Anansay's Writing

Mon, 02 Nov 2009 00:59:24 GMT

Title: Gardening
Author anansay
Character(s)/Pairing: Sam & Dean, no pairing
Theme: 30 nano_shots
Prompt(s): #6 – Fallow
Rating: R – language
Words: 890+
Genre: Drama
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing. No money made.
Summary: When the devil decides to grow a garden, it’s done pretty much like any other garden.

Gardening

It didn’t happen fast; that would have been nice.

After many millenia of incarceration, very few thought satan would quickly erase god’s ultimate creation. On the contrary, god’s most beautiful fallen angel took his sweet empty time in extirpating the human race. It was slow, it was painful, it was deafening.

But it wasn’t perfect.

Because, like any pesticide, herbicide and/or insecticide, any human worth their weight in salt knows it is virtually impossible to completely eradicate weeds. There will always be that one tiny morsel of a genetic bit that will, without doubt, never rest until its species has repopulated, come back bigger and stronger, and laugh in the quivering nozzle-face of whatever -cide is pointed its way.

But before that happens, the genetic bit rests, usually far beneath the ground, gathering its strength, summoning others like itself, joining forces, training, planning, all toward the eventual goal of ultimate supremacy.

“What the fuck is he doing?” Dean demands, staring upward at the cavern’s drippy walls. A drop of water lands splat in the middle of his forehead, making him blink and robbing him of any remote possibility of appearing strong.

It’s always like that, living in caves. Trying to build a fire to keep warm and cook up whatever meat decided to cease its existence becomes a task of monumental difficulties. Each tiny spark seems to attract that tiny droplet of water to alter its downward trajectory toward the spark, nullifying it. Or someone walks by a bit too fast and steals the spark to flutter in the air before sputtering out in a suffocating death.

“He’s waiting,” Sam says from his crouched position against the damp wall. He’s wrapped in the sewn-together remains of several trench coats, his hair longer than it’s ever been, thick with grease and matted into some demented dreadlock configuration. Dean can’t remember the last time he’s seen Sam shove it away from his face so that now it’s like looking at his brother through mouldy cell bars.

It’s a prison they all share.

Dean hasn’t let his hair grow. Every few weeks he grabs a knife and starts sawing away at it, pulling the mats away from his head and plunging in with the rusty blade. At first it just looked like a really bad weed-whacker job, but now it’s more like a child’s drawing of Medusa.

At least Sam’s head of hair has a rather uniform shape.

Dean swings his head down to glare at Sam. “I know he’s waiting, dumb-ass. I wanna know for what.”

Sam rolls his eyes upward until they settle on Dean. “For us. To grow. To get strong. To attack.”

“And then what, finish the job?”

The coats shift as Sam shrugs. “Maybe.”

The messy sound of crunching gravel heralds Bobby’s approach as he shoves and jerks his wheelchair over to Dean. “Or maybe he’s just waiting.”

Dean lets his head fall/roll to the side until he sees Bobby. “And why would the damned devil just wait? Wait for WHAT?”

“Don’t you yell at me, boy!” He jerks his chair and Dean yanks his foot away just in time. Bobby takes a deep breath, and speaks slowly. “Maybe Lucifer doesn’t even know anybody survived.”

“How could he not know? He’s the damned— He’s gotta fucking know!”

“Why?” Sam says into the coats.

“What!?”

“Why?” Bobby repeats. “Why should he know? Maybe he’s so full of himself he thinks he’s won?”

Dean shoves a hip out and crosses his arms. “Too easy. Way too fucking easy. There’s something else.”

“Or,” Bobby says, “maybe he’s fallowed—”

“Followed? By who, God? Yeah, right. God up and disappeared, remember? Probably went and screwed up another planet.”

Sam sticks out a foot and kicks Dean. Dean kicks him right back and Sam’s foot disappears.

“Not ‘followed’. Fallowed. He’s—” Bobby sighs. “He’s fallowed the land. Taken away the weeds, the things that would make the ‘good’ plants not grow properly. But he’s gotta let the land heal, so to speak.”

Dean stares at Bobby.

“So... what you’re saying...”

“He’s gonna do it his way this time,” Sam says.

“And when we...”

“What do you do with weeds that show up after planting?” Bobby says.

Dean is staring at the ground, seeing other things. It’s not right. Not this. Not this way. They’re supposed to— “No.”

Bobby arches an eyebrow. “No?”

“No! God put us here! He gave us this planet! Lucifer can’t just pitch a fit, wipe us out, and start it his way!”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s— it’s not right! It’s not—”

“God’s plan?” Sam asks.

“YES!”

Sam looks up at Dean. “God’s plan.”

“Yes, what, you deaf now? This isn’t—” He stops. “Oh.”

Bobby starts rolling away, backward. “God isn’t here anymore, right Dean? He abandoned us, his plan, his project. Lucifer came back and god slunk away with his tail between his legs. Now it’s Lucy’s turn.”

Dean watches Bobby disappear. “But... Lucifer doesn’t want us...”

“No, he doesn’t. Never did.”

“So... now... we just...”

Bobby disappears around a bend in the cave. Sam sinks lower into his coats. A drop of water lands on a hairless spot of Dean’s head. It’s ice cold.

Some People Like Playing with Long, Hard Objects - J2 - PG-13 - Humour

Tue, 02 Dec 2008 07:12:01 GMT

TITLE: Some People Like Playing with Long, Hard Objects

AUTHOR: anansay

FANDOM: rps; J2

CHARACTERS/PAIRING: Jared/Jensen

GENRE: Humour, mostly

RATING: PG-13

WORDS: 2,500

SPOILERS: Nothing episodic. BUT, if you didn’t know the boys now live together, where have you been?!

WARNINGS: None. Unless ‘slash’ is still considered a warning, considering it’s a male/male pairing.

DISCLAIMER: Not my characters. They belong to themselves. I am pretty sure things like don’t happen in their real lives... so... yeah.

AUTHOR’S NOTES: This was started many moons ago, during a random short-lived bout of creativity, and has since been mourning the loss of its creator. Until now.

SUMMARY: It’s the typical ‘morning after’ and Jensen’s more or less okay with it. Until he discovers something that changes things.

</span>xml:namespace prefix = o /

Some People Like Playing with Long, Hard Objects

by Anansay
December 2008

When Jensen comes to, he's alone. The bed's cold and the light is hurting his eyes. He wants the blinds to close and he tries to will his head to get the blinds to do just that but it only results in a blasting of white-hot pain behind his eyes and a scary clenching in his gut that makes him groan. He touches his stomach and feels the dried residue of a great time. And that's when he also realizes he's completely naked, exposed. And that would explain the chill. But the bed's still cold and the light's still white-hot in his retinas but he can't seem to move out of the light, or to find some blankets. Even when he moves his hand around the (cold) bed, there are no blankets to be found and he can only wonder at what kind of antics he (and his partner) had gotten up to the night before.

xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /

His eyes snap open.

And he silently curses the gods (through the ubiquitous morning-after language of grunts and groans) that he hadn't drunk enough to erase his memory completely. The best memories, in his opinion, are those that carry the act, but not the actor. Not this time. He can remember everything in vivid detail and he wants to pummel his body into next week when it reminds him of just how good his partner of last night was. Something he really should have known but probably just shoved to the far back of his head so it wouldn’t interfere with his day-to-day activities of, oh, working with him.

Him.

Yes, it was a 'him'. Dammit.

He groans again, opens his eyes in spite of the retinal burning quality of god's morning sun. At least he's in his own bed and doesn't have to do the whole 'morning-after escape'. Not this time. Thank you, god, for this at least.

He needs to pee, but for that he needs to move and the thought of moving a body that feels like cooled molten lava is doing something awful to his brain. So he starts with his toes and works his way up his body until he finally wrestles the idea into motion and flings an arm across his body, grabs the edge of the bed, and hauls himself to a sitting position.

"Aw shit."

Jensen's heart stutters into overdrive for three beats then drops into his gut. There's a voice that is not his and that is not good. He opens one eye to a slit because sitting up seems to have reset his balance quotient to the negative. And there, sitting in his favourite chair by the window, is Jared Padalecki. A fully naked, hair mussed, face swelled with hangover, Jared. Jensen assumes Jared is naked, only his vision seems to be blocked at a certain level of his best friend's nakedness. A huge white rectangle is positioned, a la television censor, in the middle of Jared's body. Jensen blinks, rubs his eyes, rubs his belly (gotta get that heart back up where it belongs) cocks his head. "Jared?"

"Morning, sunshine!" Jared says and it's only the raspy nature of his voice that lets Jensen know he's not the only one feeling like one of those rolling bush-balls in abandoned towns.

"Jared, what are you doing here? Why do you have a censor block in front of you? And are you fucking naked, man?"

"Naked as the day I was born!" Jared says with a grin and Jensen wants to throw a pillow at him, but he thinks he might pull a dozen non-related muscles if he attempted that particular movement.

"Gotta pee," he says and stumbles to the bathroom. When he gets out, bladder empty, not-so-foul smelling in the oral area, and tummy washed and wiped clean (refuses to think about that any more) and wearing pyjama bottoms, Jared is sitting on his bed wearing a pair of Jensen's pyjama bottoms. Jensen can’t help but grin at the way Jared does a good impression of a depression-era beggar child. "Need coffee."

Jensen goes to his kitchen and Jared follows. It's only when Jensen turns from having fixed up the 4-cup coffee machine—the delicious aroma inundating his system and clearing away most of the cobwebs from his brain—that he sees what's in Jared's hand. The big white censor square from before. Jared brings it up and Jensen realizes it's actually a drawing pad.

Jared is usually such a straightforward guy, tells it as it is, not ashamed of admitting to things of a not-so-manly nature. But suddenly he's not looking at Jensen and his hand is holding that drawing pad like it might just drop from his hand, fold itself into an airplane, poke Jared in the eye, and fly away.

"Whacha got there, Jared?" Of course, coming from Texas, even working in Canada for eight months of the year, the Texan accent is practically impossible to completely get rid of, so Jared's name comes out sounding something like 'Jaird'.

Jared's hand jerks. "Oh, this? It's nothing." Jared maybe be tall and built like a brick shit house (or so he’s read on the ‘net) but his trying to hide that white censor square-cum-drawing pad behind himself is just plain hilarious.

"Oh c'mon, Jared, let's see! Been hashing out some more of Pinky's plans there?"

"Fuck you," Jared mumbles. "Just, um, doodling some stuff, is all."

The machine gurgles its last bubble of rich brown life-giving liquid and Jensen pours two cups, hands one to Jared. Jared leans the pad against the wall, between himself and the chair he takes, far away from Jensen.

"So," Jensen says, "about this morning..."

Jared's playing with his cup.

"Fancy meeting you in my bedroom, a la flagrante. Mind telling me how I got come on my stomach?"

There’s absolutely nothing pleasant about having hot coffee spewed on oneself from another’s mouth, especially in the morning. And especi-fucking-ly, if that morning happens to be of the hung-over variety.

“Jesus, Jared! Fuck.” He goes to the sink and attempts a quick clean-up with yesterday’s dishcloth. Not a good idea. Now there’s something else scummy on his stomach. He wipes it away, as best he can, with yesterday’s tea towel. At least that’s relatively clean.

“Jensen—” the Sasquatch begins, but he stops, stares into his still-full cup of steaming coffee (Jensen glares at it), and snaps his mouth shut.

Jensen takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, counts to ten—silently appreciating the lack of light and sound during that small moment. He opens his eyes and Jared’s still there, at the table, staring deeply into his coffee, the drawing pad beside him against the wall. Jensen gracefully moves around Jared, as though he were simply going to the bathroom down the hall, and snatches the drawing pad. And that’s when he runs.

Everybody, from the crew to the ‘net, thinks of Jared as some type of over-grown teddy bear, laughing and hugging random people, tossing others over his shoulder. And yet, when that over-sized toddler decides to bellow (for whatever reason), there is nothing childishly cute about it. It’s deep and rich and full-bodied (much like Jensen’s forgotten coffee) and it echoes down the hallway, reverberating off the walls to attack Jensen’s thinly veiled hung-over brain.

“JENSEN!”

Jensen rounds the corner to his room and slams the door behind him, spinning the lock just as Jared’s hand tries to turn the handle. And then the pounding commences.

“Dammit Jensen, just—just give it back, okay? It’s—fuck!—it’s private! It’s—it’s not ready yet. Just—please Jensen, don’t do this! Jensen!”

If Jensen wasn’t trying to catch his breath, keep his brains from pouring out his ears, and keep himself standing, he’d be on the floor, rolling around, laughing his ass off. He never realized just how many methods of entreaty Jared could possibly put into one, sorta-complete, sentence. The man vacillated between furious, to fearful, to beseeching, and back to maddened. So, of course, Jensen looks at the drawing pad.

And that’s when everything becomes officially weird.

Sure, Jensen’s done one-night stands. Jensen’s slept with co-stars—female and male, though the male ones were few and far between. And usually those one-night stands with ‘friends’ resolved themselves fairly easily and quietly, both of whom not really wanting anyone else to find out. Kissing is kissing, and a hand-job is a hand-job, same with a blow-job. Just lips on parts of bodies. Male lips. Female lips. Didn’t really matter when the loudest voice in the head came gurgling up from the booze. Playing around was fun. A nice way to relieve the stresses of the job.

But never, not ever, had Jensen woken up to discover his partner in late-night jaunts had taken the time, the morning after, to sit idly (and naked, too!) and draw a rather decent portrait of Jensen sleeping. It was done with a pencil, only one, one softness of lead, the regular kind, but each stroke had been pressed into the page with just the right amount of pressure to simulate, very accurately, the various nuances of light and shadow to create an absolutely stunning portrait. Nobody, no photographer Jensen has ever worked with, has ever been able to present Jensen in such a . . . nakedly visceral way.

He’s sitting on the floor though he doesn’t remember sliding down the door. His eyes are glued to the portrait, examining every little detail, from the way his eyelashes rest on his cheeks, to the way his lips part, just so, to the obviously-relaxed way his body is spread out on the bed. There had been a sheet on him at one time, as present in the portrait, jauntily covering up the most ‘important’ parts. Somehow he doesn’t think Jared removed it, more likely Jensen’s movements made it slip off. And nowhere present is there any sign whatsoever of liquor having been a part of his somnolence. There’s a peaceful quality Jensen would never have thought possible after imbibing as much as he had the previous night. Or maybe it’s the way in which Jared drew in the shadows and allowed the light to remain. He doesn’t know. It’s not telling him anything other than—

“Jensen?”

Jared’s voice is uncharacteristically timorous. It pulls at Jensen, draws his attention from the drawing at the same time as it refocuses on it in a different light. He stares at the door, hears Jared’s ragged breathing. He imagines Jared sitting on the other side of the door, much like Jensen, only feeling things very opposite. He looks at the portrait again, hovers a hand over it, and then brings it to the doorknob and turning.

Jared’s folded in on himself in the hallway, knees and elbows bent awkwardly outward. It’s only when he raises his head, meets Jensen’s eyes, and Jensen sees the wetness brimming in those eyes, the pinched expression, the twitching lips, that he realizes the seriousness of his crime in stealing Jared’s work. Slowly, he hands it back, portrait side down, and looks away.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean—didn’t know—sorry.”

The drawing pad is slowly taken from his hand. “Jensen—”

Jensen rises from the floor, scoots past Jared, and locks himself in the bathroom. The burn of the water feels good on his skin. Like a cleansing and a punishment at the same time. A purging. He stays in the shower until the water runs cold, and even then it’s cathartic. A chilling of those sudden urges of his to do stupid things. He needs to get out now, before his pruned skin freezes.

The house is quiet when he gets out. Usually there’s a raucous of off-key singing, or dogs barking (usually ‘cause Jared’s teasing them, or playing with them, not much difference between either), or the television’s blaring, or music’s on. Just something that lets the world know Jared Padalecki is alive and fucking well!

Not this time. This time the silence is ominous. Not even the clatter of dog nails on the floor.

Jensen finally finds Jared in the living room.

“So now you know.”

That’s what Jared says. He doesn’t look at Jensen when he says it.

He’s sitting on the couch, staring at a black television set, fully dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, an over-shirt, even socks and shoes.

“Going somewhere?” Jensen asks, sitting beside him on the couch, not too far, but not too close.

“Maybe.”

“Because of . . . me?”

“Maybe.”

Jensen huffs. “Well that’s pretty clear.” And then he stops. “Jared, I am truly sorry.”

“No, Jensen. You’re not. You don’t have to be. I am.”

Jensen turns to his best, his closest friend. “What?”

And Jared finally looks at Jensen. “You weren’t supposed to find out. I mean, last night—it could have been anything, you know? Just two people having some fun, goofing off and playing around. I’m sure I’m not the first guy who sucked you off, or who you sucked off. It happens. We’re both single, horny men, right?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, and Jensen doesn’t really have one. Jared looks back down at his hands. “But it wasn’t for me, Jensen. It wasn’t just another goofy thing. It was more. And now you know.” He looks back up. “I don’t draw random people, Jensen. Especially not when they’re asleep . . . after . . . But, I had to. I had to Jensen. I couldn’t not do it. You take photographs. I draw. And I just really wanted something to remember this by. Something . . . personal. And you weren’t supposed to find out. I was trying to make light of it, trying to hide it, get it back to my room before you saw it. But then you took it. Ran off with it. Locked yourself in your room and I thought—I thought you might,” he swallows loudly, “might rip it up, or something.”

“No.” Jensen says it before he realizes it. “No, Jared, I could never do something like that. It’s . . . it’s gorgeous, man. It’s—nobody’s ever been able to . . . make me look like that. Is that how . . . ?”

“Yes. For a while now.”

“Is that why you asked me to move in?” The question is out before the full implications of it hit Jensen, how Jared might perceive it.

Jared spins around, pins him with a fierce, fearful, glare. “No! No, Jensen. No. Never. Please. Don’t ever think that. I never—I never ever thought we’d, you know, do anything. Or, even if we did, it’d still be like, just fooling around. Getting off. Twosome circle jerk, sorta thing.”

In all his three decades of living, this is the strangest conversation Jensen thinks he’s ever had, with anybody, of either gender. “So . . . um . . .”

“Are we . . . okay?”

Jensen looks up. Jared’s eyes are—there are no other words for it—brimming with hope. He can see it as clearly as he can still see the image of the portrait in his head. The softness of each line, the careful smudge of shadows, the delicate drawing out of features Jensen never really paid attention to. He nods. “We’re okay.” Because, they really are. “But on one condition,” he adds, the idea springing to mind.

The slow shuttering of Jared’s face hurts Jensen, for a moment. “Okay. What?”

Jensen smiles. “I want you to finish the portrait, and then frame it.”

And it’s like a tornado blows by and knocks those shutters off Jared’s face and leaves him wide open, expression completely vacant in its shock. His lips move a bit before sound finally emerges. “What?”

“You heard me, Sasquatch.”

“You—me—finish it?”

“Oh, Jared, that thing is so woefully unfinished,” Jensen says, taking on the most feminine voice he can, “it definitely needs some touching up. I mean, have you looked at it?” He’s standing up, hands held out toward Jared. “C’mon, big guy. My bedroom’s a studio today, and I am your subject. And I hear you like playing with long, hard objects.”

And then he’s running. Again.

And Jared’s bellowing. Again.

the end

Untitled - SPN - pg-13

Mon, 27 Oct 2008 01:31:45 GMT

TITLE: untitled

AUTHOR: anansay

FANDOM: Supernatural

CHARACTERS/PAIRING: Sam; Dean (no pairings)

GENRE: Gen

RATING: pg-13

WORDS:100

SPOILERS: well, the entire show up to 4.06, really

WARNINGS: none

DISCLAIMER: Not my characters. They belong to Eric Kripke, and company.

PROMPT: for 100_ghosts - #42 - a wing and a prayer

SUMMARY: Dean does something he's swore he'd never do: hope

Sam is falling. Fast.

Dean has been watching for months. Watching the demons get sent back to hell. Watching as his brother’s soul slowly disintegrates. Watches as Ruby picks up the pieces, stuffs them in the maw that was her soul. His brother is falling and there’s nothing Dean can do about it.

Deaf ears and blind eyes is all he gets now. The apocalypse is on the horizon and his brother is running pell-mell toward it. Dean chokes on the dust. Looks skyward. Sees the darkening clouds converging, thickening. And Dean prays.

Prays that Castiel will keep his word.

-end-

No Masks Possible - SPN - G - RPF

Fri, 27 Jun 2008 10:45:26 GMT

TITLE: No Masks Possible
AUTHOR: anansay
FANDOM/CHARACTERS/PAIRING: Supernatural | Jared, Jensen | no pairing; friendship piece
RATING: G
GENRE: RPF
WORD COUNT: 1000 ±
SPOILERS: None for any episodes. Just [spoiler] Jared's announcement of his and Sandy's break-up.[/spoiler]
DISCLAIMER: Jared and Jensen belong to themselves. This piece is merely conjecture on my part. No harm is intended to anyone.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I was just looking at the caps of Jared's latest interview while in Australia, and I couldn't help but wonder. And this is what came of that wondering. It's been a long while since I wrote anything. Or, it feels that way. I just haven't felt in any way inspired. Until now. Written in one short sitting.

