Fistful of Love, a supernatural fanfic

I do not own Supernatural, or 'fistful of love' by Anthony and the Johnsons, i make no money from this, i do it only through boredom. Hope you enjoy. x-v-x

Fistful of Love:

We live together in a photograph of time
I look into your eyes
And the seas open up to me
I tell you I love you
And I always will
And I know you can't tell me
I know you can't tell me

He was chosen. There is a bloodline and a history, a brother and a dead family. I know this. But never have I understood why I was chosen. Since this war began I have changed so completely that I barely recognise myself, I have, in a sense, fallen. I am no longer who I used to be and there is no way for me to go back to how I once was, believe me I have tried. Since I pulled him up from the darkest reaches of hell I have not been able to, nor have I wanted to let him go.

I was once devoted to my father, my king. Now I devote myself only to him. I watch him a lot, when he doesn't know I'm there; when he isn't aware of anyone else in the room but his sleeping brother. I watch him as he stands over his sibling, taking in his every detail, protecting him with a love above that which is to be expected from family. It saddens me, yet like the proverbial car crash, I cannot look away, in a masochistic way I only observe this to prove to myself that his complete adoration is reserved for Sam, not for me. Never for me.

I was once watching television (another sign of my definite slide into oblivion.) There was an interview with someone about some famous artist. He said that "when you had his attention, he made you feel like the only person in the world. When someone more important or more beautiful came along, he dropped you straight away." This is how he makes me feel. There are moments between us that reveal something hidden, suddenly there is no Sam, there is no battle, and there is no world to save. There is only us. Fleeting as these moments are, they are what I stay on earth for. There are moments between us that are physical. They have developed over time, increasing in intensity so much so that now, we both depend upon them for our sanity. We want different things from our interludes, for me it is a show of love and servitude. For him it is something deeper. Something he has never talked about, but that is plainly there to see.

Many things happened to him in hell, things that defy belief. When he reached his limit, when he could no longer take the pain, he became the perpetrator. I do not blame him for this, many people are strong, but no one is invincible. The torture awoke something dormant in him that he is ashamed of. I am his outlet. When he is finished, we return to our normal roles. No one on earth knows.

I am restless in my adoration. I exist on a lower level of importance to him than other people. Of course, there is a fondness between him and I, but never will he love me as I do him. Never will I be his equal. Part of me is angry at this, but most of me is thankful that I have the opportunity to grasp what little I can of him.

That is why I am stood outside a motel door at 2am. The wind is blustery and speckled with rain, it blows cold and I shiver lightly. This place is rented especially; there is no one inside this room but him. I knock tentatively. Knowing the routine. He answers with a glass of whiskey in his hand, he says nothing, knocks it back and then ushers me in. I hear him lock the door behind me, a sloop of alcohol into a glass and he appears before me, handing me the drink.

The room is lit by table lamps, the bed is covered with sheets that define ugly, and a single candle is burning on the cabinet beside it. I swiftly take the drink back and hand him the glass. He points to the end of the bed and says with a surprising lack of authority:

"Sit"

I do as I am told and perch at the very edge, nervously looking to the floor, picking out the flock patterns of the carpet. He walks to a chair opposite me and collects a small leather duffle bag. He places it beside me and then kneels between my slightly parted legs. I finally have the courage to look him square in the eyes, I could launch into a gushing account of how they are the most beautiful thing I've seen, but instead I will be honest in a way most people aren't. In his eyes I see pain, the kind of pain you see in a shell-shocked soldier, the kind that is unimaginable. What I get from him at times like this is truth. Truth so agonising and terrible that it threatens to swallow me whole, but this is also a cure.

So I'm left to pick up
The hints, the little symbols of your devotion
So I'm left to pick up
The hints, the little symbols of your devotion

When we do what we are about to do something cathartic happens. We peel layers of ourselves off and paint our raw flesh with tears. Together we heal what can never be mended, together we find solace.

His fingers trace slow circles over my thighs; they feel almost unreal as they glide with an infuriating gentleness. His hand travels slowly over my stomach reaching up past my chest to my jaw, he hooks his hand around my neck and pulls me in close to him. I can smell him, a faint odour of chocolate and whiskey, a shampoo that I can't identify. They all hang around the periphery, refusing to let me catch them for too long. His lips press gently against mine in a way that is too chaste for the events that will soon follow. It is at this point that I usually pray. I ask for forgiveness, but I do not repent. Repentance is futile if you have no intention of stopping the behaviour that got you into trouble in the first place.

