RED

Red used to be his favourite colour. Most of his toys had been red - most of them except the school bus, because, well, everyone knew that school buses were yellow.

But nevertheless, Red was what he had loved.

Red was bold - you couldn't ignore it. Bold, mocking, defiant, fierce; all those adjectives and more.

Yeah, you couldn't ignore red - it was, well, it was right THERE - all up in your face, daring you to ignore it. Taunting you: bet ya' can't. Bet ya.

It was his favourite...up until his was fifteen. Then red morphed into something else - took on an entirely different meaning. It splattered itself along the white walls, kinda like connect the dots - and he remembered wondering, numbly - what kinda picture would emerge if he took the time to connect them.

His eyes had scanned the walls, trying to fathom cars - none of those sissy cars, no...classics; like his Dads, all dark and sleek and dangerous. He was sure he heard his Fathers sharp voice behind him, spittin' out words like bullets. Something like: Fuck! Goddamnit! We're too late!

What he could remember clearly were red smeared faces: bet ya can't. Bet ya!

Bet ya can't ignore me!

Bold motherfucker that RED.

Taunting, horrible colour.

Reminder of mortality.

Blood smeared faces. Listless dead eyes.

Yeah, since that day, Red took on another meaning. Reminded him of his own fragility. Of his families'.

He hates that fuckin' colour.

WHITE

White is a canvas waiting to be painted on. White - it smells like antiseptic - sterile, clean. He doesn't hate white, it can be soothing. But Jesus - it's fucking boring.

White is the nurse with chestnut hair, clinging to the nape of her neck in soft curls. White is inciting and pure and innocent - like her blue eyes.

White is soft and caressing like her voice, her gentle whisper carrying a thousand different meanings.

White is the cast on his leg - when she touches him there - hands creeping up to the exposed flesh on his thigh; a ghost of a touch, as her hand creeps up further.

White explodes behind his closed eyes as she rides him hard - his fingers digging into her hips, rocking her closer, groaning as she grinds down again and hits his balls right...God...RIGHT there.

That's it baby, that's it. Come on, don't be shy. Ride me hard. Yeah.

White is the cum that he spills into her, and later, as she stands, her white uniform still bunched under her stomach - and GOD - a white trail of him, slowly creeping down her inner thigh. She's notices him looking and there's a shy smile gracing her lips as she wipes it onto her fingers.

And God, he's fuckin' hard again.

Maybe white's not that boring after all.

BROWN

Brown was soft brown curls on a soft baby head.

Brown is grounded and warm and earthy.

Brown is long freekin' emo hair that needs a fuckin' cut cos' he looks like a goddamn girl.

His eyes are brown, warm, like a big cute puppy (and Dean'd rather cuts his own balls off and eat them than ever admit to even THINKING that).

Brown is SAM and SAM is brown. And he loves brown, yeah. He really loves Brown.

GREEN

Green was a woman back in South Dakota. Her breasts bounced underneath her green top as he fucked her on a pool table. He wanted to see them bouncing naked, all warm and flushed pink.

But she refused with a soft shake of the head.

No, please. I - just leave the top on.

And that was that. Conversation over. Lady said no, and that was cool.

That was cool, cos' there were other things to play with.

So when she was splayed out on that pool table, thighs being spread by his big hands -when he drove into her with a growl and felt her wet heat surround him - he would watch those beautiful big boobs bouncing. Fuck, they nearly gave her a black eye when he slammed into her, they were THAT big.

They taunted him under that green top. He wanted to see them naked, wanted to trace his tongue over them and taste...but no, cos' that green top was stayin' on.

And he came with his head nestled in between them, the heat and the scent of sex radiated from underneath their green prison.

I bet you're tits are beautiful. If you do ever let a guy see 'em and he says other wise, jus' give me a call and I'll knock him out for ya'.

To which she laughed softly and kissed the top of his head.

So yeah, green. Great fuckin' colour.

Although, sometimes when he sees it, he can feel all the blood rushin' down to his dick - and Goddamn it - those boobies in the green top will flash before his eyes.

Yeah, and that is majorly embarrassing.

BLACK

Black is his leather jacket, handed down to him by his Father. It's battered and torn by the years of wearing and hunting. But it still looks good, it stills does its job. Just like the Winchesters.

Black means freedom - open highways and blaring music. Goin' nowhere and everywhere.

Black is shelter, home, protector from wind and rain and the crazy ass demonic wee folk that had once snapped and snarled at the wheels; headlights; windows; fuckin' windscreen wipers -but they never got in. (Thank Fuck)

Black was taking Tracy Shaw doggy style in the back seat - her hair was black, beautiful and glossy in his hands as he yanked it back and brought his lips to her ear.

You like it like this? Yeah..you like it hard, don't ya'?

The seat had squeaked in protest as he pounded into her - bodies drenched in sweat and smell of sex. She'd liked it when he had put his hand under her chin and held it there as he had fucked her. God, she had been a dirty one alright.

Black was driving her home (which was only four blocks away) - but it was way too late, and he didn't want her walkin' back in the dark alone.

Black is complete and utter awesomeness.

YELLOW

Yellow is a tricky one - it's bitter sweet.

Yellow is the misty images of better days, engraved into his brain.

Her hair was spun in yellow curls that framed her face like a halo.

Yellow is his war cry.

Yellow is warmth, love and security.

Yellow is pain, loss and anguish.

But ya' can't have one without the other.

Yellow's making cupcakes that are slightly burnt around the edges.

Yellow is watching blusher being applied to creamy cheeks.

No, sweetie. Little boys don't ware blusher...

Yellow is the reminder of things that have gone, and left a gaping vortex in their place. Yellow is Mom; Jess - devoured by RED.

Yellow will be avenged.