The Year of Letting Go (6/7)
Aug. 1st, 2008 12:32 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
runedgirlChapter Six
Master Post
Seven Months After
(Dean)
By the time three weeks have passed, Dean’s restless. Feels like he could crawl out of his skin, and it makes no sense, because now he can see, and he’s not going to hell, and he should be happy and content and counting his blessings. He figures out the closed captioning on the crappy little television, reads more books than he has in the last five years, and watches Sam so closely that his brother starts to cast pained looks over his shoulder and tells him to cut it the hell out, Dean can read that one clearly. But none of that relieves the itch that’s crawling under Dean’s skin, that makes his leg jiggle as he sits across from Sam at the kitchenette table, makes his fingers jitter a rhythm he can’t hear against the formica. He can see, can be connected to the world again, and yet Dean feels more cut off than he has since the interminable time in the hospital, before Sam came for him. Sleep comes reluctantly as Dean lies in the other bed, the one that served as a convenient resting place for clothes and weapons while he was blind, and when he wakes in the morning his hand’s always outstretched in the same direction.
Sometimes he catches Sam staring, when Dean’s been turned away, when Sam doesn’t think Dean can feel it. Sam ducks his head and shifts his gaze every time, but not before Dean can see the tension in the set of his jaw, the stiffness of Sam’s broad shoulders. There are things Sam wants to say, Dean can tell, and god knows there are things Dean wants to say too. But heart to hearts have never been the Winchester way, and now that they’re back to seeing each other the way they used to, they’re back to talking the way they used to as well. That is to say, not very much at all.
Dean misses knowing what Sam’s thinking, what he’s feeling. Misses the warmth that flowed through him when his mind tangled with his brother’s, the unfamiliar certainty that he was loved. All this time, he’s been dying to see the world again through his own eyes, and now that he can, all he can do is miss seeing it through Sam’s.
What’s worse, Dean’s fingers itch to tangle in his brother’s hair, miss the silky slip of it under his hand as they drew together in the dark. He feels the pull toward Sam like an ache in every muscle, drawn to Sam’s strong steady warmth that relaxes things inside Dean he never thought he could give up vigilance over. Even the smell of Sam taunts him now, fresh with the sharpness of mint as he comes out of the shower and heads for the second bed, and Dean has no excuse to lean closer and drink him in.
If he doesn’t do something to relieve this wound-too-tightly feeling soon, Dean’s afraid he’s gonna pick a fight with Sam just to fucking touch him, and that’s just not fair.
“What say you ‘n me hit the local watering hole tonite, Sammy,” he says finally, when Dean’s desperate for a distraction, and Sam’s head jerks up in surprise. For a moment, Dean thinks he sees sadness there – regret maybe – but then Sam’s smiling and nodding, like he’s been expecting this and just waiting for Dean to make the suggestion. He raises an eyebrow when Dean puts on the tight black tee shirt and the jeans that are faded and shrunk to snug around the contours of his thighs and calves, then busies himself with putting things away in the kitchen. When Dean looks back, Sam ducks his head quickly, and Dean’s pretty sure his brother’s blushing. He feels an answering rush of blood color his own cheeks at the thought, and his dick give a sudden unexpected twitch against his zipper.
“Let’s go,” Sam says, holding Dean’s eyes so he sees it.
(Honey)
She’s working the bar on 25th and Spruce that night, the dive one that gets more regulars than tourists, so they stand out as unfamiliar right away. Honey’s working her way through school serving up drinks and glimpses of the body she hones in the gym that students get to use for free, because hell she’ll take whatever she can get from all of them that doesn’t cost her. She doesn’t let the customers do more than look most nights, bends over the bar so narrowed eyes can dip between the swell of her breasts, stretches to gather the empty glasses, exposing the curve of her hip and the rose inked there, creeping beneath the denim as it draws their eyes with it. Most nights, there’s nobody there whose gaze is worth returning, and Honey lets them look until they open their wallets wider in appreciation, goes home sore-footed to curl up with the words of Freud and Jung and ponder the why’s.
These two are different. Honey’s never seen them before, she’d remember, and they’re not quite comfortable, the prospect of music and beer not knocking back the tension in the tall one’s broad shoulders or the vigilance in the shorter one’s quick-shifting gaze. She watches them cross the crowded room, wondering how she’s so certain they’re together. Something in the way they move in tandem, bodies keeping rhythm, hips brushing every other step, like they’re used to being one thing not two. Must be gay, she thinks, and allows a huff of disappointment when they get closer and she can see their faces, and fuck, doesn’t it just figure? Because these are two of the best looking guys she’s ever seen in here. Actually not just in here, but ever.
They settle against the bar, but not before Honey gets a chance to check them out properly. The tall one’s got a plaid cotton button-down over his tee shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows to show the corded veins thick in his forearm when he rests one elbow on the bar, and Honey bites the inside of her lip at the size of his hand, the way his long fingers splay flat on the smooth wood surface. Jesus, she thinks, how much of her could he get just that one hand around, and what would it feel like to find out? The shorter one – and really he’s not short at all, it’s just that everyone else at the bar seems suddenly height challenged next to his companion – is only wearing a tee shirt, tight and black with sleeves that end just as the curved muscle of his bicep begins, his arm smooth and sleek in contrast to the sinewy contours of the other man’s.
The taller man leans in and gives Honey a tight smile, enough to show off his dimples, and damn but he’s cute like a big ol’ puppy, long wild hair falling down over the face of a little boy. Until she sees his eyes, and knows right away that he’s lived years that cost him decades, seen things that cost him every shred of innocence. Honey smiles back, and then the shorter man looks up and she forgets to do the flirting thing or the bending over thing or the any thing at all that isn’t pure screaming evolutionary instinct because this guy? He’s fucking perfect. She’s pretty sure she’s never seen eyes that green or lashes that long and if she could tear her gaze away for just a second she can almost glimpse the scatter of freckles over his nose and the fullest pinkest lips she’s ever seen on a man.
“Wh – what can I get you?” Honey manages, finding her voice but not surprised to hear it come out in a stammer. The tall guy grins a little looser, nods in acknowledgement of the lust she’s sure is darkening the blue of her eyes, and shifts to angle himself against Mr. Gorgeous Green Eyes as he answers for both of them. “Two beers” he says, and Honey sighs, wishing her own perceptiveness had failed her for once. Definitely gay. No reason to stop looking though. She smiles as she puts the bottles in front of them, practically smirks as she watches those plump wet lips wrap around the bottle, throat working as he swallows. Damn.
