Title: INSTRUMENT (Thicker, chapter 1))
Author: Janet F. Caires-Lesgold
Feedback to: firstname.lastname@example.org
Archive: by author permission only
Category: Angsty pre-Wincest, Sam POV
Spoilers: None really--sometime after Pilot and before "Hookman"
Rating: T for teens and up due to language and sexual behavior
Pairing: Sam/Dean pending
DISCLAIMER: These characters do not belong to me. Supernatural was created by Eric Kripke, and is the property of Kripke Enterprises Scrap Metal and Entertainment (Eric Kripke and Robert Singer, executive producers), Wonderland Sound and Vision, Warner Brothers, and the CW Network. This story is just for the entertainment of my online friends and myself, not for any profit.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Yep, new fandom. I write in first person--deal with it.
DEDICATION: For Tiff, who is probably too hot right now (which was the dedication on the O.C. story from July two years ago that I used for header formatting, but seemed eerily appropriate)...
COPYRIGHT: (C) Janet F. Caires-Lesgold, August 9, 2006, email@example.com
Please don't redistribute or alter this story in any way without the express permission of the author. Thank you very much.
"Make me an instrument of thy will, O Lord."
I don't pray. You have to have some kind of serious religious belief to do that if you want it to work. True, in the war of good versus evil, I'm in the "good" camp. I just don't tend to ask divine beings to intercede for me. Much.
I have no idea where I got that little phrase I say to myself when we bring the shit down on one demon or another in our work. Maybe it was in a book, quoting some ancient priest or other.
All I know is that it gives me the clarity to face the most horrible opponents and focuses me on the task at hand. It's like it's not my battle--were it just me against some of those big nasties, I'd be wetting my pants and crying like a four-year-old. But I give myself over to the big infinity-star general, and I can handle just about anything. It helps to pretend that my body isn't my own, that I have relinquished control to something bigger than I am, especially when I'm in pain and need to keep doing my job until it's finished.
The power I need to command the rest of my body is right there when I require it, just at the thought of that phrase. So how do I exert control on a hard-on?
When Jess was first taken away from me, I didn't get hard when I woke up, or I didn't notice. (The nightmares didn't help, either.) Oh, once there was an erection that wouldn't go away on its own, so I snuck into the bathroom and tried to jerk off. Unfortunately, the mental image of my pretty love beneath me morphed into her face frozen in terror above me, and instead of making myself come, I threw up. Talk about your behavioral modification through negative incentive...
So I got a lot better at ignoring it, at least at first. Maybe after I didn't touch myself a couple of times, it gave up. Since the girl who loved me was dead, I couldn't give in to physical pleasure on my own. I didn't want to feel like that, either aroused or nauseated, so I refused to allow myself to surrender to it. My body was completely under my influence, ready to fight at a moment's notice as God called upon me to do so.
But it's not working anymore. Or, more accurately, it is.
Maybe my subconscious is unhappy with this state of affairs, because four times in the last month, I've woken up with sticky underwear, and once I was actually humping the mattress when I was awakened by the phone. Just leaving my dick alone isn't having the desired lack of effect.
If I actually wanted to relieve some of the tension, I'd be at a loss. Given my last attempt, I don't trust taking matters into my own hands. As for the small matter of meeting someone, we're really not making that kind of contacts in our travels. Unlike some people, I don't hook up with strangers. I don't want anyone to promise me that they'd make me feel good, or tell me that they liked me, just hoping to get into my pants. All of my sexual response at this point in my life is involuntary.
For example, right now, it's all Dean's fault.
I'm entirely innocent. I was just lying in bed, trying to go to sleep now that my brother has finished his shower. This place is really quiet, because all I can hear through the carelessly-closed bathroom door is flesh stroking flesh, punctuated by his bitten-back groans of pleasure.
The sound of Dean masturbating is turning me on like few things ever have.
It's weird. This is so totally wrong--he's my brother above all. Possibly my body is looking for any excuse to react like this, because every bit of mental discouragement I can produce is going nowhere. My dick is pointing at my head derisively like it's laughing at my ineffective focus phrase. At least I don't feel sick to my stomach.
Brother Mine is taking his sweet old time rubbing one out, so I finally come to a decision. Fuck it--I have to touch myself.
My instrument jumps almost happily into my palm when I grasp it, and instead of my usual verse, I hear a new one in my head:
"Thy will be done."
I am so going to hell.
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