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zmediaoutlet · 4 years ago

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have a cigar

new fic for the Sunday Morning Porn Club; having some s2 feels and thinking about how big and wild and uncertain Sam was in those early days. But also thinking about porn.

title: have a cigar pairing: Sam/Dean rating: E length: 5500 words tags: Season/Series 02, New Relationship, slight D/s, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Post-Episode: s02e05 Simon Said

summary: What happened with Andy and Ansem unsettles Sam. Dean doesn't seem worried.

(read on AO3)

They’re over the state border from Oklahoma into Kansas when Dean indicates that he’s getting off the highway. Sam looks up at the sound of the blinker, looks around. "What, gas?" he says. They’re not that far out from Guthrie, so unless Dean has to pee—

"Nah, we’ve still got a hundred miles left in the tank," Dean says, rolling the car smoothly onto the offramp. Wellington, Kansas: population 8,105, and exactly no reason for them to be stopping. Sam frowns across the bench and Dean glances at him, and then rolls his eyes. "Jeez. A guy can’t want a break? We were up all night, man, dealing with the psychic twins. Plus you got a head injury. Sue me, I’m taking a minute."

"It's not really a head injury," Sam says. Kansas outside the car windows—mid-morning, green. "We told Ellen we’d be right there." He rubs his hand under the edge of his cast, rolling the tendons under his thumb. "What if she’s got a case or something?"

"Then it can wait half a day," Dean says, and it’s a little louder than it needs to be. He’s got a grip at ten-and-two, his jaw square. Sam looks at him and hears his voice in a perfect echo, saying you’re all part of something that’s terrible, and he bites the inside of his cheek so hard that it throbs but he doesn’t say anything, after that.

Outskirts of towns tend to look the same. Truckstop, motel attached. A McDonald’s. Dean pilots them to a vaguely dirty Mexican place that looks like it last had its decor updated in 1987, and when they’re at the dented formica table with their plastic menus Dean lets out a sigh that sounds like it came from his feet. "You think they’d give me a margarita at, uh, 11:32 in the morning?" he says.

He does look tired. Sam sucks the sore inside of his cheek. "Probably goes great with huevos rancheros," he says, and gets Dean to smile at him, so—all right. A little break.

The food’s bland, given the cornfields all around, but comforting too. They don’t talk much. Dean looks over a copy of the Wichita Eagle that someone left behind, in some obituary-scanning reflex; Sam swirls his fork through his larded refried beans and looks out the window, thinking. Andy, and Ansem. Brothers, though Andy didn’t know it until it was too late, and Ansem went bad but Andy—

Dean knocks his boot into Sam’s ankle, and Sam flinches but when he refocuses Dean’s looking at him, kinda soft. Kinda not soft. Kinda defiant, in that weird way that he’s started to do, and Sam feels heat rush into his cheeks, seeing. Dean smiles like he won something, even if his ears go pink, too, and he wipes his mouth with the balled napkin and says, "I’m going to the can," and Sam says, "Oh, great, thanks for the update," because they are brothers, and Dean smirks and walks off with a kind-of swagger and it’s not Sam’s fault that that calls attention to the shape of his ass, but Sam’s looking, either way.

The waitress offers more iced tea, when Dean’s gone. "No, gracias," Sam says. She raises her eyebrows a little but puts down the check. Sam leans back in the booth, spinning his unused knife as best he can in his busted hand, looking again out the window. Trucks, and a cornfield, and blue skies. Plain and familiar, and if he tries to imagine a demon coming here, a darkness swarming over it, somehow it just—doesn’t compute. But there was Andy, and Ansem, just a hundred miles south of here in an easy calm town that had no idea what was coming, and they brought murder with them. Killers, and freaks, and the town and its people hadn’t done a damn thing to deserve it.

"What, you forget how to pay a tab?"

Sam jerks, brought back to earth. Dean’s standing slouched, one hip leaning on the table, rifling through his wallet.

"Swear, you’re a lousy date," Dean says, dropping a pile of cash onto the little plastic tray, but he’s got a smile threatening, tucked into the corners of his mouth, and Sam’s—god, he didn’t know it could—this is—different.

A motel. Corn-themed. "Real original, huh?" Dean says, under his breath, but he gets them a room, and when they’re inside with two queens and steady A/C and the shades pulled, leaving them in privacy, he drops his bag on the closer bed and looks at Sam sidelong and says, "I’m gonna shower first, ‘kay."

The bathroom door closes before Sam can say a thing. He blows out the breath stuck in his chest and sticks out the Privacy Please tag, and then he sits on the end of the bed he guesses is his, and looks at the bathroom where the shower’s hissed on, the pipes clanking inside the walls.

Not so—obvious, usually. They’ve only been—it’s been like this, between them, for—what, a few months. Barely. Since Dad, and the brutal weeks after it, and a weird raw conversation in pre-dawn light that led to Sam putting his hand on Dean’s face and Dean snarling and then practically shoving him onto his back, and—

It’s new. Dean seems to seesaw back and forth between pretending like it doesn't exist, in the light of day, and a raw grasping want that kind of scares Sam, even if it's maybe the hottest thing that's ever happened to him. No one he's ever been with has wanted him this much. He's never wanted it this much.

He washes his face in the sink. When he pushes the damp edges of his hair back he looks—okay. A little tired, but decent. His head does hurt, actually, where Tracy tried to brain him. Where she was forced to.

Sam closes his eyes. Jesus, he is tired. And—pissed off, too. When he thinks about it. Freaks, all of them, and Sam's got the visions and the migraines and this horrible feeling in his gut like something's gonna happen, some tidal wave of shit that's going to crest the horizon, and he's not going to be able to do a damn thing about it.

Andy, and Ansem. Speaking their wants into reality. Max Miller, moving things with his mind. Sam, and his dreams, and it wouldn't have to be bad. Except it always ends up bad. Death, somehow waiting, and he strips off his jacket and his boots and crawls onto the nearer bed, and buries his face into the pillow, and tries to listen to the steady familiar sound of the shower going and tries not to think about that dark wave. Drawing nearer, cresting.

