#✦ closed starter: sam winchester

[normaltothemax]

@therebetterbepie didn't ask for this but brain worm

Sam wasn’t sure what was going on. He’d been…yeah, he’d been with Dean and Dad. They’d been…hunting something, he was pretty sure. He was hurting, and pretty sure his left arm was bleeding (could hear a faint drip, drip, drip that was probably his blood hitting the floor, though he didn’t risk looking away to check), so a hunt seemed most likely. Then…then he was here, wherever ‘here’ was, with some guy and that was bad.

He didn’t know where Dean and Dad were. Didn’t know if they were okay. Didn’t know if they knew to be looking for him.

Was this guy the reason he’d been separated from his family? Did he have something to do with whatever it was they’d been hunting? Was he what they’d been hunting? Sam had no idea, and all the unknowns were making his skin crawl. He kept his sawed-off trained on the man—thought maybe this one just had rock salt rounds, but he didn’t know that, and it’d still hurt like hell—hands mostly steady as he narrowed his eyes and lifted his chin. “Where am I? Who’re you?” Sam did his best to sound more demanding than fearful with his questions, a stubborn jut to his jaw.

[downs1de-has-moved]

for @trickheaven

This case seemed perfect for Sam, or at least Dean thought as much: as soon as the words "The Return of Jesus" appeared in the local newspaper headlines of Jerusalem, New York, the brothers hit the road and drove past three states between their temporary home to the (ironic) land where the "son of god" was reborn anew, performing miracles for the townsfolk.

On the ride, Sam contemplated the situation and the mixed feelings it provoked. If it were true, he would be curious, excited, and scared all at once—If not, which was far more likely, Sam would be angry, for the lord's name was being used for fame once again, like many times before.

Upon entering the town, the brothers decide to make a first stop near the lake to stretch their legs and look into the spot where Sam had found out "Jesus" had walked on water. The place is desolate, save for a couple of fishermen and religious fanatics who want to tour those shores. A fisherman, in particular, catches Sam's attention, seemingly going over said events with an older woman sporting a walker that's digging into the ground.

The brothers are a little late to hear the whole story, but they approach the man as soon as he finishes.

"Excuse me, sir.."

Sam starts, with Dean by his side.

"Would you mind telling us the story you were telling the ma'am? We heard about it on the drive here…"

[s4memistake]

D3AN W1NCHESTER TAG DROP

[dreammakcr]

@legendaryl0stpieces liked this post for a starter from // sam winchester

"What did you just say?" he questioned, arching a brow at the other in his confusion.

[thechaosmuses]

a canon one liner from Eden Cruz for @jerkxbitchx (because I couldn't leave out my favorite hunter and angel besties)

"No one is gonna respect you until you show them who you really are."

[bettystonewell]

What Happened Last Night? - Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: After burning the Book of the Damned and escaping the Styne’s, you all have a night of harmless celebrations back at the bunker. At least, it was harmless until Charlie suggested a game of Never Have I Ever, and the rest of your night became a blur. Friends to Lovers 18+ only

Word Count: 3,300

Tags/Warnings: Language, Pining, Dubious Consent (implied drunk sex), SMUT in part two

A/N: Hey 👋 This is my first time posting a fanfic on Tumblr. The names’s Beth (Aussie/Dean-girl/tired mum). I’ve been on AO3 (and Wattpad) for over a year now and thought it was about time I put my big girl pants on and join the community here because it looks fun (though the social media side of this scares my close-to-midlife-crisis-ass). So, yeah, newbie in terms of everything here - please be kind. If you recognise me from the other sites, please say hi 😊 This is a cross post - there are two chapters total. Let’s see how this goes!—————————————————————Part 2 || Read on AO3 || Masterlist

in vino, veritas

in wine, there is truth

Five bodies sat around the mess room table that night, drinking their troubles away and eating their fill. 

You, Dean, Sam, Charlie, and Cas at the end, sitting on a wooden chair he’d brought in from the library to make more space for those of you who did eat.

"This won't work," you said to the other four, though it was technically directed at Charlie. Your tone was as condescending as you could make it under the influence of the alcohol you’d already consumed. 

Three beers and two sneaky sips of Charlie’s Harvey Wallbanger you’d taken while she wasn’t looking.

It was one less ounce of bounce in her step for your at-the-time more than tipsy gal pal and well deserved. Especially now she’d revealed her true intentions on why she’d encouraged you to partake in drinking in the first place.

