My Comfort Still

by Jane Davitt


Dean is my weakness. I shall not want--

But he does. Always. Can't say no. Dean can come to him, lips bubble-gum pink from some girl's lipstick and Sam will kiss him through the tackiness, lick down hard to get to bare, wet skin. Dean's back can be scarlet-scored by manicured nails, and Sam will put his hands on it, draw them down slowly as Dean shivers and arches, wash away the perfume that clings to Dean's skin away with the clean sweat that breaks from them as they fight and fuck, fierce and grinning.

Without Dean, he's not stronger. It doesn't work that way. Be nice if it did.

Sometimes, he takes a night off from hunting and picks up a girl in a bar, because he knows Dean would like that. They're vapid, vacuous, vivacious and he gets lipstick smeared on his dick and claw marks on his ass and showers afterward for a long time.

It doesn't change anything that Dean's dead, not around to demand, cajole, insist, tease Sam into fucking him, with that lost, hungry look deep down in his eyes.

Dean's still his weakness.

He still wants.

Always will, world without end.

Amen.


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