“Like what you see?” the tall one asks, smirking back.
“Hell yeah, but don’t worry, I’m not steppin’ on what’s yours, just looking.”
The tall man grins at that, throws his head back and laughs out loud. The sound of it’s defensive somehow, bitterness beneath the amusement, covering up his not-quite-surprise at her assumption. Jesus he’s tall, seems like seven feet when he pulls up to his full height, and Mr. Gorgeous twists to stare, his own mouth quirking up in amusement. “No ma’am, ‘m not worried about that,” the tall one says when he’s done laughing. “Might be just what he needs, come to think of it.”
When Honey’s eyebrows fly up, he laughs some more, and this time it reaches the slant of his hazel eyes. “He’s my brother,” he splutters, beer slammed back onto the bar. “And he’s deaf.”
Well hell. Honey doesn’t remember the last time she smiled for real at this bar. Or anywhere else for that matter. Brothers, huh? Well hell.
“I’m Honey,” she says. “I get off at midnight.”
“Sam,” the tall man says, holding out his big hand. “And this is Dean.”
Honey’s stomach does a gravity defying roll when Dean’s green eyes lock to hers and he shakes her hand, because christ he’s even more beautiful when he’s smiling, white teeth and a half-smirk that makes him look like a dangerous version of 21st century teen idol. Sam nudges Dean’s shoulder, nods towards Honey and raises his eyebrows. He doesn’t say a word, but the ‘You wanna?’ is pretty clear, and Dean’s smile edges up a notch. One notch short of blinding.
“All right, then,” Sam says, warm and indulgent, and he pats Dean’s arm.
“You must be the older brother,” she says to Sam, and the smile disappears from his face like someone painted over it.
“No,” he says, and drops his eyes. “I’m not.”
* * *
She watches them for the last hour of her shift, Sam’s hand tapping out the rhythm of the bass on the bar as the band plays, Dean’s fingers resting just barely against his brother’s to feel the music through him. They don’t talk, but every now and then one of them will draw the other’s attention to something, a shift in stance or a press of palm to the other’s back enough to communicate. Honey doesn’t think she’s ever seen two brothers that close, wonders if it’s something about the deafness, if it’s always been this way, if it had to be this way. She wonders briefly what it’ll be like, being with Dean without Sam there. Already the idea seems strange to her, after seeing them together like this. Bumps around in her brain with a sense of not-rightness that makes her nervous.
Then she catches Dean’s stare from the other side of the bar and desire spikes through her so hot and fast she almost drops the drink she’s holding, and figures words are overrated for what she has in mind anyway. Dean smiles like he knows what she’s thinking. Sam follows the line of Dean’s gaze and smiles too, like he knows more than the both of them.
When midnight comes she feels as much like Cinderella as she’s ever thought possible, comes to Dean eager for a fairytale she doesn’t believe in but wants to borrow for one night just the same. “My apartment is right down the block,” she says, looking at Dean but telling Sam. She wonders if Dean can read lips, or if he just depends on Sam to hear for him.
“Okay,” Sam says, “I’ll walk with you so I know where to come back for him.”
Honey doesn’t think too much about how strange it is as she leads the way, Dean in the middle and none of them touching as they walk. “This one, second floor,” she says, and Sam looks up quickly, nods.
“When – when should I --?” he starts, and wow, that’s even weirder, like Dean’s being dropped off for a play date and she needs to tell his mom when to come back for him.
“Uh, morning?”
The look on Sam’s face should probably make her blush, but if this is the only night she gets with a guy who looks like this, then Honey damn well wants more than an hour or two. “Yeah, okay,” Sam says, and clasps Dean’s shoulder so that Dean looks up at him.
“Have fun, man,” Sam says, like Dean and Honey are going to the zoo or something. “I’ll be back in the morning.”
Sam turns to go, and Dean makes a sound for the first time. Something muffled and strangled, like he doesn’t really want to make it at all but it’s spilled out of him before he can stop it, and Sam stops on a dime and turns back. Then Dean’s got a fistful of Sam’s shirt and is holding on tight, shaking his head, and there’s fear in his eyes, real fear. What the hell?
“Dean,” Sam leans in close and soothes, though she thinks the tone isn’t very effective when Dean can’t hear it, “It’s okay man, go ahead, have some fun.”
Dean shakes his head vehemently, tugging Sam closer, then turning his eyes back to Honey. “You need this,” Sam insists, voice quiet now, face pressed against his brother’s neck as though that will somehow let Dean hear him. “Been too long, Dean, I know you – know you want – want her.”
Sam looks embarrassed suddenly, to be talking about Honey when she’s right here listening.
“Hey, that’s all right, if he doesn’t want to, you know,” Honey wants to roll her eyes, should’ve known this was too good to be true. When does she get to go home with a guy like that, anyway? I mean, hell, how many people do?
“No, please, he’s just – he’s scared, is all. He’s not used to being without me.”
Dean bristles at that, it’s clear he understood what his brother said, and he gives Sam a rough shove, then gets a fresh grip of shirt and yanks him back again.
“Really – Dean, it’s okay,” she starts, but then Dean’s got his hand on her too, and Honey starts to melt at just the slightest touch. He clasps her wrist, and for a moment he looks like he’s pleading as he pulls Sam closer to them.
Oh.
Honey and Sam both get it at the same instant, Honey’s blue eyes widening and Sam’s narrowing as he starts stammering “No way, dude, no way. Not gonna happen.”
But Dean’s not giving up, nodding to Honey encouragingly as he moves them all toward the door of her apartment building, and Honey starts to laugh at the blush rising in Sam’s cheeks and the way he’s tripping over his feet. “Oh fuck,” he swears, “Honey, look, I’m sorry, I --
She’s laughing as soon as she sees the hunger in Dean’s green eyes, ready to go along with just about anything he has in mind as long as she can see the sleek body under those tight jeans, can stroke her fingers through the blonde-tipped spikes of his hair and lose herself in those eyes. “It’s fine, Sam,” she hears herself say, “Don’t worry about it.”
Dean reaches up to palm her ass as they climb the stairs, and Sam mumbles “I’ll keep my eyes closed.”