In her overly enthusiastic state, she’d suggested a game to get “The Party Started.” A phrase she’d attempted to sing in vain as only you seemed to understand its reference. 

Though Sam might have had a clue. His mouth had turned up around the lip of his bottle he’d conveniently sipped during the rendition of the Black Eyed Pea's early noughties banger.

Dean was one hundred per cent clueless, of course. Nothing past the eighties was decent to him. Nothing except that one Taylor Swift song you’d caught him listening to when he thought no one was watching. 

He had sulked then and had been sulking on and off again since last night. Brooding over the fact he’d lost his one chance to remove the mark. Unbeknownst that Sam had not burnt the Book of the Damned like he, Charlie and Cas thought, but in a better mood thanks to the booze and pizza he’d brought home.

You knew better.

Both about his demeanour and what had really happened with the ancient text. 

You’d seen Sam swap it with a replacement and you’d promised him you’d keep your mouth shut. Something you were hating your past self for.

Past you was a fucking idiot.

A fucking idiot who was about to get drunk from a game of Never Have I Ever like Charlie had suggested, and at risk of spilling more than one can of beans if you didn’t think of something fast to stop it. 

Charlie, the conniving little… She knew way too much about you after the last time you’d had a few with her and the glint in her eyes that you’d seen when she suggested the damn game was enough for you to know that what she was planning was dangerous.

A drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts. Or something like that.  

And she was almost there. 

“What do you mean, it won’t work?” she said with far too loud a pitch that made even Cas uncomfortable. 

Well, more uncomfortable than normal.

“Umm. The angel, for starters.” You directed your gaze at Cas, realising too late that you were going to give him a complex. “I think most of our everyday human experiences are going to be a never for him. And whatever he did in heaven will be the same for us. It’s unbalanced.”

“You’re thinking too much. He’ll get drunk. We’ll get drunk. That’s the point of the game,” Charlie said.

But her grin left her when a gruff, “I won’t,” interjected itself into the conversation. 

Hah. Won’t. It was as if you’d sucked the happiness out of Charlie and taken it all for yourself to then rub it back in her face. “See. Cas doesn’t want to play. And Sam and Dean clearly don’t want to play either.” They'd said nothing against the suggestion and nothing against you now.

“Actually, you don’t have enough liquor here to get me drunk,” Cas added.

Don’t have enough… “Seriously?” You looked at him again and he nodded. An apologetic look on his face.

Which brought a ‘challenge accepted’ one into Charlie’s.

Looking around the room for support from the guys, you noticed Sam hiding a silent chuckle behind the bottle in his hand. 

While Dean, who had been quiet since Charlie had burst out in song, locked eyes with yours. “Well, if there aren’t any more arguments from you, sweetheart, let’s play.”

And you thought Cas’ claim that there wasn’t enough booze for him was a surprise.

Fuck. Your head was pounding.

Your mouth was drier than a desert with a chalky sensation in your throat and lips that felt like they had cracked. 

Yup. Cracked alright. They stung as you splayed your tongue over them, attempting to nourish the skin with what little wetness you had left in your mouth. A fat lot of good that did, though.

They weren’t the only part of your body feeling uncomfortable. Pins and needles from where you’d slept funny on your arm tingled from your funny bone to your wrist.

‘Ow. Fuck.’ Well, that hurt.

You were hung without a doubt, and just all over feeling seedy.

At least you’d slept some of the alcohol off and were no longer drunk. You thought.

The strands of hair that had made their way into your mouth and the saliva you strung along with it as you pulled it out would say otherwise. Urgh. Gross.

Had you been drooling? No wonder your throat was dry.

You groaned and forced your eyes open. Yes, you had. There was a wet patch on the white pillowcase below you.

Odd. You didn’t own white sheets. 

You’d decorated your room in the bunker with as much colour as you could. What with the hunting life full of black, brown, denim and blood, you didn’t need any of that spreading into your personal space. 

Of course, white was colour(ish), but again, you didn’t own white sheets, and your room didn’t have a solid wall where you were facing. Curiouser and curiouser. Your door was supposed to be right there. 

You were at the correct end of the bed for it. A headboard behind you and a pillow underneath you, meaning you were lying on the right side. Yet all you saw was more bricks, a tall boy in some kind of brown and clothes that weren’t yours scattered on the surrounding floor. 

