#prodigil

"What the hell happened? Hit on the head by what?" A baseball bat? A freight train? André the Giant from the top rope? The pain hammering around in her skull is unlike any of the times she's woken up from a prophetic dream, so that's ruled out for now -- unless they're getting worse now.

Haven scrapes herself up off the back seat with a groan, the daylight assaulting her eyes causing her to squint while they adjust, trying to make sense of the current situation the best she can. The last thing she remembers is the doodle she drew on a diner napkin the evening prior. Everything after that, including dropping like a sack of potatoes from a spade to the dome, has been effectively powerwashed out of her memory.

"Not an option. I left for a reason." Not unless they were sadistic enough to drive her all the way to Kentucky with an unevaluated head injury. "How about, I dunno, fucking urgent care so they can check me for a concussion?"

It feels taboo, lying with Sam like this, simply because it feels so good. Scott's hand isn't gentle as it presses Sam's waist into his sweat-soaked sheets, but with his torso flush against soft cotton, it makes the swell of Sam's ass look even more obscene. Rivulets of cream dribble down the inside of Sam's thigh from the last round-- fast, hard, and just this side of needy after Scott's one-week trip to New York-- and still Scott's cock is hard as he grips it at the base and touches the tip to his pink pussy.

They hadn't lasted long enough for Scott to really enjoy it. Sam ought to know this of him by now-- that he's never really satisfied with just the earth-shattering high of orgasm, and that sex is never just a means to an end. Scott's head dips and his teeth skirt the back of Sam's neck with the temptation of sinking in, and in direct contrast to that brevity, he relishes the spread of Sam's walls when his dick sinks into him once more.

I missed you, he'd breathed, wet and vulnerable into Sam's open mouth.

The low moan he lets out into Sam's neck echoes this wordlessly.

Sam's all soft now, pounded until pliability. Scott sinks inch after inch into wet heat, forcing more of his own cum to spill out the edges of his hole, and sighs with relief when the full length of him is sheathed and Sam can squeeze around him again. One hand curls into Sam's hair, just enough to press his cheek against the mattress, but the other moves around his waist to touch the lower half of his belly, applying just enough pressure for the swell of his cock to feel even bigger inside him.

"Good?" he asks, keeping his abdomen tight as he rises to admire him.

With Sam positioned for him like this, Scott takes his time admiring the muscles on his back. They haven't had sex with the lights off in a long, long time-- a favour, Scott's sure, because Sam knows he likes to look at him. The fondness he has for him is nearly sickening; Scott's cock twitches where it's buried deep, and he can't even say it's solely because his orgasm made him sensitive.

"I told you you wouldn't be empty for long."

there is something in the air.

it is a something that no human, limited by their sensory quintet, could ever come close to perceiving. but castiel, like all angels, speaks the hidden languages of the universe. hears the hidden sounds, lurking deep within the tiniest forces of physics. the spinning, turning, bouncing movements of particles, bound by forces too tiny for human comprehension, speak to him. there is the subtle pulsing of quarks; the sizzling of electrons as they make their way through what humans perceive as solid matter . . .

there is something amiss. castiel feels it.

' something isn't right, sam. '

but how to translate this feeling into human language ? how is he supposed to make their limited minds understand the divine ?

' we should turn back. '

a suggestion, spoken as a command.

He courts death should he even think himself any better fit to tackle ritualistic cultists without someone else who knows better. Yet, the emergency gave little time for formal acquaintance making with the Winchester.

One hour before their unlikely alliance, smoke and fire sightings were captured within close range to a neighborhood and a retail plaza. Obviously not something that would mull over for the community, especially not if anything close to violent went down.

"Especially since I have a completely invisible Ghostbuster utility system on my person. Scratch that, rewrite: I have ABSOLUTELY nothing, no training to combat cultists. I can barely ignore podcasts, even when they talk trash about me."

" dude. it is rank in here. " a SNIFF rumples the bridge of his nose & bends his lips into a deep frown. brine & ammonia mingle together like the clearance end of the seafood aisle at the supermarket. in spite of its photographs tamped against the wall, little signals of a temporary home ( a bit too much like every mildewy motel room with its mystery-stain mattresses for dean to address head-on ), it's the kind of habitat that occupies a liminal space. dripping rust smears on bare, stoic concrete grey.

dean meanders past the fish carcass, shoving his flanneled sleeve over his mouth to stifle the stink.

a rack of cassettes in his own clumsy handwriting sits beneath a picture of himself with ... a pretty hot gal. his fingertips tip through the plastic sheaths before he thrusts up a hand. " fake me has crap taste, " he declares, a tape between thumb & forefinger. celine dion's name scrawls across the front. " sappy chick tunes, " he grumbles, tossing it aside to join the pile.

Cường sniffles, brows furrowing, forehead digging into his shoulder. Ow. This book is so... “Don’t take on anymore guests. They’re not fond of sharing. They’ll fill you until you burst. You’re using a different detergent.”