(Sam)
Sam realizes he shouldn’t be surprised, Dean hates having Sam out of his sight now that he can finally see Sam again. Before his sight came back, Dean couldn’t stand to lose physical contact for even a moment. Sam remembers those first weeks after he got Dean back, the press of Dean’s hand to the glass of the shower door, fingers splayed to feel the warmth of the water on the other side as Sam showered, tapping restlessly as Dean waited for the barrier to come down. Dean’s breathing didn’t slow until Sam had slid the door open, until Dean’s hand had landed warm and trembling against the wet skin of his chest, and Dean had whispered out ‘Sam.’
Now he can see, and Dean doesn’t touch him much anymore, but he still doesn’t like to be alone. Sometimes it starts to tear Sam up inside, having Dean so close all the time and no reason to touch him. He hadn’t even realized how constant their contact had become, how used to having the warmth of Dean’s skin against his own, the smell of him, until Dean could use his eyes instead and suddenly there was three feet of space between them all the time instead of none. He misses Dean’s touch, their closeness. And maybe even more, he misses the way Dean would let go and let him in, let Sam wind their minds together as tightly as he curled their bodies in the night. There’s no excuse for that anymore either, when Dean’s getting better at reading his lips and judging his expressions, but fuck if that’s not a piss-poor substitute for the intimacy of Dean’s palm open against Sam’s chest and Dean’s mind open to everything Sam so wants to tell him. They’re back to being brothers now, and Sam realizes that for those months they felt like lovers, and he marvels at how much that had to do with trust and connection, and how little with the fact that there was no fucking involved.
But this is Dean, and the fact that Dean hasn’t had sex in half a year is mind boggling, especially to Sam, who’s witnessed his brother’s exploits for over a decade and is a little bit worried that Dean maybe can’t still be Dean without it. So here he is, witness once again, about to watch some random girl – okay, a nice girl, a smart girl, really nothing wrong with her at all, she’s great – but that’s not the point, she’s still a stranger, and she’s about to have everything Sam wants from Dean, right in front of Sam’s green green eyes.
Sam looks around awkwardly, cursing himself for ever thinking this was a good idea, and what the hell is the etiquette for hanging out while your brother fucks some girl you met in a bar an hour ago right in front of you, anyway? He heads for a small desk chair in the corner, but Dean catches his wrist like he’s got an alarm inside that stubborn head of his for Sam getting too far away, tugs Sam to the bed and urges him up on it, nodding toward the headboard. Dean doesn’t have to speak, he knows Sam will understand, and Sam gets rewarded with his brother’s blinding grin as he dutifully clambers onto the bed and leans back to make himself comfortable.
“I’m not watching, asshole,” he tells his brother, folding his arms over his chest and glaring back, “If that’s what you’re thinking.” Dean just grins wider. “Pervert,” Sam mutters, and the word brings a rush of heat to his belly, ghost of a wish that he wants to bury as fast as it sets up a frantic whisper in his brain. Not Dean who’s the pervert, he thinks darkly. It’s you.
Honey and his brother are kissing, Sam can tell by the sounds, soft smacks and mmm’s and rustle of clothing, though he’s trying hard to look somewhere – anywhere -- else. Catalogue all the furniture in the room, pick out the titles of the stacks of hardback books on the shelves, something, anything to not stare at them. His determination lasts all of two minutes, but it seems like two hours, and it’s not the first time he’s stolen glimpses of his brother doing this, but it’s the first time he doesn’t have to hide it. What else is he supposed to do, sitting right there only six feet away? Invited. Fuck it.
Dean switches their positions, spins Honey to face the door, and Sam’s not surprised to see the flash of green as Dean opens his eyes to find Sam’s even as his mouth works over the girl’s, making sure Sam hasn’t ducked out like the chicken-shit he is. He growls against Honey’s lips when he finds Sam watching, and she moans back at him, her hands all over, and Sam can almost feel the heat of him, tensed and ready beneath her eager fingers. Dean keeps his eyes open as he tangles one hand in her long curls, his fingers clenched possessively around the strands of red-brown, other hand slipping down to her ass and pulling her hips up tight against his own. Daring Sam to look away.
“Fuck you,” Sam mouths silently, and sees the spark of mirth in his brother’s eyes in response, the acceptance of challenge that’s so familiar, something he’s seen all his life every time he attempted to best his big brother. Sam’s glad it hasn’t been extinguished completely, welcomes it even as he gives Dean the finger behind Honey’s back.
Sam watches, feigning disinterest though his pulse races as Dean urges Honey out of her blouse, helping her pull it over her head and shake her mass of long hair free, sliding his hands to her back – fingers that can take apart a gun and coax the Impala back to life just as deft at unhooking the strap of her bra. Dean strokes the pale expanse of bare skin, following the swell of her breasts down her sides to smooth over her curves, Sam’s eyes trailing his brother’s hands, the surprising tenderness with which he touches her. She rolls her hips against him, nipping at his mouth as he unsnaps her jeans, pushes them down, kisses her the whole time she’s stepping out of them and kicking them away.
Dean’s hands on her ass, kneading and hungry, return the heat to Sam’s belly, and he shifts against the bed, his own ass clenching like Dean’s hands are on him instead, rough, pulling him open. Sam doesn’t realize he’s dropped his gaze until he raises it again, finds Dean’s eyes dark with lust and full of questions, and Sam can read them as clearly as if Dean was speaking the words. ‘Like what you’re seeing, Sammy? Want a piece of this?’
He knows his brother doesn’t know just what it is he wants a piece of.
Honey gives as good as she’s getting, working Dean’s belt open and tugging at his fly until he breaks the kiss and steps back to let her, one hand still tangled in her long hair as she strips him. When Honey bends to pull off his boots, Dean pulls his shirts over his head in one fluid movement and steps out of his jeans, and Sam suddenly has an eyeful of naked Dean, lean and muscled and hard. Sam’s eyes run down his brother’s abs, over the trail of coarser hair beneath his navel, get a glimpse of hard dick before Honey’s pressed up against him again, and Sam’s half relieved and half disappointed.
“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Honey says, louder than she needs to as though Dean might somehow hear her, and her hands look small as they roam over his chest and down his flanks, wrap around his broad back as she rubs up against him. Dean’s long lashes flutter shut at the skin-on-skin sensation, and he throws his head back to gasp softly, and Sam smothers a gasp of his own at the sight of Dean looking so vulnerable, so suddenly wanton. Somehow he didn’t expect that from his brother, and the thought twists his gut, sets off something whiskey-dark and possessive inside that makes Sam clench his fists in the bedspreads.
