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Summary
it's a love story, of course. and love is red.
written for the spn_masquerade prompt: Sam and Dean are serial killers rather than hunters. They feed off each other's insanity and kills.
Series
- Part 3 of masquerade fills
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Bookmark Notes:
it's just so lovely
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Bookmark Notes:
tasty words
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Bookmark Notes:
Monster after monster, a tiny family goes. Stop off at the laundromat, run some traffic lights, new school, new school, dad’s arm in a cast, Dean’s dick in Sam’s ass. Feet off the dash. Hustle some more cash. Go, Dean, fill her up with gas.
Truck lot bathrooms are good for hangovers, handjobs, holding your head over the rim. For holding your boy’s other hand when he cuts your names in the stall door’s aged paint.
John doesn’t look in the rearview mirror much. The devil doesn’t actually have horns. The devil’s a freshman with a take home trig quiz due, a tug in his balls every time someone calls him Sammy like a child. Like a young wife.
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Dean is still in the tilted doorway and he hasn’t answered Sam yet. That’s okay.
It’s enough just to look at the goldgrass of his eyes, the clutch of a time-soft Crüe shirt to nineteen year old shoulders. How the wind around him seems permanently tinged by gasoline and grief.
Dean Winchester’s got the songworthy air of the guy who’ll come and go, not stick around any one part long enough to learn middle names, sugar honey baby angel. Fading tire tracks. The one that got away. Sam’s one and only.
Cravings can be quelled, Sam knows, but never truly fully extinguished. Not permanently.