𓏲𝄢I'm an amateur writer; this is mainly for fun, plus searching the community on this long-forgotten site, I've heard fun things from Tumblr, so here I am
Cottrill
20
SPN EXCLUSIVE BLOG
This is for my supernatural posting. I felt like organizing my writing, so some of my fics will be re-uploaded here from my main @irlangeldbm if you wanna dm me there for more or be muttsss!
I do engage in wincest, so feel free to block this blog if you don't find that your munch of choice! :3
tw are sparse and inefficient since I myself don't know what could be considered triggering to the general audience, I write from my heart, so I don't expect any engagement at all
i do find interest in writting under pettition or specific prompts so feel free to write anything on my wall
sam winchester from s1 to s4 is who i write about the most my wife 𓏲𝄢⠀
Sam and Dean fucking while still bantering like brothers is sooo fucked up. Dirtier than the kinkiest smut you can find. It knocks you over with the reminder that their brothers, brothers with fucked up views on relationships and who literally don’t get along with anyone but each other. Not even their own father. But love each other to the point of irreparable pain and damage.
The soft covers and turn away plushies did nothing to conceal the loss of innocence, this was his biggest sin yet, but how could anyone judged a clearly lost mind?, his mouth was bloodied and his hands rough with something he could only describe as fury, he was enraged, rabid like an abandoned dog, how could he not be? he saw his kin, his soul mate get stripped away in a known torture chamber, he couldn’t even sooth himself with uncertainty, it was a known fact, his twin flame had been burning in hell the moment he separated his eyes from the other.
Since then, the warm pacts and late-night talks were turned against him in his memories; he had tried to live with it, with the knowledge; his curious nature always anguished his brain in the need for a reason why, and yet he had much more going on since the blond man left.
Since his scoffs and laughs were turned into the blows of wind in the midnight fall.
He tried to visit that place, that nameless cross of sticks that held his true caregiver, the only person who dared to see him just as he was, a scared fawn.
Even if his legs had outgrown him and the lanky figure now turned into muscle, he was still nothing in the hands of his brother.
Oh, his older brother, whose hand could wipe away all tears and make all boo-boos better than any “toughen up” given by his dad could ever.
Who’s eyes, green as his mother´s cooed him better than any lullaby, and this desesparation, this grief, he never knew it before he was long gone, he knew he had to deal with it, he was strong, his hands no longer ones of a little boy but of a grown man a huge one at that, he couldn’t keep on pretending he was a panic-struck bunny, he knew how to bite, and he better start on it soon otherwise he’ll get his head torn off right at his nape.
It could be a demon, a werewolf, or his own self.
The self-exploration in the stale greenish light of the bathroom had become every day more and more painful. He started small, with the normal eyelash picking, then the lip biting, and now, he was convinced he had an ingrown hair on his tummy, so deep down he had now a light laceration below his belly button.
he could almost swear , when he picked up the tweezers to get rid of it the skin over the light black dot was just getting more and more in the way , he had digged a small hole in his abdomen , barely a fingertip wide but deep enough that an even brown scab was unable to form , from the ones he had picked before , all turned yellowish , red on the center or middle even after days of leaving the wound on its own , and their taste , because of course he was a scab eater , still remained that light penny tang that his usual bland soft counter parts didn’t share, it still bleed when he picked at it , every single time , even if he neglected it all week in hopes of the skin under it to turn pink and healed when he pealed the layer off, and he could see in between that pool of blood that flooded the deep small crevice a little black dot that persisted , he couldn’t really tell if he was imagining it or if it was really there , he only knew it bothered him to no end, he tried to get rid of his happy trail so many times in the past year , not really out of aesthetics but mere hygiene , not that he through it was a gross feature , he just didn’t like it on himself.
So now on his breadbasket, he had a small but deep wound that itched and made him look like a monkey when he tried to scratch it.
Was this how Cain felt after getting rid of his kin, of his blood? Did he feel this guilt, this need to consume as much as he did? Well, no matter how many times he read motel bibles, none mentioned this murderous need.
This unruly transformation of love to grief.
He was never alone before; he always had someone, even if he didn't notice before, someone by his side. He feared this would be the cause of his dismay, but it seems like he was more independent than he gave himself credit for.
It made sense, all those times where he was sent to do whatever the hell task his father wanted, how he weaseled his way out of trouble and how calm and unbothered he could come into conclusions, it’s like if the blond was his curse, someone that triggered this automatic response, like the one that tells a fawn to collapse and lay down flat against the grass when its mother bleats.