The kiss deepens, its intensity making me sway, my fisted hands reach up to hold him, primal desire kicks in and I want him on top of me, but his own hands clamp around my wrists and pin them to the bed. I struggle, knowing it is futile, knowing that if I wanted to I could break free, but I don't want to. He pulls back, leaving me gasping with my head bowed. He utters a sound that is almost primal and I begin to quake. Pulling me to my feet he begins to undress me. My coat lands in a disorganised pile on the floor. The tie follows; and as he takes his time unbuttoning my shirt, he stares deep into me, never realising that I learn more from him than he does from me. It slips off of my arms with a polyester rustle, and suddenly I feel overexposed, I want to cover myself but I know he won't allow it.

Still analysing me, he pulls at my belt, unhooking it and working on the zip of my trousers. No matter how many times I experience this I cannot help but feel like it's all happening anew. I always feel the same, that there is something about my borrowed body that displeases him, his face never indicates this, but it never disproves it either, he is emotionless.

His breath begins to quicken, he is struggling for control, the war he wages within himself is twice that of the world that exists around him. I am the only one allowed to bear witness to it, and even then I exist on the outside, I can only pick up on hints, twitches in his face, strained movements, the fight for breath. My trousers pool around my ankles and he pulls me to step out of them. I am guided to the bed, sat in my place, and I know to only look at the floor.

He unzips the bag and I hear the sound of chains against leather, I know what is coming. His feet appear in my view, and dare not look up. I feel hands of a searing heat upon my clammy shoulders; I am being pushed backwards at an angle. The chains continue with their sounds of protest, whilst I make none at all. My arms are raised above my head and my left wrist is wrapped tightly in cold metal, there is a sound of steel against wood and as the links pass through the rungs of the headboard I feel the last of my mobility wash away with the same tight pinching feeling as before.

I watch him from the corner of my eye; he reaches into the bag again and brings out a scrap of an on shirt, one he used to wear constantly. He blindfolds me, bringing about a darkness I have only experienced when crossing into Lucifer's kingdom. I am a physical memory for him. There are many people who have suffered at his hand; the only thing that distinguishes me from him is that I am willing. I hear noise around me, footsteps, liquid, the bag. They all move around me with swilling movements, impossible to place, uncertain in nature. I hear items being placed on the table beside me. His pressure falls upon the bed and I feel his weight shift onto me as he straddles my hips. His hands are moving upon me again, a chaotic mass of fingertips drifting torturously across my flesh, I bite my lip, it is too early for me to moan, I need to hold it in. with a swift jerk of his hand this movements become sharp, and what little nails he has leave burning trails of fire across my ribs. I yank my hands down in an automatic response, trying to stop him, but the chains strain against the bed-post and prevent me. I can only imagine his face, I have seen it once before when he was doing the very same thing, and so the image never changes: wide, calm eyes, no motion in his mouth, his back bent slightly in concentration. His weight shifts and I feel hot breath upon me. I writhe, straining once again for freedom. His tongue slides gently from my belly-button, up through the dip in my chest, he stops at my collarbones, kissing them lightly, baring his teeth and nipping at them lightly. His tongue snakes to the left side of my neck and I feel all the hair on my body stand on end, I let out a low growl and I feel him smile at my reaction. His hands travel my body, mapping every inch and committing it to memory.

I feel the fabric of his shirt against me, the sounds a thousand times louder than usual, the lack of sight intensifying each sensation. A hand leaves me, he sits up. There is a brief moment of anxiety, my flesh is exposed to the open and I can't comprehend the lack of contact. I hear a noise of fumbling from the bedside table. I brace myself. His teeth clamp down upon my nipple, a searing pain rages through me and I fight to hold in a scream, I'm thrashing, my legs kicking out, he pins them down with his own and refuses to relent. I'm biting my lip so hard I taste blood, and I struggle to breathe. Suddenly, the pain is gone and there is only the cool air prickling upon the dampness that his mouth has left behind. I feel every muscle in my body relax and for a moment I am cold. With a light creak, a pressure is placed upon the hardening flesh, it burns as it intensifies and I know this pain as the pinch of wood. A peg. My eyes roll back into my head and with the pain, a pleasure I forget existed shrouds my mind.

