Disclaimer: Supernatural ain't mine.
A/N: These guys have issues. Seriously.
Read, enjoy, review! :D
There are needs, and then there are needs.
Do you know the strongest senses? The one that urges you to watch how you grow and how you preen under the light of its attentions, gifted to only you; the one that urges you to taste the savory memory of it over and over again upon your tongue until it is reborn, anew and fresh; lulling you into the stupor of far gone lovers across rising nights as you let it sing you to sleep; the touch of it, sweet and soft and forever yours.
It: the strongest senses.
Time promises this to you, because there is a lasting fondness of it to you. Because a bond exists that is as permanent as it is unbreakable.
Does he watch her fall with patience anymore?
He knows she flows at her own pace, and that she is a part of something else- all of her humanity. But he still likes to watch her perform.
She dances across floors; scattering spills of red and mottled patterned murder in her midst.
She gorges on death's brink; as life drifts from her raft all the same as she does.
She has a simpering croon; whispering through gentlest taps of her fingers as they tap against surfaces.
He loves the show, but she rouses within him a burning. This burning fills him like nothing else. This burning eats away at him like the ill eat away living. This burning churns him until he is ash.
He yearns for his rosy seductress- whose fondling of flesh with life's embrace lasts until her first drop falls.
And blood was once Sam Winchester's addiction.
Does he sleep alone anymore?
He cannot close his eyes and just see darkness. No. It's not easy anymore- not without the easy touches of her lightness to ghost along and through his life.
She brings him alive; bursting within him a hold on euphoria, sizzling to a peak that floats to a soothing nothing.
She is sultry; intoxicating in the shadows and only truly sweetest when the two come together, alone, and once the murmurs of splotched inflicted past cease.
She passes by, one of many; her momentary grasp flees as the next blinks into sight with the smile of one with many promises.
He anticipates her visits, but a chill seeps in as she leaves. This chill is headily building with each coming and going. This chill breeds along with his bitter obsessions. This chill may be vanquished, at least for a night.
He craves his fleeting mistresses- whose touch envelops him, caresses him as he caresses her and holds his mind.
And alcohol was once Dean Winchester's addiction.
There are needs, and then there are lies.
Do you know the darkest senses? The ones that make you watch secrets pour from your mind onto your tongue as they reach for it, stretching and clenching towards it; the ones that make a single breath last beneath the lowest rung of the drowned and as you only sink lower and lower, worser and worser; the ringing of it as it climbs into you, filling the ever moving flow of perception and chemical with it until you think nothing, but it wears you as a costume; the touch of it, sweet and soft up until it's not.
It: the darkest senses.
Time will tell, because you don't know it until it's too late. Because it wouldn't be addiction if it were so easily known.