Amongst them, a pair of jeans - okay, they might be yours. But the flannel? One plaid with various browns and greens. The very same Dean had been wearing last night?

Fuck.

Dean’s clothes. Dean’s room.

This was Dean’s room? 

This was Dean’s room. 

Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. 

What were you doing here? The last thing you remember was… Fuck.

Those lips. Dean’s lips, plump and whiskey-tainted, had peppered kisses on you in more than one place. Over your mouth, your cheek and your neck. Lower... 

You’d learnt the spot at the base of your ear above your lower jaw was quite sensitive. Dean had learnt that, too. He’d also learnt a few other things if your tainted memory served you correctly, and you, the same about him.

The way his muscles contracted around his chest and back. Every little ridge, taut and firm, continued even down his arm and into his hands. Those talented fingers had a way of placing pressure in just the right places to make you blush. They’d found their way under your shirt and bra and…

Oh… Oh…

Had you slept with him and not remembered the main event? Was that possible with Dean? Your friend. The guy you’d wanted to be more than for the longest of time.

You've fallen for him the day you’d met. With that charming smile and those dazzling green eyes. 

And that was before you’d gotten to know him.

Now you knew the man behind the shit-eating grin. The playful, sometimes scary nerd (who refused to admit it) was loyal to those he cared about. A self-righteous martyr, who could be a bit of a dick sometimes and followed it too when the time was appropriate. 

Not that he’d done it so much lately. 

Except, maybe now.

You were screwed and without asking him, there weren’t too many ways to check if indeed you had been by him.

You turned your head slowly to find an empty bed next to you. 

Thank fuck. There was plenty of time to ask, but his bed was not the place.

You stretched your legs out, noting they felt normal. Stiff if anything, but not in a way you’d expect if you’d partaken in good sex.

Of course, that meant nothing. Maybe the rumours you’d heard about Dean were untrue?

Yeah right. 

You’d seen the satisfied faces from all of his past hook-ups as they fled his motel room the next morning. Possibly one in every state. He had brought none of them to the bunker though, meaning you were the first to sleep in his room. In his bed.

Go you... That was something to be proud of, not. 

You’d hightailed it out of his room after all that. Slinking off down the hall to your own to get changed out of the clothes you’d been wearing the night before. You hadn’t been wearing them when you’d woken up, of course. Oh, no. You’d been wearing one of his henleys, braless underneath, and your underwear surprisingly still on. 

While you’d think that would be a comfort for you, you knew that meant nothing. Though everything felt normal down there, so maybe it did. 

You weren’t sticky when you had a shower, but you noticed the love bites above your breasts when you looked in the bathroom mirror after it. There were bruises on your hips too. Ones shaped like fingerprints that fingers had pressed into you on either side. 

Hmm.

There was only one way to find out what had happened and once you’d primed and prepped yourself, wearing clothes that covered you from your neck to your toes, you made your way to the same room where everything had gone down the night before.

Stupid Charlie and her stupid fucking game. 

“Hey, Charlie,” you greeted when she saw you enter. Her eyebrows raised, along with her grin. “Where’s everyone else?” 

In other words - Where’s Dean?

Only Charlie sat at the table. The rest of the room was clear. There were no more pizza boxes, no more alcohol bottles and no one in the kitchenette. Not even someone’s head in the fridge. 

Just Charlie, with the smell of bacon and freshly ground coffee lingering in the air around her.

Coffee. You needed some of that.

“Sam’s got his head in the books again. Can you believe he was up before eight?”

Actually, you could and you hummed in response as you took your fresh cup of steaming goodness up to your lips to sip.

“I think Cas has left the building. We may have gotten him drunker than we thought.” She smirked. “And I figured you knew where Dean was.”

Your mouth spluttered over the rim of your cup. Coffee now dripped down your shirt and a few of the drops had landed on the floor. 

You flicked your eyes to your friend as you placed the cup on the table opposite her. Towels. You needed towels.

“Don’t give me that look. I saw you two after I left. And I checked on you this morning when I first got up. You weren’t in your room,” she said.

There was a knowing look on her face as you made your way between the pantry and back again that you ignored. Stooping down low to wipe the spill you’d made on the tiled floor below, only joining her once you’d discarded the paper towel in the bin along with your dignity.