SUMMARY: You can never hide from your friends.

~*~
No Masks Possible
by Anansay
~*~

He didn't want to be there. It was plain and clear, though he'd tried to hide it, tried to make the smiles genuine, make the eyes twinkle. But Jensen could still see it. Jensen could always see past Jared's facades. From the first time they met it was like all Jensen had to do was squint a little bit and Jared felt naked to his soul. Bared wide open. Unable to hide anything. So he wasn't surprised at all when his cell phone buzzed on his hip and Jensen's name flashed on the screen. He considered letting it go to voice mail, but he'd never done that to Jensen before and he certainly couldn't start now. He could only imagine the guilt that would eat away at him, making him call Jensen back at some ungodly hour in the middle of night, apologizing like some girl.

"Hey," he said into his phone.

"You look like crap, man," was the response.

Jared could only grin, though it never touched his eyes. "Love you too, asshole. What's up?"

"Not you, that's for sure. Man, could you look any more bummed?"

Jared stopped walking. He could see his reflection in the store window in his peripheral vision. "What d'ya mean?"

"The interview. Sure, ya smiled and laughed and made funny jokes but, man I never seen you look more glum."

"Glum?" The word stuck out like a throbbing thumb in that Jensen had never used that word before. Jared wasn't even sure Jensen knew of the word's existence.

"Yeah man. Like you just lost your best friend."

Jared started walking again, smiling. "Well, you are way across the pond—"

"That's not what I mean, Jared."

The words were spoken low, almost like a whispered groan. They made Jared stop again. He stood on the sidewalk, cell phone to his face, his gut churning something vile and acidic, his face feeling scorched and his legs like jelly. There was a momentary thought of just hanging up. Cutting off the connection so Jared wouldn't hear anymore. It'd happened before: their connection getting broken. He could attribute it to the distance.

Sure. Just hang up on his best friend.

"I know," he said finally.

"You know, you never did tell me why."

He so didn't want to do this out in the open, his words audible to anyone with possibly a recorder. Or even a camera. Across the street were some benches partially hidden by hanging trees. He headed for them, ignoring the hocking cars and squealing brakes and Jensen's alarmed voice. When he was finally sufficiently hidden from view, he felt his invisible mask slip off, like a silk sheet sliding off his body, exposing his soul's nakedness. "Sorry 'bout that. Cars thought they had the right-of-way when I wanted to cross the street," he said with a grin.

"You're such a douche, Padalecki."

"Don't you know it, hosebag."

It was testament to their deep and abiding love for each other that they could call each other some of the most vile names ever known, and have it mean something totally different.

"So . . . "

"So . . .?"

"Gonna tell me? I mean, it's not 'cause I know you inside and out that I could see your pain, man. It was written all over your face. You're worn out."

Jared closed his eyes, let the words seep in deep and strong, like a tether holding him grounded. Not letting him float away on his own pain. "I don't know, Jensen. It just—something changed."

"Four years, dude. What could possibly change after four years? A simple question and suddenly, what, you felt the ball and chain?"

No matter how bad things were, there always seemed to be a smile between Jensen and Jared. "No." The words were there. Or, the feeling of words, or their meaning, in his chest. He could feel them there, sitting like a rotten stump, the night-shade insects burrowing beneath it to make a home. It's what made him feel like curling in on himself, partly to hide it, partly because the weight of it demanded the acquiescence of his soul. "I wish I could explain it, Jensen. For four years it was good. We saw each other when we could, made the most of those times. But it was never enough. It hurt every time one of us had to leave. It wasn't a relationship so much as a sorta guarantee that someone was out there in case we needed 'somethin', you know?"

After a moment, Jensen answered. "Yeah. I get it. Daneel—well, yeah. I get it." And then, "So when ya coming back?"

And just like that, the stump was gone. The insects cleared. Jared could breathe. He'd said as much of it as he could, and it seemed to be enough. For now. He knew, in the way a man knows without really knowing, that it would grow again, slowly but surely, to hunch him over like a dead weight on his back. And he also knew that Jensen would be there for him, even if he was thousands of miles away. Just a short conversation, nothing much said—in words at least—but it would be all that'd be needed.

Jared leaned back, stretched his arms while still holding the phone to his ear, felt his spine pop a few times. Release. "Few days," he said. "Going to see the folks for a week or so, then back up to L.A. before braving the canadian cold all over again."

"Cool. Think I might stalk you a bit in San Antonio. Follow you to L.A. and then kidnap you to Canada. Dose you up good and strong with some tequila."

"Oh. I'm so terrified. Whoo-hoo!" A passing woman glanced over, eyebrows knitted. Recognition flashed across her face, she paused mid-step, mouth opened to say something before she dropped her gaze and continued walking. Not much different from any other place in the world, thought Jared. He still had his Jensen.

~*~
THE END

acrid - SPN - PG

Mon, 19 Nov 2007 22:16:46 GMT

acrid
100_ghosts prompt: 'taste'
100 words
Dean-centric
PG
angst

acrid

When he was four, it nearly choked him. It settled in his gut, infesting his mouth, twisting his thoughts and tainting his words. He couldn't remember a time when it wasn't there, in his mouth. On his tongue. He breathed it—in—out.

It was worse in the mornings, when the taste took on words that echoed in his head, phantom sounds on his tongue.

It surged again, years later. Another fire. Another death. This one he will always remember with horrifying clarity. Losing his heart all over again.

it's the sound of - spn - R

Tue, 13 Nov 2007 01:12:05 GMT

written for 100_ghosts's prompt #43: hearing
written in a singular way, not quite sure if it has a name

it's the sound of
100 words exactly
R
no pairing
Gen

it's the sound of tears
it's the sound of fear
it's the sound of rage
it's the sound of a gun loading
it's the sound of footsteps on wet cement
it's the sound of heavy breathing
it's the sound of a heartbeat overriding everything else
it's the sound of surprise
it's the sound of shock
it's the sound of a gun cocking
it's the sound of a gun shot
it's the sound of flesh ripping
it's the sound of screaming
it's the sound of a body hitting the ground
it's the sound of a last gurgling breath
it's the sound of laughter
it's the sound of crying
it's the sound of a soul torn apart

Hell Fire - SPN - PG-13 - no pairing

Mon, 12 Nov 2007 02:54:54 GMT

TITLE: Hell Fire
AUTHOR: anansay
FANDOM: Supernatural
CHARACTERS/PAIRING: No names mentioned, but you can pretty much figure it out. No pairings.
GENRE: Gen; dark; post-apocalypse.
RATING: PG-13 - thematic elements
WARNINGS: Dark.
SPOILERS: None.
WORD COUNT: 1,100
DISCLAIMER: Not my characters; they belong to Kripke and those others.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Feeling quite crappy today. Dead almost. Didn't know how this would turn out at all, just kept on writing until the end announced itself.

SUMMARY: The towns are empty now. Empty and quiet. No dogs scurry into darkened alleyways. No cats mewl piteously from atop fences. No even a single bird twitters from the barren branches of trees whose leaves flew to the ground in a silent whirlwind of death. Dried to a mottled brown crisp in a single day.

Hell Fire

This is hell. This right here. This single lit lamp post beside a crooked wooden bench alongside this empty road in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. The only light from this single lamp post. Everything else is dark, bathed in black.

The moon hasn't been seen since that night, a long time ago. The night it had shone white as day, and then red as blood before pouring itself into oblivion. When the sun rose the next day it, too, was a blood red. A drop of god's blood hanging in an orange sky.

Now, no one longs for the brightness of day, or the respite of night. Now, they fear. They fear everything. They hole themselves up in their homes, windows barred with ragged boards of wood pulled from inside the very walls of their home, or a shed outside if they'd been lucky enough to get it in time.

The towns are empty now. Empty and quiet. No dogs scurry into darkened alleyways. No cats mewl piteously from atop fences. No even a single bird twitters from the barren branches of trees whose leaves flew to the ground in a silent whirlwind of death. Dried to a mottled brown crisp in a single day.

The animals have all gone. Even if they weren't, no one dared leave their home to hunt them. Those who did never came back. At all.

In the beginning there were many screams in the night. Far off howls broken suddenly into silence. They'd start off small, panting cries for help. Then they'd grow, louder and higher, until they were screeching. A sound so terrible as it poured through dead forests and bounced off closed doors, only to be cut off. Choked. Sounds dying quickly, leaving behind horrible images of a silent suffering, hoping for quick death.

There is no way to know how many people still live in their holed up homes. No one answers knocks on doors. Doorbells ceased working a long time ago. The world is a quiet dark place now. Nothing but a black ball hurtling through the universe, circling a sun no one's seen properly since forever.

There are those whose homes were roadside rooms and the cars that brought them to these various rooms, all different and yet all the same. Two beds, and a bathroom. A television if you were lucky. For these people, survival has become something much different from their lives of before. For these people, it's nothing more than an increase in the colourful variety of their lives.

Not many of them left, though. Not the best kind of hunters. Good, but not the best. A bit too quick. A bit too curious. A bit too strong. And not enough intelligence to know when not to be all these things. When to turn tail and run. Run as fast you can because there's no where to hide when the darkness has eyes and even another breath of fetid earth air is better than a thousand breaths of hell fire. In the end their screams joined the haunting echoing chorus of the others. A chorus that has permeated minds and souls and sings them to sleep every night. Wakes them in the morning, and mocks their tears and their screams and even their silence.

So few left. No one knows how many. Few speak. Even when they travel together, in pairs, silence seems to reign. Not much to talk about. They've fought and they fight but they know the end is near. They know they can only drive for so long. They know the country is only so wide, so long. They know the gas is of limited availability, whenever a car is found whose tank hasn't already been siphoned dry.

They cringe and grasp the steering wheel,the dashboard, the door, the seat when the car starts to splutter. Still they whisper foolish prayers to angels long slain dead and a blind, deaf and dumb god. The car finally dies a choked death a mile down the road.

A crimson sun does not mean much in way of temperature and they're glad they had the good sense to rob an army surplus store and acquire themselves thermal underwear and thick coats. The old man in the baseball hat had begun whispering, his moist toothless gums smacking loudly, about darkness and cold and icy fires. The boys had listened carefully, eyeing each other and nodding. Now, they bow their heads as they do up the zippers and the clips, pulling the hood tight around their faces, feet comfortably snug in forty-below-celsius boots, hands nothing but lumps in leather mitts. Their breaths blossoms before them.

When the scarlet sun dips over the horizon, spilling yet another river of blood on the mountains, they're in a town. The night fog is moving in, slowly rolling down empty streets, under abandoned cars, through glassless windows. Their flashlights slowly lose power as the fog thickens and coils around them, sealing them together and yet apart. That's when they see it, and their blood runs cold.

They haven't had artificial light in forever. Days after that fateful day electricity had clonked out with huge explosions that had dotted the topographical landscape, loosing tons of black smoke into the air. Batteries had become one of the primary bartering tools among those who did such business. It was a toss up on what to stock up on most: batteries, or ammo. So when they turn the corner and see the lit lamp post beside the bench, everything stops.

It's a simple wooden bench with little ornate curls on the arm rests, and a tall sloping back. The presence of the light makes the fear rise exponentially, but it's the eerie familiarity of the bench that makes the world drop from beneath their feet. Suddenly their jackets are choking them and the mitts won't come off. As they stand and stare a woman appears sitting on the bench, long golden curls cascading down a disturbingly bare back. She turns and looks at them. Smiles.

“Mom?”

~*~
THE END

After x2 - SPN - PG

Wed, 07 Nov 2007 00:25:19 GMT

Two fics.
Same scene.
Different endings.
Either way, it's bad.

Dark.
Angst.
PG.

179 and 148 words

After 1

Even after it was over, after the growling had ceased, after the screaming had stopped, and Dean lay on the ground, motionless, bloodless, he held on. He scooped up his brother's body, heavy and limp, and cradled it to him, held on tight, hands fisting in fabric. He didn't speak; his throat burned from the screaming. He didn't cry; his eyes had been dry since the last time he broke. He did shake though. And his own body felt on fire, burning from the inside out. He held on until the first rays of morning sun dappled the countryside like fairies coming alive. He held on until strong hands pried his away, leaving him alone and bereft. Even after those same strong hands lifted him up and tumbled him into the back seat of a car, he held on. As the car began to move, he looked down, opened his hand, and squinted as the sun glinted off the tarnished metal horned head of a charm. Dean's charm.

After 2

Even after it was all over, after the growling had ceased, after the screaming had stopped, Sam held on. He held onto his brother, hands fisting in fabric, face buried in scorched leather. He didn't speak; his throat burned from the screaming. He didn't cry; his eyes had been dry since the last time he broke. He did shake though. And his own body felt on fire, burning from the inside out. He held on until strong hands pried his away, pushing him away. He looked up into Dean's eyes, flashing ferocious jade in the dappling rays of the morning sun. Dean's smile should have been infectious, should have called up Sam's sardonic grin in spite of himself. But Sam only shook his head and stepped back. "I told you Dean, after I free you, I'm gone."

Shiny like a Crystal - SPN

Tue, 06 Nov 2007 17:49:17 GMT

So, this is a drabble that I wrote, and then lost, and then rewrote. It took most of the morning to write these one hundred words.

Drabble for 100_ghosts
Prompt #42: Sight
PG
Pre-series
Gen

Choked gasps could still be heard behind the closed bathroom door and Dean pulled Sammy closer to him. He looked down at the red smears on Sammy's shirt and remembered the scream. But Sammy was smiling at the silly brothers on the television so that was good. Bert was quickly losing patience with Ernie's perpetual grinning idiocy. In the short silences there could be heard stuttered breathing and cut-off mewlings. The bathroom door creaked open. Dean looked up. It was the single tear caught in his father's eyelashes that told him the truth: they would never again be safe.

Follicularity - SPN - J2 - R

Mon, 29 Oct 2007 07:21:53 GMT

First J2 fic. Well, first actually finished and posted. Of course, kinda nervous about this. Nervous about posting period.

TITLE: Follicularity
AUTHOR: anansay
FANDOM: Supernatural
CHARACTERS/PAIRING:Jared/Jensen aka J2, a bit of Kripke tossed in because he simply would NOT allow this to proceed without his bit of input, as well as mention of Sandy and Danneel.
RATING: R - swearing, non-explicit sex
GENRE: RPS, humour, first-time
WORD COUNT: 5,500
WARNINGS: non-explicit m/m action, smoking, fluff (because it, too, demanded presence. and YES, it does qualify as a warning!)
SPOILERS: If you haven't seen the second season yet well there's some tiny mention of some scenes.
DISCLAIMER: These are real people with their own lives and this most likely certainly did NOT happen. Unfortunately. It'd be nice, but, you know. A girl can dream about hot sexy men getting it on with each other, right? Of course!
BETA: None. All mistakes, plot holes and various idiotic miscellanea are mine.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: So I read "Jared's hair" somewhere in somebody's fic (I mean, how many writer's mention Jared's hair, right?) and it suddenly got me thinking about, well, Jared's hair. And how much people like it. In that vein, this story just might be considered something of a horror-fic, if you so lean that way. Oh yeah, and this was written between the hours of midnight and 3am with a big glass of undiluted Bailey's as a locksmith to my creativity. It was finished two nights later, post-midnight, with the obligatory Bailey's as company. (The only thing I hate about Bailey's is its high fat content.)
Btw, this has NOTHING to do with Halloween.

SUMMARY: Something horrible happens on set one day which sends Jensen tumbling through a nether world of what he'd believed to be the impossible. He has a bit of trouble regaining his momentum. Jared enjoys the show.

~*~
Follicularity

by Anansay
October 31, 2007
~*~

The moment Jensen arrived on set he knew something was wrong. Something was very terribly wrong. People were walking faster, talking louder, gesticulating more violently. Some outright avoided Jensen after making only the briefest of eye contact, dropping their gazes and then their heads as they hurried on by. He tried to catch a PA but she ducked, mumbled something, and scurried around a corner. When he finally found Kripke, he had to quickly side-step an airborne cup of still-steaming coffee. "Eric?"

Eric spun around and Jensen took a step back. Gone was the ordinarily, mostly calm, man. In his place was this manic, eye-popping, wheezing, hopping man. The only thing that was the same was the receding hairline. And the quick-as-ants-dancing speech.

"Oh my god Jensen I'm so glad you're here you won't believe what that gigantor of an asshole sasquatch idiot did I cannot believe it I don't know what to do now all the big wigs are shitting down my throat and it tastes like fucking crap and feels like fucking hair balls from very sick cats and OH MY FUCKING GOD JENSEN!"

Of course it certainly didn't sound as clearly as it's written here. Nothing whatsoever said in the extremely agitated state that Eric was in could possibly sound in any way coherent. So Jensen was left ;floundering for some errant meaning in Eric's manic babble. Something about Jared; the 'gigantor' and the 'sasquatch' comment definitely pointed in that sole direction. Jensen held up his hands and closed his eyes. Anything to stop Eric's stream of verbal diarrhea and near-homicidal physical rantings. "Something about Jared," he said. "What'd he do now?"

Of course Jensen was expecting something along the lines of the now-infamous Padalecki Pranks-now-known-as-the-Padackles-Pranks. Something Jensen could sink his teeth into himself and perhaps continue with his own brand of deadpan humour. He so loved stringing people along, releasing them, and watching them flounder for footage. What he certainly did not expect, not in a million years, not EVER, was Eric's response.

"He fucking cut his hair."

Jensen fell against the wall. And then slid to the floor. His body was thrumming like wild fire as it quickly lost all oxygen, his lungs having collapsed in his body, his brain imploding in his head and leaking out his ears, his eyeballs wanting to play marbles with the funky tiles on the floor. He wanted to ask, to demand, to inquire, to force the fucking truth from Kripke's own reddening face, but his mouth couldn't work without a brain. Eric looked like he was going to explode himself, send bits of himself flying all over the place and Jensen sorta wished he wouldn't 'cause his office was a fucking palace and it really shouldn't have body parts decorating from it. I mean, sure, the show was Supernatural and he knew the CG guys just loved to push the envelope in the gore department but, dammit, reality had to remain reality.

"He did what?" Jensen finally got out.

Eric's hand was flying over his own head, faster and faster. "BUZZED IT! He fucking buzzed his fucking head!"

Jensen had heard from various sources that Eric had a 'bad mouth', but when his 'bad mouth' became something that even sailors would tsk-tsk, those same people had advised Jensen to steer very clear of him. Of course Jensen couldn't even move, let alone flee the scene of a potential self-massacre, probably with an accompanying unintentional homicide which, of course, Jensen wanted absolutely no part in thank you very much.

Eric's words rebounded in his head. "He—he did what? He—" but he couldn't say it. Couldn't make the words form. To form them was to give them life, and those words really did not need to be anywhere NEAR anything alive. They needed to be shoved somewhere deep and dark and motherfucking cold to prevent them from ever even thinking of enjoying the glorious sun that had woken him up that morning. And then the images came, and they came hard and fast and without mercy. They resembled Jared, but the Jared from when they filmed Something Wicked after he pulled himself from the pool, his hair sticking to his head: flat. No bounce. No fly-away sides. No bangs. Just a smear of brown on his head and down the back of his neck. Only these images assaulting Jensen's now-delicate psyche were of Jared without that smear of brown. They were of Jared with a smear of freaking BLOND. Or, you know, flesh-coloured hair, if that were even possible.

Suddenly Jensen's legs were twitching and bouncing and he jumped up and fled. Walked as fast as his little bowed legs could take him. It felt too close to how a gay man would walk, his cute tight little behind doing a tiny little jiggle in between the quick steps. But he kept on walking, power-walking, really. Straight to his trailer.

At the last moment he veered and came to Jared's trailer. He completely skipped the three steps and landed his full body against Jared's trailer door, fists doing a medley of percussions as he tried not to fall backward. When the door opened he threw himself in, landing in a perfectly ungainly sprawl on the floor. "Jensen? What—" Hands were on him, under his arms, around his chest, and hauling him up. Even doing a little dusting on his chest until Jensen slapped those hands away. He dusted himself off. Including his jeans. And then he fixed his hair. It was only then that he realized he was doing everything he could think of not look at Jared and know whether or not Eric was telling the truth, or if Eric had finally lost it, having succumbed to his show's very own surreality.

Jensen stopped fiddling with himself, having noticed Jared's dancing feet, and he looked up.

And almost passed out, again.

He opened his mouth and this time sound came out only it sounded something like his nephew had done a few weeks ago when he'd tried to speak and eat and chew on his toy at the same time. It was unseemly then and it was terribly unseemly now, seeing as Jensen was far from being eight months old. He closed his mouth, and winced as his jaw snapped.

"Jensen?"

And maybe it was his name said in that voice with that particular inflection of curiosity mixed with a hint of self-assertion that finally unblocked Jensen's vocal chords. What came from Jensen's mouth was certainly words, and they were certainly in their correct order. Only Jensen couldn't even understand himself, and judging by Jared's deepening scowl, neither could he.

"It's about the hair, right?" Jared said.