It was smothering, a thick fog or a thin veil over his judgment that made his logic and his feelings come into conflict.
And now, without him, Sam could finally see clearly.
The sky was no longer blue but a greyish tone of indigo; the pasture wasn't dry rot but needles that feed off the water of crying clouds.
It all made sense now.
And with silence on the impala, he could finally think.
Think, thought, and whatever other word that involved him sitting for hours at the same place with his inner monologue.
This logic only came to an end with that snaky brunette, a demon who had snuck his way into his bedroom more times than once; assuring him she would be the answer to his prayers, the cure of all illness, and as much has he wanted to resist, it was human nature to fall for the devil’s tricks.
Especially when she looked the way she did.
He swore to himself he wasn't so selfish, but that warm liquid that flooded through her veins was like acid in his brain. The high was short-lived, barely an orgasmic second, and yet she had him at her feet.
Nonetheless, even in his vulnerable state, even after being a victim of this beyond imaginable psychological warfare, he was still a man.
a buck.
and so, he needs to demonstrate he was in control of this addiction even tho it lacked a reason or even though behind it.
He commanded it.
He was bringing his brother back.
one way or another.
The night he went to bury that tin can on the cross-side road, his pleads where ignored, and even made fun of.
No deal made for Cain.
No one wanted him.
nor on earth nor in hell. It was maybe the constant esthesis of his brain, or the light chants that woke him up at night, panting on a thin layer of sweat.
The chorus that faded when he moved his head east.
The hunger that kept him insomniac, the itch under his flesh that had made him rub his skin raw while tossing and turning.
He needed an angel.
The natural predator of the son of a bitch who took his brother.
He had half an idea of how to do it, if angels were even real.
His willpower did more than he might imagine. In less than a week, he had a solid plan, and after catching Jane Doe in his morning run, he now had a vessel.
Of course, now he regretted not looking for a better choice; he didn't think twice before snatching whatever he could come across and wouldn't defend itself.
He tried a bunny, a dog, and had been plotting against a human, but the guilt wouldn't allow him to pursue the obvious option.
a child.
Vulnerable and easy to manage.
But what kind of imagery would a grown man with a kid give? Sure, he was a perverted creep.
but not that kind.
So, this girl was perfect.
He didn’t really think too much about it; all animals ended up straight up dying when he tried just putting them inside the sigils.
So, he grabbed at whatever he could find; if it were ending up dead anyway, it better be no one that someone will look for.
She looked simple enough, clearly lost between the tall buildings of the city after a night out.
Who even ends their fun evenings at 5 am while wobblingly trying to make it to the train station?
He didn’t even think twice before loading her in the back of the Impala, not a hard task; she didn't even resist if he remembered correctly. She mumbled an address, and before he knew it, she was lying over another blood circle, completely passed out and intoxicated.
Her face wasn't registered by him; he felt it to be irrelevant as he prepared himself to pick up a corpse by the end of the night.
He did overthink that once the thunder began to scream against the windows when he started to chant.
God, if she was heavy while alive, imagine when this bitch is dead. Too late now; it only took him seconds to realize the inscription had trapped nothing but less than a cherub.
a lower rank than even a mindless cupid; the sound of coming down the poor Ciborium resembling one of pigs in the slaughter, like the sheep running off the hill to their doom in the rocks; that's what it reminded him of.
and then it spoke, nothing but a scream that they may be confused with a chorus, like the ones in opera or church, the voice coming from nowhere and everywhere at the same time as it fought with the abnegation of the vessel.
He had read the word multiple times. If the chamber did not agree, it wouldn't stick, so he picked the one with as much of a grey area as he could. At the time, he believed this was what he needed; he didn't even notice the smaller, more important details after months of living with this…thing.
This above-human creature that somehow managed to speak outside of tongues, this beast that had nothing to offer, was frustrating; of course, there for the mistreatment of it from that night forward.
Nothing too outrageously abusive, just… he couldn't push himself to treat it with the kindness he so naturally possessed.
There was something about those small brown eyes that made him want to rip their throat out.
That annoying wobble of its borrowed legs when they trailed behind him.
And yet, he refused to free it.
Holy fire, sigils, spells, chants, and poisoned objects- whatever he could to keep it from moving around, from leaving this poor vessel he had struggled along for weeks without proper care.