Your hands went straight back to your cup, sipping on the rim and avoiding Charlie’s prying eyes.

“Come on. Let me live vicariously. What happened between you two?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered.

“You don’t know? I set this all up for you and him and you don’t know?”

“Ssshhh.” Your shoulders slouched, and you reached across the table to grab her arm. “I don’t remember, okay? I woke up in his bed but…”

“Did you two?” She made a crude gesture with her hands.

“I. Don’t. Know.” Your eyes were open wide as you enunciated every syllable to get your point across. 

“How do you not know?” Charlie blinked a couple of times. 

Drawing in a long breath, your mouth agape and ready to sigh it all out, you looked back at your friend and trembled your head in a quick shake. “I remember fooling around a bit but I don’t remember much more than that.”

“So you just woke up in his bed and don’t know how you got there?” she asked.

“I mean, I know how I got in his room, I remember that much, I think, but I don’t remember lying down or, you know.” The look you gave her was enough. You didn’t need to elaborate and even if you had wanted to, a heavy thud of boots echoed through the corridor outside.

Sure, it was possibly Sam, but that distinct gap between steps could only have been made by one bow-legged Winchester. And when Charlie’s face lit up opposite you and you heard the sound abruptly stop from somewhere near the door, you knew it to be true.

“Morning Dean,” she said. The chirpiness in her voice made you want to slap her silly but as you only had access to the hand that still held yours in the moment, you dug your fingernails into the skin below them instead. “Ow. You want some breakfast? There’s bacon still in the pan.”

Dean grunted and you felt eyes boring into the back of your head.

You refused to look behind you to where you knew he was pouring his own coffee by the sounds of it and released Charlie’s hand to pick up your cup. You took slow sips, keeping both your mouth and the rest of your body occupied while your elbows rested on the table, defending yourself from Charlie and her quips.

“How did you sleep?” she asked this time. Her eyes flicked between you both.

Could she be any more obvious?

“Fine,” he grumbled. “You got any more questions, or are you gonna leave us in peace to sort our own shit out?” 

Fuck.

You looked over at Charlie with a pleading look that said ‘Please don’t go.’ My how things had changed. But she grinned back at you and wagged her eyes, before standing and leaving the room in haste. Damn traitor.

As her footsteps trailed off down the hall, the room grew uncomfortably silent. Making your sips the loudest thing to have ever existed in the world. 

Your coffee was more bitter than it had been and you needed sugar pronto if you ever wanted to finish it.

You brought your cup down and placed it on the table before you to let your fingers fidget over the thin porcelain. Paying attention to each sharp angle between the curves and painted decorations. More so than was ever necessary.

Your eyes fixated on it, even as Dean took Charlie’s place across from you, watching you with caution. “So,” he cleared his throat. “How’d you sleep?”

Seriously? Taking Charlie’s line was how he wanted to start this. Well alrighty then. “Um. Fine, I guess. You?” You braved a glance at him, noting he was more serious in his disposition than usual.

“Like a log,” he said before silence filled the room again.

Right. You weren’t sure what you should say next. There was that big question on your mind, but you wanted, no, needed to approach it carefully. You didn’t want him to know you didn’t remember what if anything had happened between you. 

Not for his ego, but for yours.

You took another glance at him and saw his tongue run along the inside of his cheek, making it stick out under the five o’clock shadow he was yet to get rid of. He always looked his best like that. 

“I uh, I was surprised you weren’t there when I came back to my room just now.”

Wait. He was? “You were?” 

“Yeah.” There was a defensive twang in his tone. It was subtle, but it was there. “I only went to take a shower and then I found you’d bolted… I thought…” He shook his head.

He thought. Thought what?

You looked him up and down. It wasn’t just his tone that was unusual. The way he held his shoulders and the way he gripped his coffee cup before him was odd. In anyone else, you’d say they were lacking in confidence, but Dean wasn’t like this.  

The last time you’d seen him in such a way was after he’d killed Randy and the thugs in Pontiac and had come home dishevelled and broken over what he’d done.

“What did you think?” you asked, stretching your arm out to brush his hand across the table. Hoping that by doing so it might relieve whatever tension he was feeling.

There was a warmth there, that spread under your fingertips as your skin touched his and brought flashbacks to your mind of you touching other places on his body. 