So Jared spoke first, mentioned that now-horrible word and Jensen was free to speak properly again. "You're damned right it's about the fucking hair, dude! What gives? Why the fuck would you chop it off? You had— It was— I had—" Jensen snapped his mouth shut, again. He stood his ground, nostrils flaring, chest thrust out, stance wide, fists clenching, only to have his mind thrust at him all that he had almost said. Then he deflated, scooted around Jared and flopped onto the couch, feeling not a wit of give with the uber-stuffed, supposedly comfortable, piece of furniture.

Jared just stood and stared. "So I got tired of it," he said.

"You got tired of it?" Jensen wasn't liking the way his normally bass voice was quickly reaching levels he'd only been able to reach during his adolescence.

"Yeah, I got tired of it. I mean, especially when Sandy would, you know . . ."

Jensen eyeballed his best friend. "You mean . . . oh god . . . I— I really do not need to know that, man." He rose and made for the door. Only there was suddenly this huge human wall blocking his way.  A huge human wall that smelled delicious.

"So I was getting tired to being fucking led around by my hair when we'd . . . you know." Jared did a seriously disturbing flick-thing with his tongue that had parts of Jensen simply screaming in glee.

"JARED!" Jensen yelled and shut his eyes.  "Please, dude, the images!"

"But we talk about girls all the time, Jensen. I talk about Sandy all the time.   You talk about Danneel. What—" Jared stopped talking.

Jensen finally understood the meaning behind 'the silence was deafening'. Not only could he feel his heartbeat hammering away at his chest, he could hear it like a toll bell ringing his imminent demise.

"Jensen? What did you have?" Jared was speaking slowly, almost like Jensen really had lost his mind somewhere in Kripke's office. "You were going to say something before . . ."

His hammering heart took an extended break and dropped off somewhere in his left foot. And then it geysered all of its blood into Jensen's head as his senses flooded with everything that could possibly go wrong in this situation. Jared was standing in front of him, barring his exit, his head shaved down to a five-day stubble. Now Jensen could see Jared's face, all of it, every single emotion that flittered and floated by, some staying for a bit of fun, others playing hide-and-seek. It wasn't fair. Jensen was supposed to have the monopoly on the crew-cut look. But that wasn't all of it.

"Jensen?"

"Dammit Jared, you're stealing my fire man. Your hair's what stood us apart."

"Is that all?"

"What?" Jensen looked up, and froze. Jared was staring down at him, his normally clear and twinkling eyes now a darkened forest before a storm. Jensen's heart whomped back up to lodge in his throat.

"You were going to say something, and you cut yourself off. You were going to say that you had something and I don't think it was a monopoly on the whole short-hair thing so don't bother." Jensen had to wonder if this was a whole anti-Samson thing, where the lack of hair had given Jared some sort of queer insight into Jensen's head. Of course, the 'Samson' thing was a bit curious too and Jensen couldn't hold back a giggle.

"What's so funny?"

"Samson."

"Samson? Dude, I play SAM."

"No, it's—forget it. It's nothing."

"But the hair is. So spill. Everybody else is freaking out, sure. The girls are having fits. Eric's having coronaries in his office. But you, man, I don't get. It's just hair, dude."

"No! It's not just hair! It's your hair! You're Jared-of-the-hair-and-the-height!

Jared's eyebrow popped up and Jensen could actually see it now so very clearly and it was disturbing not to have to look through a veil of hair. To see things—Jared—so clearly. It was wrong. On so many levels. "Well, I'm not getting any shorter, Jensen. In fact—" Jared went to the mirror on the door of the bathroom, "—I think I'm still growing." He turned and preened, hauled himself to his full height complete with chest out, then sagged and slumped and turned around again. "What do you think?"

Jensen could only stare at his co-star and best friend as Jared openly admired his butt in the mirror. "Dude, you'll always be freakishly tall. But you're supposed to be freakishly tall with hair!"

"Oh, back to the hair. Or lack of it." Jared grinned.

Jensen slumped. He was stuck and he knew it. Jared was on the war path and when Jared was on a war path there was no derailing him and Jensen had set in motion this particular path when he pounded on Jared's door demanding an explanation. He got his, and now Jared wanted his own. And there was absolutely no derailing Jared. Jensen sighed. "Why did you cut it, Jared? Why? I liked it. I liked . . . thinking about it."

There was that eyebrow again. "You think about my hair Jensen?"

"Yes."

"What do you think about—about my hair? I mean, what about my hair is it that you think about?"

Jensen sat down again, leaning forward, hands held between his legs, looking down. "I think about . . . touching it."

"You wanna touch my hair? Well I kept it. Do you wanna see it? I have it in a bag, I'll go get it—"

"Jared! That's—that's not the kind of touching I mean."

"Oh. Well then, what kind of touching do you— . . . Oh. THAT kind of touching."

"Yeah, 'that' kind of touching. And now I can't. Not anymore. Plus, now I'll get rug burn on my hands next time Kripke has Dean saving Sam and having to hold his bleeding head."

Jared sat down beside Jensen. "So you wanted to touch my hair . . ."

This wasn't fair, not by a long shot. Jensen couldn't understand how his morning had gotten so turned inside out. Almost like he was in some alternate universe in which it was safe to confess his deeper, more-than-friendship feelings to one of his best friends. He groaned into his hands. "I wanted to know . . . what it would feel like to . . . um . . ."

"Hold my hair while I deep-throated you?"

Jensen's head popped up so fast his neck cracked, he choked on suddenly inhaled saliva, his brain hurt, his ears began ringing, and his jaw felt permanently unhinged from his skull. When he'd gotten the choking down to manic gulping, a very undignified sound came out of his throat, probably due to all available blood being summarily rerouted in a southerly direction and robbing his vocal chords of needed elasticity and lubrication.

Lubrication. Oh how his dick loved THAT word. As surreptitiously as he could, Jensen pressed a palm into his crotch and sternly told his dick to settle the fuck DOWN. Of course, that OTHER brain had taken over, having gotten the majority of the blood in his body. It was mutiny, pure and simple. His entire body was mutinying against that one, still-loyal thought bouncing about its lonely self in his empty skull.

Jared was looking at him, eyes twinkling, mouth twitching, body fairly bounding off the couch. And all Jensen wanted to do was pounce on him and hold him down so he'd quit that damned perpetual movement! He'd downed him before, pinned Jared to the floor, the wall, the Impala, whenever Jared got too excited and couldn't seem to stop himself from going down a one-way street to self-annihilation through molecular over-stimulation. Before it was just two buddies rough-housing. Nothing to it. Until the dreams had started. And then everything changed, took on new nuances. Every word, every movement, every thing was suddenly different. Of course Jensen hid it well; he was an actor after all and a damned good one to boot, even if the dickwads of the CW wouldn't acknowledge that little fact. So Jensen had kept his feelings under wraps, skirted potentially dangerous situations with aplomb. It'd become second nature to Jensen to just let things slide and not look twice, to ignore the double entendres Jared so loved to drop on Jensen—and everybody else—at any given opportunity.

But this one took the fucking cake AND the icing AND the platter and Jensen was choking on the sheer, absolute horror of Jared's latest trick. Deep-throat Jensen's cock. As if.

Only Jared was still looking at Jensen, and his eyes were doing some seriously freaky muscle work as they kept shifting from Jensen's eyes to his lips and back. Jared had mastered the art of the facial expressions this season, going from serious, to seriously disturbed, to comical, to anger and mad, to cold fury. So, really, seeing Jared do something like that now, with his eyes, should not have disturbed Jensen as much as it was doing. And specifically the WHERE it was disturbing Jensen.

And holy shit Jared caught on to what Jensen had been trying covertly to do—tame his raging hard-on that was threatening to tear through his jeans, as powerfully hard as it felt already.

"Jensen?" Dammit, Jared should never EVER sound like that around Jensen, especially when Jensen was sporting the erection to rival the biggest porn star's. Totally not fair. So Jensen did the only sane thing his lone brain cell was capable of offering up as solution. He ran to the door, and left.

Of course one doesn't just run out of Jared Padalecki's trailer (or any of Jared's domiciles, really) with a very visible raging hard-on and expect to actually make it home and be safe. Jensen was in the bathroom, just freeing his dick, when the pounding began. He stared at his almost-purple and weeping dick, looked at the door, considered locking it and just continuing, pounding and all. But, really, the pounding was sure to wake his neighbors and that would just never do. NO ONE wanted to be quizzed the next morning by their kindly, if not a little daft, Mrs Kingston-with-the-cane-and-the-yappy-terrier about last night's ruckus. That woman would make any torture artist proud to call her his Mother. So Jensen zipped back up, left the bathroom, and yanked open the front door.

Only the front door met Jensen on its way open and he stumbled back, hand to his face, nose screaming, hard-on on extended vacation. His legs met his couch and he fell backward, hand still to his face, the other trying to brace his fall. When he finally stopped moving, he lay there with his eyes closed, his legs sprawled wide open, his nose still screaming and now warm and wet with blood. He heard the tell-tale sounds of someone in the kitchen running water. That 'someone' was also cursing quietly, and then there was a very cold cloth against the hand on his face and the quietly stern admonition to "let me see". When he opened his eyes, Jared was bending over him, face inches away, dripping cloth in one hand, a bag of ice in the other. "Oh god I'm so sorry Jensen," he said. "Here, wipe away the blood and then put this ice on it." He was helping Jensen to sit up. "Put your head back and breathe through your mouth." Jensen wanted to tell him this wasn't his first nose-bleed and to please just fuck off so he could deal with— Right. Hard-on left as soon as nose started spurting. Dammit, he'd wanted this dick to spurt!

Jared was still talking, apologizing, saying stupidly inane things that Jensen just shuffled off to that little corner of his mind that held all of Jared's little nonsensical monologues. Until Jared said those five little words that made everything stop. Except, of course, for the bleeding nose.

"I'm sorry about the hair."

Jensen opened his eyes and stared through the pain at Jared. "Yor shorry?"

Jared's lips twitched just before he ducked his head and Jensen just knew he'd sounded like a dork. "Yeah, Jensen, I'm sorry. I—I kinda knew but... you weren't doing anything so I, sorta..."

Jensen took away the ice. "Wait, you knew? Knew what?" He quickly put the ice back when he felt the warmth dribbling into his mouth again. "Jair!"

"I saw... saw you looking... at me..." Jared said with his head still down. "Saw you watching when I'd run my hand through my hair."

If it weren't for the nose bleed and the awful pain radiating to the back of his head, Jensen doesn't know what he would have done. It might have had something to do with leaning forward and sucking the very life energy from Jared through his lips. As it was, kissing was out of the question. So he contended himself with simply staring at Jared, and placing a finger beneath his chin to raise his head. "You knew." Jared nodded. "And this is what you do to get my attention? You cut off the very thing that—" And dammit this not being able to finish one's sentences due to inadvertent near-blathering of Very Personal Things was beginning to get on Jensen's nerves. He used to be so good with choosing his words, not blurting out the first thing that came to him only to stop in the middle because it had needed more thought before being allowed voice.

"That what?"

And THAT was the very reason, because people like Jared NEVER let those half-sentences die a peaceful death. People like Jared seemed to LOVE resurrecting them and making them dance a merry gig until only THEY were satisfied with the words' intended existence. So Jensen swallowed hard against the upsurge of his ire in the face of one of THOSE people, closed his eyes, and said, very quietly, "The very thing I fell for."

He held the bag of ice to his face knowing the bleeding had stopped but at least it was now acting in a second capacity of something to hide behind.

"You fell for my hair?"

Jensen nodded slowly, not wanting the bleeding to start all over again.

"What—what would you have done with my hair?"

Jensen groaned as the images came back, full colour and exquisitely detailed. It so wasn't fair. He took away the ice bag, used the cloth to wipe away the blood. "I would have, um, you know..."

"That whole 'deep throat' thing?"

Now Jensen's groan was quite a bit louder. "Jared... jesus... do you have to?"

"Do you want me to?"

"I—" Jensen looked up finally, and met Jared's eyes. Jared's very expressive, very honest, and right now very darkly aroused eyes. His mouth was parted and his tongue was just barely making an appearance though it was just enough to welcome back Jensen's hard-on.

"'Cause I really want to, Jensen." Jared backed up his words with his hands on Jensen's thighs, sliding them slowly upward and then coming back down. Rubbing his thighs, and each time getting closer and closer to their intended target. Jensen wanted to grab those hands with those fingers and place them exactly where he knew they'd end up, 'cause 'eventually' needed to be 'right now'. "I do."

"Oh god Jared... I— I just... this is so weird." He glanced up at Jared's near-bald head.

Jared's hands stopped moving. "You don't want me anymore because I have no more hair?"

Jensen trapped Jared's hands with his, keeping them there on his thighs, feeling their heat now through both his legs and his hands. "No! I just mean... I mean you have Sandy, right? And I have Danneel and—and we're best friends and—and I have no idea what I'm doing anymore."

Jared's hand began moving beneath Jensen's. "If it's any consolation, Jensen, I've never done anything like this before. Never felt like it either. But you're . . . different. I can't explain it."

"Me too." Lame, Jensen knew, but he said it anyway. All other words had gone AWOL. Only Jared's hands on his thighs, pushing past Jensen's, made sense now. So Jensen moved his hands and let Jared increase the circle, coming closer and closer.

"So . . . you'll let me?" Jared said and his hands were so freaking close, their heat fairly singeing their way through Jensen's jeans to mark their trail and leave something of an indelible mark on Jensen.

"Christ Jared just . . . yeah." The last word squeaked out of Jensen's mouth, somewhat because of what Jared was offering, but more because Jared's hands had finally reached their destination and Jensen let himself fall back onto the couch, effectively leaving his crotch wide-open for giant hands to make friends with erect dicks. Intimate friends. There was no way Jensen could have been capable of saying anything other than 'yeah'. Well, there were the inevitable 'yes's and 'god's' and other such trivial little nonsensical words and sounds that came from having that most delicate part of your body suddenly surrounded by moist heat of a very curiously queer nature. And when suction was added to the mix it was the perfect recipe for a complete brain implosion of the most enjoyable variety.

It was only a slight hiccup in Jensen's brain when his hands encountered stubble instead of thick hair but the ghost of his brain informed him that this stubble was actually quite soft and dewy and therefore very enjoyable to run his hands over while Jared's head bobbed along his cock. So he traced figures on Jared's scalp, circles and lines and—

Oh My Fucking GOD where had Jared learned to do that with his tongue? Jensen nearly bucked Jared right off him and his hands splayed themselves over Jared's scalp and he grabbed ears. Ears. His brain-ghost tried to show him the utter idiocy of that move but he couldn't listen, couldn't make heads or tails out of grabbing the guy's ears as Jared did indeed deep throat Jensen's cock. Even the subsequent gagging and coughing and sputtering did nothing to quell the need for more. And Jared seemed more than happy to try again, taking in Jensen's cock in one suck-and-swallow, this time holding his breath and Jensen felt the squeeze and pulse of Jared's throat and it was too much. With a cry—and a rather strong jerk on the ears—Jensen came hard down Jared's throat. He refuses, to this day, to wonder if Jared swallowed because he wanted to, or because he'd preferred to keep his ears attached to his head.

Jensen was boneless. Yes, that is a corny phrase but that is exactly what went through Jensen's mind as he lay limp on his couch, Jared's head resting on his naked thigh next to his, also, limp dick. Boneless. Not a feeling anywhere in his body except for something resembling melting plastic. Oh yeah, and bliss. Complete and total bliss, something even better than a joint. Jensen was blissfully boneless.

"Dude . . ." Jared mumbled from his squashed-face position against Jensen's thigh. "I never thought deep-throating would be so . . . difficult."

Jensen rested a hand on Jared's head. "You did good, man. Real good." Then a thought: "You need practice?"

Jared lifted his head and Jensen looked down to see a pair of eyes the most beautiful shade of deep green staring at him like he were some god. "What I need is . . . a shower." He stood up then, pushing on Jensen's knees before coming to a wobbly upright position. Jensen thought for a moment he might end up with a lap-full of six-foot-four sasquatch as Jared teetered to the right, then tottered to the left, before he finally tripped down the hall to Jensen's bathroom, hitting the wall no less than three times.

With the sound of the water running, Jensen pulled himself together, put himself back in his jeans, and stood up. He grinned as he found his footing much faster than his gigantor friend had. And then it was on to coffee. Coffee was good anytime of day or night. And with coffee—and mind-fucking-blowing blow jobs—there needed to be the obligatory cigarette. So he fished through his drawers and pulled out a tattered and misshapen red box and pulled out a dented cigarette. He retreated to his balcony, lit, and dragged.

The smell of percolating coffee mixed with Jared's own unique scent (now tinted with Jensen's soap) came wafting through the patio doors and Jensen turned around and took the coffee mug from Jared. "Just the way you like it," Jared said. Jensen thanked him. "So you smoke after . . . sex?"

"Sometimes. When it's good and my body feels like it won't ever reinflate itself."

Jared snorted. "So the hair's not so bad then?"

Jensen grinned. "Naw." He reached up. "I have the ears, after all."

Jared swatted Jensen's hand away. "Dude, you nearly tore them off! What'd Eric do if I had no hair and no ears! Not to mention Sandy—"

Whatever satiety had settled over Jensen was summarily blown away when his own reality came tumbling down around him. "Shit."

"Fuck."

"Well..."

Jared looked at Jensen. "That's it? Just 'well'?"

Jensen took a drag. "What else is there to say?"

"Dude! You freaked out because I shaved my head and now, after . . ." he flailed his arm behind him, ". . . that and all you have to say is 'well'?!"

Jensen put his coffee mug down on the railing and turned to Jared. "That," he gestured weakly toward the living room, "was the best orgasm I ever had. And, trust me, I've had many to compare it to. Danneel is good but . . . she doesn't deep throat... like that. Christ even your throat is uber-long!"

And we present the Jared-eyebrow! "So, what you're saying is, my deep-throating abilities would . . . cause you to leave Danneel?"

"Hey, a man's gotta have some kind of guarantee of good head, you know."

"So you'd stay with me as long as I gave you 'good' head?"

"Would you leave Sandy to give me head on a regular basis, Jared?"

Jared's mouth worked but nothing came out. "I don't believe you . . ."

Jensen pulled one last drag from his cigarette then bent to squash it into a can of sand. "I've been thinking about your hair since the first time I met you, since we did that fight scene in the Pilot and I held you down. Since we did Tall Tales and the bed. Since a whole lot times, Jared. All my girlfriends have had long hair but . . . after three years of knowing you, the hair became just a bonus. Something I could focus on to keep my mind from really screwing with my head—if that makes any sense. Because, Jared, you're hair was only the beginning."

"The beginning?"

"The beginning," Jensen said. "After that everything else started coming in until you were just 'Jared' in my head. Tall, gigantic hands, puppy-fucking-eyes, manic glee at just being alive." He stepped closer, put his hand on Jared's chest, right on his heart. "I couldn't have done all this without you there with me, Jared. You showed me it was okay to let loose once in a while and not worry about the public so much. You let me be more than what I was and nobody can dare take that credit but you."

"Geez Jensen, this sounds like the most messed-up declaration of love I've ever heard!"

Jensen swallowed and forced himself to look up. "It is."

"Jesus..."

Jensen left his hand there, enjoying the feeling of Jared's heart tip-tapping its way to a quick staccato. And below that, the tell-tale sign of other things speeding up. "There it is, man. Take it over leave it."

Jared put his hand atop Jensen's and then pulled him closer with a hand on Jensen's back and that was all it took for Jensen's dick to take renewed interest in the possibilities. "I am so taking, Jensen. You are mine from here on out." And for a final point, Jared pressed his groin into Jensen's and ground down hard.

Jensen licked a trail along Jared's neck. "This is my new fetish—your throat."

"Guess I'd better hope never to get sick, huh?"

And then Jared sneezed.

~*~
THE END

Pressure - SPN - Sam/Ruby - R

Sat, 27 Oct 2007 07:09:28 GMT

You string together over a thousand words to create a story, but trying to find less than a dozen words for a title and suddenly you're stopped. Stalled. Out of gas. Gasping for air. Dying, and wanting to drag down with you the story that did this to you. I hate titling.

TITLE: Pressure
AUTHOR: anansay
FANDOM/CHARACTERS: Supernatural | Sam/Ruby
RATING: R
WORDS:1,270±
GENRE: Drama.
SPOILERS: Up S3/4
DISCLAIMER: Not my characters; they belong to Kripke and co.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I needed, needed, to write Sam and Ruby, ever since that last scene in the episode. I feel like I haven't written anything in forever. I feel good at having written something that saw an ending, that isn't a paltry 100 words of basically nothing, but I'm terrified I'll fall into another writer's block.
BETA: None.

SUMMARY: She knows when to stand back, and when to push.

~*~
Pressure

by Anansay
October 28, 2007
~*~

The cold press of the Colt against her neck was something she'd fully expected, even sooner. What she didn't expect was the accompanying feeling of heat and need that etched its way from her center, carving jagged lines along her flesh. She looked up, eyes wide and grin wider, and watched Sam's eyes dull and fade and lose their colour, their vibrancy, their life. This wasn't the Sam she'd watched and followed for weeks, heard about for years. But it was a Sam she'd known was hidden somewhere deep inside. And now she just might be standing on the doorstep, about to knock.