The first bath was excruciating, hosing it down on the parking lot like one would do a stray; he didn't want this thing naked around him at all.
But there’s only so much body odor he can handle, especially with how much smaller it was compared to his own stature.
He should have been pickier with his decision-making. This sucked.
He could see that gross root junk up in grease every time he looked down as another day passed out of the wash time.
And yet, he refused to even have it close to himself.
While the poor angel begged to be released, he would just scoff and turn the other way.
The begging was passable anyway, just murmurs and pleas; it knew better. He had to discipline it once or twice, and this saint learned fast; only one swat or hair pull, and the behavior would not repeat itself.
Soldiers, that's what they were, slaves, below God but above humanity.
disgusting.
How can this thing even count as above him?
With its pathetic breath, it’s now robbed guts and lungs.
This was punishment; this was what it deserved.
He barely remembered how the night started. He had to go around town for a case, coming back to base tired and done for.
When this… creature decided it was a good idea to speak up.
He could barely remember what the argument was about, if it even was an argument at all.
But with God knows what strength, the angel was pushed onto the bed and was now getting turned from inside out.
He was going to eat it.
consume it.
make a buffet, and they show the remains to the poor, witnessing eyes of the so-called god.
Would the father allow this behavior? Would he get zapped to hell the moment he undid his belt?
for what it was.
It had yet to happen, and he had already broken the first barrier, that beautiful, holy fabric that made this woman unclaimed.
He couldn’t believe himself once he first hit it.
The lack of prep was something; he expected tightness, maybe even urine from how frightened it seemed, so powerless under him, like the place it deserved, but the moment there was blood, he knew he would die for this.
This assault wasn’t sexual, not at all. The course of the clouds made it clear as he broke what made Mary so pure, as he bit into the apple like Eve.
The angel would only whimper and cry into the leather he made it bite.
The skirt the vessel possessed from that distant night out bunched up against the not at all small waist.
The perversion it suffered was not even what animals went through when some people hated them.
But there’s something about this cherub; could it be the lack of much fight, the plain acceptance of the situation, and the trembling of its limbs that made him attack?
Like he couldn't live knowing there was someone out there that actually suffered the torture he cosplayed when he was being seen by his older brother.
It was jealousy, or something so irrational like submission.
How dare this thing be born to serve? How dare it let itself get consumed by a man? How dare it look like that and still be fragile?
As it moaned and whined, it reminded him of his lover.
who’s eyes turned red with lust for him, instead of white in fear like this pigeon wanna be, how her beautiful figured turned and engaged with him, unlike the stiff pose of this much bigger specimen, Ruby, oh, his pretty gem, she would be pissed if she knew what he was doing, torturing an angel, even in its lowest of forms could still place her into hell the moment she stepped a foot inside where it was trapped.
And yet, he was the one making it whimper and cry; this is what it deserves, he told himself for like the millionth time, for being born weak, for being coy.
For not being able to bring his brother back.
How dare it require lives of innocents to be summoned and still not even be half as useful as a street rat.
It took him quite a while to settle into this.
This was a turning point either for the spirit or himself.
Would it finally resist? Make him go to immediate doom after another forceful thrust? Or would the guilt finally consume him? The weight of his actions took a puzzling piece into his brain like they should have done months ago.
He wanted to ingest it.
Eat it.
Rip it apart, cook it, part it and serve it on a pretty plate on his hypothetical dinner table.
He might as well.
That's what killers did, wasn’t it?
that what a true man did.
Because he knew a male was a coward, scourging the true society with their lack of care, their violence; they were animals, and he was no better, even if he tried to tell himself that.
At the end of the day, it was still his white essence mixed with virginal blood, not someone else's; he did this to a being who barely even understood what consent was.
On its nature, as an angel, a soldier of the lord, there was nothing like free will, agreement or democracy, of course it would do as told , he didn’t even had to do this if the goal was to cum , he could have half hassardly explain it to this thing and it would have agreed foolishly , but this wasn’t about sex , this wasn’t eve about dominance , it was about control , punishment , knowing this thing had no rights assigned to it and it belonged under his foot.
as it whined and grunted against the leather of his belt , he couldn’t help but wonder, would it get as half as traumatized as the human victims ended? should he give it grace and cut its throat now that it was ruined? , bleed it like one would do the precious lamb of god?.
maybe.
maybe the guilt won’t let him live with himself.
he pulled out slowly, trying to register what he had done, his shaft covered in blood and release that helped him to somehow lubricate the angel at some point in the assault.
he panted, settling on his hinges and maneuvering the mess of a cherub into its back. He could see it all , the bruised inner thighs , the marked neck from where he had supported his forearm to choke any sound that might spill through the makeshift gag, and more obvious the face of despair on the angel.