Sam forces his eyes away, but every half-smothered moan and sigh snaps them back to Dean and Honey like Sam’s strung on a fishing line, jerked back to attention with a hook through his heart every time Dean makes a sound. They’re both noisy now, panting against each other’s mouths, necks, using tongue and teeth, hands slipping between to feel each other’s arousal, slick wetness and stiff silken heat. Won’t be long, Sam thinks, he’s spied on Dean often enough to know when he’s close to coming. Sam just needs to hold out a little while longer, can run to the shower when he gets home and fist his dick that’s starting to feel like it’s gonna burst through his jeans.
Sam closes his eyes to try to will his erection away, so he isn’t paying close enough attention to move when Dean and Honey tumble to the bed and half on top of Sam, who’s slowed by the migration of blood from brain to cock. “Dude, what the fuck?” he demands, but Dean’s not even facing him, he’s settling himself – his naked self – between Sam’s spread legs, leaning back against Sam’s chest like he’s a convenient backrest and tugging Honey with him.
“Get off!” Sam squeals, and Honey certainly hears him, jerking back from Dean and then bursting into laughter at the shocked look on Sam’s face.
“Sorry, Sam,” she sputters, her hand already sliding down Dean’s taut belly to fist his thick cock, and Dean rears back against Sam’s chest with a groan, one of his hands pinning Sam’s hip to the bed while the other reaches to palm the curve of Honey’s breasts.
Sam tries again to shove his brother off, but Dean and Honey together are a formidable weight holding him down, and he loses most of the control he had over his muscles when Dean squirms farther up against him, practically in his lap, bare ass pressed tightly to the erection trapped in Sam’s jeans.
“Fuck!” Sam groans, and Dean laughs, feeling the rumble of Sam’s protest against his back, but he doesn’t move away, just pumps his hips up into Honey’s grasp and then grinds back down against Sam’s crotch.
Sam goes still, tries not to move a muscle, afraid that if he shifts his hips at all, the friction Dean’s ass is creating against his painfully swollen dick will make him cream his jeans like a kid. “Bastard,” he hisses, but Dean’s too far gone to care even if he could hear him, naked and unashamed as he writhes on Sam’s lap and snaps his hips up hard, just wanting to get off.
Just as Sam’s sure he’s going to finally get a reprieve with Dean’s orgasm, Honey lets his brother’s slick red – jesus, fucking gorgeous – cock go, and Dean opens his eyes and grunts a half-stifled protest. She climbs up Dean’s body and straddles his hips, forces Sam to splay his long legs even wider to accommodate her knees. “Yeah boys,” she says, and she’s talking to Sam, knows the sex-roughened voice will get to him even though it won’t reach Dean. “My turn,” she says, as she rolls a condom onto Dean’s dick and sinks right down.
It feels pretty much like Honey’s fucking them both, knocking Dean’s ass against Sam’s crotch every time she sits down hard and rounds her hips in dripping circles, grinding Dean against Sam’s crotch, Sam’s ass against the mattress. Dean’s struggling to hold it together and not come too fast, probably wants to show his little brother how to do it right, the bastard, and jesus, Sam just wants to have it over, it’s too much, too wrong. Sam’s so hard his dick feels on the verge of exploding, and it’s jammed right up into the crack of his brother’s bare ass, and ohfuck it feels good.
Honey throws her head back, cries out as she comes, and Sam can tell Dean’s close, can see the muscles in his stomach ripple with tension as he starts to curl up, the thrust of his hips quickening, desperate. He yanks Sam’s hand from where it’s been gripping the sheets beside them and flattens it over his own mouth, and Sam can feel him gasping, groans muffled against Sam’s palm. Dean hates to make noise in front of anyone but Sam, hates that he can’t hear himself, doesn’t know what he sounds like. So Sam presses large fingers over his brother’s soft mouth, holds him steady so Dean can let go, and Dean’s hot wet tongue licks at Sam’s skin as he comes, and that’s what pushes Sam over with him.
“Fuck, that’s hot,” Honey breathes, staring at Sam’s hand over Dean’s mouth, thumb pressed into the hollow of his cheek, fingers curled possessively around his jaw. Sam yanks his hand away like it’s burnt, and Dean sighs audibly and looks up at Sam through his ridiculously long lashes.
“Get off,” Sam grumbles, shoving until Honey climbs off the bed smiling indulgently, and Dean rolls to the side looking sleepy and satisfied.
Chapter Seven
Master Post
Seven Months After
(Dean)
By the time three weeks have passed, Dean’s restless. Feels like he could crawl out of his skin, and it makes no sense, because now he can see, and he’s not going to hell, and he should be happy and content and counting his blessings. He figures out the closed captioning on the crappy little television, reads more books than he has in the last five years, and watches Sam so closely that his brother starts to cast pained looks over his shoulder and tells him to cut it the hell out, Dean can read that one clearly. But none of that relieves the itch that’s crawling under Dean’s skin, that makes his leg jiggle as he sits across from Sam at the kitchenette table, makes his fingers jitter a rhythm he can’t hear against the formica. He can see, can be connected to the world again, and yet Dean feels more cut off than he has since the interminable time in the hospital, before Sam came for him. Sleep comes reluctantly as Dean lies in the other bed, the one that served as a convenient resting place for clothes and weapons while he was blind, and when he wakes in the morning his hand’s always outstretched in the same direction.
Sometimes he catches Sam staring, when Dean’s been turned away, when Sam doesn’t think Dean can feel it. Sam ducks his head and shifts his gaze every time, but not before Dean can see the tension in the set of his jaw, the stiffness of Sam’s broad shoulders. There are things Sam wants to say, Dean can tell, and god knows there are things Dean wants to say too. But heart to hearts have never been the Winchester way, and now that they’re back to seeing each other the way they used to, they’re back to talking the way they used to as well. That is to say, not very much at all.
Dean misses knowing what Sam’s thinking, what he’s feeling. Misses the warmth that flowed through him when his mind tangled with his brother’s, the unfamiliar certainty that he was loved. All this time, he’s been dying to see the world again through his own eyes, and now that he can, all he can do is miss seeing it through Sam’s.