"Gonna do it, Sam?" she said, dropping her voice a bit. "Gonna pull that trigger? Or gonna do something else . . . ?"

She watched Sam swallow, the sound loud and hollow in the silence of the room. Still, he kept the gun there, his eyes traveling up and down, from the gun to her eyes. Back and forth. Up and down. His hand began to shake, quiver slightly, but still he didn't move. Except for the blinking, which seemed to be something spasmodic.

"Make up your mind, Sammy-boy. Or I will."

That seemed to set him off, release the shackles, so to speak. He did move, only not in the way she'd anticipated. The Colt's end relaxed against her neck, only to slide up alongside her neck up to her ear. He was watching it move, like he couldn't quite believe it was his own hand doing it. Still, the Colt moved, flicked her earlobe and then came around to her mouth where it trailed, light as a feather, along her lips. It wasn't her body, but she could still feel it responding. Feel herself responding. Lord she was getting turned on by the caress of the very single thing that could end her existence!

"Sam—"

"Shut up," he said, his voice gruff. "Just shut up. I don't believe you, Ruby. You're a demon and demons lie. The only time they tell the truth is when it works for them."

"True."

"So. You're going to tell me what I want to know, or I'll pull the trigger."

He slid the Colt into her mouth. She tasted the tangy-sweet taste of cold steel, felt it blossom on her tongue, shrivel the inside of her cheeks. She wrapped her tongue around it and welcomed it inside her mouth. Pursed her lips and sucked. And grinned at the way Sam's eyes widened. She sucked some more, adding a little moan for good measure.

"Jesus—"

"—would never have done this kind of thing," she said around the Colt. It didn't come out nearly as perfect as she wanted it to, more like a mumbled thing she'd heard from babies right before Azazel stole their mommies and made them scream.

Sam's mouth worked, twisted into sneers and grins and malicious looking smiles that made Ruby's skin tingle and grow cold at the same time. "Tell me," he growled and stepped forward, making the Colt hit the back of her mouth. She breathed through the gag reflex and Sam's eyes stayed glued to her mouth, lips wrapping firmly around the cylinder before she backed up and making her lips slide off with a slick pop!

She smiled. "No."

Sam moved. Swift as lightning and powerful as thunder and she was against the wall, Sam's body against hers, his heat searing her in place, his breath warm and rank against her cheek. "I'm gonna—"

"What Sam, fuck me? Rape me? Think you can rape a demon, Sam?"

His body moved against hers, hot and hard, his cock pressing into her hip with a hardness that only mildly shocked her. "I don't rape . . . women."

"And demons?"

"—aren't human."

"So it's rape then."

Only Sam's hand was between their bodies and clutching at her, his long fingers pressing in, pushing the fabric of her jeans against her sex and she felt the wetness spill out and spread. "Demons only get fucked."

Ruby looked up into Sam's face, registered in his eyes and his face, the storm in full force. "So fuck me, then."

It was quick and violent and very close to what Ruby had been looking for. There are only so many psychopathic murderers a demon can cajole into the sack before it becomes dull and boring to destroy them after they'd destroyed her body. She'd enjoyed watching the coldness in their eyes become an ice-blue flame of fury before she'd summarily blow it out with a touch of a finger. But Sam was a different story. In his eyes burned a fury much different. This fury was red-hot and fueled his body and mind and soul. She'd watched his gentleness sway an errant evil thought, tame it to something useful. The term 'gentle giant' definitely applied to this human, even if beneath swam a growing swarm of seething almost sulphuric rage.

When he bit into her neck, bit through the flesh and sucked up the blood, she tasted his ire. When his hands clawed down her back and she arched into him, she felt his fury. When his hips pounded into her without apology, without mercy, wet flesh slapping together, she knew him. Knew him inside and out and through. Caught herself on crimson-tipped brambles in his mind. Breathed in the vitriolic scent that swirled beneath the more pungent manly odour that seemed to rest on well-worn men. And when he came, howling all the detritus of a life not-quite lived, of a love burned away, of a slim memory of cradling warmth, of a desperation that would dodge his heels forevermore, she heard his fear. Something so black, so deep, so wide and long and cold. A fear of solitude, of isolation. A fear of letting go, of not being able to hold on. A fear of losing something so precious yet so tenuous. A fear of wanting to let go and drift. When he came so violently inside her, burning her with his seed, a liquid Life so pure and simple, it scorched her and she responded with her own cry. A short, shrill sound she knew he didn't hear. And she didn't care.

And then it was over.

Sam pulled out, rolled away, sat up, and dropped his head into his hands. He stayed like that and she watched him. Watched the rise and fall of his back, the slow rhythmic motion and she knew he was thinking. That his brain was in overdrive and too many thoughts were crowding together, each vying for top spot. A part of her wanted to reach out and touch him, rest a hand on his back, whisper in his ear. Tell him not to worry, it'll be alright. Not a single freaking chance of pregnancy. She grinned, and sat up. The sheets remained untouched.

"Sam—"

"Shut up." It was soft, but strong. Deep and full of power. It was a voice she'd come to know well, to love even. A voice that could direct, that could control and manipulate. A voice that could lead.

~*~
THE END

Deconstruction of Dean - SPN - Sam/Dean - NC-17

Sat, 08 Sep 2007 07:10:56 GMT

I have sat on this for so long. I posted it once and my first comment pointed me to a glaring plot-error which just sent me careening back to the drawing board. I have since fixed it, read it over a few dozen times, am pretty sure it's all plot-flowy now. I could be wrong.
I can only term this 'crack' because it makes no sense and was written in the darkest hours of the night, when things never make any sense, by the lone light of my (lost in the ether, oh how I miss thee!) laptop. I can't explain it. I refuse to, as a matter of fact. It's just one of those things that grew, like fungus, taking on whatever shape it felt like.

TITLE: Deconstruction of Dean
AUTHOR: anansay
FANDOM: Supernatural
CHARACTERS/PAIRING: Sam, Dean,
RATING: R/NC-17
WORDS: 5,900+
GENRE: Gen; attempt at humour; attempt at plot
WARNINGS: m/m, slightly non-con if you kinda sorta squint
SPOILERS: No eps spoiled.
DISCLAIMER: Not my characters; they belong to Eric Kripke.
BETA: Nada.

SUMMARY: Sometimes things just don't make any sense and are not worth analyzing. They just happen. It's just a job. Right?

~*~
Deconstruction of Dean

by Anansay
September 2007
~*~

It can't be thought of as anything other than what it is. And what it is is something neither of them want to admit. For to admit to something like this, is to admit their own humanity in all it's skewed perfectionism. And that just wouldn't do.

The first time it happens is not of their own doing. It comes through them from outside and they're powerless to resist. Hard to resist a demon when you're shackled to its being, a prisoner in your body as you watch yourself, from inside, doing things that most people would either frown heavily at, or outright cause immediate death. When they're finally freed, it's to collapse exhausted to the cold stone floor of the mausoleum.

When it's done, that dirty unmentionable deed, the demon laughs. Dean kills it. Sam's throat is raw, lips bleeding, tongue loose and hanging, body worn and naked. They pull on clothes heavy with dried blood and semen, pack up their stuff (various demon-killing paraphernalia, and Dad's precious notebook) and take off.

The Impala is around two corners and once safely inside, doors locked and windows rolled up, they collapse against the seats, and into themselves. Sam is the first to pull the amulet from his neck, the only thing the demon let them both keep on their bodies. A silent mockery of what Bobby had told them. It had offered no protection at all against these demons who just seemed to waltz right into their bodies, leaving them completely aware of everything their bodies were doing. The smooth slick-slide of taut muscles and straining appendages. Breath caught and released through straining vocal chords, causing almost inhuman sounds to reverberate inside a strangely perfectly attuned mausoleum, bouncing around like echoes, constantly reminding them of the duality of their actions—how abhorrent it should feel, and how delirious it really felt.

The Impala starts smoothly with its normal growl and then squeals angrily as Dean forces her to the max too soon. Sam's thrown against the door, and then against Dean, only to jump back too forcibly and slam himself back into the door. Finally he settles himself into his seat, hands tucked securely between his legs, gaze held severely straight ahead, with no chance of sideways glances. There is no talk on this ride, no rehashing of how it all went, no deciphering of any mistakes made and to be avoided in the future. Nothing. Just the obnoxious blaring of AC/DC crackling through the bass speakers and threatening to burst them flat.

The hotel smells of aged nicotine and sour semen, but the shower is hot and the beds are dry and Sam curls up in one, Dean in the other, each facing away. Still, no words. Through years of each other's company twenty-four-seven, the nonverbal cues are clear and in these times, it is that language that dominates this night. And for days afterward. They know who gets the shower first, who pays the bill, the meal, the fuel. It's all rote by now.

~*~

The second time it happens is also not of their own doing, and once again that everlasting element of evil is conspicuously present. And it's not the world-renown evils of the amber liquid currently being liberally poured down parched throats. Though it is what finally allows their tongues free rein to perform a full-on mutiny against their brains. It's what it takes for each of them to start talking, start spewing words each thought were hidden deep enough in their messed up psyches.

A few hours of blessed liquid apathy during a particularly harrowing hunt. It isn't like they've never hunted a witch before, but this one makes it her business to truly fuck up people's lives, and not in a cross-roads-demon sorta way in which the ending is practically gouged from existence. No, this bitch should be something demonic. In fact, Dean is beginning to think she could teach a few demons a thing or two. There is knowing a person inside and out and using only the most sweetly delicious parts of that knowledge to create a writhing mass of fear and horror at one's feet, and then there's creating that same universe in the person's head through the dubious use of potent herbs only a true witch would know how to use. Street merchants, those peddlers of pernicious pandemonium be damned, would probably carve out their own testicles if they knew their precious portal to paradise was being usurped by a most malevolent being from which no amount of rake-off would ever be collected. And it was good shit too.

It's in the middle of Dean's more disturbing thoughts that Sam's voice creeps in, all deep and dark and grumbly.

"Your skin was so . . ." Sam mutters into his glass, the rim resting on his lip before he tips it and lets the shot slide down his throat.

Dean finds himself mesmerized by the rhythmic motion of his brother's throat. And then the words float over to him through his own amber fog. "Dude, we don't—" hiccup "—think we're not supposed to talk 'bout that."

"Don't care."

Dean downs his seventh shot, and slams the glass down. Feels the table wobble and curses the stupid stinky dives they're forced to use for their public intoxication purposes. Nobody of any consequence, or memory, frequents these places. Most times patrons stumble in well into their inebriation. Sometimes years' into their own delusions. Sam chose the place and Dean can't fathom a single reason why his brother would chose such a dive. There is a thought, somewhere in his mind, that he might not come away cleanly from his chair, that parts of his jeans might stay stuck. It's while he's busy ensuring the eventual full removal of his person that he remembers he was trying to set Sam straight on a few issues.

"Sam, you're my brother, got that? Brothers don't do shit like that. What would Dad say?"

Sam looks up through his bangs grown long and thick with time. "Dad's dead, Dean." He hiccups, cocks his head to one side, makes a face, and announces, "Hey, that's an alliteration!"

Dean blinks. "Dude, don't do that. Dad would—" he shakes his head. The thought had been there, right there, firmly in his head, and then it's gone. Poof! Blown cleanly away by his brother's intoxicated erratic babble. Something about Dad. Something Dad would do, or not do. Or... something. "Dad... would kill us." The words slide off his lax lips as he stares at the empty table. There used to be things on the table, small shiny things that held liquid. Amber liquid. Shit, where'd the shot glasses go to? He leans over to peer beneath the table and realizes too late just how wrong that move is. He looks up at Sam's face past the edge of the table.

"Dude, whachya doin' down there?" Sam's peering at him through squinty eyes, his lips pursed and it's not right the way Dean's eyes flicker down to them, and stay there. He remembers with vivid clarity how those lips felt smearing against his own on their way to his collar bone, down his naked chest, to his—

Dean shuts his eyes. "Just get me up, bitch." He takes hold of Sam's hand and then he's standing, but only for a moment and then he's falling forward and Sam's firm chest is there, beneath his hands, like a wall, and Dean's leaning against him, face pressed to days' old plaid cotton, smelling Sam-sweat and—

He jerks back, looks up and Sam's face is right there, lips right there, eyes at half-mast and closing. Closing. Getting closer. Oh dear god. Dad. Something about Dad. Need to get away. Pull away. No.

Sam's kissing him. Soft and young and like he's never kissed before. Only Dean just has to remember Jess and her bosom spilling from her Smurf's top and too-short boy-shorts and he knows Sam knows how to kiss otherwise how could his kid brother snag a beauty like that if he didn't know how to kiss? Only he's not really kissing Dean now, more like sliding from his lips and Dean cranes his head back, lolls it on his shoulders, fully expecting Sam's lips to latch onto his skin and begin sucking. Except Sam's face is pressed heavily into neck and he hears a sound he's never heard, not once, during his many forays into the sexual kingdom.

Sam is snoring.

Soft little tickles in Dean's neck. So Dean hefts him up, tosses some money on the table, and drags his brother outside, shoves him into the back of the Impala and takes them both back to the hotel. Only, the hotel's not there anymore. Instead it sits a smokey ruin, thin plumes of smoke rising to the starry heavens like weak signals to the angels. Dean stops the Impala and steps out. His alcohol-addled mind questions this, but he shoves it aside. He stands and stares, and waits. He doesn't know for what, only that this really isn't supposed to be happening so there has to be a reason and he's damned if he's just going to get back in his car and leave. After all, Sam's laptop was in there, not to mention their freaking clothes. Dean takes a whiff of himself and feels the sudden horrifying reality that he's going to be walking into some Walmart smelling like a dumpster-diver. He jumps back into his car and checks— yes, he still has his shades and a baseball cap. Incognito shopping will be possible.

In the back Sam murmurs and sits up, rubbing at his eyes. "We home yet?"

"Oh yeah," Dean answers, "we're home, bud. Except home's not there anymore."

He feels the car shift as Sam moves. "Holy shit, Dean. What happened?"

"Place burned down apparently."

"The witch...?"

"The Bitch, more likely."

"Damn..."

"Yeah."

"What're we gonna do?" Sam is obviously still quite drunk as he would have jumped right in with at least three fully formed plans. And there'd have been no slurring.

"We're gonna kill the bitch, Sammy," Dean announces and starts the Impala's engine. Its roar takes over the night and fills Dean with a sense of purpose, the growl like that of a cat on the prowl. Sammy joins him in the front seat and the car's rear lights leave a blazing stream of blood-red in the night.

~*~

They find her in the middle of the road, a darkly-hooded figure the Impala passes right through, the brothers screaming and covering their faces with their arms. The car comes to a dead stop, the front end hugging a tree, blood splattered on the windshield and silence inside. Moments later the passenger door slams open and Sam falls out, all gangly limbs askew, reaching out for anything and finding nothing. Dean follows suit, only more slowly, his right hand clutching his left arm. She's still standing in the middle of the road, facing them. There are peels of laughter in the wind.

"Gonna really kill that bitch," Dean mumbles, a hand on the Impala's dented hood.

Sam's gone around the back and is trying to work the trunk open. Finally he just howls, slams a hand down and the trunk's latch pops. Sam swings it up, nearly whacking his head. He pulls out a small box and a jar with a cloth sticking out. Together they march toward the road, toward the witch.

"What're you going to do, boys? Didn't your Pa teach you to respect women?"

"Yeah," Dean grumbles, clutching his arm, "but not when they're bitches."

"I'm a witch, Dean," she tells him in a soft patronizing voice. She glances at Sam. "Going to burn me up, now?"

"You're going down, bitch." Dean holds out a hand and Sam slaps the bottle in it and strikes a match. It's blown out.

"Oh come on now, you can't really think it'd be that easy. You want me to burn? How 'bout I make you burn?" She flings out an empty hand toward them. Nothing happens.

"Ha! Burn bitch!" Sam strikes another match. Dean lights the bottle and tosses it at the witch. It connects squarely and within moments there's a screeching witch flailing in the middle of the road in the middle of nowhere. Of course they stand and watch. Dean thinks of marshmallows while Sam's head is filled with the quiet whispers he's grown accustomed to.

~*~

The boys end up waking all night to the nearest town, a half-dead being of dilapidated buildings and nary a soul to be seen. It's early morning and the sun's rays cut between the buildings and create a banded look on dust-blown streets.

"I feel like I've just walked into the wild west. Where's Ol' Johnny?" He turns to see Sam giving him a Look. He looks down at his own legs. Looks back up at Sam, his lip lifting in a sneer. "Funny."

"So, what d'we do now?" Sam's definitely sober now. Long walks in the middle of moon-less nights do tend to sober up even the most hardy of drunks. His slurring is most likely do to sheer exhaustion. Walking for eight hours straight will also do that to a person.

Dean pulls out his cell phone. All night long it gave him a baleful glare of dead light, mocking their loneliness with its lack of service. Now, it doesn't glare at him. In fact, it doesn't glare at all. It doesn't even let Dean know its battery is dead. Dean chucks it against a building. The phone bursts into shards and they rain over them, spattering them in the face and on the arms. They look at each other among the raining ruins.

~*~

The hotel is clearly abandoned. One door swings wildly on a single hinge and there's a layer of dust on everything that takes a more-than-normal effort to drag a finger through. The elevator doesn't work, so they take the stairs to the second floor. The third door opens only by dint of Dean's boot. It doesn't matter that it doesn't close after that, only that the room is relatively clean, and relatively warm. Of course, the shower doesn't work at all, not even a nail-scratching wrenching of pipes. The knobs just turn squeakily and nothing but putrid air snorts through the faucet. They stay out of the bathroom.

Sam drags the comforters off the beds and into the hallway where he shakes them out as much as he can, closing his mouth and not breathing in the sudden dust storm. When he gets back Dean is lounging on a bed, head on folded arms. "I'm tired, hungry, and miss the damn television. I need the damn television to fall asleep."

"No you don't." Sam tosses a comforter over his brother and proceeds to drape the other one on the second bed. Dean fights his way out of his to glare at Sam. "I do too."

"Well, get over it. We're stuck here for now. We're going to sleep and tomorrow—whenever we wake up—we'll go walking some more until we find a town that actually has some people. Where are we, anyway?"

"I don't wanna walk."

"Tough. We've been through worse. At least we can walk."

Dean squirms and adjusts himself. "What'd that bitch do, give me crabs or something?"

Sam stops messing with the hospital corners on his bed. "What do you mean?"

Dean begins undoing his jeans. "Feels like there're things—oh shit..."

"What?" Sam comes around the bed. Dean is staring down at his crotch and it's only when Sam gets close and actually looks down that he begins to understand Dean's distress.

Dean's cock is huge and hard and red and poking straight out. It's not resting at all on his thighs. Even Sam's cock rests on his thighs when it's hard and he's sitting. Not Dean's. If Sam let his eyesight relax, Dean's cock would look like a stake of mahogany sticking out of his brother's crotch. But it's a cock alright. And the sight of that huge boner makes Sam's cock tingle in response. He can't help the moan as memories surface up like fart bubbles.

. . . hard bodies pressed together . . . wet lips sliding roughly together . . . hand jerking roughly on tender flesh . . . moans and groans and pleas to STOP . . . pleas becoming begging . . . strips of their shirts tied snug around wrists and ankles . . . hot beeswax dribbled on pert nipples . . . on straining cocks . . . on pulsing arse holes . . . bodies smeared with glistening come . . .

"Sam?" comes Dean's breathy voice drifting up into Sam's reverie, dissipating it.

"God . . . Dean . . ." Sam licks his lips.

"Sam? What—jesus!"

Sam's on his knees between Dean's legs, his tongue laving a long stripe on the underside of Dean's massive erection. Dean's entire body shudders violently and then he's on his back, staring up at the water marks on the ceiling while Sam goes to town on his cock. Strong fingers dig into his thighs, keeping him there, keeping his legs from spasming as Sam's tongue performs sinful tricks. And then those hands are leaving his thighs and sliding up, up, nails scraping lightly against his stomach, up, until they reach pebbly nibbles and there they pinch and twist and Dean's arching, crying out, and coming deep in Sam's swallowing mouth. "Christo!"

Sam pulls off, smacks his lips, licks them, and then stares at Dean like he just grew antlers. Like sucking off your brother was perfectly fine. "'Christo', Dean?"

"Huh?" Dean is still lying flat on the bed, arms and legs limp. "What?"

Sam struggles to a standing position, adjusting his own erection through his jeans. "You call out 'christo' when you come? I don't remember that when—"

And Dean's up and on his feet, dick hanging limply between his legs, face up in Sam's. "We don't ever speak of that, Samuel Winchester," he intones with great gravity.

Sam arches an eyebrow and drops his gaze to Dean's crotch. "Really?"

And then Dean's hands are frantically doing up his jeans. "And we don't speak of this either." He spins around. "And what the fuck are you doing, blowing me?"

Images of Dean's massive cock flash in Sam's mind and he feels his own cock flare. "I, uh..."