It looked like one of those statues at cemeteries, or maybe a doll brand he tended to see in thrift stores when he was little and in search of some quick wardrobe change for his developing body, what were they called again? “Precious moments” maybe.
Those brown eyes reflected the same despair as the forgotten porcelain on an almost empty shelf.
its nose was crooked.
aw shit! No way he broke that ugly hooked nose.
imagine fucking that up even more than it was originally; all he did was a single closed fist punch straight at it since it kept on flopping around when he pushed it down to its abdomen and pulled its ass up.
He did not expect the small cartilages to just fold to the side and start bleeding.
god, this thing was a mess, and with guilt in his heart, he couldn’t keep appearances anymore.
He lifted up its sweater up to its chest, watching the air full in its lungs of it, imagine that, not even having consent and still using those life bags under the ribbed forest of a woman.
This cherub was a parasite, and he was tired of trying to convince himself it wasn’t.
He cleaned himself up with his hoodie sleeve, the brown darkening with the carmine residue, the evidence of his crime.
- get up - he murmured, not even waiting before grabbing its arms and pulling it up to his chest.
- get the fuck up- he scoffed one more time as he tried to grace it to its knees, yet it was barely able to hold itself up, and again, this bitch was heavy, so hoisting it up on the headboard was much more liable than picking it up.
He gushed and pulled himself out of the bed, letting it lay there, pained, gross, and forgotten while he ran a bath.
first bath for this nightmare celestial.
He would be forgiven; it’s almost a fact.
isn’t God merciful on his children? why shouldn’t his new era of Cain be forgiven?
he didn’t even bother to keep his pants up, half haphazardly walking out of them with ease; cowboy cuts weren’t famous for fitting perfectly for people without an ass.
so they fall right off if they are not getting hoisted up by the loops, and since his leather was currently on the angel’s mouth there’s not a lot he even wanted to do with the decency he had left, so he stepped out of the pile of cotton and denim, walking back into the bedside where the angel still lay helplessly.
- come on, ass up, we have a job to do this in this lowlife town - he spoke, like if he was gonna get an answer, like this wasn’t what it was.
and so, it obeyed, the lamb of god obeyed , the lack of guidance from the heavens war and the sigils on its ribs made so much easier to move around than he thought, it collapsed, of course, falling to its knees like a newborn giraffe, even if the only thing that remotely resembled its grace would be a street dog.
He hoisted it up, dragging it to the bathroom like a ragdoll in the hands of a way too young of a child.
The bath was lukewarm; he didn’t know he was supposed to make them both fit in there, but he knew he wasn’t doing this twice.
So, with guilt on his gut and an odd to be seen compassion, he finally peeled away that crusty skirt from its body, seeing as if the marble statue had come to fruition before his very eyes.
it was disabled, devastated, broken nose, ripped hymen, cut thighs and butchered wrists.
the aftermath of a one-man feast, consuming was all he did, first his kin's soul, the demon blood, and now the angel spirit.
He was doomed from the start, wasn’t he? He was cursed inside the womb.
a puzzle piece of a greater plan that somehow made everything he went through insignificant.
It didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered.
Something he learned since his brother died is “nothing ever happens”; that was something he wished he knew when he was younger.
no sleepless nights, no night terrors that made him wet the bed.
nothing ever happens.
So, he hunts down monsters; nothing happened.
so, his brother died, nothing happened.
So, he started mistreating a creature beyond human comprehension for self-made reasons, nothing happened.
no punishment, no reward.
nothing.
time would keep on moving, the sun ill raise and rest,
and he’ll get older, and live another decade or so doing this job, this tracking, this shit.
He may get really good at it; he may get struck down by a misplaced bullet, but then he’ll be another John Doe like the thousands he had left behind while hunting for ghosts.
He lowered the celestial down on the tub, following suit after removing his shirt.