What’s worse, Dean’s fingers itch to tangle in his brother’s hair, miss the silky slip of it under his hand as they drew together in the dark. He feels the pull toward Sam like an ache in every muscle, drawn to Sam’s strong steady warmth that relaxes things inside Dean he never thought he could give up vigilance over. Even the smell of Sam taunts him now, fresh with the sharpness of mint as he comes out of the shower and heads for the second bed, and Dean has no excuse to lean closer and drink him in.
If he doesn’t do something to relieve this wound-too-tightly feeling soon, Dean’s afraid he’s gonna pick a fight with Sam just to fucking touch him, and that’s just not fair.
“What say you ‘n me hit the local watering hole tonite, Sammy,” he says finally, when Dean’s desperate for a distraction, and Sam’s head jerks up in surprise. For a moment, Dean thinks he sees sadness there – regret maybe – but then Sam’s smiling and nodding, like he’s been expecting this and just waiting for Dean to make the suggestion. He raises an eyebrow when Dean puts on the tight black tee shirt and the jeans that are faded and shrunk to snug around the contours of his thighs and calves, then busies himself with putting things away in the kitchen. When Dean looks back, Sam ducks his head quickly, and Dean’s pretty sure his brother’s blushing. He feels an answering rush of blood color his own cheeks at the thought, and his dick give a sudden unexpected twitch against his zipper.
“Let’s go,” Sam says, holding Dean’s eyes so he sees it.
(Honey)
She’s working the bar on 25th and Spruce that night, the dive one that gets more regulars than tourists, so they stand out as unfamiliar right away. Honey’s working her way through school serving up drinks and glimpses of the body she hones in the gym that students get to use for free, because hell she’ll take whatever she can get from all of them that doesn’t cost her. She doesn’t let the customers do more than look most nights, bends over the bar so narrowed eyes can dip between the swell of her breasts, stretches to gather the empty glasses, exposing the curve of her hip and the rose inked there, creeping beneath the denim as it draws their eyes with it. Most nights, there’s nobody there whose gaze is worth returning, and Honey lets them look until they open their wallets wider in appreciation, goes home sore-footed to curl up with the words of Freud and Jung and ponder the why’s.
These two are different. Honey’s never seen them before, she’d remember, and they’re not quite comfortable, the prospect of music and beer not knocking back the tension in the tall one’s broad shoulders or the vigilance in the shorter one’s quick-shifting gaze. She watches them cross the crowded room, wondering how she’s so certain they’re together. Something in the way they move in tandem, bodies keeping rhythm, hips brushing every other step, like they’re used to being one thing not two. Must be gay, she thinks, and allows a huff of disappointment when they get closer and she can see their faces, and fuck, doesn’t it just figure? Because these are two of the best looking guys she’s ever seen in here. Actually not just in here, but ever.
They settle against the bar, but not before Honey gets a chance to check them out properly. The tall one’s got a plaid cotton button-down over his tee shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows to show the corded veins thick in his forearm when he rests one elbow on the bar, and Honey bites the inside of her lip at the size of his hand, the way his long fingers splay flat on the smooth wood surface. Jesus, she thinks, how much of her could he get just that one hand around, and what would it feel like to find out? The shorter one – and really he’s not short at all, it’s just that everyone else at the bar seems suddenly height challenged next to his companion – is only wearing a tee shirt, tight and black with sleeves that end just as the curved muscle of his bicep begins, his arm smooth and sleek in contrast to the sinewy contours of the other man’s.
The taller man leans in and gives Honey a tight smile, enough to show off his dimples, and damn but he’s cute like a big ol’ puppy, long wild hair falling down over the face of a little boy. Until she sees his eyes, and knows right away that he’s lived years that cost him decades, seen things that cost him every shred of innocence. Honey smiles back, and then the shorter man looks up and she forgets to do the flirting thing or the bending over thing or the any thing at all that isn’t pure screaming evolutionary instinct because this guy? He’s fucking perfect. She’s pretty sure she’s never seen eyes that green or lashes that long and if she could tear her gaze away for just a second she can almost glimpse the scatter of freckles over his nose and the fullest pinkest lips she’s ever seen on a man.
“Wh – what can I get you?” Honey manages, finding her voice but not surprised to hear it come out in a stammer. The tall guy grins a little looser, nods in acknowledgement of the lust she’s sure is darkening the blue of her eyes, and shifts to angle himself against Mr. Gorgeous Green Eyes as he answers for both of them. “Two beers” he says, and Honey sighs, wishing her own perceptiveness had failed her for once. Definitely gay. No reason to stop looking though. She smiles as she puts the bottles in front of them, practically smirks as she watches those plump wet lips wrap around the bottle, throat working as he swallows. Damn.
“Like what you see?” the tall one asks, smirking back.
“Hell yeah, but don’t worry, I’m not steppin’ on what’s yours, just looking.”
The tall man grins at that, throws his head back and laughs out loud. The sound of it’s defensive somehow, bitterness beneath the amusement, covering up his not-quite-surprise at her assumption. Jesus he’s tall, seems like seven feet when he pulls up to his full height, and Mr. Gorgeous twists to stare, his own mouth quirking up in amusement. “No ma’am, ‘m not worried about that,” the tall one says when he’s done laughing. “Might be just what he needs, come to think of it.”
When Honey’s eyebrows fly up, he laughs some more, and this time it reaches the slant of his hazel eyes. “He’s my brother,” he splutters, beer slammed back onto the bar. “And he’s deaf.”
Well hell. Honey doesn’t remember the last time she smiled for real at this bar. Or anywhere else for that matter. Brothers, huh? Well hell.
“I’m Honey,” she says. “I get off at midnight.”
“Sam,” the tall man says, holding out his big hand. “And this is Dean.”
Honey’s stomach does a gravity defying roll when Dean’s green eyes lock to hers and he shakes her hand, because christ he’s even more beautiful when he’s smiling, white teeth and a half-smirk that makes him look like a dangerous version of 21st century teen idol. Sam nudges Dean’s shoulder, nods towards Honey and raises his eyebrows. He doesn’t say a word, but the ‘You wanna?’ is pretty clear, and Dean’s smile edges up a notch. One notch short of blinding.
“All right, then,” Sam says, warm and indulgent, and he pats Dean’s arm.
“You must be the older brother,” she says to Sam, and the smile disappears from his face like someone painted over it.