Suddenly Dean's there, in his face, and then Sam can't see him at all for the press of lips against his own, and then the tongue shoving its way inside. Sam can't breathe; Dean's nose is bending his to the side and Dean's mouth is completely taking over Sam's mouth. And yet, Sam finds his hands curling into Dean's shirt and pulling him even closer, pressing his crotch against Dean's. And then there's moaning, and slobbery gasps and Sam's breathing again, hissing when Dean's mouth latches onto his throat and begins a suction that Sam is sure will pull every drop of blood to the surface, and beyond. But there's grindage and heat and friction and—

Dean's hands undoing his jeans and shoving inside and taking hold and moving. Oh gods Dean's jacking him off with what could only be termed vengeance but Sam doesn't care 'cause dammit if he doesn't feel is balls clenching up against him and heat coiling just above that, and his stomach rippling and then he's coming, head thrown back, body arching, and choked guttural sounds in his ears.

When he comes to he's on the floor and there's marked coolness in his southern regions. "Dean?" His voice is rough and it hurts to speak.

"Yeah," comes Dean's disembodied voice from somewhere by Sam's head. And then Dean's there, his upside-down face filling Sam's vision. "Back from the dead, I see!" And Dean is just way too perky for someone who just got off with his own brother. And then there's a hand in front of Sam's face. Sam grabs it and only then remembers what that hand had been doing just . . . moments ago. Moments that might have been hours, he thinks, as his brain gives a rather vicious thumping inside his head. He moans, and remembers the hand once again and releases it quickly. Too quickly if his sudden loss of balance is of any concern. He teeters to the right and totters to the left and then both of Dean's hands are on his arms, steadying him. "Whoa there, bro."

"Your hand," Sam squeaks out, and is instantly mortified at the non-adult voice.

"My—jeez, Sam, I washed it!" Then he does something that totally does not sit well with Sam. Dean looks him up and down. "Why don't you go wash up there, buddy-boy. You ain't smellin' too pretty yerself."

Sam makes a face and disappears into the bathroom and returns a not-much-different looking person, except for the bright pink spots high on his cheeks. He can't seem to get rid of those. "So, uh, what now?"

"What now? We go after that bitch! She obviously put some gay-wincest-groupie mojo on us, dude!"

Sam blinks. "Dean, we burned her up. Remember?"

Dean scowls. "Dammit. What now?"

"Didn't I just ask that?"

"Hey man, you're the 'full ride' Stanford scholar here!"

Sam pulls a face at Dean and gets up off the bed to pace the room. Dean can see the cogs working in Sam's mind and damn if it isn't suddenly an intellectual aphrodisiac brought down to Dean's level of gutter inhabitance. Sam stops pacing. "We need to find the object the witch is attached to and destroy it."

"I knew that." Dean is doing that cheschire-cat grin that never fails to make Sam want to squash feral kittens into his brother's face.

"You did not."

"Did too."

"Dean—"

"Let's just find it." Dean huffs like the ten-year old he so obviously is. "Now, what are we looking for?" Dean is already off the bed and pacing the room, finger crooked beneath his chin as though he thought himself a scholar as well.

Just then there's a sound at the window and both boys turn to it. A calico cat sits on the window sill, delicately licking its front paw before looking up directly at Dean and meowing. Dean looks at Sam. Sam looks at Dean. Dean blinks, sighs, and goes for the shotgun. "Damn familiars."

The cat lets out another higher pitched meow and jumps off before Dean can even pull the shotgun from their duffel bag. "What the—"

"It's a cat," says Sam. "It defies gravity by virtue of their very being." Then he's out the door.

Outside the cat is nowhere to be found. Dean is standing in a court yard, shotgun resting on his shoulder as he slowly turns, eyeing the place. "Where's that bitch?" he asks no one in particular.

"Got any meat?"

"Yeah, but that thing ain't getting it!"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Not your meat, idiot. FOOD!"

"Oh, um, no." Dean turns on Sam. "Do you think I walk around with a turkey sandwich in my back pocket or something?"

"I dunno, man. Just thought, you know, maybe you hid some pepperettes on you, or something."

"Like I said, no way that feline fucktard is getting my pepper!"

Sam just rolls his eyes and stalks away, toward a darkened alcove. There's a yell, a dusty-sounding kerfuffle, and Sam emerges. His hair is even more in disarray, his face is one giant smear of dusty grime, his shirt is torn six ways to sunday, but he holds in his hand something small, furry and quite furious.

"What the—"

"The cat," Sam announces like he's speaking to a one-celled organism.

Dean levels the gun.

"NOT WHILE I'M HOLDING IT NUMBSKULL!"

"Well then put it down!"

"It'll run away!"

"Then hold it away from you!" Sam does, and that's when Dean notices Sam's arm and the lovely crimson patchwork adorning his arm, through the remains of Sam's shirt. "Shit."

"Kill the fucker!" Sam yells as the cat begins a second assault on its jailer. It's a huge not-so-cute fluff-ball of fury and Sam is its scratching post. The scratching is losing; Sam's going down screaming. Dean runs over, levels the gun, aims.

Aims again.

Aims some more.

"Dammit!" He throws the gun aside, swallows, flexes, and dives headfirst into the melee.

There's much screaming, howling, screeching, ripping of flesh, more howling, tearing of clothes, blue streak cursing that would curl a sailor's stained britches. Finally a hand shoves its way up from the mess of bloody clothes and skin. It holds in it furry remains. It's a foot. The claws are still firmly embedded in the hand. The hand is twitching. And then a head appears, a scowling face with a trellis work of fine scratches.

"I hate cats. They're all bitches," Dean announces as he crawls away from Sam, hand still holding the claw.

"It's dead. We killed it." Sam hitches himself up to his full height, and yanks Dean up.

"Yeah..."

They're both breathing hard, leaning on each other, bloody, in pain. Dean flexes his hand, shakes it, and then just yanks the cat's claw from its final attack's resting place. "Fucking bitch, clawed me and left it in."

Sam pulls away from his brother, looks at him with his puppy-dog eyes, and licks his lip. "Question is, did we really have to do that?"

"What the fuck do you mean? Of course we had to do that! That was the bitch witch's familiar!"

"Was it?"

Now it's Dean turn to stare at Sam, eyes wide with horror-filled disbelief.

"Only one way to find out," Sam says and pulls his brother to him, crushing their lips together.

It's hard and wet and messy and—when Sam shoves his tongue deep into Dean's mouth—cold.

Sam pulls away, licking the dribbling saliva from his lips. "That was..."

"Horrible."

Sam shakes his head. "Wasn't like..."

Dean spins around, finger jabbing at Sam's face. "Not talking 'bout that."

Sam nods, looks away. "Right."

"So..." Dean's looking the other way.

"Now we just leave?"

"Oh hell yeah!"

They look around. "No car," Sam says.

Dean curses, walks over to a wall and punches it. Cradles his hand to his chest and curses some more. "Dammit."

Sam peers down the road. "Took us five hours of walking last night."

"Yeah."

"Not fun."

"Nope."

"Better get started then. Work on the car while there's still light."

"Yep."

The eerie silence of the abandoned town follows them in their stead, mocking their loud footsteps on the gravel and then the slap of rubber on decades' old pavement. It steals their words from them so they join in the silence, walking side by side, not touching, not looking at each other. They round another bend, and stop.

Sam checks his watch. "It's only been an hour, Dean."

Sitting in the middle of the road, pristine as they day she was born, is the Impala. Jet black body gleaming in the mid morning sun and not a single hint of a dent.

Dean is slowly walking towards his baby. "Yeah..." he runs a hand along her body, feeling the metal warm-soft beneath his calloused fingers. If he let himself, he could almost hear her purring her contentment at his return. He slides in the front seat through Sam's called out warning. Slides the key into the ignition (smooth, glitch-free), turns, and almost comes in his pants at the smooth growl beneath the hood. She's purring now, vibrating softly beneath him, caressing him. He runs his hand along the steering wheel, feeling the stitches in the leather, breathes her in and gets a good strong whiff of leather and oil and gas and that special scent that lets him know this is his Impala. His baby.

Sam's still standing in the middle of the road staring at him, mouth open. Dean waves at him from the window—get over here, dimwit. Sam shakes his head, rolls his eyes, sighs (it's in the movement of his chest) and finally strides forward. He's angry; Dean can tell. Sam always walks just a little bit crookedly when he's angry, like he can't quite remember how to get his stilt-legs to work properly.

He's leaning on Dean's door, fingers white-knuckling the window. "What the hell, Dean? We crashed last night! Nearly wrapped the car around a tree!" He peers around him. There, in the darkness of early-morning shadows, is the tree. Sam walks over to it and... yep, there it is. Proof. Gouges in the wood with bits of black paint embedded for good measure. Sam looks back at the Impala and sees a perfect car just off the lot. Nothing wrong with it. Nothing at all.

"That's not our car."

"Of course she is! I know my car, Sam!"

"That's not—how can it be? We crashed it!"

Dean's still rubbing circles in the steering wheel's leather. "Yeah, well, maybe that was just the bitch witch's doing. You know, to get us . . . I don't know! Just get in already!"

"No."

"Sam—"

Sam backs up. "No, Dean. We crashed last night and the only way that car can be working now is if—"

"Don't say it, Sammy. The bitch is dead. Her familiar is dead. We are fine! I want to get the hell out of here, now get in the fuck in the car right fucking now Sammy!"

But Sam doesn't move, just stands and stares at the car like it might start driving on its own. With Dean a prisoner inside it.

"No, Dean. This isn't right. Something's wrong."

Dean rolls his eyes and pulls his fist back, pauses, and unrolls his fist. "Yeah, what's wrong is you're not getting in and if you don't get in I'm fucking leaving you here, you got that? Now get in."

"Dean—"

"Fine." Dean puts the Impala in Drive and pulls away.

Sam watches his brother take off, watches the car get smaller and more quiet. And then there's nothing. No car, no sound. Not even birds. Sam looks up, around, and there is, indeed, not a sound around him. Dean's left him in a place where the birds and the insects are quiet. Nothing. Dead. Fuck.

Sam yells, just to hear something. Cranes his head back and feels the scream rip through his throat, hears it bounce off the leaves in a million tiny screams, coming back at him like a multitude of tiny knives carving into his ears. Because with the sound comes something else. A deeper sound, rumbling in the distance and growing louder, stronger. Sam can feel it beneath his feet, sees the pebbles start to bounce. The scream is still alive, reverberating throughout the woods, but far off, going away now.

And Sam has but a hunting knife for a defense. He pulls it out from the back of his jeans and holds it in front of him, looking around for that noise.

And then he sees it, the black Impala, speeding toward him, fishtailing around the corner, kicking up dust like a dervish possessed. It stops a mere half a foot in front of Sam, front grate glinting in the sun and looking like it'd WANT to smash Sam's shins. Dean is staring at him, eyes wide and very serious, mouth pursed thinly. He's clearly unimpressed. Sam walks around. "So, your idea to come back, or the Impala's?"

"Shut the fuck up Sam and get inside. Just because I call the car a 'she' does not mean it's alive. And, no, I still don't know why it's fixed so shut up about that too, 'kay? Maybe the bitch crashed it last night and now it's fine because she's dead. Ever think of that, college boy?"

But Sam's staring at the car with that squinty-eye analytical thing he does and Dean just sighs, leans over, and shoves the door open. "Get in."

Sam gets in. Dean guns it—again—and this time the dust being kicked up is okay.

They never do find a plausible reason for the Impala's sudden impeccable reappearance in their lives. But that's okay, because she's there and Dean has her and he has Sam and Sam has Dean and it's all cool now.

~*~
THE END

Scent - SPN - Sam/Dean - PG

Mon, 13 Aug 2007 06:11:07 GMT

TITLE: Scent
AUTHOR: anansay
FANDOM: Supernatural
CHARACTERS/PAIRING: Dean/Sam, if you squint
RATING: PG
WORDS: 650+
GENRE: Gen/slash, if that makes any sense
WARNINGS: None
SPOILERS: None
DISCLAIMER: All characters are property of Eric Kripke.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Most of the time my stories begin with the first line. It pops into my head, and then I go from there.
BETA: Nada.

SUMMARY: Smell is a powerful inducer.

~*~
Scent
by Anansay
August 2007
~*~

If only because he smells like that man.

That man you let take you the other night, up against the rough brick wall, music pounding on the other side of it. He'd smelled so freaking good—warm and sweet and just a nip of pungency to round it off. Obviously fake cologne, but still very effective. How he'd kissed you like you were rich caviar—tasting and licking and sucking and moaning. Dear god the moaning the man did nearly did you in right then and there. And then he touched you. Through your jeans, but there was heat and firmness and you pressed into that hand, made it move on you. He squeezed you through your jeans, molded his hand to your hardened cock, fingers tracing the obvious tenting your dick was creating. After that it was hot and heavy and sweaty and when you came there were stars. Bright multitude of them behind your closed eyelids, even if it might have been simply because you rammed your head back so hard you felt the edges of the brick dig through your hair to your scalp. Regardless, you caught your breath, handed over the wad of cash, tucked yourself back in and headed back to the motel.

That night the nightmare came anyway. No amount of booze or sex could get rid of them it seemed. And, like always, Dean was there when your eyes finally shot open and your body was still thrumming with fight-or-fright energy. Dean was there, on the side of your bed, leaning toward you, hand outstretched as though to catch your soul before you lost it completely. And you fell into him, into his heat and his warmth and his damned familiarity. You feel his arms fall around you, hold you, hug you. You hear him breathing into your ear, whispering choked words as his hand climbs into your hair, grabbing and pulling, holding you close and like he'd like to keep you there by the very roots of your hair. Probably why he yells at you every time you mention wanting to cut it.

Even hours after he's showered and having absorbed the super-sweet stench of motel laundry detergent from the sheets, Dean still smells like Dean—warm and sweet with just a nip of pungency to round it off. And your body remembers. You press your nose to his neck and breathe him in, long, slow and deep. You slide up to his hair and breathe that in too. And then you realize your body is pressed to his, closer than it's ever been for a very long time. Chest to chest and you can feel him breathing, quick, shallow breaths, and you feel, also, how stiff he's become. Holding himself too steady on your bed, his arms around you gone too firm. Not tight, just firm.

You blink, swallow, and pull yourself away. He won't look at you. Usually he looks at you, directly at you, in your eyes so deep you're sure he can see your very soul. But he won't look at you this time. Keeps his head turned slightly away as his arms slowly come away from your body. And then you feel it, the growing gap, widening maw, between yourself and your brother.

He rises slowly from your bed, stands a moment, and then turns back to his own bed. You watch as he lowers himself and then pulls the blankets up to his chin, pause, and then flip over. He gives you his back as you sit on your sweat-drenched bed, heart still hammering in your chest though you don't know if it's from the nightmare, or something else. And the smell is still there, wrapped around you—warm and sweet with but a nip of pungency to round everything off.

~*~
The End

Untitled 1 - SPN - R

Mon, 13 Aug 2007 04:22:36 GMT

TITLE: Untitled 1
AUTHOR: anansay
FANDOM: Supernatural
CHARACTER/PAIRING: Sam, Dean; no pairings
RATING: R - disturbing imagery
WORDS: 4000+
GENRE: Gen
WARNINGS: None. Just something crack-tastic.
DISCLAIMER: Recognizable characters belong to Eric Kripke; all others crawled out of my brain sludge.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is complete and utter crack. I have no idea what it is. If you can tell me, please do so. If it's mindless crack that should never ever see the light of day again, please be gentle as you shove it back down my gullet. Thank you.
BETA: None. Holy hell I don't know if anybody would want to read this for me and still allow me to post it. That said, enjoy reading it! *G*

SUMMARY: There's Sam, and Dean, and zombies. Need I say more?

As soon as the door was opened, the stench of unwashed bodies—unwashed for months in conditions no animal would ever allow themselves to live in—assaulted their senses. They didn't so much choke, as cough and sputter and wheeze and cover their faces, but the stench snuck around hands and through fingers and there really was no escaping it. These people stank. Everything simple and nothing pure about it.

"Gods!" Dean said, and fought the urge to turn and leave.

Sam was having a difficulty time remaining upright, hanging as he was to the door frame, his face a particularly horrid shade of harlequin, a pinched expression of horror and disgust. "How do they—I—I don't wanna know—"

More than a dozen blood-shot eyes stared at them through faces thick with grime. And then they started to smile.

Sam made a noise, turned, and fled. Dean stood a moment longer then he, too, fled. The Impala sat waiting for them, her normally shiny black body now a dull grey with dirt and dust. The brothers sat huddled on her plush seats, doors firmly locked. Through the fog and the trees they saw movement, jerky plunging movement just before faces came into view. Grinning faces.

"Tell me again, Dean, why we didn't bring the others along?"

But Dean was busy fumbling in his jeans for the keys, cursing and twisting about, muttered curses under his breath about stupid cheap detergent that liked to shrink clothes.

"Dean."

His fingers touched something hard and he worked his finger under it, scooped it up, and held up his prize in front of Sam's horrified face.

"Dean!"

"Got it!" He shoved the key into the ignition, jerked it around, and felt the engine turn lazily before catching and rumbling to life. Then he heard it. Just beneath the Impala's impatient growl, a screeching sound that made Dean's freckles stand up on goosed flesh.

"Dean?"

"Would you stop saying my name, already!" he barked, and slammed his foot down on the pedal, his right hand jerking the stick into Reverse. The car shot gravel in front of them, pummeling several of the zombies in the face, as it twisted about, coming around, and then shooting off into the night.

It was a good fifteen minutes later when Sam spoke, uncurling his fingers from the door's handle and taking a deep breath. "Dean—"

"Shut up. Just shut up, Sam. I don't want to hear it."

"But Dean—"

Dean jerked the wheel. "I said shut it, Sam!"

Sam huffed, but kept quiet. Sometimes it was just better to let Dean have his silent tantrum. Sam looked out the window, tried to make out the trees zooming by them. There was no moon in the sky and the landscape was a black blur, only the Impala's front lights lighting a thin line before them. Should anything happen in front of them it would be pulverized. If hit at the correct angle, Sam also knew the Impala's windshield wouldn't do anything to protect its occupants, even though the car's body would come out relatively unscathed. Sam missed the seatbelts he'd become accustomed to in his two years as a normal human being in college.

The light had been a beacon to them for ten minutes before it was close enough to make out the word MOTEL. Dean slowed and pulled into the parking lot. Room 113 with two single beds and though the colours were different, the feel was the same. An indistinct room with varied colours, a closet for a bathroom, and a small smudged window that probably couldn't remember what it was like to be open. Sam threw his bag onto the farthest bed and disappeared into the bathroom.

Dean flopped himself onto the other bed, head cradled on crossed arms, feet crossed, and he stared up at nothing. He knew he shouldn't be lying on the bed, not until he'd cleaned himself off (and maybe burnt his clothes), but his body was bone-weary and even the softness of the Impala hadn't done anything for his screaming muscles. He was beginning to wonder if his body even remembered what it was like to be relaxed, loose.

The water hit Sam's face like a volley of Dean's knives. He shut his eyes, pursed his lips, and held himself upright against the wall. He could almost feel the grime sluicing off his skin in thick brown rivulets, pooling at his feet a moment before being sucked into the drain. One day, he was sure, a bathroom drain was going to back up with his and Dean's dirt. He grabbed the motel soap, ripped off the paper and tossed it over the curtain, and began soaping himself up, cringing at the pebbly dirt probably giving him a good scrub, if it weren't also mixed with creature-blood. His stomach gave a lurch but he swallowed, breathed deep, and kept washing.

Dean flicked the channels on the television. Oprah. Sally Jessy Raphael. Donahue. He almost stopped at that one, memories of watching it alone with Sam while their Dad was off hunting lord knew what. It was three o'clock in the morning and where was the damn porn, already? The shower shut off and Dean sent up a silent prayer that his behemoth of a brother hadn't used up all the hot water. It was a special kind of hell to try and get creature-grime off yourself with arctic water. Sam came out in nothing but a small towel held precariously to his groin, and went directly to his bag. Neither of them hardly ever remembered to bring in clean clothes for after the shower, and it was damn hard, too, to try and dress in a steamy closet. They'd gotten used to each other's naked bodies before they were covered, once again. Not to mention the few sewing sessions that involved particularly interesting sites hit by apparently horny she-creatures with a zest for human copulation. Though where dicks would be inserted still remained a mystery, and Dean almost always stuffed those especially horrible memories to the far reaches of his memory. Dismemberment, he could handle. Disembowelment was sometimes particularly gruesome. Decapitation made him laugh uproariously until Sam mentioned one time maybe Dean ought to talk to somebody about that. Dean had almost decapitated his own brother. After that Sam never mentioned again anything about talking to anybody regarding Dean's sometimes scary reactions to their job.

"So," Sam started, yanking up a pair of unwashed jeans that were infinitely cleaner than the one still lying on the bathroom floor. "What now?"

"Now—" Dean grabbed said jeans and stuffed them into a black garbage bag which he then flung full-arm-arc at Sam. "Now, we sleep. Tomorrow we think."