Finally washing its body with his hands reminded him of the true warmth this shape held; he wasn’t used to it. Normally, he liked women with a low BMI; he couldn’t help but be a little surprised by how warm it was, like a furnace, radiating heat like an off-turned stove.
the grime and residue tinting the water a reddish grey; he needed to stop procrastinating on getting this shit clean; this was actually really gross.
he moved his hands carefully, cupping what he could on his palms and scrubbing it down with a one-dollar exfoliating mesh he got a few months back, coming in real handy when trying to get dead skin out of a feathery mess; now that he had this vessel on the privacy of a bath, he could really take in the details.
On its back, the light scar for what he supposed was the entrapment of the angel in the first place seemed to have healed well, barely a bump in the skin but definitely white scabbing on it.
He wished he had noticed it sooner, maybe pick at it with chopsticks or something.
He tried his best to be gentle where it mattered, the mess between its legs gushing hurt and desperation on the tail of human nature.
thank God he took the time to shave it a week ago; it would be a pain in the ass to look for physical tearing otherwise.
folds puffy and closed shut, just like God intended a petal to form; was God a fat bitch enthusiast? to a coke whore addict?
maybe both; the guy's a freak anyway, I mean have you seen a platypus? no way that shit was in the bible before this century.
quimeras and hybrids, all the mother’s descent, and this, creation of the lord’s desire for servants.
even if he judged humans for wanting the same, like they weren’t made out of his spitting image.
he tried his best not to just shoved his fingers in there as he got out his seed and remains of the slaughter from the mall cavity, he didn’t know if this thing could even bear life, probably not, he half expected the ovaries of the woman he used to be immediately pulverized from her body the moment the cherub entered its place, but wouldn’t know for sure unless he took it to be get an ultrasound or whatever pregnant dogs get done at the vet.
The soft whines of it when he pushed water up to its face to clean off the excess of snot and clotted blood from its nose, snapping it back into place with a loud crack. Thank God that whistling stopped; he was going insane with the sound its nose produced when it tried to pull air into its lungs.
The washing of the hair was the absolute worst so far, the excess grease making it hard for the cheap motel shampoo to penetrate correctly in the scalp, but, at last, it was successful.
no longer a dirty mingy dog.
now just an unfortunate, ugly victim.
the rest of his own individual scrubbing was uneventful; he didn't know how he even holds himself up during the assault.
he had been having performance issues ever since Jess died.
something about watching the love of your life get brutally murdered does something to a man.
enough at least to make him not want to have sex ever in his fucking life.
Yet, somehow, the moment this rat pissed him off, the guy had no issues standing proud.
Wow, he needed to get into rehab quick.
this shit is getting out of hand.
He pushed off the bathtub, almost slipping when getting up; was this angel perpetually in that way or what? Making him trip with his own feet, one more uppsie and he might end up with an open skull on the disgusting tile.
The heavy, dragged steps were marked with light rhythmic inhales of his meat.
The synthetic microfiber of a motel towel getting wrapped around his body to dry it up, trying to get the remaining grime off himself and the celestial.
Wow, it looked a lot paler like this; maybe it was the heavy contrast between the not-so-tanned skin and the pitch-black hair it had, a poor color job made shift by the original owner of the body, its brown roots showing slightly, but from the deepness of it, you could barely notice.
His legs still refused to stand; they probably would for the next couple of days, he had to admit. His anger took the best of him, and like most situations lately, he was left to deal with the aftermath little by little.
Dressing it back up was a nightmare; the man was what 6’4, and this tramp still couldn't share pants with him- what was it, 5’3? God, how fat do you have to be to not fit in a man’s XL?
But to be fair, the top part worked fine, maybe even a bit oversized, but that would be a stretch; if it fit a little loose on him, it definitely should fit her.
Sharing boxers with it wasn’t really his ideal situation, but the garments it came with were completely ruined and now dumped on a pile of the bathroom floor.
No pants then, wet body lotion, no pants and no bra.
At least his space pair of shoes fit, definitely clown shoes but better than nothing.
he sat it back down on the mattress, its eyes following him but not daring to speak, he knew silence was better, its word barely made sense most of the time, but he did try to gentle parent it to small sentences from time to time, maybe he should start to buy those diamond paintings he saw often in the Asian grocery stores, or maybe a pictured book with letters and bright colors.