“No,” he says, and drops his eyes. “I’m not.”
* * *
She watches them for the last hour of her shift, Sam’s hand tapping out the rhythm of the bass on the bar as the band plays, Dean’s fingers resting just barely against his brother’s to feel the music through him. They don’t talk, but every now and then one of them will draw the other’s attention to something, a shift in stance or a press of palm to the other’s back enough to communicate. Honey doesn’t think she’s ever seen two brothers that close, wonders if it’s something about the deafness, if it’s always been this way, if it had to be this way. She wonders briefly what it’ll be like, being with Dean without Sam there. Already the idea seems strange to her, after seeing them together like this. Bumps around in her brain with a sense of not-rightness that makes her nervous.
Then she catches Dean’s stare from the other side of the bar and desire spikes through her so hot and fast she almost drops the drink she’s holding, and figures words are overrated for what she has in mind anyway. Dean smiles like he knows what she’s thinking. Sam follows the line of Dean’s gaze and smiles too, like he knows more than the both of them.
When midnight comes she feels as much like Cinderella as she’s ever thought possible, comes to Dean eager for a fairytale she doesn’t believe in but wants to borrow for one night just the same. “My apartment is right down the block,” she says, looking at Dean but telling Sam. She wonders if Dean can read lips, or if he just depends on Sam to hear for him.
“Okay,” Sam says, “I’ll walk with you so I know where to come back for him.”
Honey doesn’t think too much about how strange it is as she leads the way, Dean in the middle and none of them touching as they walk. “This one, second floor,” she says, and Sam looks up quickly, nods.
“When – when should I --?” he starts, and wow, that’s even weirder, like Dean’s being dropped off for a play date and she needs to tell his mom when to come back for him.
“Uh, morning?”
The look on Sam’s face should probably make her blush, but if this is the only night she gets with a guy who looks like this, then Honey damn well wants more than an hour or two. “Yeah, okay,” Sam says, and clasps Dean’s shoulder so that Dean looks up at him.
“Have fun, man,” Sam says, like Dean and Honey are going to the zoo or something. “I’ll be back in the morning.”
Sam turns to go, and Dean makes a sound for the first time. Something muffled and strangled, like he doesn’t really want to make it at all but it’s spilled out of him before he can stop it, and Sam stops on a dime and turns back. Then Dean’s got a fistful of Sam’s shirt and is holding on tight, shaking his head, and there’s fear in his eyes, real fear. What the hell?
“Dean,” Sam leans in close and soothes, though she thinks the tone isn’t very effective when Dean can’t hear it, “It’s okay man, go ahead, have some fun.”
Dean shakes his head vehemently, tugging Sam closer, then turning his eyes back to Honey. “You need this,” Sam insists, voice quiet now, face pressed against his brother’s neck as though that will somehow let Dean hear him. “Been too long, Dean, I know you – know you want – want her.”
Sam looks embarrassed suddenly, to be talking about Honey when she’s right here listening.
“Hey, that’s all right, if he doesn’t want to, you know,” Honey wants to roll her eyes, should’ve known this was too good to be true. When does she get to go home with a guy like that, anyway? I mean, hell, how many people do?
“No, please, he’s just – he’s scared, is all. He’s not used to being without me.”
Dean bristles at that, it’s clear he understood what his brother said, and he gives Sam a rough shove, then gets a fresh grip of shirt and yanks him back again.
“Really – Dean, it’s okay,” she starts, but then Dean’s got his hand on her too, and Honey starts to melt at just the slightest touch. He clasps her wrist, and for a moment he looks like he’s pleading as he pulls Sam closer to them.
Oh.
Honey and Sam both get it at the same instant, Honey’s blue eyes widening and Sam’s narrowing as he starts stammering “No way, dude, no way. Not gonna happen.”
But Dean’s not giving up, nodding to Honey encouragingly as he moves them all toward the door of her apartment building, and Honey starts to laugh at the blush rising in Sam’s cheeks and the way he’s tripping over his feet. “Oh fuck,” he swears, “Honey, look, I’m sorry, I --
She’s laughing as soon as she sees the hunger in Dean’s green eyes, ready to go along with just about anything he has in mind as long as she can see the sleek body under those tight jeans, can stroke her fingers through the blonde-tipped spikes of his hair and lose herself in those eyes. “It’s fine, Sam,” she hears herself say, “Don’t worry about it.”
Dean reaches up to palm her ass as they climb the stairs, and Sam mumbles “I’ll keep my eyes closed.”
(Sam)
Sam realizes he shouldn’t be surprised, Dean hates having Sam out of his sight now that he can finally see Sam again. Before his sight came back, Dean couldn’t stand to lose physical contact for even a moment. Sam remembers those first weeks after he got Dean back, the press of Dean’s hand to the glass of the shower door, fingers splayed to feel the warmth of the water on the other side as Sam showered, tapping restlessly as Dean waited for the barrier to come down. Dean’s breathing didn’t slow until Sam had slid the door open, until Dean’s hand had landed warm and trembling against the wet skin of his chest, and Dean had whispered out ‘Sam.’
Now he can see, and Dean doesn’t touch him much anymore, but he still doesn’t like to be alone. Sometimes it starts to tear Sam up inside, having Dean so close all the time and no reason to touch him. He hadn’t even realized how constant their contact had become, how used to having the warmth of Dean’s skin against his own, the smell of him, until Dean could use his eyes instead and suddenly there was three feet of space between them all the time instead of none. He misses Dean’s touch, their closeness. And maybe even more, he misses the way Dean would let go and let him in, let Sam wind their minds together as tightly as he curled their bodies in the night. There’s no excuse for that anymore either, when Dean’s getting better at reading his lips and judging his expressions, but fuck if that’s not a piss-poor substitute for the intimacy of Dean’s palm open against Sam’s chest and Dean’s mind open to everything Sam so wants to tell him. They’re back to being brothers now, and Sam realizes that for those months they felt like lovers, and he marvels at how much that had to do with trust and connection, and how little with the fact that there was no fucking involved.
But this is Dean, and the fact that Dean hasn’t had sex in half a year is mind boggling, especially to Sam, who’s witnessed his brother’s exploits for over a decade and is a little bit worried that Dean maybe can’t still be Dean without it. So here he is, witness once again, about to watch some random girl – okay, a nice girl, a smart girl, really nothing wrong with her at all, she’s great – but that’s not the point, she’s still a stranger, and she’s about to have everything Sam wants from Dean, right in front of Sam’s green green eyes.