A honk wakes him up. He blinks, drags in muffled air. When he turns over Dean's sitting on his bed, frowning at the curtains. "Just 'cause you can't drive," he mutters, and then looks back down at Sam. "Oh, finally."

Sam drags a hand over his face. No drool, that's something. He yawns, stretching out on the bed. "How long was I out?"

"Couple hours," Dean says. He points the remote and Sam sees the TV on, muted, a newscast—and off, just as fast. Politer than Dean usually is.

"Should've woken me up," Sam says, and Dean rolls his eyes and says, "You need all the beauty sleep you can get," and Sam smiles, can't help it, and he goes to sit up but Dean puts a hand on his shoulder and he stays put. Surprised a little. Dean, looking at him.

"Sammy," Dean says. He's tipped in toward Sam, in a t-shirt and boxers, and the look he's giving Sam is steady, considering. "You didn't have any crazy dreams, right? No big visions?"

Sam blinks. "No."

"No," Dean repeats. "So we don't have to light out of here and haul ass to, like, Weehawken or something?"

"What?" Sam says. "No. Weehawken?"

Dean shrugs. "Tried to think of somewhere that'd suck." He sucks his lower lip into his mouth, looking at Sam, and then throws a leg over Sam's and settles himself in Sam's lap, just like that. Sam grabs his hips, startled instinct, while Dean shifts and his ass sits warm and heavy against Sam's dick. "So. Want to screw?"

Jesus. "How romantic," Sam says, but his mouth's dry. Light of day, just straight-out like that. Yeah, this is new. Dean pops his eyebrows, grins in that goofy way where he's trying to be funny or sexy or something, but for Sam it just reminds him how this is—them, the two of them together like this despite all sense or reason, and his stomach flips like encountering some new nasty thing but it's just—Dean. He gets a steady look, that grin going smaller, and then Dean leans down over him and braces his hand on Sam's pec to balance and kisses him like it's his right to do it, plush and immediately wet, his mouth like something—like a dream—

Sam pushes up on an elbow, kisses back. Dean tastes like toothpaste. His stomach, warm and soft under the warm soft t-shirt, and when Sam squeezes his ass with his good hand Dean makes a little noise into his mouth, tips his hips down. Hard already, pressing into Sam's stomach, like he was waiting maybe, like maybe he'd been fooling with himself hoping Sam would wake up. Sam bites his lip because it turns out Dean likes that, even if he bitches after, and he dips and kisses Dean's throat because it turns out Dean likes that, all his vampire comments notwithstanding, and Dean cups the back of Sam's head and digs his fingers into Sam's hair and Sam flips them over, easy reversal of their weight with Dean's thighs splayed out around his hips, and Dean says fuck under his breath when Sam tugs his shirt-collar down and bites at him there, but his chest pushes up into it like a chick wanting her tits played with, so that's clearly okay. "Vampire," Dean says, predictable already, and Sam grins and then sucks there, slicking his tongue against the little dents of his teeth. Dean's hips kick up and his thighs squeeze Sam's hips, but he groans too, and says, "Moving me around. You're such a control freak."

Their hips grind together. Even through his jeans it feels incredible, his dick chubbed up to match Dean's. "Like you mind," Sam says, even if he can feel the heat rushing up into his face to say it, flat-out like that. When he picks his head up Dean's eyes are heavy, his ears that bright red they always are when he's turned on, and Sam licks his lips and watches Dean's attention drop to them. Jesus. "You want me to stop?"

"Didn't say that." He tugs at Sam's arm and Sam lifts up, kisses him open, and Dean's leg slides against his, his hands framing Sam's waist, dragging up his back. When Sam pulls back to breathe Dean's lips are puffed-wet, red as his ears, and he's—fuck, he's hot. Sam drags a thumb over his cheek, swipes the wet off his lower lip, and Dean smiles a little. Like he knows what Sam's thinking. "Just saying. You gotta be in charge, huh? Never would've guessed, Sammy." He catches Sam's wrist and fake-whispers, like a shared secret: "That was sarcasm."

Sam snorts. "Yeah, you're hilarious." He braces his cast on the bed, tugs out of Dean's grip and slides his hand down to grip Dean's dick. So close it's easy to watch Dean's eyes go a little wide, his lips parting. "You wanna shut up now?"

Dean's thigh slides against his hip. "Make me." Sam squeezes and Dean sighs out hot against his face. He blinks then, a flash of smile. "Hey, maybe you could. Use that mojo."

Sam doesn't understand for a second. He pushes up higher on his elbow, frowns.

"Get me to do whatever you want, huh?" Dean's cheeks are very red. "No control issues then. What Sammy says goes."

With his dick this hard Sam doesn't know how to react. "Dean," he says, helplessly—some mix of turned on, of pissed off. Like Sam could be like—like he could be Andy. Ansem. Some nasty magic, getting Dean to do anything. "I wouldn't."

Dean licks the point of one canine, eyes on Sam's mouth. It's not picking a fight because he's so obviously hot for it that Sam's body reacts like a strange compulsion, stretching out over his brother, pinning him down. He rocks his hips into Dean's, pins one of Dean's arms down by the wrist, and Dean groans, arches into it. "I know you wouldn't," he says, rough. Sam leans back, his stomach flipping uncertainly, and Dean grabs his neck, arches up, wild and intense and amazing like Dean always is in bed—wholly present, wholly wanting, like no one else ever has been. Everyone is always thinking about something else, always holding a little apart. Not Dean—Dean's here, pressing his dick up against Sam's dick, holding Sam close, leaning up and kissing Sam's jaw where he hasn't shaved in a day, breathing hot against his ear, saying tight and sweet, "Tell me, though—tell me, what you'd make me do—what you'd say, Sammy, tell me—"

—and Sam says, coming up from some deep place, "I'd tell you I was gonna fuck you," and Dean groans like Sam punched him in the solar plexus—a deep short breathless grunt, breaking Sam's grip to grab his hips, his ass, hauling him in like Sam's already inches deep. Jesus, jesus, Dean wants it, even here in this little dump of a motel room at three in the afternoon, the light coming in muffled through the blinds. Vivid even in the muted grey, Dean's eyes visible and his mouth wide and his face an open book, a crazy thing. No secrets, anymore, Sam's sure of it. Sam grabs his face, dips his thumb between Dean's lips. "Jesus, Dean—yeah, I'm gonna fuck you. You're gonna let me. Aren't you."