Was this how Humbert felt when committing his atrocities? sure that beast got off it, but was the after math like this? “oh wow I just ruined the life of a little girl and I don’t even have the decency to murder her since I am user it on the future” and then turn and think “huh, we are running out of coloring books for when we travel, would she like paper dolls or teddy bears better in the next theme?”.
he just couldn’t empathize; even if his actions resembled the ones of that below rat status of a man, he just refused to even compare them.
he had his reasons, there has to be a way to murder this poor angel if the effect of his neglect comes to affect its daily development, he would never do this for pleasure, this was justice in a way, he understood this was an irrational hatred for something that literally didn’t do anything but he still wanted to distance himself for men who had done this who women before.
because even if it carried a womb and breast, this creature was no longer human, so why would he give it rights?
He changed into his own set of clean clothes; he needed to do laundry asap; his three shirts and two jeans combo was thought of by one person to use, not to share around with a birdy.
Either way, he was a man of habit; no way there would be no aftercare.
As badly executed and backhanded as it was, no one would disagree he did perform according to what chivalry perceived as acceptable.
sure taking out the poor angel for a drive in a below 5°C degrees wasn’t very nice of him but the resentment was still there, even when he drove it straight to a small sandwich place for a to go order and ended up allowing it to eat on the laundry matt while they did this week´s washing, now including to the loan 20 cents more of water use, now that the smell wasn’t foul he could get behind scratching its head, like a child would to a terrified bunny or a kicked dog outside the meat market.
There would be no punishment for his crime on this plane, but what else can a mourning mind do other than hurt others?.
The pastures turned yellow as the death of spring came along, the end of another cycle for the animals to prepare and take care of the new life June had given them.
Autumn´s weather bit at the hands and noses of the elementary school children who enter the facility with an extra sweater, careful to cross the street holding their parents' hands.
Maybe less than 50 kilometers away, a 1967 Impala roared across the nearby street, the windows fogged up slightly on the sides due to the changing weather; it had rained not too long ago, and the pavement was still wet and slippery, making the wheels cry when the driver's boot stomped on the brake at the red light.
The man behind the wheel groaned out, the lack of sleep already catching up to him.
His green eyes turned to the second male in the passanger seat, his large frame getting dwarfed by the way he covered himself with the old thick wool sweater, he should get more blankets on the back seat, the blond was getting tired of bug infested beds and mysterious wet spots in motel mattresses, at least some of them came with a breakfast package, nothing more than sad over cooked coffee in a century old machine and a microwaved sandwich with only one ham slice, but 20 dollars where 20 dollars when it came to breakfast.
Especially since you are using credit card fraud to pay for day-to-day expenses.
The younger shifted into his sleep, his head resting against the window, way better than any pillow he had had in the past three months.
God, he felt so guilty; how dare he drag his baby brother across the country after he just got made a widow, widower, Widow to be? Half-baked dead girlfriend term? Who knew the right words? Probably Sam.
He and his endless vocabulary, only college education could provide, and the bad habit of bringing his stupid laptop everywhere, the need to understand the nature of the monster they were hunting, instead of just shooting with good aim.
Up to this point, it was like a bad rendition of Scooby-Doo instead of fraternity.
But Dean knows it stopped being fraternity a long time ago. There was something in the air, something that made him sick to his stomach if he thought about it for more than one second.
He tried to justify it, finding a loophole that left his suspicions unconfirmed.
But ever since that night in the motel, things have changed. It was the oldest fault; of course, he thought maybe Sam was a bit “stuck” in his thinking.
At least that is how it worked for the blond, one for another.
Sad about a girl? Check out her friends.
Simple.
Easy.
But the “raw for years with the same person” mentality was stuck in Sam’s head, making him uncomfortable, Dean couldn’t fix it, so why even bother on acknowledging it, that day the brunet finally caught a bird, beautiful red head, but of course his sad hazel eyes were the only ones doing anything in the interaction, the woman would never look at him if he kept it up.
So as soon as his older brother caught a glimpse of intentions, he decided to make the hunt easy for the recently single nerd; catch and share, nothing wrong with sharing.
The issue came with Sam just sitting on the chair of the motel instead of participating in the performance; it was odd to share a girl with your stranded older brother, but at least the oldest expected more than just designating himself the cuck chair.
They did not talk about that incident often; no one can describe how weird it is seeing your brother's dick in any context outside of making fun of him.
The silence was thick, yes, but every other week the encounters had increased, and so had Sam's involvement; kin to kin, this made their relationship closer in a weird way he did not want to think about.
It's a brotherly thing.
Yes, sure, completely normal and brotherly to Eiffel Towel a blonde together.