Sam caught the bag with a grunt, and tossed it into a nearby corner. "But—"

"Sleep, Sam. Now. I'm tired, dirty, and I think I left my brain outside that damned shack."

Sam shuddered and his body jerked forward.

"Hey, no puking on the floor! You can wait until after I'm done showering. Got it?"

Sam swallowed. "Yeah."

When Dean got out, Sam was huddled beneath three layers of blankets on his bed, despite the clinging heat outside. Dean nodded, and slid into his own bed, using all three blankets himself. He knew, by morning, there'd be blankets on the floor as their bodies took over from their minds and shucked off unneeded layers.

~*~

Morning dawned bright and shiny and Dean waited for the opening bars to that classical piece about singing birds and brilliant sun rises. Mercifully, the silence remained and he dragged himself out of bed, noting with a sneer to the gods that he'd only slept four hours. Damn his body for not letting him sleep in late like most people. He dressed and went in search for some much-needed caffeine. His feet, however, refused to move after his brain registered the ungodly sight before him.

Leaning against his precious Impala were three buttocks of the most vile kind. Three broken-toothed grins accompanied the buttocks and Dean felt his insides clench. Then he smiled.

"Hey guys! What's up? Nice morning, huh? Got any tans yet?" He walked around the Impala, opened the trunk and took out a shotgun. When he slammed the lid shut, the three zombies were facing him, faces dulled with death. "Alrighty-then, who's first?"

There was a yell and Dean spun around. The motel owner stood on his doorstep, in full housecoat regalia, belly-bulge pulsing through the tattered material, his own shotgun held against his shoulder. "I knew you was trouble when you and your friend came in last night! Now you bring along your other friends? Git off my property, the lot o'you!" His thinning grey hair jiggled atop his shiny head.

Dean blinked, checked behind him on the three zombies, then back at the motel owner. "Sir?" he called out, walking forward. "I'd strongly suggest you get back in your . . . room, now. You really don't want to be out here this morning. And what the heck are you doing still up? Don't you sleep?"

"Insomnia. Now GIT!"

"I don't think so. These . . . things, they aren't my friends. Oh-ho, they most certainly are not. Now, you need to just leave now and I'll get rid of them. For you," he added with a grin.

The motel owner frowned, looked from Dean to the three beings behind him, and leveled his shotgun. "Uh-uh. Y'all need to leave now. Git yer friend and di'peer!"

Dean stared. "Excuse me?"

"LEAVE! I've had enough of yer kind to last me a lifetime!"

"My kind?" Dean moved forward some more. "What do you mean 'my kind'?"

"The kind that always brings—" the owner waved a pudgy hand at Dean,"—the unsavories around."

Unsavories, Dean thought. That's great. A fucking redneck who thinks he's a university professor. Probably read too many dime-store books and picked up lingo he had no idea how to use. "Sir," he called out, now a mere ten feet from the guy. "You really need to put that shotgun down." He glanced over his shoulder. "I'm going to deal with them. Then I'm going to grab my brother and be off. Just—don't shoot them.   It'll only make them angry. And, trust me on this one, you really don't want to get those dudes over there angry."

As though to back up Dean's statement, one of them growled, and another sort of gurgle-growled. The third tilted his head back in defiance. Dean thought the being's head just might fall off if it tilted it any more. The motel owner craned his neck to look over Dean's shoulder, made a face like thinking actually hurt, and slowly lowered the shotgun. "You gonna take care of'em?"

"Imma gonna take care of'em," Dean heard himself say, and winced inside. Damn it but it was just too easy to imitate such slovenly speech. "You just head on back inside sir and, whatever you do, don't come back out. No matter what you hear. Got it?"

The motel owner landed his gaze on Dean again, paused, and nodded. "Fine. But you gots five minutes, boy. Five minutes!" he hollered as he packed his hefty form through his door and slammed it shut behind him.

Dean sighed, hefted his shotgun as though to make sure he still had it, and turned back to the three zombies. "Hello, meatheads. Or, uh, should I say, walking piles of rotting flesh? You really shouldn't be here where, you know, live people might see you and loose what marbles they still have. Hell, you shouldn't even BE. So, ya see, Imma gonna help you wit' that little problem—of existing when you shouldn't."

He braced the salt-rock loaded shotgun to his shoulder and pulled the trigger. The first one exploded in a spectacularly messy array of maggot-riddled guts and flesh. There was very little blood and for that Dean was grateful. He started forward, shotgun braced and finger caressing the trigger. "Who's next?"

The remaining two started shuffling forward, the typical grunting moaning issuing from their dried and flaking lips. Dean rolled his eyes and shot again. And again.

In no time flat, the cracked pavement of the parking lot was littered with what, from afar, might have been a simple garbage bin upchucked by some local bears. Of course, on closer inspection, it was anything but. Dean hated this part—the cleaning up part. Usually shit like this happened either at night (and why that was, Dean just figured it was the whole creatures-of-the-dark-preferred-the-dark thing), or when there was nobody else around to witness their unsavory daytime (all the time) job. Only now the motel owner just had to be curious enough—and a fucking insomniac!—and now Dean (and Sam, oh yes!) had to clean up what essentially boiled down to (gross!) rotted flesh, complete with maggots. Yep, Dean could see them, crawling over the bits of putrid flesh.

He woke Sam up by yanking the blankets of his body and pouring a cup of cold water on his back. Sam jumped up, cursing and swearing and swinging, and glared at Dean. Dean thought Sam might even have growled a bit, and shoved aside any thoughts of Sam actually going dark-side because someone poured cold water on him. It wouldn't ever be that simple. Dean hoped.

"Dude, we got a mess to clean up."

"What the—what are you talking about, Dean?" He was jumping around trying to get his jeans on.

"I just offed three suckers outside. And the motel owner kinda sorta witnessed it."

Sam stopped trying to jam his arm into a folded-in sleeve. "What do you mean 'kinda sorta witnessed it'?"

Dean dug through their duffel bag and came up with two pretty-much-unused plastic bags they kept for their dirty laundry that they thought they could still clean. "I'm pretty sure he was peeking through his curtains, even though I told him not to. Freaking curious idiots. Don't they know any better?"

Sam sat on the bed and tied up his shoes. "Uh, Dean, do you mean there are—" Sam shuddered. "—zombie PARTS out there?"

"Yeppers!"

Sam threw himself back on his bed. "Couldn't you have waited until we found the nest again?"

"Couldn't. Went out to get coffee, damn buggers were leaning against my car, dude. My car! I had to do it. Had to."

"Jesus."

"So, now we's gots to clean up a mess, Sammy-boy."

Sam cocked a wide-eye at Dean, his mouth threatening to join the wide-eyed thing. "WHAT?" he shrieked.

Dean ducked his head. "Sorry. The owner's some sort of redneck hillbilly. I kinda sorta adopted his lingo, you know?"

"No, Dean, I don't know. I just figured people grew up with the accent their parents spoke." He got off the bed. "Apparently not for Dean Winchester."

"Hey, man, cool it, alright? We're just going to clean up the little mess outside—"

"How many did you say there were?"

"Three."

"So, um, exactly how big is this mess?"

"Well, when you figure out most of them were already eaten away by maggots—"

"How much Dean."

Dean held up two large garbage bags. "About this much. Here take one."

"We need gloves."

"Got those too!" He yanked out two pairs from his back pocket.

"Oh god... Dean, I could barely handle a moment in their presence when they were, um, not so dead. Now you say they're... um, in pieces out there? It's going to smell like a butcher shot gone horribly wrong!"

Dean sniffed. "Yeah, I know. I'm gonna have to really scrub at the Impala to get their stinky-ass funk of it."

Sam stared at Dean. Then he grabbed the proferred bag and left the room. Came back a moment later, grabbed his deodorant and smudged beneath his nose. "I am NOT breathing in decaying body parts, Dean."

"No, just yourself, apparently."

~*~

The smear of deodorant did very little to stem the wafting odour of putrescence in the quickly-heating up morning. By the time it was done, they were sporting clothes from which nothing—Nothing!—would ever get rid of the stench. Sam stood up, went to wipe away the sweat on his forehead, and remembered what they were doing. He groaned and stomped his foot. "I swear Dean, if you ever do this again, I am not helping you. I'll leave. I'll the take car and just leave. You couldn't have simply lead them away?"

"Nope. Owner came out."

Sam shook his head. "We should find ourselves one of those mind-eraser things like on Men in Black. Just zap them and then leave."

Dean stood up slowly. "Sam, who are you? I mean, who are you in Sam's body? 'Cause my little brother would not say something like that, dude."

Sam regarded his brother, body smeared with what little bit of moisture there was in the zombie . . . parts, face flushed and caked with dirt, eyes gleaming dangerously in the rising sun. "Dean, let's just clean, take another shower, and get the hell out of Dodge. I'm too tired for this shit."

"Fine by me."

~*~

Two garbage bags of zombie parts, and a third of ruined clothes went flying into the dumpster as the Impala passed by, Dean at the steering wheel ("I killed them, I drive!") and Sam in the backseat ("I had to clean up after you, I'm sleeping!")

They drove until their stomachs demanded sustenance, or risk a complete mutiny in the form of inside-out organs. And there was a demand for coffee as well, if Dean's slow blinking was any clue. He jostled Sam awake by blaring GET YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF MY DESERT by Pink Floyd, at top volume. The slow rising of sound from the falling missile was making Dean's cock throb as he waited for the crash that would send Sam most likely through the roof.   And then back down on Dean.

As it was Dean had to duck and block his head with his hands to keep himself from getting soundly whacked by Sam's flailing limbs—all four of them. Not to mention the bellow that shook the Impala like only Dean's sexcapades could.

"What—the—FUCK—Dude?!"

Dean chuckled. "I'm hungry."

Sam was breathing hard, tongue lolling out, hair all over the place, shirt trying to pull itself off Sam's body and toward the door. "And, what, you thought you'd eat me, after you killed me with goddamn fear?"

Dean clicked his tongue. "Something like that." He nodded outside the windshield. "Food."

Sam followed his gaze, and the smell of roast beef (oh gods please make it venison!) wrapped him in its aromatic allure. "Dude . . .!"

"My thoughts exactly. Let's go."

It wasn't venison, or something even close. In fact, Dean had to wonder if some idiot hadn't rifled through the garbage at the motel, took out the bits of zombie flesh, and fried them up, it was that dry and tasteless. He shoved his half-empty plate away and decided to steer clear of any pie the shop might have. "Gods, my stomach is rebelling," he said, rubbing his tummy.

Sam stared at him, his own mostly-full plate in front of him. "I can't eat. I can still smell—"

Dean grunted. "Not me. Starving. But I was hoping for something a little more palatable than re-friend zombie parts."

Sam choked. "What?"

Dean motioned to his plate. "I think someone should mention—"

"Mention what, dear?" It was the old waitress who'd served them. Dean had to seriously wonder just how old she was, the way her jowls sagged like tits, and her tits sagged like— he couldn't think of a suitable allegory.  They just sagged. He didn't want to think of what else was sagging, and pulled his gaze back up.

"The food. I, uh, it sucks."

"Oh really? Hmm, Hank's a rather adept cook, he is. Should I bring Ol'Hank out and you have a talk at him?" She—Mary-Lou her name tag said—was leaning over the table, her tits practically wiping Dean's plate clean. Dean leaned away. "Um, no. We'll just, um, leave. Yeah, we'll leave. The bill please?"

Mary-Lou leaned back. "Oh, we don't charge for our food, dearie." She was smiling. Half her teeth were missing. And that's when Sam noticed her fingernails. Jagged and dark with dirt.

"Uh, Dean?" Dean was staring beyond Mary-Lou, his face growing ashen, his eyes wide, and his mouth hanging open. Then it snapped shut and he was up in a flash, knocking ol'Mary-Lou to the ground. "Dean?!"

"Sam!" he bellowed. "Get the salt-rock guns!"

Sam got up—and went down. Mary-Lou's hand was around his ankle, fingernails digging into his flesh like a dozen nails. He screamed. "Dean!"

"Fuck!" Dean disappeared outside.

"Come along dear," Mary-Lou was saying, having gotten to her feet and dragging Sam by a now-bleeding ankle. "We don't charge for our food, because, you see, you are the next meal!" Sam's head banged against the counter's wall, a finger cracking painfully as he tried to grab onto it. He grabbed and clawed and screamed.

Suddenly there was loud bang and Sam's ankle fall to the floor, Mary-Lou flying back, and then apart. Sam felt several chunks land on his stomach. He looked down, and threw off several pieces. He was on his feet in a flash, and catching the rifle Dean tossed his way. "The back!"

Indeed, in the kitchen, there stood Hank. If Dean thought Mary-Lou was ancient with all her hanging parts, Hank was positively archaic. In a should-be-in-a-coffin sorta way. The man had four fingers—in all. One ear. One eye. Half a head of hair, on half a head. No bottom lip to speak of, indeed, there was barely a chin. Of course, no teeth. That was all Dean could see; thankfully Hank wore clothes.

Sam made a noise in the back of his throat; Dean leveled the shotgun. "You ate them?"

"Who?" Hank asked, though it didn't quite sound like that, what with the missing chin and teeth.

"The ones—the living ones—who owned this diner!"

Hank looked around himself, his head swiveling on his neck with sickening crunching sounds. Behind him was the meat freezer. "No."

Sam went to the freezer, yanked it open, and stumbled back. Hanging beside bagged pieces of meat, were two humans, and two part-humans; legs were gone. Sam spun around, his mouth working.

Hank nodded. "Good meat—legs."

Dean fired.

~*~

Sam opened the fast food bag and pulled out two black trays, handing it to Dean. The salad wasn't a bright glorious green, nor were the carrots crunchy, or the cucumbers crispy, or the dressing itself particularly zingy, but Dean shoveled it into his mouth anyway, relishing the complete and utter lack of any blood.

~*~
THE END

Flaming Telepaths - SPN - Dean/Sam - NC-17

Wed, 08 Aug 2007 02:35:11 GMT

TITLE: Flaming Telepaths
AUTHOR: anansay
FANDOM: Supernatural
CHARACTERS/PAIRING: Dean/Sam, loosely
RATING:NC-17
GENRE: PWP,
WORD COUNT: 1,340
WARNING: m/m sex
DISCLAIMER: Not my characters; they are Eric Kripke's creation.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Written for the spn_boc challenge here wherein Blue Oyster Cult song titles were chosen as the basis of a fic. And what funky titles those guys have! :P
ARCHIVING: Ask first, please.
BETA: No beta. All my wrongdoing!

SUMMARY: It was, without a doubt, the strangest feeling Sam had ever felt.

~*~
Flaming Telepaths

by Anansay
August 2007
~*~

It was, without a doubt, the strangest feeling Sam had ever felt.

It would come on suddenly, rolling over him like fire and brimstone, stealing his breath and leaving him quaking and gasping, on his knees with his arms around himself. The first time it happened, Dean was immediately on the floor with him, hand on his back, face in Sam's, his deep baritone voice almost pummeling into Sam's spasming brain.

"Sam!" Dean said, his voice fueled with concern.

Sam could only groan, and then whimper. It was getting worse. His body was on fire and it was centering in his loins, his balls like molten lava and his dick— Well, if his dick could get any harder and hotter, it'd be exploding more than sperm. And that idea did not sit well at all with Sam Winchester. He'd grown rather fond of his dick and would prefer it remain firmly attached to his body, and in good working condition. Of course. That was, without a doubt, a necessary requisite.

But it was Dean's hand on his back, the fire shooting into him from that one touch, and it made Sam cry out and try to flex away from that heat. The heat coming from Dean's hand, and through that hand from Dean's very brain. His soul. 'Cause that's what Sam was feeling. It's what he knew through Dean's touch and it's like nothing he'd felt before. Nothing his mind has ever conjured, could ever conjure, even among all the messed up things they've seen, and done. It just wasn't possible. And yet, there it was. Searing it's way through Sam's flimsy filters. He gasped.

"Sam!" Dean bellowed again, and Sam felt Dean's hand flex against him—sending more heat zapping through him—as it grabbed onto Sam's shirt. Sam groaned, and felt himself swaying sideways. Into the heat.

Of course, Dean just had to put his other hand on Sam's arm, to keep his brother upright. Sam cried out, his entire body spasming. It wasn't enough, and yet it was too much. It showed him everything, and showed him nothing. Nothing he could understand. Nothing he could put into perspective. It tore at his brain as it tore through his body. Leaving nothing behind but a fierce need, and the salvation in the arms of sin.

"Dean— Oh god, Dean, help me!" he cried out, the only thing left to do.

Sam met his brother's gaze. Saw Dean's face pinched with worry, his eyebrows meeting and his lips pursed. Soft, pink, thick lips that demanded to be crushed against those pearly whites of his. It was a disturbing thought, but not as disturbing as the accompanying vision of Sam doing the crushing of said lips. He shut his eyes and groaned.

Which, of course, caused more worry in Dean and made him lean more into Sam's space and Sam could damn well feel his brother's heat surrounding him like a cocoon, shielding him from the world, but not from the fire. In only encompassed the fire and made it hotter. There were sweat drops dribbling down his face and pearling atop his upper lip. He licked them, and tasted the salt. And wondered if Dean's lips would taste the same. His body shuddered.

"Sam! Sam! Look at me!"

Hand on his face, turning his face, burning his face. Sam tried to twist away, mumbled, and then moaned when the touch only became harder, more forceful.

"Look at me, dammit!"

Dean's voice, strong and commanding and Sam couldn't not look at his brother. He allowed the hand to turn his face, and then opened eyes that felt almost burned shut.

"Dean . . ."

Dean gasped. "Gods . . ."

"Help me . . . it burns . . . oh god . . ." Sam grabbed himself, clutched his cock through his jeans, and started rubbing himself. It wasn't enough—not enough friction. More. "Help me, Dean," he said, and then let himself fall into his brother's arms, hand still jammed between his legs.

And then he felt it. Coolness on his cock as his jeans were yanked open and pulled aside. He grabbed his cock, amazed at its size and the goddamn heat of it. He started a furious jerking motion, almost chafing himself raw.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew there was a hand on his thigh, fingers digging into his skin. He could hear Dean's harsh breathing in his ear and feel the jerky movement of Dean's chest against his back. He knew Dean was holding him, watching him jerk off, hand clenching at his thigh. And it was the hottest thing Sam had ever done.

But it wasn't working. He could feel his balls trying to climb into his body. Could feel the tension inside himself, that unmistakable pooling heat just before everything erupted, but nothing was happening. It was just filling up, but not releasing. Not being allowed to be released.

"Dammit—Dean!"

"Sammy—" Dean groaned, hot breath in his ear making him shudder.

The hand on his thigh was gone and there was pressure on his hand. Fingers curling around his, through his, taking over. And Sam let him. Let his brother take his cock in hand and jerk him off. Let his legs fall open, as much as his jeans would let them. Allowed Dean as much room as he'd need. Dean took it all.

One hand on his cock, and the other on Sam's chest, tweaking pebbly nibbles until Sam was a writhing mess in his brother's arms, his head flung far back. Faster and faster Dean's hand moved on him, slippery and messy with Sam's precome, and Sam could finally feel it, growing inside him, but more importantly, loosening.

With a violent spasm it was released and Sam bellowed his own burning agony, his back arching against Dean. Dean arching with him and crying out as well, his hand slamming down into Sam's groin, as though wanting to pummel the orgasm from Sam's body.

They fell sideways, Dean's hand still clutching Sam's cock and it was painful. Like touching burned flesh.

Sam grunted. "Dean, let go, man. Too much."

Dean let go slowly, like he didn't really want to.

They laid there, on their sides, panting, bodies slick with sweat and clothes sticking to them.

And then Dean coughed. "So, Sam, uh . . ." Dean's voice had risen back to its regular growl.

"I don't know, man," Sam breathed. "I don't know what happened." But his mind was still swimming with images, and no amount of tightly shut eyes would erase them.

"I jerked you off, dude." Hot breath on Sam's neck.

"Um, yeah."

Dean made a noise, rolled away, and got to his feet. He eyeballed Sam still lying on the ground, and then turned and headed to the bathroom. Sam heard the water running and knew Dean was washing more than his hands. He pushed himself to his feet, swayed a little, and sat on the bed.

Dean emerged, a towel wrapped around his hips, his jeans balled up in his fist. He shoved them in the plastic bag, grabbed another pair and shucked them on quickly, never looking at Sam at all. When he did, finally, it was an eagle-eyed glare and a firm admonition that, "We're never to talk of this, y'hear?"

Sam nodded. "Fine by me."

They never did speak of it again, or allude to it in any way, shape, or form. That is, until the witch came long. But that's another story.

~*~
THE END

Counting - Supernatural - PG

Mon, 06 Aug 2007 07:07:24 GMT

TITLE: Counting
AUTHOR: anansay
FANDOM/CHARACTERS/PAIRING: Supernatural/Dean and Sam/no pairing
RATING: PG (at the most)
WORD COUNT: 800+/-
GENRE: Introspective?
WARNINGS: None.
DISCLAIMER: Not my characters. They belong to Kripke.
ARCHIVING: Ask first, please.
BETA: No beta. All mistakes are mine, from beginning to end.