"Yeah," Dean says, deep and ready, and Sam kneels up, drags Dean's boxers down and watches his dick slap up against his stomach, and he rips his jeans open one-handed, feeling wild. Feeling powerful, and right, especially with how Dean's eyes drop immediately to see him get his dick out and his mouth works like he wishes Sam would just feed it in, like he wants it there, wants it bad, wants it—wants Sam—

"You're gonna open right up for me, aren't you?" Sam says, lightheaded almost, and Dean nods dumbly and spreads, grabs one leg up by the back of his knee so Sam can burrow fingers down into the dark place between them—soft a little, damp a little, and when he looks up into Dean's face Dean's bright fuckin red like he knows exactly what Sam's thinking, like he knew what Sam was gonna ask for. Sam spits on two fingers and feeds them in and finds Dean—open, kinda wet, and Dean says—"There was—the conditioner, in the shower—" and Sam groans wild because it's like magic, like some wished-for thing, like he's Andy and he said to Dean open yourself up for me and Dean willed himself fuckable. He feeds himself inside, inch after inch, and Dean's face flinches and his eyes squeeze tight but he's rearing up, gripping into Sam's shirt, his legs wrapping around Sam's waist, lifting off the bed practically with how he's trying to shove Sam deeper, gasping for more than Sam can give.

Sam gets his cast bolstered under the small of Dean's back, keeps his weight tipped up into the perfect place for Sam to grind into. It's not wet enough and Dean's not loose enough but it feels outrageous, and Dean's panting for it, pulling at Sam's shirt hard enough that a button pops. "Fuck, you can hold me up, huh?" Dean says, shuddery, and Sam presses up on his good arm enough that Dean really does go airborne, the strain intense but worth it for the noise Dean makes when Sam's dick jolts inside him at the new angle. Dean's face presses against Sam's, his nose bumping Sam's ear and his mouth wet at Sam's jaw, and Sam curls his hips in these short shallow pumps that wouldn't usually do it for him except that Dean's so wrapped-up close that he can feel every shaking thing it's doing, the insanity of what he can make his brother feel.

That he can make him feel—Sam groans, sits back, and Dean's clinging to him so tight he gets hauled upright and his ass shoves down on Sam's dick through sheer gravity, enough to make him tip his head back on his shoulders and groan out loud. Sam keeps him in place, holding his hips steady, and shoves up, up, watching Dean's throat go bright red, kissing there when he can't stand not to, anymore. Dean's thighs squeeze his sides and his dick's rubbing all over Sam's shirt and he gets both hands in Sam's hair, keeping him in place, and Sam's biting and fucking up and keeping both their balance and so it's a surprise, sort of, when Dean says nearly breathless against the top of his ear, "Tell me—Sammy, tell me something else, tell me what you want me to do."

Fuck. Sam bites Dean's collarbone hard enough that Dean yelps, squirms and yanks at Sam's hair to get him to pull back, and both feel so good that Sam just sucks harder before he lets go. When he tips his head up Dean's looking at him, red-faced and glassy-eyed, and Sam says without thinking much about it, "I'm gonna come in you, and then I want to eat it out. You're gonna let me." Dean's jaw drops further and Sam actually feels the spasm around the root of his dick, Dean's whole body clenching. Anticipation, he's pretty sure. Sam hasn't—they haven't done that, yet, but now it's all he wants, and he knows Dean will practically cry for it. Sam smiles at him, a weird sort of power filling up his chest, watching how his working dick makes Dean feel. "Later, too. If I want you to blow me. Tonight. Or at a rest stop—shit, parked out where someone might see, Dean. You'll do it, won't you?"

Dean groans, when Sam pushes up into him hard, keeping his hips held tight against Sam's so that he's full. The way Sam's learning he likes to be. "All right, Sammy," Dean says, soft, and Sam—fuck, he can't, he can't wait anymore, and he bears Dean back onto the mattress and lets his head bounce, and when he shoves in at just the right angle Dean shouts at the ceiling and then Sam's free to just—fuck him, to get his dick inside that hot friction where Dean's so ready for him, where he wants it because he—because he wants what Sam wants. Something Sam didn't get, when they first started this up, and it was rough and unspoken and awkward in the night. Everything he tried, something Dean just accepted and built higher, and when they kissed for the first time that wasn't like fighting it was something that—that Sam doesn't—god Dean feels good, and he's moaning against Sam's temple like he's getting some kind of dick-based religion, and Sam grips his hips and slams in without care or finesse and when he comes it's brutal, some unloading from the base of his spine, and he says—something—but his ears are roaring and his hips are flexing deep and Dean's nails are digging so hard into his back under his shirts that it hurts but even that feels good, at that second, the world aligning for a half-moment into being for fucking once in Sam's life—right.

He barely holds himself up, breathing hard into Dean's throat. Dean's still twitching, his dick like iron against Sam's stomach. He rocks against Sam, churning Sam's dick inside him where it's still hard, and they groan together, feeling it, but Dean groans louder when Sam slips out. They've fucked like this—a handful, two handfuls, of times, and they've swapped back and forth but Sam's only felt insane this way when he was on top, when he was in charge. With his body still ringing like a struck gong he licks his lips and then bites Dean's throat very deliberately, just below the amulet cord, hard enough that it'll leave a mark, and only when Dean's hissing does Sam think to ask—but. But he doesn't have to ask.

He releases his jaw, stretches it. Licks, against the hurt mark, and then crawls down the bed, kisses Dean's pec and his nipple and his soft belly and his hip, and brushes his cheek stubble and all against Dean's straining dick and feels Dean's thighs jump around his shoulders. When he looks up Dean's watching him, head off-center on a pillow and his eyes slitted, dark. "What am I going to do now?" Sam says.

