SamDean Have Eaten My Brain and I am a Happy Zombie
So I started writing this thing today, and I totally thought it was gonna be part of my recent verse, you know, some story to wrap around the pr0n, and then it turned into this really angsty conversation followed by first time Sam/Dean sex and *facepalms* I think I'm broken. I can't seem to write anything that doesn't turn into porn with these two. Anyway, I don't think I'm gonna finish it anytime soon. Too many other projects to work on. There's the whole Sam/Lindsey, Sam/Dean AU thing I'm working on with cormallen and today, mickeym infected me with TOTAL genderswap love and now we're outlining a plot for Sam/Virgin!Girl!Dean and Jesus CHRIST there ought to be a law, people! Limitations to what I will write and read! I USED to have them! I swear, this fandom has eaten all my morals and standards and is grinning at me like the cat who ate ALL the canaries and telling me "You know you love it" and I'm like "Yes! I do! I DO love it!" and...

I may need help.

For your entertainment. A longish snippet of today's unbeta'd pr0n efforts (warning: unfinished!):

“Because—“ Sam starts, voice broken in the instant before it catches, and he swallows, throat moving visibly as he fights for control. “Because I can’t save you, Dean. And every time I try…”

Dean stares, feels his own throat well shut with emotion. “And every time I try I get just a little bit darker,” Dean hears, and he knows goddamned well it’s true. The changes in Sammy over the months that he’s tried so desperately to ignore, how he’s learned there’s nothing Sam won’t do to try and save Dean, and how that need to save Dean has driven Sam to do things he never would have considered, before. And that’s just the things Dean knows about. He’d lay money on the odds there’s plenty more he doesn’t know about.

It’s funny, in that way that really isn’t, to discover how very incredibly important he is to Sam, after all. It’s something he could have gone happily to his grave never knowing. And there are a lot of things he wants to say. A lot of things he really wants to say.

“It’s what they want, Sam,” he says instead. “You know it is. They couldn’t have set a trap better if they’d tried. Jesus.” He sighs, rubs a hand across his cheek and glances away, down the bar. As it turns out, they didn’t need to. Dean had done a fine job of making sure they had leverage over Sam on his own, thank you very much.

“Dean…” a muscle works in Sam’s jaw, clenching and unclenching in the shadowy light of the bar, and Dean recognizes that habit, knows the instant he sees it that it means he’s not going to like whatever’s coming out of Sam’s mouth next.

“Sometimes… I think… I wonder… this whole ‘Boy King’ thing…”

Dean feels the words run through him, coursing chills spilling the length of his spine, filling his belly with dread and his chest with ice.

“What if I was? What if I walked in and picked up the crown and sat on the throne. If yellow eyes is dead and I’m next in line… don’t they all have to do what I say?” His eyes are dark, desperate as they glint with dim hopeful light, fixing on Dean with such need that Dean feels his heart flex and swell, climbing into his throat.

“Couldn’t I save you then?” Sam asks, face so open and raw that Dean feels crushed, soul ripped out and laid bare, and he has to look away.

“No,” he says, so softly he’s not even sure he’s said it out loud until he sees Sam flinch, pull back across the table.

“I can’t just let you die, Dean.” Sam’s angry, petulant, raw silk of his voice turned hard-edged.

“You do that, Sam,” Dean says, eyes swinging up to meet his brother’s hard and sure. “And you’re as good as trading your life for mine anyway.”

“I wouldn’t have to stay,” Sam says, rushing to get ahead of Dean, but Dean’s not having it.

“What, Sam? You think you can just touch it? Touch that darkness and get out before it sinks into your bones?” He stares his brother down, watches as Sam deflates slowly. “You think it would ever let you? And even if you could, the second you tried to leave it behind they’d come after you and try to kill you anyway. You think I could live like that, either way?”

“Dean.” Sam’s voice is a plea, his face a slow dissolve into emotion so pure and unadorned that Dean wants to hug him, clutch him close and tell him everything’s going to be okay, except that’s a lie and they both fucking know it and anything else he says right now is gonna be like gutting Sam and then he’ll let his own guts spill out all over the floor and he just really can’t fucking deal with that right now.

Somehow he manages to keep his eyes steady, fixed on his brother’s, and he hopes they show the flint and steel resolve in his heart to see this through and not an inkling of how terrified he is for him and Sam both. “Sam. You do that and you might as well kill me yourself.”

Anger, bitterness, sorrow and loss, something bright and burning like vengeance holding it all together. So beautiful, so broken, and there isn’t much time left for them, not enough time left to discover the things Dean really wants to know--all he wants to know, here, at the end of his life—the taste of his brother’s mouth, the texture of his skin and the way he’d sigh and moan under Dean’s hands if Dean—

Sam’s eyes well, glistening wet in the dim light, held just on the edge of spilling over, and Dean looks away again, out the window.

“It’s starting to snow,” he says, feeling stupid, but there’s nothing else to say. From the corner of his eye, he can see Sam hasn’t moved.