The pinch is permanent, it is staying, I know what is coming, he's just getting started. A second peg is placed with less care and attention upon my other nipple, and then he follows my ribcage downwards, pinching what little skin he can get with each turn. He finishes, and I feel him lean back to admire his work. I can almost sense his pride at the position he has me in, hands above my head, eyes covered, a twisted mass of chaotic pain, and emblems of sin gripping my skin. He moves, the top pegs are twisted left and then right, I feel it with every atom that makes up my mortal being. I give up on being silent and I instead embrace the sensations, my breath escapes in rapid spurts, my eyes begin to water and I moan without shame. With no warning, he stops. He removes the pegs from the bottom up; as the flesh comes free I feel a rush of blood rise to the surface. Each one is lovingly removed until he reaches my nipples. These are released with an agonising slowness, once again the sensation of rushing blood invades me, but this time it is coupled with a ripple of emotion that I didn't realise I was holding back.

He licks his way over the bruising flesh, taking in the taste of my skin, driving me mad with longing. He leans forward and his groin grinds against mine, jolts of need rampage through me and I move my hips in a fruitless bid to gain more contact. He pins my forearms to the bed and pushes against me again, I am overcome with an invasive heat, a light film of sweat clings to my body, forming out of nowhere. His teeth find my neck again and with his relentless biting and sucking I am swept away into a place only few have been.

He unclenches his jaw and breathes into my ear:

"Turn over"

He removes himself from me and I do as I am told. I hear the chink of ice in a glass and the sloshing of whiskey, he takes a drink. With my turning, the chains become tighter, my arms raising high above my head. He straddles me again, his weight giving me a sense of security. I have no idea of what is coming next, my stomach flips in anticipation. He leans down, and from his mouth droplets of water fall upon my skin, it is cold. I can feel him breathing around an ice-cube he holds between his teeth, and as he presses it to my back I bite down hard upon the pillow. Water trickles along my spine and creeps around my sides, I shudder, my body temperature is confused. He leaves the ice in the small of my back, the chill becomes a dull, throbbing ache, I try to shift the cube my twisting my hips but he holds me still with a firm left hand. I lift my heard and search about for him, it is in vain, I cannot see. He reaches up and fists his fingers in my hair, pulling my head back violently, I think my neck might break, but with each trace of pain an echo of pleasure resounded down my spine.

There is a slither of liquid fire spreading from the base of my neck downwards; the burn is so sudden and intense that I reel from it. My head feels light, every muscle in my body clenches and refuses to release, more and more of what I guess to be wax drips along my spine, I feel it carving through the valley that rests in the middle of my back. I am experiencing sensory confusion, as the wax meets the ice-cube it immediately solidifies. I am the surface of the earth, my molten core rises and freezes; it should always be this way.

My moans are escalating, I cry through clenched teeth, my hands grip onto the rungs of the headboard, the pain is debilitating and yet I want it. So often heaven has placed me in a position of powerlessness, I am so used to following orders, no matter the consequences, that I have barely a dominant bone in my body. I have done things that I do not agree with, things that haunt me to the point of madness. Dean is both my punishment and my cure, he treats me how I feel I should be treated, he hurts me to allow me atonement for the horrors committed at my hand.

He pushes my face into the pillow to quash my whimpers. I imagine his face in my mind, his eyes empty, his own pain tearing its way to the surface. We have never spoken of these meetings. They exist only when they happen, once they are finished they slip into nothing more than memory. But I know him, I know his thought pattern, and although it hurts him to hurt me, and although it confuses and torments him when he gains sexual gratification from our exploits, I know that eventually he will treat it as a catharsis.

The wax has cooled, it rests uncomfortably upon my skin, pulling it tight, he peels it off in ribbons, my seared flesh cooling in the air. With each piece he removes he slides the ice in its place, it soothes and stuns, his gentleness almost speaks of worship, I understand him now, I realise with clarity something that only reaches me at times like this. Throughout his life he has existed in a tangled mass of uncertainty, he has had no stability, no home, no education; he has very few permanent friends. When he went to hell he was tortured in ways that defy human understanding. He gave up, and he feels guilt for this. But what consumes him more than anything is that he enjoyed the torture he inflicted upon others, that through their pain he soothed his own aching soul. He has carried that disturbing trait with him back into life. Through me he can exercise it, through me he doesn't need to feel shame.

Finally the ice is gone; in its place is a cold wet. I hear the rustling of fabric again, he takes a drink, without the crutch of alcohol he wouldn't be able to do half of these things. I feel the cold of steel, a sensation I am not used to. It scares me; he scrapes it lightly over my skin, allowing me to gauge what it is. A knife, and then with a sudden movement he presses down harder, I can feel it cutting away at me, I want to scream but I know there is no point, I know there is no escaping this. I do not feel the warm seeping of blood, only the sting of my flesh giving way. I cry, tears willing from my eyes onto the pillow. I am lost. I am devoted. Yet I am the victim of my own longing. I deserve this.