SUMMARY: Dean can't help but think.

~*~
Counting
by Anansay
August 6, 2007
~*~

Dean knows it's impossible to remember how many bullets one can shoot in a lifetime, even if that lifetime of playing with bullets can be measured down to slightly over two decades. Twenty years. From the time he was six and his father handed him a gun for the first time and he bull's-eyed every single can on the fence, until after his mid-twenties. A lot of time in there, he thinks. A lot of time and a lot of damned bullets. Too many. So many used, purchased, slid into greased metal caverns only to be flung from them at top speeds, embedding in soft flesh of various nefarious creatures. Dean doesn't regret those bullets, most of them, at least. Sure, there were a few misplaced shots, a few innocent people who got hurt. Dean's human; humans make mistakes. No lethal ones, though. At least he's got that. No innocent blood on Dean's hands.

He's been counting his fingers all evening. Surreptitiously, of course, as Sam sits on his bed watching the television. Pat-pat-pat on the bed, lips moving just slightly, eyes not quite focused. Images flash through his head of everything he's ever killed, human-like, and not. He forces the darker, murkier memories to the forefront, examines them, shoves them back when they're deemed perfectly fine specimens of a job well done. He's trying to count, wants to get a pad and pencil but doesn't want to answer Sam's inevitable questioning, and then have to sit and listen through the (also) inevitable Sam diatribe on guilt. Like the boy is a master of guilt-ridden angsting souls. Even if he is. So, no pad and pencil, only his brain. He counts and counts.

Sometimes it only took one bullet, straight and dead centre. Other times it was more, much more, over a dozen. One after an another, reload, more shots. Sometimes it was over days, each time getting closer and leaving yet more metal, or salt-rock, in the creature, until finally it moved no more, or simply WAS no more.

It was an odd thing to see them vanish like they did, a puff of putrid sulfuric smoke, and then nothing. Other times they seemed to burn up coldly, orange-hot fire but the air was cold, so chilly, it raised goosebumps on their flesh.

All Dean wanted was a number. Was it a hundred, a thousand? Ten thousand? The number flashed by in his mind. Four zeroes. Not a lot in terms of money, but a heck of a lot in terms of bullets fired. Too many. Certainly not that high. Even murderers didn't use that many bullets. Did they?

In terms of hunting— Hunting since he was nine. One creature a month. About ten a year. For fifteen years. One hundred and fifty creatures. Three bullets each, he round it. His hand stops drumming and his eyes drift closed, eyeballs moving under lids. Even his breath slows down to almost nothing. Numbers fly by, growing and shrinking.

Almost five hundred.

Five hundred bullets shot to kill.

Five hundred.

500

"Had enough?"

Dean's eyes fly open. Sam's looking at him. The television's been muted.

"What?"

"Counting. I saw your fingers."

Dean looks down at his hands, sees the slight dent in the blanket by his fingers. "I was, um, counting, yeah. I—"

"Counting what?"

Puff of sulfuric smoke. "Nothing."

Sam's sitting on the edge of the bed now, leaning forward. "You can't do that, Dean."

"Do what?"

"Count. It's not worth it. Whatever it is, it's done. All of them."

"Bullets," Dean whispers.

"What?"

"I was, uh, trying to figure out how many bullets I've shot."

Sam blinks. "Why?"

Dean shrugs. "I just—just because."

Sam stares at him. "Leave it, Dean."

All that metal... "Yeah," he says.

He takes a drink of his beer. It's warm and flows down his throat like piss. Tastes like it too. And then he wonders. How much holy water have they used...?

Thu, 05 Jul 2007 17:26:58 GMT

Innocent Insanity
100 words
Dean POV

When you kill a child, it should hurt. It should make you bleed more ways than you think possible. It should rend your soul and cripple your mind and destroy you slowly as you sink into your own putrid abyss. It should not feel like this. It should not feel good, or right, or valiant. It should feel difficult.

But when that cherubic child showed his face in Dean's mirror, grinning, Dean felt no problem about grabbing his gun and shattering the mirror. The blood that oozed from the cracks, however, wasn't cool.

fic-scene: Losing - R - SPN

Thu, 05 Jul 2007 16:08:39 GMT

It seems I can write, but only tidbit scenes. I'm enjoying them, really. I only wish it would come for longer than an extended hiccup. Or maybe it's like a really good sneeze, good, intense, but over too quickly. Kinda like an orgasm, but without any lengthy buildup. A quickie.

I'll call this one Losing.
It's rated a distant R.
There might be Dean/Sam if you squint hard enough. Or it just might be some real intense brotherly love. Reader's choice.
Spoilers to the end of S2.

Dean walks like he's a powerhouse—firm and steady. There is nothing soft about him, never has been, never will be. Maybe once, a long time ago, a forgetful time, a time he chooses not to remember, there was softness about his face, in his eyes, from his smile. It was wiped away in one fell swoop, a lick of flame cauterizing the frown to his face. He doesn't remember how to really smile now. He only knows how to grin maniacally, cock a gun, pull the trigger, and never check to see that his aim is, indeed, dead-on. He remembers his daddy's sad smile when he was six and blew away a dozen dented cans from a nearby farm fence. He felt it in his bones, a cooling of his blood even as it boiled in his veins. He imagined he could smell it--the blood. Blood of creatures not of this world, the world of the humans. He smelt it and felt himself step into their world and suddenly he could smell it all the time, the coppery stench of spilt blood, tinged with evil.

Even in his sleep, there is a rigidity that never leaves him. He feels it in the morning, in the creaking of his bones, the painful stretch of muscles. He remembers it in his dreams—bricks walls painted black in the moonlight. Holding a gun is second nature to him, his hand molding perfectly to the fine angles and cool steel. The reverb is caught and held in shoulders long grown stiff from holding up worlds of pain and knowledge.

He knows all this, feels it like marrow in his bones, a part of him from the beginning, the second beginning. When he held Sam's soft body in his arms, heard the wails of a terrified infant, and felt his heart harden under his father's hate-filled gaze. It was a peripheral heat that he felt from his father, not directed at him, but singeing him nonetheless. And when he looked down at his brother's cherubic face dotted with demon blood, he had to wonder, too, why a child could bring such pain to a once-happy family, even if it was only by happenstance.

When he holds Sam now, it's still to feel something soft pressing back, a molding of brother to brother. Even with the height difference (which should really tick Dean off, but it doesn't), he can still feel Sam bowing to him, slinking into himself. And when he looks into Sam's eyes, it's like looking into melting chocolate. The smile is like sweet softness brushing against his flickering resolve. He wants to give in, to relax, to close his eyes and not see eyes discoloured from within, black or yellow, bodies distorted with demon-disease and coming apart like overripe watermelon. Or pestilence set free.

He wants to feel more than his molding to something else. Wants to feel his entire body shifting and changing and becoming what he knows it can. He wants to feel warmth beneath him, soft breasts or hard planes of muscled chest, soft lips around his cock, or a taut unforgiving asshole clenching him too tightly. He wants to feel it for what it is, not what it might be should something find him at the wrong time. He never looks into people's eyes, only makes a semblance of obversation.

But now, when he holds Sam to him, feels a hand on the back of his neck, sees that puppy-dog look squinting at him, he does feel himself soften, feel something bleed inside, weeping for something that ought to have been a long time ago. Not today. Not now. Too late. When he sees those puppy eyes darken and harden and sees those long-fingered hands holding the gun ever-so-fucking steady and hearing the sharp CLACK of bullets aiming and hitting their mark— When Sam looks up at him, a small tiny grin tipping the sides of his mouth, a drop of blood on his cheek that he wipes off slowly, like he's enjoying the feel of blood smearing into his skin— When he doesn't drop the gun in horror at having killed, not a demon, but another human being, something he'd avoided doing only a few hours before— When Dean sees this, he feels the air crackling with electricity and knows his baby brother is becoming something Dean wouldn't wish on most humans.

Sam is becoming like Dean.

cross-posted to my fic journal

something in Supernatural fandom... a scene

Sun, 10 Jun 2007 21:57:07 GMT

Wow.

Amazing what can come out of a bit of dialogue that comes unbidden in the midst of making teriyaki sauce and listening to movie scores on AIM-Music. I had no idea what it was. I was going to let it go after the very first bit of dialogue and just chop it up to random voice in my head. But then I wondered what would come of it if I did continue it. And . . .

This is the first bit of writing I've done in a long time. It's obnoxiously short, and quite random. A blink of a scene. Of course, as per my usual, it's full-on angst. Reader beware. But if you come at me with pitchforks, I will not be held responsible for my response, whether it be more writing, or no more. I have no idea.

It's in the Supernatural fandom. Brotherly love. Rated probably in the realm of a hard PG-13. Unbeta'd, of course. (and what IS the proper conjugation of 'beta' anyway? is it even a verb?) Oh, and it's probably a complete desecration of the characters. So . . . don't hit me.

</u></font></a></span>

"You don't understand. You're not going to survive this. You're not even going to make it out in one piece. There will be no body for your mama to bury. There won't even be any PARTS to be cremated. You are going to die and it's going to be horrible and messy and goddamn FUN! Well, for me at least. Are you ready for it? Are you ready to be annihilated? Eliminated? Well then, asshole, let's go!"

Dean grabs the salt-gun from his jacket, aims and fires. It hits the creature dead-on, sending it flying, but not dissipating. Dean curses. Sam moans from the corner. And Dean reloads the gun and marches up to the creatures, plants a foot on his chest and glares down it, cocking the gun. "What did I say? Didn't I say it? Didn't I tell you you wouldn't survive? Goddammit why won't you believe me?" He shoots it again, and watched it crash through the floor, having only a split-second notice to jump back and grab onto the couch. The dust flies up and around and Dean is standing above the hole, staring down at the sprawled creature. It's still moving, shifting about, probably testing each of its limbs. So Dean reloads, again, takes aim, and shoots off a limb. Reloads, aims, and there goes another one. Four left—two original arms, and the legs. Reloads, aims, fires. Two legs go at once as the creature curled them beneath itself—and promptly lost them.

"See! Nothing left, asshole! Imma gonna tear you to bits and pieces!"

He reaches for some more salt-rock—and finds an empty pocket. And more empty pockets. "Sam! Salt-rock!" But Sam's slumped over in the corner, silent, arm still twisted wrongly beneath him. A leg obviously broken, the bone sticking out and blood pooling. Dean curses, jumps the hole and scuttles to a stop by his brother. "Sam? Sam! C'mon, bro, wake up! WAKE UP!" But Sam doesn't move. His chest is twitching rapidly with no rhythm. His mouth looks like a parody of a grin with the blood drooling from it, almost like Sam's having a rather corny dream. But Sam's not dreaming, probably won't dream ever again. Dean shoves him, hard, and hears a faint groan. And a horrible grinding sound from the twisting arm. "Shit, sorry, man," he mumbles. But the creature is stirring again, slithering on the dusty floor beneath them, so Dean digs around Sam's pockets and comes up with four salt-rock bullets. He thanks his brother, stands and heads for the stairs.

The creature has reached the door and is trying to figure out the turning idea with two stumps for hands.

Dean aims and fires but his trembling hands make his aim off and the door gets blasted open. The creature partly turns its head, a grotesque grin twisting its face. Dean growls, reloads, breathes deeply, murmurs Sam, and fires again.

It lands dead-centre in the creature and with ear-splitting howls it ceases to be in a flurry of sparkles and dust. Dean's crouched on the floor, hands to his hears, shotgun at his feet. When he finally hears nothing else (and wonders if it's the silence) or if he's actually gone deaf this time, he mounts the stairs three at a time and drops down by his brother.

"Sam!"

Sam doesn't move.

"SAM!" he bellows, and shakes his brother hard. Glosses over the horrible grinding sound and shoves him onto his back. Sam's face peels from the floor in a stringy red web of blood. It falls to the other side, too loosely. "SAM!" Sam's mouth falls open and more blood pours out. Sam's hand rests at an odd angle, palm to the floor instead of upward toward Dean. Dean tries to fix it and feels it suddenly become loose in the skin. A cold floppy thing. Sam's hair is a matted mess obscuring his face and Dean tries to move it aside but it's like trying to move muddy grass and it's all sticking together.

"SAM!"

That's when Dean sees it. And his blood runs cold in his veins.

There, on Sam's arm, covered by Sam's damned long sleeves he refuses to roll up. A burn mark. A binding spell, Bobby had said. Binding the demon to the human. A fucking binding spell and all of Sam's cries to stop and please and Dean and Dean ignored them all in favour of simply wanting to kill something, IT, and freeing Sam of its power. And he forgot to stop and ask Sam why. Why not kill the fucker? Why let it live? WHY?

Because its death was Sam's death.

A broken, bloody Sam. And Dean has only one thought: At least there's a body for Dean to burn.

f-locked

Wed, 30 May 2007 00:57:19 GMT

~~This journal is now f-locked due to some recent concerns~~.

It's unlocked. I'm not going to give in to fear. I have nothing to hide. Besides, it's all backed up anyway. :D

Original: The Box

Wed, 04 Apr 2007 17:47:15 GMT

I was cleaning out my son's bedroom and I opened the closet door to see this box sitting perfectly in the middle of the floor. Of course, I had to write something about it.

- The Box
- by murphy_kismet (aka anansay)
- horror
- 1200+ words

Nobody remembered where the box had come from. Only that one day it was there. But that was normal in the Garrett household, what with the boxes of hand-me-downs coming in from family and friends to outfit the children. Sometimes those boxes contained more than clothes. Those things were usually divvied up between the children in a more or less amicable fashion. Still, nobody remembered claiming the box as theirs.

It sat on the floor tucked in a corner of the children's bedroom, as inconspicuous as a simple piece of wood, decorated with simple marker scratches—a child's attempt at decorations. There were tiny stabs as though from a knife, probably another's kid attempt at opening a box that didn't belong to them. It was a well used, if not loved, wooden box with a rusty metal latch but no lock. So the mother bought a lock and the boy appropriated it as his own.

For a boy of thirteen, a lockable box was like a mine of gold. The mother never asked what he stored in it, only complained when she had to pick up constantly from its apparent travels about the house. Of course, the boy never laid claim to being its carrier. The box just simply moved itself, and the mother left it that, knowing, in her motherly way that the boy was, indeed, its carrier and simply didn't think it worthwhile to return it to its proper place: in his room.

But when the mother opened her eyes one morning and found the box atop her night stand, she swung her legs out of bed, grabbed the box, and slammed it down on her sleeping son's bed. He woke with a start, eyes wide and crusted with sleep, morning breath pouring out of his mouth like waves of putrefaction. (She made a mental note of her weekly brushing of her son's teeth to ensure their proper cleaning.)

"I told you to stay out of my room William!"

"I didn't do it . . . !" he mumbled, wiping his eyes.

"Well, how did this get in there, eh?" She hit the box with her fist. It wobbled on the bed.

"I don't know." That was his answer for everything, whether he knew the answer or not.

"Keep it on your own room, stay out of my room, or it's going in the garbage. Understand?"

"Yeah . . ." William put the box on the floor, rolled over, and began snoring.

The mother stared at her son, gave the box a half-hearted kick, and went to the bathroom.

In the following days, the box would be found in almost every room of the house. Sitting in a corner on the kitchen counter. Behind the toilet. Blocking the outside door so that one would have to slide the box along the rug to get the door open. And sometimes, even in the middle of the hallway. Mother stubbed her toe on it one time bringing in groceries. Luckily, the eggs did not bear the brunt of her anger.

"I told you to keep this box in your room!" she'd bellow and kick it towards the room. It'd slide a bit, and stop when it reached the wall, the lock jangling in its metal loop.

Nobody thought twice about the box except as a box. It was just a cheaply made wooden box. The mother had never seen the son playing with it, never saw him put anything in it, never even heard the jiggle of the lock, even at night. When she'd ask him, covertly, what he put in it, he'd shrug his shoulders and change the channel on the television.

Things started disappearing. At first it was small things: a cheap calculator; matches; a few coins; the pencil sharpener; pens. It was frustrating, and that was all. Suppers became a thing of the past as the kids gravitated more and more to the couch to eat, their eyes glued to the television. Plates and utensils were found beneath the couch instead of in the sink. The hamper remained suspiciously empty, as did their dresser drawers, and the laundry loads diminished. Over five hundred channels on the television and still the kids would complain there was nothing to watch. The computer held no more interest. Bedtime leaned more and more into the wee hours of the morning, despite the mother's admonitions.

The kids were gone to school and the mother was doing her weekly manic bit of cleaning, having gotten fed up with the piles taking over every flat surface. The music was loud and rhythmic, raunchy voices drilling holes in her apathy and making her move. At first she thought it was the music, something groaning and pulsing. She'd bob her head, her body moving in rhythm, but every few moments she'd be jarred out of her head by a sudden noise that didn't go with the music. She paused the music; the sound stopped. She turned on the music; and a little while later the sound returned. Pause; play; pause; play.

Finally she turned down the music and listened. It wasn't coming from the speakers. She turned the music down lower and followed the sound. Into her son's bedroom. Into the closet. And there, on the floor of the closet, in the perfect middle, sat the box. It's lid was closed but not tightly. Like a layer of air was keeping it open, straining against the lock. And the closet was warm, and damp. Nothing else lay on the floor but the box. No clothes moist from a trip to the local pool. No wet towels from a shower. Bare.

She went to her purse and took out her keys, on the ring of which was the key to the lock on the box.

The box was warm, like it'd been cradled, rubbed hard. The lock, though, was hot. The key shook as it approached the opening and she had to take a deep breath and steady her hand. It slid in smooth. She turned it and heard the tumblers sliding in the place, releasing the latch and the U popped up. Immediately the lid bounced upward slightly, like a jaw falling open, giving her just a peek inside. She lifted the lid, slowly, and was assaulted with the same horrible smell that her son's mouth would emit in the mornings: something fetid. Horrible. She cinched her shirt up above her nose and breathed shallowly, waiting to see what food her son had hidden in the box, and then forgot about.

When the box was fully opened and displaying its contents, the mother fell backward, her hand at her cloth-covered mouth.

Inside the box, there was a pulse of air and the groaning sound. As the mother sat back and heard only the groaning, she began to recognize sound, words. When she peered back in, she couldn't see the bottom for the thickness that lay in it. Like fog, only . . . more. There was a thought that if she put her hand in it, she'd feel it, a weight on her flesh, warm and pulsing. She didn't want to touch it. But as she looked the thickness began shifting, growing and dipping. A scream lodged in her throat, nearly choking her.

Her son's face was looking back at her. Only it was an expression she'd never seen before. Terror. Eyes wide and mouth open, almost cracking the sides. From that maw there spoke a deep guttural voice.

I have your son.

The face dissipated. The air thinned. And there, on the bottom of the box, was a lump of flesh, dark red and pulsing. A heart.

a wtf fic

Sat, 03 Mar 2007 04:44:06 GMT

Apparently I'm a liar. Or maybe this is all I can do. This is my limit. This is my best. Who knows.

I started this early this afternoon, and then had to put it aside for, you know, Life. Came back and added some more.
The surprising thing, well surprising to me, is that the tone followed. The way I see it, that is. The tone doesn't deviate. Can you tell where I had to leave off? I didn't think so. See? Odd. Very, very odd. And scary. Because, you see, this is a good thing. But I fear it is a one-shot deal. This time only. Never again. Like one of those really, really rare comets that flash through the sky in the blink of an eye, once every two thousand years. You know?

Anyway. It's rated R. Maybe an NC-17. Don't really know. It's Harry/Draco (there's the second part of my lie). And it's sex. Well, sorta. Kinda. Not really. Just read it, yeah?

Oh, and it's non-beta'd, so all stupid mistakes are all mine.

It wasn't something he'd ever intended on seeing. Certainly not with that particularly annoying blond prat with another particularly annoying blond prat. Regular man-woman porn was fine for him, none of that gay shite.

But when he turned the corner Harry stopped dead, his shoes scuffing the ground. Though the moans and groans coming from the two faces currently trying to suck each others off hid the sound quite well. Harry stood and gaped, too horrified to turn and run the other way. He knew it was horror that rooted his feet to the floor, because it couldn't have been anything else. He was sure of it.

Seeing Malfoy's face contort in these different ways, his lips pursing and stretching around the other blond's, well, it gave a whole new repertoire of facial grimaces the git could make. Though these grimaces were a bit . . . Harry shifted, leaning against the wall and adjusting himself. Only, he told himself, because he'd stopped so suddenly and his bits were currently being squashed. Nothing else.

But he didn't move away. Didn't turn around. Didn't run.

And when the nameless blond pulled away with a loud smack and proceeded to lower himself slowly before Malfoy, parting his robes along the way, Harry told himself it was only to finally see if the git was, indeed, Marked. Certainly not because the prat's chest was a heaving glistening hairless specimen of perfect beauty, unmarred by lumpy boobs. Soon, thought Harry, soon his arm would be exposed and he'd be able to see.