You’d seen him with his shirt off last night. Been up close and personal with his tattoo and the scars that adorned his chest. You’d felt the dip in his spine and the pressure of his waistband pressing into your thumbs when you’d hooked them under the denim that sat around his waist.

Had you gotten into those jeans last night?

“Last night,” he said, watching your hand with interest. “After what we talked about.”

What we talked about? You’d stayed up well into the night with him. Long after Sam and Charlie had gone to bed and Cas had disappeared to do whatever Cas does. But just like your memories of what took place in his room were drawing blank, so too were whatever words you’d exchanged with him. 

All you could see were the grins and smirks he threw your way, and you nodded your head to stall. It didn’t do you any favours. 

He was looking at you with a scrutinising gaze and just as your cheeks had burned when he found that spot under your ear, they did the exact same to you now and gave everything away. “You. You don’t remember? Do you?”

You bit your lip and shook your head. “I ah. I’m drawing blanks. Some of it, I remember, but I couldn’t tell you what we talked about after the others left. And…” You hesitated.

“What?” His eyes locked onto yours and while they made you nervous, you couldn’t pull away. 

“Dean. Did we…” 

He seemed almost disappointed. But rather than wait for you to finish your question, or answer it even though it was as obvious as Charlie had been, he stood up, scraping the chair along the floor as he did so to storm off.

‘What the fuck just happened?’

You had drunk a lot and been drunk because of it. You’d spent time with Dean alone after the others had gone to bed and had talked with him about something. 

Something that led you to his room and into his bed. 

There’d been action. Kisses and touches. A bit of groping and clothes being removed. Small flashes of that continued to form in your mind. But while marks had been left on your skin and you’d stayed the night in his bed, you couldn’t remember the physical act of him being inside of you. Or you giving him a happy ending either for that matter. 

And now, he was disappointed.

Could it be that he felt the same way you did? 

Part 2 || Read on AO3 || Masterlist ————————————————————Thank you for reading! I’ll try posting part two same time next week - or you can read it now on AO3 here. In the meantime, I’ll be trying to work this site out (and finishing my WIPs whose updates are overdue… 🙃

[marvelfanfn2187a113]

Fight Club, part 2

Team Free Will & Winchester!reader

Requested by anonymous

Synopsis: team free will thinks you started up your fight club again; is it true?

Sam knew something was wrong the moment you brushed past him in the hallway of the bunker. You’d just returned from school, and absolute silence replaced your normal cheery greeting.

Before he could even get a word out, you were in your room with the door closed.

…

“Hey, did you see Y/N?” Dean asked Sam as he entered the bunker. “She didn’t say a word all the way home, and she wouldn’t even look at me.”

“She just rushed past me. She’s in her room now,” Sam answered. “Should we talk to her?”

“Something’s up,” Dean decided. “I’m going in there.”

“What?” Came your harsh response as Dean knocked.

“Kid? It’s us, can we come in?”

There was silence for a minute on the other end, then some rustling, before your lock clicked and your door opened just a crack.

“What do you want?” You asked hesitantly, your head ducked low.

“Well, some eye contact for starters,” Dean huffed.

“Then you’re in the wrong room,” you sighed, moving to close the door.

“Hey, hey.” Sam stuck his foot in the door, reaching up and grabbing onto its edge. “C’mon, this is ridiculous. Let us in.”

“Fine.” You relinquished your hold on the door, finally lifting your head. “Is this what you wanted to see?”

The skin surrounding your eye was a deep, ugly purple splotched with green.

“Jeez, kid,” Dean breathed, gently gripping your chin between his fingers and tilting your head to get a better look. “What happened?”

At your silence, Sam frowned.

“Y/N, not again.”

“What?” Dean asked.

“She started up fight club again, right?” Sam demanded. “Only this time you lost.”

“I didn’t!” You insisted.

“Right,” Dean huffed. At this, you stopped.

“So, what, guilty until proven innocent? Screw that,” you scoffed, pushing past your brothers and running out of the room.

“Hey!” Sam called after you, but his plea went ignored.

Dean groaned.

“Well that went well.”

…

“Sammy, I found her!” Dean called from the garage, where you were curled up in the back of the Impala. You looked up at his outburst, and turned so that you weren’t facing him.

Dean opened the back seat just as Sam entered the garage.

“Hey kiddo,” Dean greeted. “So, that didn’t go so well I guess. You wanna tell us what happened?”