“I’m gonna hit the bathroom, and then we should hit the road,” Dean says, sliding from the booth.

He can feel Sam’s eyes on him the whole time as he walks away.

*

Smear of dirty clouds against the dull gray sky like a shroud pulled over the dead. Snowflakes are falling, and Sam catches them in his hand, perfect and precious in the instant before they melt.

Mom, Dad, Jess, Madison, and now Dean—oh God, Dean. Frigid air tearing at his lungs, stealing his breath like he could breathe, anyway, with this grief clamped around his heart. He feels something break inside his chest, feels something splinter and twist all wrong. Feels it grate like jagged glass against his insides—and then he gasps for air, reaches out desperately.

“Dean.” He puts his hand on his brother’s shoulder, turns him around, and his thoughts shatter as he meets his brother’s eyes, leave behind only the impression of feeling, fractured pieces sealing over with something like resolve, everything falling away until there’s nothing else, until this is all there is.

And suddenly, Sam thinks maybe this is all there’s ever been and he just never realized it till now.

“Sam.” Dean’s voice is meant to be a warning, and Sam knows it, but the tremor in his brother’s voice has just enough sway, just enough of a ledge for Sam to catch hold of, and he does, settling his palms on Dean’s shoulders and leaning in.

Life in slow motion, and this can’t be real, can’t be him leaning down to chase the snowflake caught on Dean’s lower lip. His tongue flickers out to lick away the already warming droplet of liquid, and he feels Dean gasp, feels the heat of his brother’s mouth and the perfect swell of his brother’s lower lip, lets his tongue trace the contours of it and slip between. He licks away the cold at the edges of his brother’s mouth, lets his tongue delve deeper inside to where Dean’s hot and melting, molten slide of his brother’s tongue against his.

It burns everywhere they touch, Sam’s fingertips catching fire against Dean’s shoulders, curling into the folds of his leather jacket and pulling him up. Higher and harder, until Dean’s on his tiptoes and Sam’s gripping Dean’s face in his hands, angling the slant of Dean’s cheekbones until Sam can lick straight down into Dean’s mouth, twine his tongue around the soft slickness of Dean’s and suck the sweetness from it.

And then Dean puts a hand on the back of Sam’s neck, thumb brushing behind Sam’s ear, fingers trembling as they grip the curve of Sam’s skull, flexing. Sam slides an arm down his brothers back, palming the curve of Dean’s spine until he reaches the end, pushes against the small of his brother’s back and gathers Dean tight against him. He can feel the hard, sleek muscles of his brother’s body pressed into the lines of his own, feel Dean’s heart pounding, fluttering like a caged bird behind his ribs, quick heavy breaths that make Sam shiver with their simple, undeniable need. Hears Dean moan his name in that same hot, needy voice and swallows the sound with a long, slow kiss.

He backs Dean against the car, presses him against cold, gleaming black metal and kisses him thoroughly while he searches blindly with one hand for the door handle. Yanks it open and pulls Dean down, pushes him in, falls atop him over the front seat of the car. Sits up only long enough to grab the handle behind him and pull the door shut behind them.

When he looks back down, Dean’s staring up at him, dark green eyes glazed with lust, flecks of gold burning bright inside them. He’s all angles and kiss-reddened mouth sprawled across the front seat.

“God, Dean, so fucking gorgeous,” Sam gasps, shoves his brother’s shirt up. And it’s still snowing outside and they’re stretched across the front seat of the Impala in a public parking lot where anyone could walk by and see them and Sam doesn’t give a damn. In fact, the world could end right the fuck now and he’d die happy, because this how the world should end—the same way it began; with Dean and Dean and Dean.

He licks a shimmering trail between his brother’s nipples, pauses to suck and pull each one between his teeth, feels Dean arch under him like a cat, hips straining, mouth cursing. Traces a slow, meandering line down his brother’s stomach, outlines the hard muscles there, tonguing into the dip of Dean’s navel.

“Sammy, such a fucking tease,” Dean hisses, then whimpers, needy sound stealing the sting from his words, and Sam chuckles against his brother’s skin, licks at the thin sheen of salty sweat that tastes like pure Dean.

“You can’t leave me, Dean,” Sam breathes, wrapping his arms tight around his brother, feels Dean struggle, try to speak. “You can’t,” he whispers, biting against the hard line of his brother’s hip, feels him jerk and gasp. “Won’t let you,” he says and bites harder, sucks against the skin until he feels the blood rise, hot and dark, and Dean trembles under him, hands tangled in Sam’s hair, words forgotten on his brother’s lips.

“Gonna mark you,” he says, biting down on the soft skin in the hollow of Dean’s hip, feels his brother hiss and buck, words spilling from him now in a litany of Sam Sam Sam like it’s the best word Dean’s ever heard. “Gonna mark you and make sure they know you’re mine.”

And in conclusion? SamDean sex!