(no subject)

[elinorwise]

НЕРВНО ДЫШУ В ПАКЕТИК.
Guinea Pig by hellhoundsprey (совершенно уверена, что уже цитировала какой-то фик этого автора) - я, собственно, открыла ради кинка: Cock & Ball Torture до обидного редко выдают в моих фандомах.
Где-то после третьего абзаца (ничто не предвещало) интуиция сообщила мне, что мучить тут будут Кастиэля.
Сссука, на минутку ощутила себя раскладочником, которому выдали не ту раскладку! 
НО КАК ЖЕ ОНО ГОРЯЧО.
И как оно охуенно написано - темп, ритм, все эти маленькие детали...
И да, этот персонаж сука MAKES ME BURN FROM INSIDE, потому что ему не надо быть ООС, чтобы органично смотреться в любой позиции. Дом, саб, топ, боттом.
Сэм.

The lights switch on in the motel parking lot outside the single window. The fog seems to swallow most of it, followed them here. Castiel has no saliva and he has no breath (Jimmy is long dead), but watching Sam wiping his mouth with the umpteenth paper napkin makes his skin crawl. Sam frowns at his laptop, unaware or just painfully used to being watched like a zoo animal, and he turns the device towards Castiel to show him something, and Castiel nods politely and scoots forward, and pretends not to be somewhere entirely else with his thoughts. That motel room, back then. It had rained and both their clothes got wet, Sam’s shirt warm but damp under Castiel’s palms…
It would be different, now. This Sam… It is hard to put into words. He is not distant nor is he prude, he is just… He has other priorities. And himself, his pleasures, those things are so low on the list that he tends to forget about them altogether. (They talked about it, Sam and Castiel, and there had been…developments. But since Lucifer returned, since Mary… Castiel should feel guilty for this selfishness. Should feel disgusted by himself for making his plans and wrapping them in the warm blanket of kindness.)
Once Sam finishes his theory, Castiel once more tells him: “You should rest, Sam.”
Sam waves him off; the noodles are nearly finished, the fortune cookie in the bag will be left untouched. Castiel exhales through his nose and moves his arm to layer—Jimmy’s hand, his hand—over Sam’s, by the laptop.
Sam looks at him for real for that. The first time today, first time in…
“I could help. It could be quick.”
A subtle tug on that hand, shocked. Embarrassed, maybe, and Sam’s mouth splits and his eyes lower to their stacked hands and he says, “Cas,” soft and dry, like he’d talk to Jack, sometimes, when Jack would be a pain with his endless questions. “Cas, it’s… It’s not a good time right now.”
“There are no good times, these days.”
Sam scoffs.
“You could use the opportunity to ‘blow off some steam’. It would energize you.”
“Cas…”
“Am I wrong?”
Castiel looks the human in the eye, and Sam—sways, openly, sighs all flat and his brows draw together because he—well, this is not what these things should be about, Castiel is aware of that. This Sam is not about this. Has a conscience, is—whole. That Sam is only part of him, but he is part of him.

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