“Why?” You choked out, and Dean suddenly knew why you didn’t want to look at him. “You won’t believe me.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, ok? I’ll believe you,” Dean promised.

“Yeah, we promise,” Sam piped up.

“There’s…” you swallowed hard. “There’s this new guy at school. Big, angry. I-I guess I pissed him off.”

“He hit you?” Dean’s blood began to boil.

“I just bumped into him, I-I wasn’t watching where I was going,” you continued, your voice thick and your back still turned to your brothers. “I didn’t mean to.”

“We’re not blaming you,” Sam assured you. “We just want to know.”

“I couldn’t fight back,” you whimpered. “He-he got on the football team, and some-some of his teammates held me down so he could hit me.” You curled in on yourself as you spoke.

“Honey,” Dean breathed, tugging on your arm and turning you to face him. “Commere.” He pulled you into his arms, his hand coming up to cradle your head as you finally began to cry.

“I-I promised not to fight, and I wanted to keep it,” you cried. “I didn’t mean to—“

“Shh, shh, hey,” Sam soothed, rubbing your back. “It’s ok sweetheart, this isn’t your fault.”

Sam could sense Dean’s anger boiling over.

“We gotta do something about this,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

“I’ll call the school,” Sam said.

“But—“

“And you can take Y/N upstairs and get her cleaned up,” Sam interrupted. The last thing he needed was for Dean to blow up at the school officials.

“Fine,” Dean huffed, lifting you into his arms and carrying you into his room. He snatched a rag off his desk and disappeared into the bathroom, coming back a minute later with it soaking wet. “Tilt your head up,” he instructed, and when you obeyed he dabbed at your eye with the rag.

You hissed in pain, and he retreated his hand for a second.

“Sorry kid, we’ll get you some ice in a second,” he said.

“I really tried not to fight,” you mumbled.

“Kid, stop explaining,” Dean huffed. “I’m not blaming you, ok? In fact, all I wanna do right now is go down to that jerk’s house and teach him a lesson. Unfortunately, he’s a kid.”

“Do you think I should’ve fought back?” You asked meekly.

“With half the football team on you?” Dean scoffed. “Kid, I want you to protect yourself, but there are some battles even a Winchester can’t win, ok?” He ruffled your hair. “Now c’mon, let’s get you an ice pack.”

You smiled and shuffled behind your big brother to the kitchen.

“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” he said after a minute.

“That’s ok.”

“Sammy’s gonna take care of this, ok? That guy won’t get away with it.”

“I know,” you said with a smile before leaning forward and wrapping your arms around Dean. “Thanks.”

Dean chuckled softly and patted your shoulder.

“Any time, little sister.”

[spnrareshipbang]

“Every Relationship Has Its Stuff” - Wednesday, November 27

Author: autisticandroids (@autisticandroids)

Artist: arlingtonchamberofgay (@arlington-chamber-of-gay)

Beta(s):

Rating: Explicit

Featured characters: Jack Kline, Harper Sayles, Castiel, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester

Featured relationships: jack kline/harper sayles, background castiel/dean winchester

Length: 7k

Tags: coming of age, black comedy

Warnings: child abuse, violence

Summary: Jack sees a familiar face again, and sets about having some important teenage experiences.

Excerpt:

“Where am I?” His throat is thick with disuse. It’s as good a starter as any. Probably the most useful information he can find out, right now. Her eyes are very big.

“Oh, this is a shipping warehouse for a pastry company. I thought it would smell nicer.” She pouts a little.

“Yes,” Jack says, he can feel her hand, it’s slipped lower and his voice vibrates against it, “warehouses all just kind of smell the same.” His breathing hitches a little. “Or bad.” One time, Dean had him and Cas stake out outside a meat packing plant. He grimaces at the memory.

“Ugh, unfortunate,” Harper says, and rolls her eyes, flicking them up dramatically, and Jack strains his own trying to follow them, she’s so close, “I guess you can’t win ‘em all. So, did you ever get my letter?”

“What?” Her lips are slightly glossy. He can feel the movement of his own breath. “My letter. I sent it to Lebanon.” She stands to put her hands on her hips, and Jack feels the loss of warmth against his cheek.

“No, I mean- no. Sorry,” he says. Grasps for what she might want. “That’s sweet though. That you sent it.”

He’s right. She lights up.

