I'm trying to scrub out my writing space so I can either trash things or finish them. But as I was going through things to trash, they started sounding like a deranged sex diary, so... I turned them into a deranged sex diary.
Title: Deranged Sex Diary
Genre: experimental, found fiction, Stanford!era through S7
Pairings: Sam/Dean, Dean/random girl, Dean/another random girl, Sam/Jess, Dean/Castiel, Sam/Lucifer
Summary: Sam and Dean share a sex diary. Mostly, they fuck other people. Sometimes entities. Sometimes each other. Not all of it is intentional.
Palo Alto, 2002
The things Dean loves most, with that searing, hell-or-high-water intensity of his, he doesn't really understand--never will.
Sam flickers always at the edges of his comprehension.
"I have a twin," she says, and that's really all it takes. This is around the time that great white bras with lace were popular, as were overalls. As were baggy jeans. These were simpler times.
She's a dancer--folklorico--and she bends like a rosary, snaking her arms down Dean's jeans and raking her fingers back up his thighs. She has his dick between her thumbs by the time Dean's pooled her overalls at her hips, unclasps her bra with barely a touch. His hot tongue at her neck.
She doesn't believe in God, the way her mother did (before she left him for the coyotes in that desert), but God must believe in her, because
Carolina. Senorita Carolina Perez. He will always remember because it was prettier than Caroline, somehow, but
Blackwater Ridge, Colorado, 2005
Skulls lead their way, as they do. Great clefts of round white rock, cradled by the black skeletons of trees. These dance, or their shadows do, as the clouds shift and the moon bounces above them.
"Danse macabre," Jess sings, trill of tequila in her throat and a candied skull in her hand.
And then she's gone, the colors and the twang of acoustic strings and the light and the smell of her shampoo--apple-sharp just under the haze of burnt sugar, caramelizing bones--and the way she doesn't quite smile at him, those are all gone.
Sam sweeps through pine mush and horizons of dirt in wet sneakers and tries not to have too many conversations with the dead.
Pontiac, Illinois, 2008
he tries not to have too many conversations with the dead
he tries not to
Pontiac, Illinois, 2008
It's the hands that give him away.
They're not his, not really; not scrubbed pink like that, or clipped neat like that. Not new like that. They tense, hard fists, when Sam roundhouses them into the damp, dark soil, but they still come up flush and tender.
You can tell Dean's hands from the dust that's settled into every line and ground stories into every fingerprint----forty-eight states and a hundred times as many unpaved backroads.
These aren't his.
Sam jabs an elbow between Dean's shoulder blades, his other hand clawed over a bicep. His knee rides Dean's lower back as it bucks and ripples beneath him, but he's got Dean locked down and Dean isn't going anywhere. Musculature's got nothing on the bludgeoning panic driving Sam.
"You're not going anywhere, Dean," he says, too quiet to be heard and too breathless to be convincing.
(if he says it aloud, it's true
he just has to say it aloud
His head sinks down to Dean's nape, and he can taste the sweat in Dean's hair when he breathes in, feel Dean go rigid under his exhalation. Forehead to skull, Sam rocks with the syncopated irregularity of both their breaths.
Faint pulse of muscle and tendon as Dean's jaw clenches, unclenches. And again. The motion rolls down his body. Sam just breathes.
He keeps Dean pinned until the protestations beneath him weaken. The energy goes out of both of them like warmth in wind. When Sam lifts his head, he smells ocean, and beachrot, and mulch. It reminds Sam of grave dirt, but lately everything does.
San Diego, 2011
It's raining, the way it rains in San Diego. Ceiling at 80; in four hours it's 45 and there's thunder over the water, with it the lightning you can't see, whited out the fog and the marine layer.
Or it could just be Castiel. "You smell like the bottom of a lake," says Dean, flicking water from his hand where Castiel's trenchcoat slapped against it. He watches water bead around his form, motel linen turned strangely plastic. The water floats on the skin of things, never quite touches them.
"The Flood in Heaven."
"Oh." Which yeah, is pretty dumb, but what the fuck are you supposed to say?
After the fifteen seconds it take for Nothing to slide into Awkward, Dean bequeaths the bed to Cas and gropes for a jacket. "Sam said something about a...trolley...line down to Chula Vis--"
Clammy-moist, rain skin. O O O O like a fish, uneven pressure. It's not until Dean feels a hot, slick nib of tongue minnow between his teeth that Dean realizes it's a kiss. Not the best, except that it kinda is, and fuck it's too late in the week for Dean to be good on thinking about this. So he doesn't.
Castiel kisses o o o, and Dean's hand swims under wet folds and heavy fabric, finds Castiel's nape. The other takes his chin--he hasn't shaved; how the hell do you get stubble in Heaven? Castiel's tongue skates against the inside of his cheek.
Dean's fingernails dig crescents on his neck.
Dean hasn't even thought about this since Sam
He immerses his thumb in your palm. No really--he plunges deep and takes your stitches with him and your insides boil up in your hand with such pounding vitality it's like you have your heart in your hands. Dean has your hand in his, and you have your heart in yours and when he closes his other hand over the top you're going to die you're going to thank him you're going to be in pain you haven't felt in years and years and years; and don't you know, you're probably going to be all three, because they're not mutually exclusive, they never have been, and this is your heart. It's your heart and it's gonna surprise you; it always does. It's worked hard to make it this far, after all. It's due a little wriggle room.
this is your heart
Northern Indiana State Hospital, 2012
It's hard to remember that Lucifer's one of the people that got you into this mess, once you get to know him. And under no circumstances are you gonna say, hey you know? you know what? Lucifer reminds me of my brother, the one I met that one night in California, when pulled me from fire and we both watched my girlfriend burn.
Because Dean resembles Lucifer about as much as he does Michael, which ranks somewhere between Dean's resemblance to Paris Hilton and his to canned pineapples. You're just sensitized to all things Dean by this point, and that's the long and short of it. Rather, this is the short (don't think about it) and this is the long: Seven years, man. Seven years will do that, Apocalypse optional. But you're getting off track.
Dean looks at you like you're doing him a personal disservice by being the way you are.
And Lucifer says to you: I pulled you from the fire, too.
Today I learned: Reading whitespace can be interesting! Trashbins are experimental. Files should be deleted.