Apr 13, 2018
Spa Day -- Sam/Dean, Explicit
PWP, bottom Sam, Impala sex
Birthday hat-tip to @wetsammywinchester. Poet thanks emmatheslayer for the prompt and crowroad3 for the pep talk.
seen from Türkiye
seen from T1
seen from Algeria
seen from Germany
seen from Italy
seen from Russia
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Singapore
seen from Malaysia
seen from Angola
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malta
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Ukraine
Spa Day -- Sam/Dean, Explicit
PWP, bottom Sam, Impala sex
Birthday hat-tip to @wetsammywinchester. Poet thanks emmatheslayer for the prompt and crowroad3 for the pep talk.
Chess | Sam and Dean gen | ~300
Domestic brotherhood, prose-poem
Sam found this market at Lebanon First Baptist. Mostly members, farm wives, selling surplus from their personal gardens. Corn and green beans, squash, all the herbs.
Strawberry pie—home-grown, real whipped cream—got Dean to ride out with him the next Saturday. By coincidence, Sam swore, Gurley’s Meats pulled up a cold truck.
“Sammy, you been holdin out on me!” Dean buzzed. Rubbed palms and sucked lips.
*
Sam found an app. Coming off hunts, needing to stretch leg anyway. Amish country: pickles and peppers, mason jars of maple syrup. Five flavors of hand-canned jam outside a strip mall in Kentucky. Broccoli so fresh from an Iowa urgent care, Sam found live inch worms when he cut in.
Pies. Always pies. Rhubarb, peach, pecan, and pumpkin. Ice cream, whipped cream. Sometimes not even a fork, just face and fingers.
“Want some?”
“Idiot.”
*
Dean finds hot sauce in Georgia, lot of another First Baptist. Three-piece string band—fiddle, banjo, and stand-up bass—picks old-time religion. Fresh eggs. Beef tamales and honey, garnet red.
Flirty forty-something: “One chocolate chess pie.”
Dean slips her a twenty.
“Y’put real cream on this, y’hear me? Not that crap from a can.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Licks teeth.
*
Later, “Boneless buffalo bites! Grilled, for your precious cholesterol.” Dean bundles his with bacon strips, a lettuce scrap, and a quarter-cup ranch in a wrap.
Sam’s served a salad, ranch on the side.
“You like?” Orange goo plasters his shirt.
Sam nods, mouth full.
“Good, cause you’re doin the dishes.” Greasy napkin arcs, grazes a cheek.
“Then you’re finding us a case.”
Dean collects plates.
Inspired by “time off” and “them just being people.” Much love to anniespinkhouse and onehotmama199. <333
5/?
Devil’s hour
Dean, Season 9, PG-13
One-night-wonder— got a sitter until six— soft-clicked her way out. Dean roused. Chest arced, sheet dipped for his navel. Nightstand. Time check (no calls no texts) Whiskey-sweat and sex, drugstore perfume, Camel Light. Tipped out of its soft pack. Not many smoking rooms, anymore, not that Sam— Crown of thorns. Zippo clicked. Crowley, Cherry glowed, forced jaw, long draw, wormed way down. chest burned. Whatever. Smoke ring. Sam, Breath like ghost. pissed-off, Ash grew. beat riding this rock without him.
Prompt: “drifting smoke” — AMAZING art by @nisaki-chan. Thank you for the sexy, sexy prompt. xxoo
4/(let’s be real i ain’t hittin) 15
April Fools
Southbound and down. Roadside dogwood blooms pepper pink. Afternoon sun slants, glance dances. Mile mark. Rearview. Six-pack clinks. Zep cassette in the deck and Sam— right-hand wing-man —naps shotgun. Snores, slobbers. Shifts in his sleep, weak-sheepish grin. Palm scrubs his cheek. Where are we? Wheels spin. Tennessee.
Prompt: Sam through Dean’s eyes
This is your friendly reminder that no one should expect NaPoWriMo works to be any good. 🙃
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