“Thanks! I think letter writing is underappreciated these days, especially for love notes. I’m glad you’re someone who understands that.”

“Yeah,” Jack says, “Dean says old formats are always better. Like tapes, or vinyl. I think that includes letters.”

Harper nods.

“I like a lot of old fashioned things. Like dating! Nobody our age ever wants to go on a date anymore. They all just wanna use ‘apps’” - she makes the quote marks with her fingers - “to ‘hang out.’ It’s terrible. Do you like dating, Jack?”

“I’ve-” never gone on a date, he starts to say, but changes course when he remembers where he is, “I- yes! I like… going on dates.”

[always-andromeda]

·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐓

𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐎𝐄𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ✯ Professor!Sam Winchester x Fem!Reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ✯ 3268

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭 ✯ taboo au + dark academia + “I can see how badly you want this, so I'm going to make sure you get it.”

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ✯ I’ve loved this man literally since I was thirteen…so it’s inevitable that I’d be writing something absolutely fucking filthy for him in my twenties…

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ✯ smut (minors, do not interact), gaps in age and power, mutual masturbation, little bit of panty sniffing, a singular use of Y/N (I'm sorry, I hate it too but it was necessary), usage of pet names (sweetheart), general manipulation, slight praise kink, obvious disclaimer: the dynamic in this fic is just that, fictional, and should not be practiced in real life!! let me know if any other warnings are needed!!

(mdni banner template credit goes to @cafekitsune!!)

You’d rarely had luck receiving any sort of grace from your professors. Sure, there were a select few that only wanted to see you succeed. However, more often than not you seemed to encounter sadists who decided to take their kinks out on exhausted college students. But you were convinced that Professor Winchester wouldn’t be like that.

For starters, he’d always been challenging but never malicious. Despite the fact that you’d registered for his Norse Mythology course with the assumption that it would be easy college credits, you quickly learned that his assignments were difficult. Every week there seemed to be about a hundred pages worth of reading, frequent essays, and an emphasis on class discussion.

Oh, did he love those class discussions. While most were less than enthusiastic to contribute to lengthy examinations of Eddic poetry at eight in the morning, Professor Winchester seemed to be none the wiser of this.

He was always squinting over his thin wire framed glasses, surveying the class. He’d stand at his desk, brushing his long hair behind his ear while looking over papers. When he’d listen he’d purse his lips and tilt his head, expression rife with genuine interest. In all of these moments, he was the most gorgeous. But more than that, you were fascinated with his mind.

Professor Winchester knew this material like the back of his hand; was able to pull references and quotes from various pieces of literature at the drop of a hat. He was the only professor who could ever give notes that were actually helpful on essays and he’d always been generous with handing out extra credit assignments. Which is what you aimed to obtain on this visit to his office.

You looked through the glass of his office door and saw him inside, working diligently at a dark oak wood desk. Taking a deep breath, you turned the doorknob and entered.

The hinges squeezed but Winchester seemed so fixated on whatever was before him that he only raised a finger, indicating for you to wait. So you did. Awkwardly. You rocked slightly on your heels, your stomach starting to twist in time with the movement. God, he looked like a dream lit by the stained glass banker's lamp as he graded papers.

In another world you could see him coming home from a long day, his body warm behind you as he wrapped his arms around your waist. Smelling like black coffee and pencil shavings, you'd adoringly close your eyes, taking in his scent and ask him how his day went. He'd hum in contentment when resting his chin on your head; you're his rock, his soulmate, the reason he stays sane despite dealing with probably hundreds of students and the frustrating dance of academic bureaucracy. 

It's a fantasy that broke the second Winchester glanced up and said with a hint of surprise, "Miss L/N! Come in, have a seat," he nodded towards the chair on the other side of his desk.

Relieved that he can pick you out among the sea of students from his classroom, you move forward until you reach the chair. You set your bag down on the floor and settle into the worn leather of the seat as Winchester eyes you expectantly.

"What can I do for you this afternoon?"

You chew on the inside of your cheek. "Actually, I was hoping that you could help me out with something."

"Oh, what might that be?" he furrowed his brow.

"Um..." you started. "I'm sure you noticed that I didn't do too hot on the last exam."

"Ah, I did," he said simply.

"You did?"

"Yeah, I was surprised, actually." Winchester opened up one of his desk drawers and sorted through some files before pulling out a packet you recognized as the exam you'd taken the week before. "You seem so engaged in class discussion and you've been doing well on everything else. This...this felt rushed. What happened?"