Sam looks around awkwardly, cursing himself for ever thinking this was a good idea, and what the hell is the etiquette for hanging out while your brother fucks some girl you met in a bar an hour ago right in front of you, anyway? He heads for a small desk chair in the corner, but Dean catches his wrist like he’s got an alarm inside that stubborn head of his for Sam getting too far away, tugs Sam to the bed and urges him up on it, nodding toward the headboard. Dean doesn’t have to speak, he knows Sam will understand, and Sam gets rewarded with his brother’s blinding grin as he dutifully clambers onto the bed and leans back to make himself comfortable.
“I’m not watching, asshole,” he tells his brother, folding his arms over his chest and glaring back, “If that’s what you’re thinking.” Dean just grins wider. “Pervert,” Sam mutters, and the word brings a rush of heat to his belly, ghost of a wish that he wants to bury as fast as it sets up a frantic whisper in his brain. Not Dean who’s the pervert, he thinks darkly. It’s you.
Honey and his brother are kissing, Sam can tell by the sounds, soft smacks and mmm’s and rustle of clothing, though he’s trying hard to look somewhere – anywhere -- else. Catalogue all the furniture in the room, pick out the titles of the stacks of hardback books on the shelves, something, anything to not stare at them. His determination lasts all of two minutes, but it seems like two hours, and it’s not the first time he’s stolen glimpses of his brother doing this, but it’s the first time he doesn’t have to hide it. What else is he supposed to do, sitting right there only six feet away? Invited. Fuck it.
Dean switches their positions, spins Honey to face the door, and Sam’s not surprised to see the flash of green as Dean opens his eyes to find Sam’s even as his mouth works over the girl’s, making sure Sam hasn’t ducked out like the chicken-shit he is. He growls against Honey’s lips when he finds Sam watching, and she moans back at him, her hands all over, and Sam can almost feel the heat of him, tensed and ready beneath her eager fingers. Dean keeps his eyes open as he tangles one hand in her long curls, his fingers clenched possessively around the strands of red-brown, other hand slipping down to her ass and pulling her hips up tight against his own. Daring Sam to look away.
“Fuck you,” Sam mouths silently, and sees the spark of mirth in his brother’s eyes in response, the acceptance of challenge that’s so familiar, something he’s seen all his life every time he attempted to best his big brother. Sam’s glad it hasn’t been extinguished completely, welcomes it even as he gives Dean the finger behind Honey’s back.
Sam watches, feigning disinterest though his pulse races as Dean urges Honey out of her blouse, helping her pull it over her head and shake her mass of long hair free, sliding his hands to her back – fingers that can take apart a gun and coax the Impala back to life just as deft at unhooking the strap of her bra. Dean strokes the pale expanse of bare skin, following the swell of her breasts down her sides to smooth over her curves, Sam’s eyes trailing his brother’s hands, the surprising tenderness with which he touches her. She rolls her hips against him, nipping at his mouth as he unsnaps her jeans, pushes them down, kisses her the whole time she’s stepping out of them and kicking them away.
Dean’s hands on her ass, kneading and hungry, return the heat to Sam’s belly, and he shifts against the bed, his own ass clenching like Dean’s hands are on him instead, rough, pulling him open. Sam doesn’t realize he’s dropped his gaze until he raises it again, finds Dean’s eyes dark with lust and full of questions, and Sam can read them as clearly as if Dean was speaking the words. ‘Like what you’re seeing, Sammy? Want a piece of this?’
He knows his brother doesn’t know just what it is he wants a piece of.
Honey gives as good as she’s getting, working Dean’s belt open and tugging at his fly until he breaks the kiss and steps back to let her, one hand still tangled in her long hair as she strips him. When Honey bends to pull off his boots, Dean pulls his shirts over his head in one fluid movement and steps out of his jeans, and Sam suddenly has an eyeful of naked Dean, lean and muscled and hard. Sam’s eyes run down his brother’s abs, over the trail of coarser hair beneath his navel, get a glimpse of hard dick before Honey’s pressed up against him again, and Sam’s half relieved and half disappointed.
“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Honey says, louder than she needs to as though Dean might somehow hear her, and her hands look small as they roam over his chest and down his flanks, wrap around his broad back as she rubs up against him. Dean’s long lashes flutter shut at the skin-on-skin sensation, and he throws his head back to gasp softly, and Sam smothers a gasp of his own at the sight of Dean looking so vulnerable, so suddenly wanton. Somehow he didn’t expect that from his brother, and the thought twists his gut, sets off something whiskey-dark and possessive inside that makes Sam clench his fists in the bedspreads.
Sam forces his eyes away, but every half-smothered moan and sigh snaps them back to Dean and Honey like Sam’s strung on a fishing line, jerked back to attention with a hook through his heart every time Dean makes a sound. They’re both noisy now, panting against each other’s mouths, necks, using tongue and teeth, hands slipping between to feel each other’s arousal, slick wetness and stiff silken heat. Won’t be long, Sam thinks, he’s spied on Dean often enough to know when he’s close to coming. Sam just needs to hold out a little while longer, can run to the shower when he gets home and fist his dick that’s starting to feel like it’s gonna burst through his jeans.
Sam closes his eyes to try to will his erection away, so he isn’t paying close enough attention to move when Dean and Honey tumble to the bed and half on top of Sam, who’s slowed by the migration of blood from brain to cock. “Dude, what the fuck?” he demands, but Dean’s not even facing him, he’s settling himself – his naked self – between Sam’s spread legs, leaning back against Sam’s chest like he’s a convenient backrest and tugging Honey with him.
“Get off!” Sam squeals, and Honey certainly hears him, jerking back from Dean and then bursting into laughter at the shocked look on Sam’s face.
“Sorry, Sam,” she sputters, her hand already sliding down Dean’s taut belly to fist his thick cock, and Dean rears back against Sam’s chest with a groan, one of his hands pinning Sam’s hip to the bed while the other reaches to palm the curve of Honey’s breasts.
Sam tries again to shove his brother off, but Dean and Honey together are a formidable weight holding him down, and he loses most of the control he had over his muscles when Dean squirms farther up against him, practically in his lap, bare ass pressed tightly to the erection trapped in Sam’s jeans.
