obstinatrix (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
obstinatrix) wrote2012-02-13 12:43 am
obstinatrix) wrote2012-02-13 12:43 am
also, here are my thoughts on 7.14 in ficlet form
The plot was stupid, whatever. I watched the entire episode like this: :DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD
THE END, GUYS. THE END. I must refer you to this adorable fanart by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
orukaz, who obviously seized upon the same thing as being of primary importance to this episode as I did when I wrote the following Very Srs Bsns Coda.
"Watch out," Dean says, and hauls Sam's shirt up and over his head in a turbulence of glitter. It's a move like a punch, dynamic and curt, and Sam laughs as he blinks artificial sparks out of his eyelashes, fingers fumbling for Dean.
"You moron," he says, but Dean's grinning at him, broad and close and dorkily triumphant in that way only Dean can manage, and there's no strength in Sam's words. Dean's stripped to the waist, grains of Sam's glitter dotting the line of his collarbone, adhering to the sweat there. Sam's fingers hook in the belt loops of his jeans, hauling him in. When his mouth finds the juncture of Dean's shoulder and throat, he tastes like Old Spice and gunmetal and ground-in leather under the base flavor of laundry detergent and sweat. For the moment, for tonight, there's nothing of that rotten-pear overtone of stress leaking out of Dean's pores, and Sam just wants, God, wants as much as he can get. Dean hums his laughter, rakes fingers through Sam's hair and shakes loose a further cloud of glitter, and Sam moans, bites at the tendon straining in Dean's neck, licks at the hollow place behind.
"Jesus, Sammy," Dean protests, voice rich-honey-warm and his mouth open on a laugh. Sam remembers that same voice on the phone earlier, teasing, Sammy. He knows he's warped, something twisted up and irreparable in him, but the sound of it only spurs him on, makes his breath come quicker as he drags his palm lower until it finds Dean's dick through his jeans. Dean groans, head falling back, and there's glitter licking the underside of his jaw, catching the dim motel-room lights in the shadows behind his clavicle. Sam takes the opportunity to bite at the swell of Dean's lower lip for a second, and then he's ducking lower again, sucking until the blood wells up under Dean's skin in the shape of Sam's bite.
"Sam," Dean hisses, hips hitching into Sam's hand. He sounds debauched and delighted about it. Sam wants to force Dean's mouth wide under his own, lick his way to the back of it, suck on his tongue. Sam wants to touch Dean, fuck Dean, break Dean open on his cock until all Dean can see is stars. Dean says, "Warehouse workouts get you hot or something?" and Sam surges in like restraint unleashed, hands on Dean's shoulders pinning them flat to the mattress.
"No," he gets out, and his mouth is everywhere, sucking the glitter from Dean's throat and Dean's shoulders, the space between his pecs, the place between temple and ear. "No, just -- you, Dean, God." He skims his fingers all down Dean's flanks and swallows the sound Dean makes in response, something like an oh bitten back in startlement.
On the night table, the rainbow slinkee sits unremarked. Dean curls his fingers in the mess of Sam's hair, tugging hard at his nape, and Sam lets himself be led, slots a thigh between Dean's and grinds down, riding him, taking him the easiest way they know how. Once upon a time, this was the way things were, and Sam hadn't realised how much he'd missed it until Dean was offering it again, all devil-may-care and his hands in Sam's pants. Sam's not about to let the night go by without taking full advantage.
Dean's kissing him deep, now, their tongues sliding over each other, jaws going filthy-dirty-wide as they move. There's a grainy, plasticky feeling against Sam's teeth says he swallowed glitter somewhere along the line, but he can't stop now. Not for glitter. Not for anything.
He groans into Dean's mouth, rough and honest and obvious, and Dean bucks underneath him and laughs. Dean laughs. It's perfect.
Sam knows he's a special kind of fucked up, but when the universe chooses to vomit glitter and rainbows all over him, it's easy to forget why that's a bad thing.