But all Harry got to see was the rest of Malfoy's torso, and crotch. A rather superb crotch it was too, with a fine smattering of pubes around a superbly engorged cock that glistened in the faint candlelights of the darkened halls. A gorgeous cock it was and the only reason Harry was staring at it, gob smacked, was because he simply couldn't image how the nameless blond's mouth could possible fit the entire thing in his mouth as he was apparently trying to do, his throat working furiously, swallowing it inch by inch until his face was pressed up close to those soft blond pubes of Malfoy's.
And it certainly wasn't the soft moans and lip-biting that Malfoy was doing that also kept Harry there. Nor was it those long spindly fingers currently wrapped in blond hair and pulling--pulling--that head to his crotch so he could fuck the face. Fuck it with hard slamming thrusts and then--

--and then Malfoy opened his eyes and stared straight ahead. Directly at Harry.

Harry's breath caught in a raucous spasming cough and his eyes teared up as he struggled to catch his breath. When he was finally able to see again, Malfoy was holding the blond by his hair and keeping him by his crotch, and his still hard cock.

"Never seen a bloke getting sucked off before, Potter?"

It was the same voice, the same sneer, the same haughty lilt, but seeing his nemesis with his trousers by his knees and his cock disappearing repeatedly into another's mouth sorta had the strange effect of lessening the entire impact and Harry found himself practically gliding over toward Malfoy. When he stood a mere foot in front of him, Malfoy grabbed him by the neck, hauled his face forward and mashed his lips against Harry's. It was a brutal kiss, if it could even be called a kiss, and Harry remembered the sucking-face analogy that came to him so readily before and he realized that's what Malfoy was tying to do, again. It seemed Malfoy like to make his kisses into an entire mouth experience--lips flanged wide around his partner's mouth, tongue fully engaged and exploring. Of course, Harry was not going to be outdone. He pressed his face closer into Malfoy's and they made duel with their tongues, tensing them like wands, prodding and poking and jetting here and there in the caverns of their mouths, feeling, touching and tasting every little warm and moist crevice.

All the while a head was busily bobbing away at Harry's crotch, sucking off Malfoy, the back of the head rubbing against Harry's own hardened cock. It was a curious sensation, not quite unlike rubbing oneself through one's trousers, but still quite different in that it was, quite simply, the back of a head.

Still, Harry rather enjoyed the sensation. And that, coupled with Malfoy's hands holding Harry's face steady as he rather desperately pillaged and plundered his mouth, was enough to bring a pubescent Harry to climax rather quickly and intensely, as teenage male orgasms are wont to be. Harry grunted once into Malfoy's mouth, slammed his crotch into the nameless blond's head, which further shoved him deeper onto Malfoy's cock, and then Malfoy was tensing and grunting and his hands in Harry's hair tugged somewhat violently, but it only served to somehow spring-load Harry's dying orgasm into a last ditch effort at grandiosity.

And the boy, the cocksucker, stuck on his knees on a stone floor, was finally allowed to slip from between Malfoy's and Harry's still joined bodies, their faces still attached quite firmly at the lips, hands mimicking tongues in their quest to discover as much of the body as they could. He stood, wiped his mouth, dusted himself off, bent down and grabbed a hidden pouch from a cranny in the stone wall. It jingled lightly as he slid it in his pocket. And then, he disappeared around a corner, leaving two boys, still enemies, if the sound coming from around their still-connected faces were any indication, in the heady throes of a developing second orgasm.

~*~
THE END

Heat - KH - Riku/Sora - R

Sat, 30 Dec 2006 15:54:42 GMT

TITLE: Heat
AUTHOR: anansay
FANDOM: Kingdom Hearts
PAIRING/CHARACTERS:Riku/Sora; Sora's POV
WORDS: 2,020
RATING: R
GENRE: Humour.
WARNING: Slash/Yaoi/boy-on-boy love, a slight (?) abuse of italics.
DISCLAIMER: Not my characters. They belong to Square Enix.
ADDITIONAL DISCLAIMER: This author is not responsible for underage readers. Please observe the ratings, warnings, and age of legal consent for your country. Fanfiction posted in this journal is rated by the author following the indications of Motion Picture Association's film ratings.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Don't talk to me about the title. I suck at them. Plain and simple. Let's just hope the story does not take after it's title, yeah? Good. Onward, then!
ARCHIVING: Just let me know where.
BETA: Not beta’d. (If it had been, the title might have been LOADS better. Eh, most likely, I have no doubts.) Other than that, all mistakes are mine. Even canon mistakes. And THOSE I DO want to know about! And--HOLY HELL last story of the year!!

SUMMARY: It's the hottest day on Destiny Islands and Riku's eating ice cream.

~*~
Heat

by Anansay
December 30, 2006
~*~

Watching Riku eat ice cream should definitely be on the list of Things Never To Do While In Public. It’s not a very intelligently titled list but, then again, Sora had never been quite high on the intelligence scale, not when Riku was eating ice cream like it was—

Sora swivels his head so quickly he thinks a few vertebrae just lost their purpose. And there, on his own hand, dribbling down in thick white rivulets, is his own ice cream, or what remained of it. And he realizes he’s only had a single licking taste when he’d spied Riku’s almost pornographic devouring of his own. The man’s biceps bulge with droplets of sweat as he pushes the cone to his mouth again, and yet again swirling his tongue around the blob of ice cream, letting the tip push in a bit to form a dip and then licking it with harsh swipes until the dip was no more.

It's positively pornographic, Sora thinks. No, knows. Even though the word ‘pornographic’ has been used way too many times in regards Riku’s ingesting of ice cream.

And there—the t-shirt—way too tight in this heat. Surely it must be uncomfortable thing to wear, the stickiness impeding movement such as—

Sora shuts his eyes tight. He refuses to allow that thought any more leeway. There is just no such thing as Riku needing that kind of movement. At least, not any time soon. Maybe this evening, when the sun sets and their parents go to bed, and Riku comes banging at his window for their nightly swim in the moonlit water—

And Sora steadfastly refuses to let that thought continue either. Riku is his friend, and therefore should not be lusted after in this lewd and crude way. Kairi is Sora’s friend too and she never elicited these kinds of thoughts.

But Kairi isn’t Riku, is she?

It’s a terrible thing when your mind is your own worst enemy and Sora wants to stab his keyblade through his ear and mash his brains to porridge.

Riku’s looking at him, smirking like he’s always done, since they were ‘knee high to a grasshopper’ but this time his cool-as-ice leer holds something far more dangerous than a coming bested duel. This leer has had several undertones added to it that make Sora’s tummy feel like he’s just eaten a live eel and it’s squirming in his guts. He wants to bend over and hold himself and maybe not let what little bit of ice cream he’s managed to eat come hurtling out of him. It’s a nice warm eel, though. Something that feels like it’d like to spend a fair bit of time in lower regions. Sora groans.

“Problem, short-stop?”

Riku’s laughing at him and Sora wants to punch him. So he does and it’s quite a miss when his poorly aimed punch only slides off Riku’s sweaty arm. Sora’s balance is stolen from him and he finds himself falling, tipping forward, his stuck-to-the-chair thighs doing nothing to keep him upright, only allowing several layers of skin to feel like they’ve been left behind. He squeals something high pitch and squawk-like and lands head first in Riku’s lap. Riku’s bouncing lap because he’s laughing quite hard and things are moving that should never move like that, especially when Sora’s head is right there dammit!

Quickly Sora jerks upright, feels yet more skin trying to separate from his body, and stands up. The backs of his thighs are burning and he resists to urge to look back, only subtly sliding his hands behind him and checking. Good—all skin firmly intact, only probably flaring bright red and maybe even welting like a huge lake-like rise from his flesh.

“Sora?”

“Hot!” he wheezes and stumbles back. Riku’s leaning forward, toward him, his face coming closer. That tongue sneaking out and licking lips that did not look like they needed licking. Sora should know—there was no way he could help the long-ish glance at Riku’s lips while he backed away. They were right there. And coming closer.

Sora chokes on air, gulps down saliva, lets his tongue get caught between his teeth as he bites down on not letting any more undignified sounds emerge from his mouth. And now that he’s finally got a hold on his mouth, it’s his feet that betray him, making him stumble backward over some invisible rock. Or maybe the rock decided to plant itself there is a thought that appears in Sora’s apparently departed brain. He goes down, arms cartwheeling ferociously while everything else seems to slow down in some interminable hell-on-earth variety of Time fuck ups.

The sand burns through Sora’s shirt but he doesn’t quite feel it. The only burn he’s feeling is the blood rushing to his face and feeling like it's trying to join its counterpart in that ball of fire way in the sky through his skin. Sora covers his face with his hands—he really likes his blood in his body, thank you very much, not floating upward, away from him, never being able to even possibly feed his brain one last time so that he just might make it home with at least part of his dignity still trailing behind him like some forlorn and disgusted creature too horrified at having been assigned to such a klutz as Sora. Even if Sora is the Keyblade Master and Savior of All Worlds.

And there, disabling his dignity again and shoving it off to the side like it were some nuisance, is Riku’s form, perched above Sora like some hovering vulture just waiting for the right moment to pounce.

Pounce.

And that thought is, also, sharply curtailed, as Sora closes his eyes and turns his head away, to the side. He can’t look, not into Riku’s smirking eyes, those aqua eyes that seem to see and know everything, especially about Sora. Like Sora were some wide-open book with extra large print and short, simple words.

“Sora?”

And there’s that voice, like honey on a hot summer day (like today?), and drizzling down onto Sora with liquid lust tinting it that softly, almost pornographic (there’s that word again!) enticement.

“You okay?”

“No,” Sora moans and tries to roll over. Because, really, there’s is not a reason or explanation in the world that would explain the sudden tightening and bulging in his groin region on this sweltering day. His cock ought to be hanging like some kind of shriveled paopu fruit, never having been tasted, and now drying out and just about ready to fall off. Instead, of course, as is the wont in Sora’s existence, his member decides to flare to life in this moment, with this person hovering over him, licking his lips, sweat beads gently rolling down the side of his face, hair a matted mess and yet still so succulently demanding a good solid handling and yanking downward—

Just as Sora’s hand swings past his body to commence rolling momentum, it’s caught in a slightly bigger, much stronger hand. And then there’s tension, taut and demanding and Sora can only give in and let Riku haul him up in one swift movement, not quite letting his feet settle beneath him so that he’s falling forward in the momentum and landing squarely against Riku’s solid muscular chest with just a slight oomph on Riku’s part. And somehow Riku thinks Sora just might slide off his chest so there are now arms around Sora’s body, holding him softly but firmly against Riku’s chest.

In the hot sweltering midday sun.

Sora can only half-stand-half-lean, body immobile with shock and something else that shall remain nameless thank you very much. It isn’t a full-body embrace and for that one simple reprieve Sora is thanking the gods as his crotch is not in any danger of contacting with Riku’s.

That is, until Riku decides that this embrace is not entirely that secure and he slowly (and why?!) begins pulling Sora in closer, his hand sliding upward on Sora’s back, up to the nape of Sora’s neck and there the fingers spread, like five points of fire shooting into Sora’s brain and melting what few cells he has left. Riku’s other hand is sliding downward, past Sora’s pants and—

Sora jerks and yanks back, words hot on his lips, ready to come spewing out in fiery lashes—and he sees Riku’s eyes. How that vibrant sea-green colour has darkened to something like seaweed, only the kind of seaweed that sways every so gently in calm waters and with something closely related to eroticism. Riku’s staring at him, unblinking, lips parted slightly and the tip of tongue (tongue that digs holes in ice cream and then licks it gone!) just inside there. A tongue that slides out to slowly lick dry lips, leaving behind shiny, welcoming lips. Lips that request, ever so gently, to be touched, tested, and tasted. A request that is furthered by Riku’s closing proximity and Sora can only stare at those lips, silently accepting that request until its met.

Met with softness and moistness and a touch of delicacy that leaves Sora breathless because Riku has never been delicate. Only this time he is, just barely touching Sora’s lips with his own, letting them hover there. Calm, patient, reticent. Riku, who pummeled his way through worlds, fighting then joining the darkness, welcoming it within him, then fighting it back out again. This Riku is someone completely different and Sora doesn’t quite know how to react. So he stands there, letting Riku touch him like this, lips to lips, not moving. Not like a ‘real’ kiss.

Kiss?

Sora gasps then as reality slams into him and then Riku is kissing him, pressing forward with a little bit more temerity, more skin to skin contact, more lip to lip pressure. And then something else. Something Sora hadn’t even considered in all his nighttime wankings to Riku’s eyes and Riku’s voice and Riku’s body.

Riku’s tongue.

Riku’s tongue as it shyly invades Sora’s mouth, tiptoeing in and checking things out, before becoming a bit bolder. He tastes of caramel ice cream and cherry soda and other things. Somewhere in Sora’s brain it’s filed away as yet more wankage fodder.

It’s Sora’s first kiss—boy or girl. It’s his first kiss and he doesn’t know if it’s Riku’s first kiss and that thought makes him moan and Riku suddenly presses in harder and the kiss becomes something else. Something more primal and, oddly, more simple. Sora is reminded of all their duels and this doesn’t seem so far off. So Sora presses himself forward and meets Riku’s aggression with some of his own and in no time they’re mashing lips and clashing teeth and their hands are tugging on clothes and tearing at each other’s bodies.

Sora stills when Riku’s crotch slams against his own and moves. It’s the whole moving thing that startles him and he pulls back, breathes harshly and he can’t quite understand why his own hips aren’t tugging away. Why they’re staying there, moving with and against Riku’s, rubbing his own hardness against Riku’s. It’s a heat wholly different from the heat of the sun beating against his back. It’s a heat that Sora doesn’t want to escape from, wants to push more into it. Take it into himself. Merge with it. It’s a heat that smells of fresh leaves and sweet paopu fruit and it’s sending missiles of ‘more’ to his dick.

Don’t you ever fucking take me away from here, his dick tells him and Sora knows he’s loathe to do anything but stay. Leaving is stupid. Staying is just what he needs.

So he stays and he kisses Riku some more and presses his body as close and tight to Riku’s as he possibly can.

When they're touching flesh to flesh in absolute abandon of all social decorum, rutting like some nameless wild creature, images flash in Sora's mind—running on hot sand, feet jerking upward from burning, this-side-of-melting sand, only to slam back down to pull their bodies forward faster—tongues that lick and slide and leave behind slight trails—hands that scoop up water only to pour it over a head of silver hair, the water cascading down heated naked flesh—bits bobbing in cool water as they swim naked in the surf, completely oblivious to the obvious. Sora remembers all this and arches up and into a different heat. There’s wetness on his neck and pressure in his bits and it’s almost like being caught in a storm, being lashed about, never quite knowing when the end will come and holding on for dear life because something is looming in the background, something too hot and too bright and too close—

Sora’s falling through, jolting from his taut position on the ground beneath Riku and into something unlike anything he’d ever seen on any of the worlds he’d been to. Something that burns him from the inside out and through him. Something, he realizes in the middle of it, he doesn’t want to ever stop. Only to continue, on and on, because Riku’s there with him. Holding him so tight and calling out his name and together they’re floating, zooming past lights and sounds and everything else.

This is the world they were looking for.

Later, when they’re sprawled partly clothed and quite spent on the cool grass, Sora still can’t quite understand how eating ice cream could so freaking pornographic.

~*~
THE END

Incite - KH - Riku/Sora (Axel-centric and POV) - R

Fri, 29 Dec 2006 02:35:15 GMT

TITLE: Incite
AUTHOR: anansay
FANDOM: Kingdom Hearts
PAIRING/CHARACTERS: Riku/Sora; Axel-centric and POV
WORDS: 440+
RATING: R
GENRE: Drama.
WARNING: Slash.
DISCLAIMER: Not my characters. They belong to Square Enix.
ADDITIONAL DISCLAIMER: This author is not responsible for underage readers. Please observe the ratings, warnings, and age of legal consent for your country. Fanfiction posted in this journal is rated by the author following the indications of Motion Picture Association's film ratings.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Still writing about Axel, though now Riku's made an appearance.
ARCHIVING: Just let me know where.
BETA: Not beta’d.

SUMMARY: Axel doesn't understand some fires.

~*~
Incite

by Anansay
December 28, 2006
~*~

Heat is part of Axel’s nature; it’s in his title. He is the Flurry of Dancing Flames. But it’s a different sort of heat Axel feels when he meets a man named Riku. White hair and blue eyes and body hard and honed and Axel begrudges his loss of the possibility of erection, without or without Roxas.

Axel sees him striding in full confident glory toward Sora and Axel just wants to singe the glorious man to cinders. Watch that snowy hair melt and twist like brittle wire. Watch that chiselled body deflate into something like a puddle on the ground. Because the man has eyes only for Sora and doesn’t see the red-haired man skulking in the shadows, fingers itching and sparking. Doesn’t see the inherent danger in the mere presence of Axel. How Axel could incinerate him with a thought and think—or feel—nothing when the screams fill the air and the stench drowns them out.

It’s a heat Axel doesn’t recognize and he doesn’t understand these thoughts in his head, so much more murderous than usual. He hears Sora’s softly uttered Riku and knows the man’s name. He repeats it over and over again until his lips move of their own volition.

Riku . . . Riku . . . Riku . . . I’m going to kill you

He wants to kill him, murder him, make his existence null and void. Because only in that way could Axel ever hope to really and truly possess this creature of snow-hair and ice-eyes.

He watches from his hiding place as the ice-man takes Sora down with him, their lips already locked together, bodies fused even through clothes. He watches as they move together, like he and Roxas do. He hears them crystal clear—their moans and groans and grunts and pleas. He hears them panting, cursing, promising and swearing. He can almost feel those same fingers over his own body, cool fingertips cascading over goose pimpled flesh, and he writhes in his corner, his hands roaming over his own clothed body. He bites his lip and tightens his throat and clenches the fabric of his robes and when Riku’s body tenses and his head flies back and he cries out harshly, with Sora’s fingers digging into rosy flesh, Axel’s own cry joins theirs and he slumps to the ground, a man spent on nothing more than thoughts and memories.

When his eyes finally open, Ice-man and Sora are lying naked side by side, hands together, much like he and Roxas do and Axel has to wonder, not for the first time, if he and Roxas are getting any closer to—

—whatever it is they’re searching for.

~*~
THE END

Yearning - KH - Axel/Roxas - R

Wed, 27 Dec 2006 01:07:02 GMT

TITLE: Yearning
AUTHOR: anansay
FANDOM: Kingdom Hearts
PAIRING/CHARACTERS: Axel/Roxas; Axel-centric
WORDS: 450+
RATING: R
GENRE: Drama.
WARNING: Slash.
DISCLAIMER: Not my characters. They belong to Square Enix.
ADDITIONAL DISCLAIMER: This author is not responsible for underage readers. Please observe the ratings, warnings, and age of legal consent for your country. Fanfiction posted in this journal is rated by the author following the indications of Motion Picture Association's film ratings.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: A need to write Axel, that is all.
ARCHIVING: Just let me know where.
BETA: Not beta’d.

SUMMARY: It's different with Roxas.

~*~
Yearning

by Anansay
December 26, 2006
~*~

When Axel touches Roxas, it’s the same as Sora. Same flesh, same eyes, same everything, except for the most important part—Roxas does not react like Sora does. There is no dry panting, no arching back and harsh cries. His eyes do not burn with ice-fire.

Axel can feel where Roxas’ fingers touch him, how they trail down bare flesh, calloused flesh gripping at dry skin. He can feel warm breath caressing his ears just before they’re enveloped by moist heat. He can feel the nibble of teeth and the lave of a tongue. When he pulls back, it’s to gaze into a pair of steady eyes, calculating their next move, and Axel can’t help but join in the game.

He palms Roxas’ crotch, feels the flaccid cock behind the loose cloth. A pair of heavy balls. There is mirth now in Roxas’ eyes as he swivels his hips, pressing himself into Axel’s hand. And Axel smiles, squeezes a bit, maybe too hard because they can still feel physical pain, even if the passion has been stolen from them.

When they kiss it is a mess of lips and saliva and tongues battling for supremacy. They moan and groan but only they know it’s out of frustration at being slowly bested, one over the other. A constant swirl of never-ending battles.

Thrust—parry—suck—lift—suck.

However, when they’re naked and rubbing against each other, there is something that sparks between them. They rub soft skin together, feel the slick sheen of sweat covering their bodies from their workout.

They’re pushing barriers, thrusting against them, launching themselves into them with the hope of breaking them, shattering them. Memories flit about behind closed eyelids. Memories of touching, of feeling. Of experiencing.

They don’t come. There is no completion like they dimly remember. They only stop when they’re too out of breath, and out of hope. Daily, they enter into this experiment, trying to elicit something other than cursed frustration and forlorn sense of wanting something they feel only in dreams long forgotten in the harsh light of day.

They talk of these dreams, when they sit in darkened alcoves overlooking a sun dawning on a far-off horizon. They feel themselves over there, with the sun, basking in it, feeling it melt into their bodies and lighting flames long dead. They utter words whose meanings sound too analytical and they push themselves and each other to know more.

But what does it mean?

I wonder . . .

It’s right there—

They lay down at night, side by side, naked bodies touching, hands holding. They breathe each other’s air. They feel each other’s body. When their eyes close they pray to find each other, if only in their dreams.

~*~
THE END