Dean licks his lower lip. "You—" He swallows. "What you said."

"Yeah," Sam says, and pushes Dean's thighs up in time to watch his sore-fucked rosy asshole flex and drip, a runnel of white that Sam dips and collects with his tongue—salt, and bitter, but good enough that Sam's bones shiver in his skin. He laps across Dean's asshole and feels it so hot and soft, and Dean moans rich enough up above that Sam's own dick twitches, caught in a semi between his hip and the bed. He licks deeper, his tongue almost dipping inside, and then hooks two fingers in easy on the wet he left behind, and Dean cries out but only spreads wider, fisting himself and letting Sam do—whatever he wants, whatever he needs, because Dean is—because Sam is—

Dean comes quieter than Sam expects, every time. His whole body freezes for a second and then he makes this deep sound in his chest, in his throat, arching toward Sam like for comfort, almost. Almost. Sam licks him through it and then lifts up, holding his fingers tight up where he'd buried them, watching Dean's face while the last of it spurts from his dick, while he slowly, slowly relaxes into the bed.

It's—god. Afternoon. Why is that what Sam thinks, but it's what he thinks. Afternoon and the sound of a semi roaring to life in the parking lot, and Ellen waiting a few hours north of here, and the world resettling into something that has to be dealt with. Sam works his jaw, lets his fingers slip out when Dean spasms around them. He doesn't—he doesn't regret this, ever, not since that first time when they both had to take a minute—but he feels… He swallows, and sits back on his knees. Jesus, he's still dressed. Jeans and button-down and socks, sweat and worse griming him up. He zips up, feeling weird.

Dean rubs a hand up his stomach, smearing his own jizz over his belly and undershirt. His amulet's swung around on his neck, laying against the pillow. "Dude, that was sick," he says, but in a way that's weirdly admiring. Sam licks his lips, the remaining afterglow twisting in his belly. Dean lets his heels slip down the bed, his legs splayed around Sam, and he's red-faced still, but maybe that's just because they're both so—out there. Exposed. Even so, Dean touches his knee against Sam's hip, the corner of his mouth turned up. "Seriously. You're like a freight train when you get going, you know that?"

Sam swallows. Thick aftertaste in his mouth. "Shut up," he says, and finally goes for the buttons on his shirt. Jeez, Dean really did rip one off—Sam'll have to hunt for it on the carpet or wherever. He likes this shirt, it doesn't deserve to get ruined by—this.

"Hey, did you hear me complaining?"

Sam keeps unbuttoning, wrestles the shirt off his sweaty arms. He's gonna need a shower before they go anywhere.

"Sammy," Dean says, and Sam swings a leg over, goes to get off the bed. Shower, and clean clothes, and maybe they won't be late enough that Ellen asks questions—"Hey!"

Sam's forearm is grabbed before he can get away and Dean tugs hard enough that Sam'll have to wrench something to get away. He pauses, still on one knee on the bed, and when he looks Dean's up on one elbow, still naked from the waist down, frowning at him. "What," Sam says.

"What." Dean squints at him, and he's not blushed up anymore, not turned on. Looking at Sam like he wishes he could peel back Sam's skull and see what he's thinking, but Dean's never been good at that, really. Sam wishes he were, sometimes. All his life he'd wished for some kind of privacy, but then when he got it everything just ended up—worse. When it mattered Dean couldn't see him, see what counted, and now, with what's happening—

"Come back here," Dean says, firm, but his tug on Sam's arm is gentle as anything. Sam sits, half-on the bed with his hip tucked up against Dean's hip, and Dean's still looking at him with that intense so-thoughtful look, and it's—it's killing Sam, kind of, deep in his gut, that Dean doesn't know, that he can't know, that Sam's by himself here even when like five minutes ago they were about as close as Sam's ever been, will ever be, to anyone.

"You're wigging out," Dean says, after a few beats of silence, and Sam snorts and says, "Yeah, that’s me," and maybe it's bitter and too much and too weird but Sam doesn't know any other way to be, now, but Dean sighs and says, "Fuck, Sammy," kinda quiet. He reaches up and gets Sam by the neck and tugs him down, down, until there's no choice really but to kiss, and Dean opens up soft and wide and easy like they've been doing this for years, like he knows exactly what Sam needs. Sam gets a hand on his jaw, holds his face. His lips a little chapped, toothmarks on the inside like he was biting himself before to stay quiet, and when they stop Sam leans his forehead against Dean's, lets their noses brush together, breathes his air. Dean runs his fingers through the hair at the back of Sam's head, a slow carding pull. Sam sighs.

"I don't know if I need to give you like a signed customer satisfaction survey," Dean says, in his normal voice, "but that was good. For me."

Sam's eyelids squeeze tight without him even meaning to. Purplish sparky bursts against the darkness.

"Hey," Dean says, and pushes him back an inch. Sam doesn't open his eyes, just lets Dean move him, and feels Dean's hand on his throat, his thumb braced right over Sam's pulse. "Seriously. If it's too weird, or—or if you don't—damn, Sam, I know you want it. Talking like that. And I'm obviously good with it too, I just practically came my brains out. So don't let it be weird, okay. It's just you and me."

"Like that's not weird?" Sam says, weirdly croaky and feeling how his voice vibrates against Dean's grip. When he looks again Dean's face is striped with the light from the blinds, the sun dipping just enough. A band of shadow across his eyes, a band of greyed-out yellow across his nose, showing the freckles he pretends he doesn't mind. Sam pushes further up and Dean lets him go, frowning at him while Sam picks the amulet off the pillow, resettles it into its place over Dean's sternum. He fiddles with it, avoiding Dean's eyes. Sharp little horns pricking his thumb. How haven't they blunted, he wonders, after all this time. He presses his thumb harder into one, letting it hurt, and watches his hand rather than look at Dean's face. "I don't know, man. I'm just—that stuff last night, it's not—it's bad. I don't want that. The power. The dreams are bad enough, you know?"

Dean gets a grip in Sam's t-shirt—loose, but enough that if he held fast Sam probably couldn't get away. "If you hadn't had 'em we wouldn't have gotten there," Dean says. "Tracy probably would've died."