Platonic and fraternal to look at another dude’s eyes while getting blown by a septum girl.
The height difference did not make it easy; he had to admit he was the most experienced here, but having to plan things with a guy who only needed to stretch his arms to touch the roof was not cut clean.
All the tracking came down to Dean.
The aspirant couldn't be too short, too friendly, or too heavy.
He didn't care; anything would do.
But catering to Sam's specifics was tedious.
Especially when the women the youngest was picking had become weirdly close in looks to his dead fiancée.
He did not want to fuck his dead sister-in-law; was that too hard to understand?
The rubber of the wheels was much quieter, signaling their arrival at their destination for the day, another motel.
He had to admit he could barely keep up, sleeping standing up like a horse in the stable.
Not caring about the others’ sleep schedule, he was as loud as he could when unloading the car.
Hoping the brunet would wake up by it, and he could save himself from checking if the other was breathing or not.
Sam´s eyes lit up under his bangs; the attempt was as successful as it seemed.
Stretching his legs and arms with a low groan, he looked at the blond with a tired scowl.
- Here? - he asked, his voice a gruff reminder of the oldest insomnia.
- Here. – The older responded, pushing the door open and yanking the duffel bag on his shoulder; he would not wait for the other; that was for sure.
With a tired yawn, the brunet got out, careful not to slam the door, causing a nightly outburst to his brother if he even put a scratch on “baby,” a stupid name for a car, but okay, it seems like something guys like him do: run and cling to whatever they think masculinity represents to make themselves feel tougher.
But he knew the truth, and just by the fit of those jeans, Dean was just as vain as any other sorority girl he had ever met.
The youngest hurried to his side, unable to keep himself from looking; nothing wrong with looking- a little creepy maybe- but he had not seen this man in years, and the relationship was never that close after Dean started attempting to be his father's “mini me.”
What an embarrassing ritual of humiliation for a man who did not know better.
He did not resent his father as roughly as before; time passes, you forget and forgive.
But something about riding in that shit of a car again made him wonder, remember, it triggered memories he thought he had buried, leaving him with a bitter taste.
He loved his dad; he really did, but for him, there was no excuse to be as cruel to a young boy with dreams as he had been.
Always out, moving around, leaving two young children unsupervised to fight and figure out on their own.
Good hunter, bad father.
He bristled, the night rain surrounding them as they walked their way into the reception, right after his older brother, both soaked to the bone in the only pair of clothes they had that week, his long brown lashes not caring about subtlety as he took in the shape of his blood kin, broad shoulders, nice thighs, his eyebrows furrowed, when did he grow those calves? Or is it the cut of the jeans? He should try that. Was it bootcut? Straight? Levis? Or American Eagle? Thrifted jeans, knowing Dean.
Going shopping seemed “too girly for him,” as if he did not fix his lashes with a hot spoon like a middle schooler.
With a pout and holding some air in his mouth to keep him from dozing off, he moved to his brother’s side. Last week was hard, awful; he hated gargoyles. Aiming at the head was harder than he thought, when a shotgun was much heavier than a revolver.
He did not even think about it before shoving his hand in the back pocket of the blond’s jeans.
Not actively trying to be lewd, just having it there, he really liked his lower back, the space between his shoulder blades that left a direct dented line on his skin down south, and with Dean having to stand up straight to not look even shorter than he already was, it got even more prominent.
As the older asked for the room, separate beds of course, Sam´s palm traveled up across this valley, feeling around, almost unconscious, he really needed to keep his act toghether, if he thought about it, really thought about it, it made sense, he had seen it depiced in tv drama before, of course it was frown upon, even himself tried not to think about how much of a disgusting pervert he felt the first time he saw his brother in a different context, with that redhead.
He wanted to focus on this woman, small, pretty, perfect, but his eyes couldn't help but wander at Dean's stance.
Comparison.
A dick measuring contest that had turned into this deeper and much more complex relationship dynamic.
Did the brunet look as good when he fucked? Did his downturned puppy eyes compare to the upright green of his older brother?
Why wasn’t his back like that? Why were his legs so weirdly tall? Was he as proportionate? As symmetrical?
Would one of the women that Dean naturally attracted open her mind to him? He knew he had his strengths; he was tall, for one, not ugly at all, and tried his best to keep a kind and gentle attitude.
He knew girls liked that.
Right?
It worked with the love of his life.