The trails work their way across the expanse of my back, my heart races and wish for no scars to be left behind, my vessel was not told of this when he agreed to give himself over. Suddenly I feel shame. There is no excuse for my behaviour, only my own selfish need, my fall, my slip into humanity.

The pain stops, I sigh and begin to sob. He places a kiss upon the sore skin of my shoulder blade, and then move as he helps me turn to face him again. My arms are loser, I wasn't aware of their aching, but it is there. He rests his weight on me, and his skin touches mine, his shirt is unbuttoned. He leans forward and unties the fabric that blinds me. His face is how I imagined it, concentrated, emotionless, devoid of any feeling. Sweat is pooling at the base of his throat, and as he kneels over me, reaching down to kiss me, I want to lick it from him. His lips are cold compared to mine, he has been drinking more, there is a fragment of ice inside his mouth; he passes it to me with his tongue, it refreshes me.

"It's beginning to worry me, the ever increasing amount of time I spend thinking about torturing you" he whispers, his first full sentence.

This confession didn't come easy, and it is only with the intensity of the moment that he found the ability to say anything at all. The words pleased me immensely, in some deranged way I realised he had confessed to thinking of me, that I was on his mind, and that I was staying there more and more often. It offered a glimmer of hope. His tongue slipped into my mouth again, wrapping me up in the experience of his presence. His mouth covers me, my throat, my neck, my shoulder; he seems to be everywhere at once. I want to reach down and hold him still for just a while, but I am restricted. He licks slowly along the band of the boxers shorts I'm wearing, daring every now and then to slip his tongue just beneath. My hips buck of their own accord; he pins them down and launches his attack. His fingers hook over the band, lifting me at the same time, I try and hold myself up with my legs, but he sits on them keeping me where I am. I am hard, his manipulations have aroused a desperation in me that only occurs very rarely, through him I have learned a lot about the human psyche, I've learned a lot about need.

He exposes the last of my remaining flesh to the air and I shiver, he wraps his hand around me, stroking me slowly, watching every expression that passes over my features. My mouth hangs open, my breathing threatening to stop completely, I sweat, I plead with my eyes, and still he taunts me. He shuffles to the end of the bed and kneels between my legs, he kisses and sucks at the fleshy expanse of my thighs, making my toes curl, moving up to a jutting hip bone he bites harshly and then attempts to lick the pain away. I can feel my face flushing, my palms are sweating, and my groin aches, I need contact.

"Dean….please" my eyes well up.

With a lightning quickness he glares at me, his hand reaches back, and a punishing slap lands upon my cheek. I close my eyes and the tears begin to fall. He watches me for a while, I do not know how he looks, but then he returns. His hot breath cascades in waves over my lower stomach, it tickles, but I am too scared to move. Without warning his tongue snakes from his mouth and he licks a small trail from the base of my hardness, right to the tip. I breathe in so quickly I think I might choke, I hold it in, refuse to breathe and await his next torment. His hands clamp down hard on my thighs as he plunges me to the very back of his throat. I see a white light and feel as though I am leaving my body. His mouth is hot, it burns around me until my mind clouds, warmth is spreading throughout my whole body and I give in to it.

Sweat rolls from my forehead down my face. I watch him, his mouth, his closed eyes, his hands gently loosening their grip on my thighs; I see scratches across my chest, bruises forming in perfect columns along my ribs.

He lets me fall from his mouth and looks up at me, his lips are red and bruised, he looks tormented. His hand slides between my legs and travels to a part of me that only he has ever been, two of his fingers linger just over the entrance, and push lightly. He brings himself up above me, watching every movement in my face as he props himself up on one arm. His fingers search me, teasing, daring to go only so far. He knows this drives me crazy, that every time we reach this point I just want as much contact as possible. He takes his hand away and I almost weep. He reaches for a tube and dispenses a liquid onto his fingers. It is cold against my skin, but now, his fingers slide deep inside me with only minimal pain. The stretching sensation is uncomfortable, but he has a way of moving inside me, a way that touches a part of me that I wasn't aware existed. He does it now and electric pulses tremble through me, he curves his fingers upwards and moves them over the same place, again and again. I convulse, closing my eyes to escape the severity of his gaze. He adds another finger, then another. I am aching.