"Ansem might've lived," Sam says back, and Dean makes a tch sound, not very under his breath. Sam sucks the inside of his cheek, that sore spot. Still sore. Dean's better at this, Sam thinks. This calculation. Who deserves to live and who deserves to die. Who's good and who's not. Tracy for Ansem, Sam thinks, but Andy still murdered someone. Bullet to the brain, and now who's a monster.

"Sorry," Dean says, and for that Sam does look up, frowning. There's a glimpse of white teeth as Dean worries at one corner of his lip. "I guess it's not really a—I wasn't trying to make like it's not a big deal."

Sam shrugs. "Scares you, doesn't it?" Dean blinks, expression tightening. "You said. Freaks me out, too. I don't think anybody here's saying it's not a big deal." Sam lets the amulet go, rubs the pad of his thumb to feel the deep dents he's made. They look like holes in him. "It just—first it was Max and now Andy. It goes wrong every time."

Dean sits up, fast. "We don't know that," he says, more intense than he really ought to be when he's half-naked. "Sammy. We're not gonna let it go that way, okay? You and me. We can handle it."

He gets his hand on the turn of Sam's jaw, makes Sam look at him, and Sam does because it's not like looking at Dean's a hardship. He tries a smile and Dean nods, like Sam's agreeing to something. He really can't read Sam's mind. Sam wonders if that's something he'll be able to do, soon, coming down the pipe of this shitty year, but before he can tug away at that miserable thought Dean's leaned in and is kissing him, again. Soft, coaxing when Sam's stiff, and he puts one hand solid on Sam's chest, grounding and warm. Sam sighs, leans into it. It's nice, and he might as well let Dean have something.

"Better," Dean says, quiet, when they pull apart, and Sam nods even if it wasn't a question. He's let his hand fall onto Dean's bare thigh and he squeezes the muscle there, trying to say—he doesn't even know what. Dean kisses him again, quick, and then lifts his eyebrows. "You still going to make me blow you at a rest stop? That's nasty, man."

Sam huffs and Dean grins, even if it's small. "Don't need magic powers to know you're easy," Sam says, and even if it feels like an effort he manages to make it sound light.

"Damn right I am," Dean says, and Sam smiles and says, "Okay, okay, I'm taking a shower," and lets Dean pat his chest before he closes himself into the little room, fluorescents and yellow tile, bright and just a little dingy.

Andy said Tracy was scared of him. Sam believes it. He saw her face, this morning in the ambulance. That dim horror. Dean's not there. Scared of the situation, about what might happen, but he's not afraid of Sam, yet. Sam tips his head back against the door, imagining it. Taking Dean's hand and pitching his voice a certain way—that weird tone that he'd heard in Andy's voice but which hadn't affected him—and saying kiss me, and Dean going soft and easy and smiling, and doing it, no questions asked. Doing other things, just because Sam asked.

His stomach turns hard enough that for a second he really thinks he's going to puke. Hits different than it did when his dick was doing the thinking. The things he could do, with that power—he's lucky that it's just the dreams he has to worry about. Although—back with Max—there was that wardrobe, that he moved—

"Hey, get a move on," Dean says, muffled through the door. Sam opens his eyes, shocked back to the moment. "We get cleaned up and out of here, I only got to pay for a half day, and we've got to get up to the Roadhouse by tonight."

"You're the one who wanted a break," Sam says, and Dean says, quieter, yeah, yeah. Sam's breathing hard, remembering. That wardrobe. It came out of Sam like a punch, pure instinct, but—Sam's learned how to do a lot harder things than to throw a punch.

He strips out of his clothes, turns on the shower. Hot. Runs his hand under the water, waiting for it heat up, and thinks that, in the right circumstances, anyone can be pushed.

"Sam, seriously!" Dean calls out.

Sam folds his hand into a fist, hard enough that he feels the tendons strain. They're not going to let anything happen. He might have to ask Dean to swear that's true. For now, his skin's crawling, but that's okay. He gets in the shower. They have road to cover, before the day's done.

#wincest #sam/dean #my writing #ref to mind control but everything's consensual

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1985music · 4 years ago

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Assembly of the Gods

Twon, If you're reading this it's too late my G.

I'm never sure where to begin with these stories. Y'all remember when Nas spit a whole story backwards? Nevermind forget it.

The year is 2013, I believe, and it's a rainy night in the fall. My boy Robbie Maxx drags my wife and I to a Meek Mill show in Teaneck NJ, just to peep the scene. The parking lot is a mad house of course. We had to wait in line and shit, which wasn't the vibe. We finally get in the spot, it's already packed and the opening acts are doing their thing. This one performer caught my attention. This short, energetic kid with his squad on stage with him screaming, "UPPERCLASS!". The young boy with the name "TWON" gleaming off his hat was spitting some fire with no fear or nervousness to a sold-out crowd in his hometown. Pretty dope performance overall. Soon after his exit from the stage Meek would come out and make is presence known. I knew that wasn't the last time I'd see or hear from that Twon guy.

Some months later Maxx would headline a show at this spot called Mexicali Live (Debonair Lounge) and guess who he throws on the bill? You guessed it, TWONDON. It had been a while since I last saw the kid and this go-around the music was a bit different. He performed and did his thing much like the first time I saw him. He was chopping it up with his fans/supporters after his performance, so I had to wait to talk to him. I hate that sh*t. I was able to properly introduce myself and extend the invitation to collab. I'll admit our first encounter wasn't the greatest. It's always weird when a ni**a that doesn't know you tries to strike a conversation. He'll tell you. Although he knew of me as being Maxx's producer/engineer up until this point we hadn't had any extensive interaction. We exchanged info and that was that. He wasn't trying to hear anything I had to say that night though.

