נשים 365

It hurts. It always hurts. In their relationship there is no such thing as soft touches or sweet kisses. It’s rough and painful. There’s always crescent shaped cuts in his wrist and fingertip bruises on his hips. Blood coats his lips from teeth.

It’s always the same. Every time. Dean fingers him open, hard and rough, spit coating his hand instead of lube. He pins Sam to the mattress as he fucks him from behind, animalistic sounds spilling past his lips because it hurts him as much as it hurts Sam but they wouldn’t have it any other way. Dean thinks, he hopes, he prays that if it hurts when they do this, that they’ll stop. That they’ll realize that a sin as dark as this isn’t supposed to feel good and they’ll finally stop.

Sam cried through it. His face pressed down into the pillow, his tears staining the fabric but Dean never sees it, never hears it because Sam knows that if he does then it will stop. And Sam doesn’t want that because he loves this too much.

It’s the only way he can have Dean and he will take it.

But still, at night when Dean is snoring loudly beside him, his face twisted in a picture of torment, Sam will dream of a place, of a time, of a universe where he can have this where it doesn’t hurt. He dreams of adoring smiles and tender touches. He dreams of a home that is permanent and doesn’t smell like mold. He dreams of a place where Dean smells like fire and wood and not like cheap beer and stale cigarette smoke. He dreams of a place where one day we will walk down the aisle to the man that he loves, a perfect bride for the perfect man.

Except Sam knows that he’s never going to be able to wear white for Dean. He’s worn white, covered the insides of him from Dean too many times.

In the morning, when the sunlight filters in through the window and washes away the sin that comes out in the night, Sam will place his own fingers over the imprints that mark his skin and he’ll hiss when he presses in on them and Dean won’t touch him again until it’s dark and the shadows come out to play.

And while Sam dreams of a place where everything is soft and he can make sweet sounds for Dean instead of choked sobs and sharp intakes of breath, he will still say please.

He will still beg for more because it’s the only thing he can do.


Day Five Hundred Forty Six.

i held your words in my hands
the ones i molded, crafted, inspired
and wept
for the overwhelming joy that swept 
through my slender frame was more
than i could have ever imagined


Halloween Lights (302/365) by Matt Villier

Sam stood in the doorway of their son’s room watching him play with his father. Sam watched with his arms crossed against his chest smiling to himself. He was nothing like his father, a man whom lost his way the moment that he lost his wife and turned into a drill sergeant instead of an actual parent. 

Dean loved his son and Sam knew that he would give him the world if he asked for it.

Sensing his brother’s presence in the door, Dean looked up at Sam and smiled. He stood up and ruffled their son’s hair before wrapping his arms around Sam’s waist pulling him next to Dean.

One thing that could be said about adopting this child, Dean had grown soft, more affectionate and Sam loved every second of it.

“I still don’t know how we managed to adopt a kid with hair like yours.” Dean said, trying to sound annoyed but there was a smile in his voice.

“Hmm… I think it’s kinda cute.” Sam replied.

“Yeah, of course you do.” Dean sighed, moving to press a kiss to Sam’s lips.

Sam kissed him back and a moment of silence passed where they just looked at each other before Dean turned back around to look at their son. He was a beautiful boy, a boy that they had taken in per request of the dying wish of a young mother whom they couldn’t save on a hunt. He was a beautiful boy who just happened to have a mop of hair that looked so much like Sam’s.

“You’re a great father, you know that right?” Sam asked, kissing Dean behind his ear, voice soft. There were nights, back when this was all still so new that Dean would wake in the middle of the night, a cold sweat breaking out across his skin, nightmares that he would end up worse than his father plaguing his mind.

Dean didn’t say anything.

“He looks up to you, Dean. He’s not scared of you. Never have been and you know, if you can still hunt and raise him for eight years than I think that you’re gonna be okay. You’re not our father. Okay? You are so much better than him.”

“Well, I’m glad that you believe that.”

A small frown pulled at the corner of Sam’s lips. He wanted nothing more in the world for Dean to see that he was the best dad in the world. He was good. He loved his son more than he loved himself and he would never become their father. And it hurt Sam to watch Dean slowly eat away at himself because of this fear that he had that was never going to be true.

Sam watched as his son ran over to where where the two of them were standing and grabbed a hold of Dean hand to pull him away only to play with him again.

He leaned against the doorframe again, watching as the years of hunting was stripped clean as Dean laughed with the little boy that was their salvation.



