It’s these times of the night where Sonny’s heart begins to ache. When everyone’s asleep, and he’s alone on a hotel balcony smoking his way through his nth pack of cigarettes today. He thinks of Joel, thinks how it used to be his balcony he’d sit and smoke upon - usually in his company, too. How it’d be his bed that he’d retire to instead of one full of a snoring Roadhog, or one completely void of another person. The lonely throb has set itself into his bones and he fidgets with his phone, wondering if he should text, or call, or fling it over the balcony fence and into the city-chaos beneath.

He knows he’s in love with Joel and he knows it’s unrequited, that perhaps it was always unrequited. Joel uses people to forget, uses them to patch over whatever holes he has in his heart, and Sonny was nothing more than a bandaid until his adhesive weakened and Joel let him slip away.

He sends a text.

« I miss you.

His fights down the waves of nausea that suddenly push themselves into his throat, that threaten to make him vomit up his dinner and the alcohol and the everything. He wishes he could vomit up the hurt, the feelings of abandonment. His need to cling to the past.
His phone vibrates and he looks away from it, nervous, unsure, and he ignores it for another five minutes while he finishes a cigarette to calm the jitters that shiver through his fingers.

He opens the message; it’s from Joel. Of course it’s from Joel. He always replies, because he’s always awake. Sonny remembers watching one of his streams from the outskirts of his studio in Toronto, Meowingtons in his arms and Nyancat at his feet.

» You need to stop doing this. Don’t message me.

Sonny lets his phone fall from his hands and clatter to the tiled floor of the balcony, bringing his stubby hands up and under his glasses to press tears back into his skull. He realised he was in love with Joel long ago.

In fact, he realised it around the same time he figured out that Joel would never love him back.

kind of didn’t go anywhere/really follow the lyrics OOPS I TRIED

Sam has spent a lot of time brooding over Dean’s status as a ‘righteous man’. He and his brother have lived almost identical lives the past few years, and before then, Dean was a juvenile delinquent who skipped school in favour of fucking naive girls or trotting along at their father’s heels. Sam was the good kid, always the good kid, and never the favourite. He doesn’t want to be bitter about it, no, but there’s something deep and dark and bubbling in his belly that pushes him towards it, encourages him to be spiteful.

And that’s why, in all honesty, it makes sense that essentially the Winchester brothers are forces of good and evil - Sam being the latter, obviously. He’s got demon blood pumping through his veins, he’s got Lucifer’s name branded on his ass where Dean has a righteous, heavenly angel’s on his.

Dean notices it. Of course he notices it; for all his logger-headed emotional instability and inability to cope with his own feelings, he’s remarkably in tune with those of his brother.

“Sammy?” he asks, finally, one night after hunting down a wendigo, when they’re bone-tired and nodding off in their hotel room. Sam grunts from where he’s cleaning his pistol, his back to Dean, hunched over the firearm like a predator over its kill. His muscles are knotted and Dean can see the shift in his neck as the tension climbs higher. He imagines his brother clenching his jaw, the ball of muscle flexing.
“What’s gotten into you lately?”

Dean’s question comes softly, riddled with concern and dripping with that gooey brotherly-love shit that Sam really isn’t in the mood for. “Nothing,” he answers, but he knows Dean won’t leave it alone. Knows Dean has already figured out the problem. That’s the issue with him; he’s an idiot, he ruins relationships and he followed their father’s orders blindly, but he can read Sam like an open book. He grits his teeth and his nostrils flare, and he wipes down the barrel of the gun with a soft cloth, waiting for Dean to continue.

“Look, Sammy. I know things ain’t been goin’ so good for us lately. I know things ain’t been goin’ so good for you, but just ‘cause you’ve got Lucifer’s name printed on your goddamn forehead doesn’t mean jack shit.” Dean’s voice is low, measured, careful. Like he knows Sam is on the edge of a breakdown. He gets up and Sam listens to the creak of the bedsprings, the rustle of Dean’s jeans as he comes closer. Closes his eyes when Dean sits beside him on the bed, mattress dipping with his weight.
Dean cups Sam’s shoulder and squeezes, fingers digging into his flesh through the flannel. “You’re my baby brother, Sammy. And no matter what some douchebag angels say, you’re not gonna be the Devil’s fucktoy. Alright?”

Sam says nothing. He sits like that, with Dean’s hand on his shoulder and his eyes closed, breathing deep. After a few moments, he looks at his brother, eyes wet with impending tears, and he whispers, “I don’t wanna go to Hell, Dean.”

Something in Dean clicks, shifts. Constricts around his heart like a python until he’s dragging Sam in all his too-huge glory into a hug, squeezing the breath out of him. Sam clings to him like he did when they were kids, when they were scared and alone while their father was on a job.
“Sammy, I swear, if you go to Hell I’m gonna grab that fucking Colt and jump into the Pit right after you. Cas, too. We’ll get you outta there, Sammy. We’ll pull you right out before you even know it.”

Dean’s words are see-through; he knows that if he goes to Hell (which is likely, considering he’s Lucifer’s pretty little pony), Castiel won’t be able to get him out. Not if Lucifer’s got him. 

Sam presses his face against the firm heat of his brother’s shoulder and begins to weep.

The collar pulls tight around his throat and the pressure of blood trapped in his skull begins to rise. He can’t breathe more than a few rasps. It shouldn’t make his cock drool precome like it does, shouldn’t make him push his thighs further apart, pleading with Vinco to fuck him. He’s sweaty, willingly being choked, and he’s not allowed to come until he has permission. It’s a sickly combination of heaven and hell that leaves Franck unsure of what he truly wants; he’s new to this. He wants to come, he wants to grind his dick into Vinco’s fist until he jets his load across the bedspread, but he also wants to please Vincent, wants to show him how fucking grateful he is that he does this for him.

Anyone else would think he was fucked up, but not Vincent. Vincent only smiles, collars him, leashes him, chokes him and spanks him. Wrecks him. Franck needs it.

Vinco releases the pressure and Franck sucks in a gulp of air, swallows it into his lungs. He gets in another two breaths before Vinco pulls the collar tight again, leash wrapped around his fist.
Vincent leans around him while he gasps at what little air he can get, wraps a calloused, practised hand around the shaft of his cock, says, “Come.”

Franck feels like every atom in his body explodes.