***
Okay, I'm ready for my heart to be broken now, Show, but we'll always have Glittery Sam.
THE END, GUYS. THE END. I must refer you to this adorable fanart by
orukaz, who obviously seized upon the same thing as being of primary importance to this episode as I did when I wrote the following Very Srs Bsns Coda. "Watch out," Dean says, and hauls Sam's shirt up and over his head in a turbulence of glitter. It's a move like a punch, dynamic and curt, and Sam laughs as he blinks artificial sparks out of his eyelashes, fingers fumbling for Dean.
"You moron," he says, but Dean's grinning at him, broad and close and dorkily triumphant in that way only Dean can manage, and there's no strength in Sam's words. Dean's stripped to the waist, grains of Sam's glitter dotting the line of his collarbone, adhering to the sweat there. Sam's fingers hook in the belt loops of his jeans, hauling him in. When his mouth finds the juncture of Dean's shoulder and throat, he tastes like Old Spice and gunmetal and ground-in leather under the base flavor of laundry detergent and sweat. For the moment, for tonight, there's nothing of that rotten-pear overtone of stress leaking out of Dean's pores, and Sam just wants, God, wants as much as he can get. Dean hums his laughter, rakes fingers through Sam's hair and shakes loose a further cloud of glitter, and Sam moans, bites at the tendon straining in Dean's neck, licks at the hollow place behind.
"Jesus, Sammy," Dean protests, voice rich-honey-warm and his mouth open on a laugh. Sam remembers that same voice on the phone earlier, teasing, Sammy. He knows he's warped, something twisted up and irreparable in him, but the sound of it only spurs him on, makes his breath come quicker as he drags his palm lower until it finds Dean's dick through his jeans. Dean groans, head falling back, and there's glitter licking the underside of his jaw, catching the dim motel-room lights in the shadows behind his clavicle. Sam takes the opportunity to bite at the swell of Dean's lower lip for a second, and then he's ducking lower again, sucking until the blood wells up under Dean's skin in the shape of Sam's bite.
"Sam," Dean hisses, hips hitching into Sam's hand. He sounds debauched and delighted about it. Sam wants to force Dean's mouth wide under his own, lick his way to the back of it, suck on his tongue. Sam wants to touch Dean, fuck Dean, break Dean open on his cock until all Dean can see is stars. Dean says, "Warehouse workouts get you hot or something?" and Sam surges in like restraint unleashed, hands on Dean's shoulders pinning them flat to the mattress.
"No," he gets out, and his mouth is everywhere, sucking the glitter from Dean's throat and Dean's shoulders, the space between his pecs, the place between temple and ear. "No, just -- you, Dean, God." He skims his fingers all down Dean's flanks and swallows the sound Dean makes in response, something like an oh bitten back in startlement.
On the night table, the rainbow slinkee sits unremarked. Dean curls his fingers in the mess of Sam's hair, tugging hard at his nape, and Sam lets himself be led, slots a thigh between Dean's and grinds down, riding him, taking him the easiest way they know how. Once upon a time, this was the way things were, and Sam hadn't realised how much he'd missed it until Dean was offering it again, all devil-may-care and his hands in Sam's pants. Sam's not about to let the night go by without taking full advantage.
Dean's kissing him deep, now, their tongues sliding over each other, jaws going filthy-dirty-wide as they move. There's a grainy, plasticky feeling against Sam's teeth says he swallowed glitter somewhere along the line, but he can't stop now. Not for glitter. Not for anything.
He groans into Dean's mouth, rough and honest and obvious, and Dean bucks underneath him and laughs. Dean laughs. It's perfect.
Sam knows he's a special kind of fucked up, but when the universe chooses to vomit glitter and rainbows all over him, it's easy to forget why that's a bad thing.
***
Okay, I'm ready for my heart to be broken now, Show, but we'll always have Glittery Sam.