“Fuck!” Sam groans, and Dean laughs, feeling the rumble of Sam’s protest against his back, but he doesn’t move away, just pumps his hips up into Honey’s grasp and then grinds back down against Sam’s crotch.
Sam goes still, tries not to move a muscle, afraid that if he shifts his hips at all, the friction Dean’s ass is creating against his painfully swollen dick will make him cream his jeans like a kid. “Bastard,” he hisses, but Dean’s too far gone to care even if he could hear him, naked and unashamed as he writhes on Sam’s lap and snaps his hips up hard, just wanting to get off.
Just as Sam’s sure he’s going to finally get a reprieve with Dean’s orgasm, Honey lets his brother’s slick red – jesus, fucking gorgeous – cock go, and Dean opens his eyes and grunts a half-stifled protest. She climbs up Dean’s body and straddles his hips, forces Sam to splay his long legs even wider to accommodate her knees. “Yeah boys,” she says, and she’s talking to Sam, knows the sex-roughened voice will get to him even though it won’t reach Dean. “My turn,” she says, as she rolls a condom onto Dean’s dick and sinks right down.
It feels pretty much like Honey’s fucking them both, knocking Dean’s ass against Sam’s crotch every time she sits down hard and rounds her hips in dripping circles, grinding Dean against Sam’s crotch, Sam’s ass against the mattress. Dean’s struggling to hold it together and not come too fast, probably wants to show his little brother how to do it right, the bastard, and jesus, Sam just wants to have it over, it’s too much, too wrong. Sam’s so hard his dick feels on the verge of exploding, and it’s jammed right up into the crack of his brother’s bare ass, and ohfuck it feels good.
Honey throws her head back, cries out as she comes, and Sam can tell Dean’s close, can see the muscles in his stomach ripple with tension as he starts to curl up, the thrust of his hips quickening, desperate. He yanks Sam’s hand from where it’s been gripping the sheets beside them and flattens it over his own mouth, and Sam can feel him gasping, groans muffled against Sam’s palm. Dean hates to make noise in front of anyone but Sam, hates that he can’t hear himself, doesn’t know what he sounds like. So Sam presses large fingers over his brother’s soft mouth, holds him steady so Dean can let go, and Dean’s hot wet tongue licks at Sam’s skin as he comes, and that’s what pushes Sam over with him.
“Fuck, that’s hot,” Honey breathes, staring at Sam’s hand over Dean’s mouth, thumb pressed into the hollow of his cheek, fingers curled possessively around his jaw. Sam yanks his hand away like it’s burnt, and Dean sighs audibly and looks up at Sam through his ridiculously long lashes.
“Get off,” Sam grumbles, shoving until Honey climbs off the bed smiling indulgently, and Dean rolls to the side looking sleepy and satisfied.
Chapter Seven
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Date: 2008-08-02 07:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-04 08:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-04 10:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-05 12:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-08-17 02:52 pm (UTC)x
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Date: 2008-08-29 11:22 am (UTC)I love how they were so pressed up against each other in the bar, and how Honey immediately knew Dean belonged to Sam. Great!
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Date: 2008-08-30 02:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-04-09 07:19 am (UTC)Also, it completely reminded me of that scene in Lazarus Rising: "You're invited too, Grumpy!" Heehee.
On a more serious note, this line was really amazing to me: They’re back to being brothers now, and Sam realizes that for those months they felt like lovers, and he marvels at how much that had to do with trust and connection, and how little with the fact that there was no fucking involved. YES YES YES. This is what wincest is ALL ABOUT.
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Date: 2009-04-11 01:22 am (UTC)Thanks again!
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Date: 2009-06-01 01:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-01 03:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-07-07 11:46 pm (UTC)They don’t talk, but every now and then one of them will draw the other’s attention to something, a shift in stance or a press of palm to the other’s back enough to communicate. Gorgeous
Can't wait to get Dean's POV on that sex scene, because, seriously, GUH.
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Date: 2009-07-08 03:15 am (UTC)Thanks for letting me know that line worked for you too, I adore specific feedback. Thanks so much! And yes, sometimes the boys are total idiots. LOL
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Date: 2009-09-11 12:21 am (UTC)"now that they’re back to seeing each other the way they used to, they’re back to talking the way they used to as well. That is to say, not very much at all." Ahaha typical Winchesters. Oh curse you boys and your lack of communication!
"“You must be the older brother,” she says to Sam, and the smile disappears from his face like someone painted over it. “No,” he says, and drops his eyes. “I’m not.”" Woah. That made my stomach all tense. There's so much emotion here without you explicitly writing it. And this whole situation is just wrong, wrong, wrong. Dean's supposed to be looking out after Sam, especially now that he can see again. I loved Sam's earlier laugh, the one filled with bitterness and so much other emotions, conveyed to me so many things.
Mmmmm that sex scene was incredibly hot. I love how Dean maneuvered Sam onto the bed and then ended up grinding on him. "Dean hates to make noise in front of anyone but Sam, hates that he can’t hear himself, doesn’t know what he sounds like." I had been confused when Dean wasn't talking in the bar, and it felt off to me, but now that I know why and I like it that way. It makes them seem THAT much more intimate together, and close.
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Date: 2009-09-12 03:58 pm (UTC)Only one chapter to go, and I'm really looking forward to hearing what you think. Let me know?
Thanks again for your thoughtful feedback and close reading - and for 'getting it'.
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Date: 2012-04-25 03:18 am (UTC)But everything has its time and place. And for that to happen time and place is also necessary that our willingness to grow.
I think Honey was a very important role in this chapter. The link between desire and fulfillment - that will happen sooner or later.
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Date: 2012-04-26 03:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-08-12 10:58 pm (UTC)Oh, Honey! what a visual this was. Sam, poor trapped Sam....One of the hottest things I've read in a long time.
YOWZA!
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Date: 2012-08-13 04:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-03-28 09:56 pm (UTC)That's so heartbreaking and heartbreakingly beautiful... Oh Boys, it would be sooo easy if you would simply TALK!
Holy Moly! That was hot, sexy, erotic and dirty! Could it be you like Dean being just like this? You're leaving me speechless here and now I have to know how this is going on - I bet there will be more now. Between Sam and Dean. Without this pretty Girl. *crosses fingers*
Excellent chapter, my dear. The Cinema inside my mind is running hot :-))
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Date: 2017-03-29 03:21 am (UTC)