crowroad3 (crowroad3) wrote,

Art-prompt flashfic: Leaving Reno

Title: Leaving Reno
Characters: Sam, Dean, Nevada
Tags/spoilers/warnings: outsider POV/weird POV; chains/cuffs, suggestion of; sin, suggestion of, conflation of sex/trauma; Wincest
Notes: for milly_gal 's fabulous art prompt!

Not much could contain their mischief. And I was built for sin. Pleasure dome. Prison-castle. Dun-geon. Whatever the passing-throughs wanted, these gamblers and their girls and their ghosts. But they weren't just passing-throughs, these. Not like the others, and there were some, that wanted--bloods and spoils, these chances, and each other.


Once I was more, more wanted. Made of desert--Ne-va-da, or hell, sage and silver and snow; said out loud, these, as reasons for being, for names. I was a place and then another place, over bones, animal, human; and bloods, human and earth, glittering. So the mirrors say, and that's sky.


Demons have been here. Miners and traders and law; cuffs.

But they chased a gambler's ghost through my skins, Sammy Sammy Sammy whose jangling was a coin, charged; unluck. The other gripped, callus-to-frame, bowed; ripped-blind and shredded-up-shag--and made me, made me again. A bed.

I think this place knows us, he said.



Canyons of slots.

They ended in one of my basements.

Sex dungeon, the Dean said, knocked my brick, do ya want to?

I was closed. But what I was built for: proposition. After-palace-before-condo: sin. Pawn. And the passing-throughs; this.


Coin-and-iron through skin, spike and heel; railroad, hell, this past. They chased a gambler’s ghost, six and a killer, black and jack, through my skins, torn-down-and-after—

not killed.


I was hell.

They built a fire. Put it out quick.

Shit, the Dean said, but this was a suite, freaking murderer's ghost.

After all the hells, the Sam said, and that was a quake, like a gasp.

They were cut-up, dripped; demolition. Whispering, water-than-dust.


…hurt me.


Sounds, keys ; tongues and boards. Fingers fit, the ceiling said. And pulled.


Once I was more, more wanted.

Feed me, they said.

I don't know bodies as well--slot and tongue and arch; good bones. But they were painted, in the places they bound each other up. In hair.

Strip, said the Sammy-one, me.

Mirror: mouth to mark and wrist and unchained. Binding and unbinding is, I’ve heard,
cage and prison and mark. Said out loud, these, as reasons for being,

for names.


Not much can contain, maybe mountains. Those around.

Buildings do not. Or vaults. My next-doors, though, with people and passing-throughs; I have eyes. A safe. For once it was soft out and demons weren't, you’d think, or angels or killers or gambler's ghosts. Just bloody bed and Washoe wind their car kicked up, but--

brothers, silver and sage and what I was built for--

you'd be wrong.

Tags: maybe a story, not a genre
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