Now it's 2014, I was floating around to different events in NYC. One in particular was a private album release party for Mobb Deep (RIP Prodigy). I want to say it was their last album, "The Infamous Mobb Deep." I'm coolin' in the spot for a little bit and guess who I bump in to? Of course, Twondon. The first thing he says to me is, "Damn B, you get around". At this point this ni**a finally realizes he can't escape the God. This time we got a chance to really chop it up. He mentioned to me he was looking for a new spot to record and a good engineer. I had to get my boy right. The first track we recorded together was, "Life's a Bitch" featuring AZ. I remember Twon asking me, "Yo B, can you somehow scratch in the Acapella of AZ from Nas' "Life's a Bitch"?” and explained how he wanted it to cut in and out of the hook. I remember thinking to myself, "This ni**a has no clue this my f**king BAG." To make a long story short my execution of what he requested was flawless. In past interviews Twon has mentioned that "Life's a Bitch" was when he found "His sound."

Soon after Twon would make 1985 Sound Studio in Belleville, NJ his new home for recording. By this time I had already mixed a few singles for him including "4th and Inches" and "Run It" featuring Bizzy Crook and slew of others. There's this on-going thing where he'll say some sh*t like "Yo B, make me sound icy" and somehow I know what he means everytime. He also connected me with a few artists he knew including a young lyricist by the name of Dolla $ign Dunn who I continue to help with developing his sound as well. In the early stages of creating with Twon he had already had a lot of his beats picked out so he didn't really need me for production. I was just helping to cultivate that Upperclass sound through my mixing and mastering techniques. It wasn't until mid 2015 that discussions of his debut EP "Stay Golden" began to take shape.

After a session one day Twon asked me about a beat I was creating on my ipad that I previewed on Instagram I think. No stories back then this was all timeline action. He said "That beat sound like me."

I didn't think anything of it, I looped up the beat, added a few more elements to it and gave it up. No charge. That was the birth of the first single "Too Committed". He sat on the beat for a short time and came back to the studio and laid the 1st verse and the hook. Later on he told me that Smoke DZA would be blessing the record and executive producing the album "Stay Golden."

"TWON!!? Antwon!! Wake your black ass up it's 1 in the afternoon..." -Gloria's Intro (Mama Twondon)

Twondon's “Stay Golden” album was released December 8, 2015, a day after my 30th Birthday. I was in Vegas my ni**a. The project was well received. The song "Million Dollar Babies" off that project racked up 600,000+ streams on Spotify alone. The whole roll-out for that project was dope. I go back and listen to that project sometimes and I love the way it sounds. It sounds just like the title, "Golden." So much work went into it and I enjoyed every minute of it. There are 10 mixes on "Too Committed" alone. Occasionally I will hear my wife bumping "All the Above." She's also partially responsible for placing "Too Committed" in the Indie film "King of Newark" (2016)

After the success of that project we continued to create and build. The last few years I've watched Twondon evolve from rapper/lyricist to clothing designer to all-around entrepreneur. Yeah man, my boy was making clothes. I had to support him because the Upperclass Intl. collections were dope, simple as that. Every collection is limited pieces, so if you miss it for the week it's available it's over. His system is untouchable to say the least. He'll give you some dope music and then turn around and give you some fresh clothes. Young Nipsey traits for sure. The one piece I missed out on was this navy blue Upperclass hoodie he dropped. Still salty about that. He know.

The inception of "God Complex"

Summer of 2016 I locked in with my brother Josh. He would come to the crib on random days and cook up. Lay hooks, make beats etc. One of the hooks he laid was on "F**k What They Tryna Say," we both knew it was special. He laid it down and we never revisted it. Typical Josh sh*t. He's just a legendary soul. He's different.

2017 I relocated to Atlanta. Twondon and I would maintain our working relationship and brother-hood from a far. We would send sessions back and forth, long ass facetime calls and sh*t. I would send beats sometimes and I stumbled across that joint "F**k What They Tryna Say" again, so I sent it to him. He didn't have anything in his catalog like it at the time. He wrote to it in about 45 minutes maybe less and sent me voice notes of the verses he had. Just undeniable flame. Since he didn't have a studio to record in at the time, I arranged to shoot back to Jersey to handle some business and record his verses. We linked up at a Sheraton I was staying at in Weehawken NJ overlooking New York City. I set up my laptop and microphone, we had some "God-Talk" and we got to work. Needless to say this record "Fuck What They Tryna Say" is about to be 4 years old by the time you guys hear it. Timeless vibes. Around the time we recorded that song I was still dealing with the indelible aftermath of my own personal police misconduct situation. It's documented that US Police had already shot and killed 72+ unarmed black males from 2015-2017. The numbers continue to rise. The message in that song is powerful, heavy and very clear, Fuck what they tryna say. We're not naive to what's happening in our communities, but as you can see we still thrive anyway. So we dont give a f**k what yall talking about. Plain and simple.

"The skeletons in the closet is rising, the truth is louder than ever they kill us and televise it..." "FWTTS" - Twondon (feat Josh.GLPA)

These last few years have made me realize how important the artist-engineer and artist-producer relationship really is. We've gotten so good at separating our business and personal lives that when this guy hits my line and simply says, "Mr. Ross," my response is normaly "Mr. Gibbs?”, I know something is coming. Would you believe we've spent the last 7 years developing his sound to what you hear today? I've mixed and mastered over 30 songs, 3 albums and 3 EPs for Twondon thus far. So many email threads, text messages, phone calls and overtime to bring to life that Upperclass sound you know him for. “God Complex” is just a cornerstone of what we've been able to build together on this journey of ours. Songs like “199$” and “Trips Up North,” are the creative by-product of our extensive conversations about life, man-hood, spirituality and how we are limitless in our thinking and resilient in what we pursue. We are Gods in our own right. Like Ye said, "I just told you who I thought I was, a God". Just respect it. Hope you enjoy this masterpiece. More music on the way. It's Upperclass ̡

Written by Brandon "Plan B '85" Ross 1985 Music

Stream/Buy God Complex NOW

http://smarturl.it/GODCOMPLEXPACK

#twondon #spotify #tidal #applemusic #plan b '85 #god complex #new music #youtube #1985music

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jo-the-schmo · 8 years ago

Text

Show Me (Breaking Alternate Ending #1)

