wanting to drown the whole world or from Sam’s piercing gaze that is fixed on Dean’s naked shoulder.

“Sam?” Dean asks baffled, moving to sit up against the headboard, blanket sliding down.

“What is it?” Sam darkly spits out the words and brushes his fingers over the mark on Dean’s shoulder as if it’s some nasty alien slug.

“You tell me,” Dean answers steadily, crossing his arms and eyeing his brother carefully, sensing the unspoken truth hanging in the air. Sam clearly forgot to fill some holes of his coming back, and Dean is serious about getting some honest answers.

“He marked you. The bastard marked you.” Sam chokes on his own anger.

A tiny shudder runs through Dean’s body. Dean blames the freezing room and not the force with which his brother’s fingers are digging into his shoulder.

Sam is unconscious of it, focusing on the mark. His fingers are scratching Dean’s shoulder trying to wipe off the offensive mark.

“Sam!” Dean shouts, catching his brother’s wrist.

Sam glances up at Dean, his eyes give away the tangled up hurt and intransigence.

“Care to explain yourself?” Dean asks in a guarded voice, taking control of his growing anger. He gives Sam one last chance before he starts shouting. And God help him, his patience is slipping away.

“Castiel,” Sam breathes out.

And Dean doesn’t like the name. He’s pretty sure it’s not a name a human would be given.

“What have you gotten yourself into?” Dean grabs Sam by the shoulders wanting to shake him hard. Instead, he just tightens his grip hoping that Sam will understand how close he is to getting his ass kicked, “No demons, you said.”

Sam looks away, and Dean doesn’t find it assuring at all. “Castiel is not a demon.”

“Then, who the fuck is he?” Dean snaps, frustrated at receiving the unexpected answer. His mind is already at work processing the new information. Dean wonders how bad it is, is there any way to get Sam off the hook, and what does it have to do with all the whispers he heard in Hell.

“He’s a servant of the Lord.” Sam answers with a strained smile, and Dean doesn’t find it funny.

Dean studies Sam’s face, searching for the details that Sam could willfully leave out, and comes up empty, “Come again?”

“He’s an angel, Dean.” Sam rubs his hand over his face, sighing. His face is set in a stubborn gaze when he meets Dean’s eyes.

Sam continues in a mocking voice, “Big, bad demons couldn’t do shit to bring you back. They didn’t want to do it, no matter which ways I exploited to help them change their minds.” He laughs bitterly. “So, I just had to find another way. Any way would do.”

“Sammy,” Dean fights the urge to bring his brother closer and kiss away the lines of hurt on Sam’s forehead. He stays frozen, the words wanting to come out of his mouth are useless, and he prefers to listen to what else Sam has stored in that head of his.

“Don’t make me to lie to you and say that I’m sorry, that I didn’t know what I was doing.” Sam’s jaw tightens. Dean has witnessed this before; he knows that Sam is well on his way to getting pissed. “I know nothing comes free, especially from higher powers, but I dare them to come and take you away from me one more time, and we’ll see…”

Sam’s eyes darken with rage, and as Dean looks at Sam’s almost pitch black eyes on a face painted over with revenge, he startles with fear, uncontrollably. Dean blinks trying to chase away the image. It’s just Sammy, his Sammy.

“Sammy,” he says reaching up and touching his brother’s lips with his own. The feeling of Sam’s warm lips against his own helps, it gives him the solid ground, the proof that it’s them even if they’re shattered into pieces and some pieces are not as pure as they used to be.

When they kiss, when Dean’s tongue explores Sam’s mouth, all the thoughts about demons and angels shut down, and going with the high that comes with how good it feels, loving Sam’s taste in his mouth, Dean doesn’t give a damn about anything else.

Sam breaks the kiss to look into Dean’s eyes. “They can’t have you. I refuse to let them have you.” Sam whispers as if he’s sharing a secret, as if Dean doesn’t know. And Dean knows Sam means more, he means killing if he has to, he means hell on earth if he has to. Dean closes his eyes, not wanting Sam to see the pain in his eyes or to reveal the ugly truth that Dean has accepted the way they are a long time ago.

Later, they fuck on the dirty sheets, with Sam being needy and begging for harder and please, and Dean locks all the gentle feelings towards his brother in his mind’s closet, pressing Sam’s face in the pillow and fucking his ass in earnest, leaving bruises, and then coming inside of Sam.

When Dean slides off of Sam and falls down to lie beside him, when Sam snuggles closer to kiss Dean’s closed eyelids, Dean can’t think of any other pure thing that anyone could witness.

Sam is showering with the bathroom door open, and Dean lets him have it, noising in the room as much as possible, allowing Sam to hear him even through the running water. I don’t want to think that you’d disappear once I let you out of my sight, Dean.

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door, and a woman’s voice declares “housekeeping”. They’ve never stayed in a room that provides such service, so Dean calls out “in a minute”, pulling out the knife from the bottom of Sam’s bag and hoping that it’s something that can be killed with a knife, throwing a glance toward the bathroom before opening the door.

What Dean finds behind the door is a cute, tiny brunette smiling up at him, unarmed. Dean registers the short, boyish haircut and well-toned body when he lets her in and then proceeds to slam her against the wall, bringing the knife up to hold against her neck.

“Good to see you, too, Dean.” The girl keeps smiling at him.

Dean smiles back, cold-blooded, pressing the knife a bit harder, cutting deeper, making red drops paint her pale skin. “Sorry, I don’t remember being introduced to you, sugar.”

Girl doesn’t even flinch; a mocking smile curls at her lips. “My feelings are hurt, Dean, as I remember you being kinky and all…” She cocks an eyebrow at him.

Sam chooses this moment to come out of the bathroom. Dean hears Sam’s approaching steps and expects him to get the picture and not to do anything stupid as Dean’s whole attention concentrates on the girl in front of him.

“Dean,” Sam makes his name sound like four syllables of remorse, and some of Dean’s attention slips to his brother. He darts a glance towards him and back, still holding the girl in place.

“You know her?” Dean asks, trying to keep the indignation out of his voice and not let his feelings push the knife deeper and slit her throat.

“Meg,” Sam asks, voice dripping with irritation and displeasure, “why did you come here?” He comes closer to stand beside his brother, and Dean hopes that Sam will keep some distance as his fists are itching to speak for him, for being fucked over, for being lied to, once again, by Sam.

“Well, you don’t write, you don’t call. What else is a girl to do?” Meg keeps her mocking gaze locked on Dean, though she answers to Sam.

“Meg!” Sam commands, his voice is colder than the blade against her throat. And that makes the girl twitch.

Dean stares in astonishment, catching the flicker of the fear in her eyes before she gets a grip on herself and turns to look at Sam.

Meg’s voice is filled with insistence when she speaks. “Now that you have your brother back, Sam, it’s time to talk about bringing back mine.”

Part III

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Sun, 31 May 2009 15:11:08 GMT

Sometimes, all this fandom craziness gets to me and starts wearing me out.