He leans back and allows his shirt to fall from his shoulders, it pools at the bottom of the bed his fingers fiddle with the buttons of his jeans, popping each clumsily as he focuses on looking at me. I can only imagine what he sees.

The jeans slip down and I watch as they go, as he expertly removes them with minimal effort and movement. He slicks his hand, and then returns to his position above me, taking both of our hardness' in his hand, pushing them together, he begins to stroke. He rests his forehead on the pillow beside me, hot breath burning my sensitised skin. His hand moves slowly, flesh against flesh against flesh; in my mind I am watching it, the epitome of debauchery. His arm begins to quake as the pleasure weakens him, his resolve is giving way. He sits back, kneeling between my legs and spreading them as far as they will go. He strokes himself, and looks at me through heavy-lidded eyes.

"Please….please dean…I beg you. Do it" I receive no injury this time; my begging is what he wants to hear. He braces himself at my entrance and breeches me slowly, I am stretching further, pain sears throughout my entire lower half and my eyes begin to water again. I have stopped breathing, for now, oxygen is not necessary. His hips meet mine, and I am full. Finally I sigh. His head falls to my chest and his hands crawl up to where mine are resting, we lace our fingers together. This act, more than any other, has layers of meaning neither of us can comprehend. I nod, he always waits until I tell him, his control amazes me. There is no building up a pace with dean, our sex is brutal from the very start, this time is no exception. He withdraws with a speed barely human and forces his way back in, my arms fly to wrap themselves around him, but they are stuck. Instead I am at his mercy, I surrender to his pain. As he pushes harder and harder I hear a familiar noise, one that doesn't show itself very often, yet one that always makes an appearance at times like this. He is sobbing into my chest; drops of warm water land gently upon my skin, and I want nothing more than to hold him. Part of me thinks that this is why he keeps me chained; he feels he deserves to cry, to ache as he does, and to have every waking moment, every experience of pleasure, pervaded by pain.

He angles himself, still concentrating on making me feel good, he hits the place he did with his fingers, his intensity builds until my hips hurt, a stir builds in my stomach and I nuzzle at him to get him to face me. He looks up, his face sweat-drenched, his eyes red with tears and I do all that I can to kiss him. He kisses me just as violently as he pushes into me, we breathe into each other, the hotness of our mouths distracting from the unbearable pleasure of below. My body contracts, my stomach flips and I climax with a frightening power, in the onset of my recovery I whisper:

"I love you. Only you. So Much"

He ignores it. Biting down hard upon my shoulder, and digging his nails into my knuckles he finishes too, a molten heat filling me from the inside. He gasps, his feral growl communicating his state of mind, and for a while, he rests.

We both breathe labouredly, he rises, the dim lights reflect the sweat that coats his body, I watch him, knowing I am not yet his equal. He dresses, putting on his shoes, replaces the implements of my torture, the pegs, the cooled candle, the scrap of fabric, and a butter knife. I realise then that he was playing with me psychologically; there are no cuts on my back. Zipping it shut, he takes one last drink, and collects his keys.

He comes back to me, leans down and kisses me, I know deep down that it's wishful thinking, but I feel love in that kiss. He unclips my right arm, and before I can move he is gone.

My stomach sinks, I go into these situations always hoping that he's one day realise he wants me, it never happens. It ends the same way, me getting dressed on my own, tending to my own wounds, leaving and finding a bed, alone. I pull at the chain, it slips from the bed and I unclip myself. I walk to the bathroom; the marks upon my body tell the story of the events that have occurred, the only physical remnant of our time together. I dress. And then I sit on the bed and cry.

I accept and I collect upon my body
The memories of your devotion
I accept and I collect upon by body
The memories of your devotion

I feel for him like I have never felt before, a deep burning ache wells inside me every time I am around him, I gave up everything for him, and yet, no matter how much you devote yourself to someone, you cannot make them love you.

As I leave into the pouring rain, I take one last look at the room, the candle is still burning, I still hold that hope for next time. I will beg again, and I know I will be denied, but I have what I have, there is nothing I can change.

For him I fell, and I continue to do so, forgive me father for I have sinned.

And I feel your fists
And I know it's out of love
And I feel the whip
And I know it's out of love
And I feel your burning eyes burning holes
Straight through my heart
It's out of love, ooh hoo
It's out of loveGive me a little bit serious love
Give me a little full love
Be full of loveFists, fists, fists full of love...