Chapter where split occured

A/N: Welp…you guys wanted this…

Warnings: Just…everything

Wordcount: 2466

Tags: @midnightokieriete (I know you’re studying ;-;) @renae-writes @deltablue202 @literally-melonkitty @meunicorn @favouritefighting-frenchman @demi-godamit @gum-and-chips @sweaterkitty-fluff @pinkyiger7 @littlemissshortcakes @msageofenlightenment @unprofessional-inhumanbeing @fandom-panda-221 @hummusandchips @spoopy-piineapple @ashwolfcub @myself-and-the-madman @sweet-fate@superwholockbooknerd526 @frozengal2013 @itsmikayblr @sarmar29 @arya-durin-77 @phantastic-fandoms @hoshihime98 @shinigamired @martapetrovic @robotic-space @iamnotthrowingawaymyshit2 (lol) @asprinkleofmermaids @pinkyiger7 (I’m tagging you twice my friend!) @satellitesuga @rose-coloured-nihilism @okie-dokie-artichokeme @alyssumax @pandartist @marquiis-de-la-baguette @abi-sans05 (If I forgot anyone then I am so sorry!!! .-.)

Show me, a path left unseen. Show me, where I have failed. Show me, what could have been. Was balance truly met?

“I love you so, so, so much. I love you more than anything else. You are my fallen star and I would do anything for you, you know that right?” He asked, very seriously.

“Of course I do, Philip. I couldn’t forget that even if I wanted to. You’re the only sunshine that matters to me…” He leaned forward and gently pressed his lips into yours. Yours seemed to fit perfectly with his and the feeling of being stopped in time never changed. He pulled away slightly and you slowly opened your eyes.

“Good… it’s just nice to hear that every once in a while.” He grinned. You are such a cheeseball!

“Well, I’m will to tell you that any time!” You chuckled.

“You’re adorable… I’ll see you in morning, my starlight. I hope you have sweet dreams.” He gave your hand one last squeeze before letting go and making his way down the hall and out of your sights. You went inside your room and closed the door behind you. You ran over to your bed, slammed your head into the pillow and legit screamed. You rolled over and tried to stop smiling, you couldn’t. Philip Hamilton has a very important question to ask me. And he has to ask it in the place where we gave each other our nicknames and shared our first kiss… I WONDER WHAT IT COULD BE! I feel like the only person who could be happier than me about this is Angie! You suddenly felt exhausted. I am emotionally drained… You tried to get up so that you could change your clothes but your body wouldn’t move. What the fuck…? You were paralyzed, your eyes began to shut. Your sight was filled with blackness, there was nothing. You couldn’t breathe, you couldn’t move, you couldn’t see. Truly, this was emptiness. There was no beat, no melody, no voice.

Your eyes fluttered open after that odd slumber, you looked out your window. It was still dark outside. You could tell the sun was about to rise though, the dark blue of the night was beginning to fade to a lovely shade of purple. Any other day, this would be a moment of bliss for you. But for some reason, you felt off, something wasn’t right. You slowly lifted yourself up from the bed, your back was killing you. And that’s when you noticed something, a piece of paper laying on the ground about a foot away from your door. You went over to it, picked it up and saw ‘My Star’ written on the front. What’s this? You opened it up and began to read its contents.

My dearest Starlight,

I write this letter to you with a heavy heart. I could not keep my word to you. As the eldest son, it is my responsibility to shoulder the legacy of my father. Mr. Eacker has sullied the name of not only my family but of you as well. My honor prevents me from backing down against this man’s words, I shall meet him at dawn. If you are reading this, it means that I have not survived the duel. I pray that these letters never meet your beautiful eyes, so that I may see them when the morning comes. I shall not let a tear stray from my eye, I must be strong, if not more myself than for you. Please, take care of my family. They will need you if I am gone. Do not, for a single moment believe that this could be in anyway your fault. My death will be on my hands, no one else’s. It is odd, in the time I need to use my talent in writing the most, I cannot find my words. How does one say goodbye to the person they barely got a chance to be with? My love, it is impossible. What am I to say to you? This letter will have to be short, or else it will be one hundred pages long. I will wait for you, as the world changes and grows so will you. I’ll wait as long as it takes to see your face again. I will bleed and fight for you. If you do read this, do not become stuck on me. Move on, be happy, live your life to the absolute fullest because my love for you will never die, even if I myself do. I will watch over you from the heavens, you shall never be alone. My love, my star, my everything, take your time. I shall see you, one day, on the other side.

With love, P. Ham, your sunshine

Your hands shook as the page cascaded back down to the floor, leaving your fingertips empty. The sun was rising. No…Philip…oh God no…Please don’t do this to me…no! You busted out of the room, tears rolling down your cheeks, you tried to run through the hallway, but you were frantic and ended up running into something. Or more accurately, someone. The person grabbed you by the shoulders to steady you but you were on edge and shook off their hands.

“Titania! What’s the matter?” Alex looked down at you. What’s the matter…? What’s the fucking matter?! You were fuming. Philip hadn’t taken the guns when you interrupted, which meant that Alex had to have given them to him…After you told him he shouldn’t.

“You…You, you, you, you! How could you?” You spat.

“What are you talking about?” Alex asked.

“Fuck you! You know what the hell I’m talking about! You bastard! How could you let him go?” You screamed. He sighed.

“Titania, he is his own man he ha-“

“No! Don’t feed me any of your bullshit Hamilton! If I wasn’t enough to convince not to go then why didn’t you? You knew how I felt, you knew I didn’t want him to go! You let him go, because it was on your name! Not his! Now he’s going to…” You trailed off for a moment. “Fuck…Get out of my way!” You pushed Alex aside and bolted for the door. You ran down the steps and towards the stables, getting ono the closest horse and hurriedly made it move forward. You rode into town and saw a few people waking up to prepare for the day, how could everything be so calm? You remembered the path down to the Hudson from the time you and Eliza decided to go for a stroll there. You looked around and saw the sky changing from its purple shade to more of a pink, it was slowly lightening and various other colors peeked from the horizon. The sun’s almost up! Please! I just need more time! I’m running out time! You made it to the edge of the river and hopped off the horse. There was a man on a small boat that was pulled onto the dock, he seemed to be relaxing.