Why wouldn’t it click with a hooker? Why wouldn’t it work with the girl next door? Was he not enough in his performance? Okay, sure, he had a thing for soul bounds; he really could not do one-night stands, and the only moment his two heads seemed to be in sync was when something familiar was involved.
Even if it meant involving three people in the act instead of just two.
Not because he had a thing for it, but for the familiarity of hearing those low curses in the fake, southern accent his brother had.
Where the hell did he pick that up?
It was embarrassing.
A lot of the habits of his older brother are degrading: the adoration ritual towards their dad, the fake masculinity act, the caza nova attitude he had instead of fixing his fear of commitment. He behaved like a teen when he was well grown.
The stairs were covered with this old tile, the glossy finish completely stripped off by the multiple shoes erasing it from walking up and down them.
Stories of untold voices, affairs, divorce, reunions, trips, homelessness, everything.
Everything could happen in a location as anonymous as a shitty motel in the middle of Indiana.
When the youngest opened the door, he moved quickly to throw himself over the bedding.
Hours sitting down in a car really hurt your ass.
He couldn't help but groan and stretch, arching his back, twisting it, shifting his bones until they popped with a loud crack.
He looked back at his brother, whose lips parted with a sigh as he unloaded the green, rough duffel bag, his callused hands working to get some books out. Finally working on literature? Excellent job Dean.
But he couldn't help himself; he needed closeness after all this time.
- “Are you all right? – he muttered, shifting around to cover himself with the sheets.
The other just nodded, holding his stomach with slight distance before getting out some bagged-up nicotine, even more gross than chewing tobacco.
God, he knew that taste; it's even worse second-hand.
He stripped off his sweater and sat up; they would get a cold if they didn't hurry and stabilize their body temperature.
- Do you know if they have running hot water? – Sam asked out loud.
- They should, just… - the blond paused – give me a minute, and I'll be right there. -
This dance had become routine.
They wouldn’t pay double for a bath; landlords were evil enough; imagine the people who run a motel.
The tallest took the lead, getting rid of his soaked, cold clothes and entering the bathroom, opening the faucet to fill up the tub.
He liked baths.
He had not had one in quite some time; it was less efficient than a shower, so he had to skip it in most hunts. His body was covered only with a small towel to hide his groin; he was not a French painting to be flashing people freely.
The warm cloth already felt much better against his slightly sun-kissed skin, even if it was cheap polyester.
The sound of the door alerted him, the older right by the frame looking at him with the same tired mug, the hazel light covering the graze of his kin´s body.
If they were blood to blood, why did they look so different from one another? The water rose and splashed as they both entered the bathtub, skin to skin, and yearned for each other.
Being soul-bound to one another in a way only abandonment and insomnia could do.
He felt safe with Dean, even if he hated it.
He hated this borderline obsession he had with the other. When he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the warmth of the blond’s hands on his back, guiding him down on a girl he did not even like that much.
Something about getting taught once more by him was humiliating and stimulating.
Their legs tangled with one another over the porcelain, the hazel orbs taking no shame when wandering around the other's body; his hands followed suit.
Washing away any blood or grime from his sibling's exhausted body, Dean just groaned, closing his eyes as the taller one took control.
He had done this before; he really had to stop indulging in this dance. It would end up badly; he knew it.
Dying for each other was not enough. He needed the angels to see what he was about to do.
With a low rumble he pushed his face away, on instinct the brunet chased his head, whining like an over excited puppy at being rejected, he wouldn’t back down easy, insisting again with a light pressure on the lips, he didn’t part the bond, just small pecks, careful on their nature, unsure just in case the other tried to smash his head against the tub edge until his brains got out.
Outcome fairly justified, too.
But instead, he was met with hesitant acceptance, the soft clicks of saliva soothing their ears against the empty water sounds of the tub.
They were so far away from home, only having one another, destined to fight as Abel and Cain for no good reason outside a “greater plan" they couldn't recognize.
The youngest tried his best to keep breathing through his nose, the steam helping his stuffy cartilage as the tissue tried to swell back after a beat down. He lost a face to face with the monster this evening of course his older brother saves his ass, just as he was doing now by not touching him more than he should, just light strokes on his arms and a pull on his waist, but no actual maneuvering, he knew it would be a done game if he even tried to manhandle the youngest.
Just this faint contact of lips and prayers as they slowly separated, with the spit convent fading off when they leaned back, not saying anything.
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