Day 178
Presto from Cantabile et Presto by George’s Enescu


О прогулке по льду

Мелкие капли утренней измороси оседают на брусчатке и покрывают её тонким слоем льда. Я ступаю осторожно, контролируя каждый шаг, несколько раз просто еду, лавируя руками, чтобы окончательно не упасть, но все-таки остаюсь на ногах. Утро держит город в спокойствии и тишине, монотонный звук автомобилей выступает фоном, редкие крики чаек доносятся с набережной и как знаки препинания делят мелодию нового дня на части. Музыка здесь только мешает, поэтому я сворачиваю наушники и убираю в рюкзак - пусть путаются и завязываются в узлы. Я уже дошёл до реки, ещё достаточно рано, к тому же четверг, поэтому здесь почти нет людей, а те кто есть - немного сумасшедшие, как и я. Мы встречаемся взглядом и молча проходим мимо друг друга, каждый думая о своём, каждый пришедший сюда по своим причинам.

Я измеряю реку шагами вдоль, иду по кромке льда, по трещинам, делящим лед на зоны в зависимости от опасности их неожиданного разлома - я иду по “зеленой” с минимальным риском, но все-таки недалёко от уже проснувшейся воды. Половину пути проходит через город, я поднимаюсь в сплетение улиц, иду мимо дороги, не встречая других прохожих, не обгоняя и не видя никого, даже кажется, что машины едут сами по себе, без людей. Заканчивается улица, снова открывается путь к реке, я спускаюсь на снег и лёд, снова считаю шаги, сбиваюсь, начинаю заново. Как же тихо, как же хочется глубже дышать и смотреть, смотреть вдаль, вокруг и сквозь, ловя каждое редкое движение - течение воды у льда и подо льдом, разламывание льдинок под ногами, крики чаек, спускающихся к воде и взмывающих вверх от её поверхности. Здесь снова встречаются редкие незнакомцы, опять взгляд скользит по и немного сквозь, мы проходим мимо, не оборачиваясь, не запоминая, и даже, наверное, не замечая друг друга - каждый здесь сам по себе, каждый здесь наедине с собой. И только река следует рядом.

К концу пути я начинаю чувствовать холод внутри себя, он проникает в лёгкие и разносится по всему телу, пока не проникнет везде и температура вдоха не сравняется с температурой выдоха - пока я не начну выдыхать холод из себя. Пора заканчивать и вернуть тепло в организм. Я захожу за кофе, здороваюсь на входе, благодарю, забирая чек, и осторожно несу большую кружку к свободному столику у окна. От самого аромата становится теплее, а с первым глотком я окончательно согреваюсь и готов пройти ещё столько же. Кофе медленно исчезает из чашки, а мои волосы и одежда медленно пропитываются его ароматом. Вместо холода, я начинаю выдыхать кофе. Ещё немного и я снова собираюсь с мыслями и готов выходить. Одеваюсь, повязываю шарф, забрасываю рюкзак за спину и выхожу из кофейни в настоящую весну с ароматом свежесваренного кофе и мелодией трескающегося льда.

“I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, I hate camping.” He grumbled settling into his sleeping bag that was spread out across the hard forest floor.

“What? You’re a little too high maintenance for this, Dean?” Sam asked, high joking, half being serious. He knew about his brother’s distain towards all thing ooey and gooey and honestly he wasn’t sure how the hell he lasted this long being a hunter when most of the time you were covered in blood and guts of unknown creatures more times than you were actually clean.

“Oh ha ha, Sam. Keep it up. You’re a damn comedian.” Dean said through a sarcastic laugh, his arms crossed against his chest.

“Hey,” Sam said crawling closer to him, forcing him to uncross his arms and wrap them around him. “It’s just for tonight and then tomorrow I’ll find the best room that Motel 8 has to offer.” Sam pressed a kiss to his temple.

“Oh, you really know how to seduce a man, don’t cha, Sammy.”


39/365- Tarot Card- The Strength

This Card is pretty simple and straightforward.  It means courage, subtle power, integration of animal self.  The card represent have stamina and persistence, an ability to overcome or control your impulses.  I felt like this represent Dex’s motivation.  I did some tweak and instead of holding a lion mouth open, I am using a large lobster.  I want to incorporate the crown and belt of flowers into the flannel he is wearing.  

If you want to learn more about the project, Please refer to the MasterPost.