“Excuse me sir! Did you just let a group of men across?” You asked him, completely out of breath. He looked at you incredulously.

“Yes, ma’am. They went across a little while ago.”

“Can you take me across? Please!” You begged.

“I can, but aren’t you worried about your horse?” He asked, you ran over to boat and jumped in, it shook under the pressure.

“There’s no time for that! Please!” You reinforced. As he began to paddle the boat across you asked him. “Where did they go?”

“Near Weehawken, ma’am. Crazy fools are looking for a fight, plain as day.” This was the first time you had a chance to process what was happening. I’m coming Philip, don’t do anything crazy! You were starting to feel the weight of guilt. He just had to do this! Why couldn’t I stop him? Was it not enough? Will he never be satisfied? The boat hit the other side and your hurried off, giving the man a pressed thank you. The ground was muddy from the river but the further out you went, the drier it became. The lines in the sky was already orange. Tears burnt your eyes as you felt your legs get weaker. I can’t stop! Keep going, damn it! You heard something faint in the distance.

“Seven!” And then a gunshot. You screamed, you could feel the vibrations pull at your throat, wanting you to stop. You ran more, forgetting all about how hard it was to breathe. As you got closer, you heard a few men talking. One man was crouched down on the ground and that’s when you noticed a body lying on the ground. You didn’t think, but you knew. The sun was risen and yet it had fallen at the same time. You couldn’t even feel yourself running the rest of the way, you were there in what seemed like an instant. You saw his curly hair; it was still against the ground but it gave the illusion of movement. The freckles on his face, already beginning to look paler than you remembered. His eyes, they were still alive, still had that loving glow. But it seemed so faint and fragile. The most horrifying part was the blood, it was already all over you and all you had done was sit next to him. He smiled at you, you love his smile so much.

“S-Star…Isn’t it…a beautiful morning…?” He sputtered. You weren’t sure what this feeling was. Was it anger? Was it despair? You were seething with whatever this feeling was. You picked up the pistol still in Philip’s hand and pointed it toward the only other person with a gun.

“Eacker! You cheating son of a bitch!” Your finger hovered against the trigger and just as you were about to pull it, something grabbed your wrist. “Philly…Don’t stop me! He…He!”

“Shh, I know, I know…” He cooed

“We have to get him somewhere, now!” The doctor insisted. That snapped you back to reality, nothing else mattered but Philip.

“Sunshine! Do you think you can stand? We have to g-“

“No…I don’t want to go…” He coughed.

“What the hell are you talking about? We have to go! You’ll die, please don’t do this to me!” You cried.

“I’m not going to die…I’ll be just fine, my love. I don’t want to waste a second of this time with you…stay with me…” Your jaw quivered at the pleading in his voice.

“Philly…please! Don’t leave me, not like this! I don’t know…What the hell do you expect me to do?” You moved closer to him and leaned over. Your fingertips grazed along his forehead and shifting some of the loose hairs out of his face. “What am I supposed to do without you?” You asked. He gave out a pained laugh. How bad does that hurt?

“Without me? My starlight…I should be asking you that question… What am I supposed to do while I wait for you to come back to me? Actually, I know what I’ll do…I’ll watch you grow. Watch you move on from me… because you know I’d want you to find love again. I’ll watch you have children, they’ll be just as beautiful as you and just as smart. You’ll change the world; you’ll be there for my family. Help my family move on with you. You’ll have a nice…quiet life…” He smiled but you shook you head.

“I don’t like the quiet…unless you’re there to fill it…” You hiccupped, cupping your hand around his cheek.

“It’ll be okay… Please, promise me you’ll take your time. I know, we’ve broken a few promises in the past but…this one you’ll have to keep. There’s no rush…If it took a million years for me to see you, it would still be worth it.” You wanted to say no, that you needed him to live. But you had already put him through hell in the past with your honesty. Maybe, for just once, it would be okay to indulge him.

“Okay…I promise…” You nodded, your tears falling onto his cheeks. He smiled at you softly.

“Good…May I ask…one more thing of you?”

“Of course…Whatever you need, my love…” You felt like you were choking, it was so difficult.

“Can you…sing for me? Just one last time… You know how much I love your voice…”

“O-Of c-course… What would you like to hear?”

“Something that you love…something that makes you think of me… I’ll even keep the pace for you…” You bit your bottom lip, trying to hold in how much you wanted to weep. You moved your hand under his head, scooted closes to him and rested his head on your lap. “I was just about to suggest this…this way I can see your eyes better…” You looked down at him.

Titania: “Un…deux…trois…

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine

You make me happy when skies are grey

You never know, dear, how much I love you

Please don’t take my sunshine away…”

Philip: “Un. Deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf…”

Titania: “The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping

I dreamt I held you in my arms

When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken

So I hung my head, and I cried

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine

You make me happy when skies are grey

You never know, dear, how much I love you

Please don’t take my sunshine away…”

Philip: “Good…”

Titania: I’ll always love you and make you happy

If you will only say the same

But if you leave me to love another,

You’ll regret it all one day

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine

You make me happy when skies are grey

You never know, dear, how much I love you

Please don’t take my sunshine away…”

Philip: “I love you…”

The light faded from his eyes.

“Please…don’t take…my sunshine…away….” You buried your face into his chest, no heartbeat. Now, you could finally weep. You clutched onto his clothes with one hand and his hair with the other. “No…Please! Philip!” You were shaking so much that it hurt, and yet you didn’t care. The pain in your heart was greater and it only grew more the higher the sun rose. Your cries were muffled against his chest. You were tired, so, so tired. It was hard to breathe.

“I love you…too…” You whispered as your eyes shut against your own volition. Everything was black.

There was nothing there

…

You heard something, in the darkness.

…

It was getting louder.

…

Where is it?

…

Beep…Beep…Beep…Beep…

You feel tired.

Beep..Beep..Beep..Beep

Your body is sore.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Your mind is weak.

Beep, beep, beep, beep.

You can breathe.

#i am not pleased

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