The soft expression of concern on his face only increased your shame. In all honesty, you'd wasted half the exam time away staring at him. He'd worn a red sweater over a cream colored button up that day. Then he'd rolled up the sleeves before handing out the exam papers. It felt stupid to admit that you'd been distracted by his goddamn forearms.

But you had been. You couldn't resist watching him as he'd circled the room, keeping an eye out for cheating. With his arms folded behind his back, you got the best look at the back of him. His long legs clad in khaki. Strong, tanned forearms corded with prominent veins. Shoulder blades pushed back confidently as he walked. Everything about his solid stature had your mind far, far away.

You'd been good at making sure your daydreams wouldn't get the better of you. But this time, before you knew it, Winchester was glancing down at his watch and announcing that you had fifteen minutes left for exam time. You had no choice but to rush through the rest of it, writing down answers that hardly even made sense just to fill in blanks.

Now those answers laid before you, condemning you to a low D– that dragged down your entire grade.

"I honestly couldn't tell you, Professor. I thought I studied enough but I guess not."

Though you'd attempted to laugh off his concern, Winchester obviously wasn't budging. "But these are rookie mistakes. Number fifteen for example. Where do the gods live?"

"Easy. Asgard."

"Right, but here you marked down the answer for Valhalla," he slid the paper around so you could look at the question.

Sure enough, there it was, your frantic pencil marks filling in the bubble for the incorrect answer. Damn.

"And that's just on the multiple choice questions," Winchester continued, flipping through the pages. "You barely followed any of the directions for the long answer questions. Your response to the short essay portion was a paragraph too short. And it was too unfocused."

Unfocused is right, Professor Winchester.

"I hate to say it...but I was a little disappointed."

The sting of tears threatened to spill down your cheeks. So you cleared your throat and blinked them back quickly. Voice trembling, you answered quickly, "I'm sorry, Professor. I wasn't on my game and I thought I'd pay you a visit so I could plead my case. I'm willing to do any kind of extra credit assignment. I don't care how much work it is. I'll do anything to fix my grade because I really want to do well in your class and–"

Winchester raised a hand, urging you to stop. Then he spoke, "Listen, I can see how badly you want this. So I'm going to make sure you get it. Just...let me think."

With that, Winchester rose from his seat and began to gather the papers that littered the surface of his desk. He stacked them neatly before opening a different drawer and laying them inside. After he closed the drawer, he made his way around the desk. You tried not to look at him as he made his way around the room, especially not when you felt his hand brush against the back of your chair. But you couldn't not notice when he drew the shade on his door's window and closed the blinds to his window, leaving the room dim save for the yellow light of his desk lamp.

Once he'd made his round, he returned to his chair and rolled back, leaving a massive gap between himself and the edge of his desk.

Then he did something else you didn't expect.

He patted the wood and said, "Come. Sit on my desk. Let me look at you."

You almost wavered on the direction when he cleared his throat expectantly. That brought you to your feet and compelled you to settle waveringly before him.

With his lips in a tight line, Winchester studied you. He tilted his head every few seconds, letting his eye flicker from your uncertain expression to your body. You sat up a little straighter in an attempt to satisfy his observation of you.

You weren't quite sure what he was doing, but it made you nervous; made you vulnerable in a way you weren't used to.

"I may have one extra credit opportunity that I can offer. Special. Just for you."

"Yeah? What do you want me to do?"

"Well, you can start by spreading your legs."

Your eyes went wide. "Professor Winchester, you're not–"

He cut you off quickly, "First, after office hours, you may call me Sam. Second, I'm not going to touch you. I'm simply asking you to give me a– a presentation," he decided.

"What kind of presentation?" you asked.

Your feigned innocence made the man chuckle softly. "The kind of presentation I'm sure you give in your dormitory bedroom every night."

There wasn't an ounce of jesting on his face, but still you played dumb. "I have no idea what you're referring to, Sam." His name felt foreign yet familiar on your tongue. Probably because you'd whispered it many times before in the exact scenario he'd described.

"I'd hoped you'd tell me the truth about why you were so distracted during your exam. But since you haven't been forthcoming, I guess I have to spell it out for you, haven't I?"

You swallowed hard and blinked nervously.

"You thought I wouldn't notice, did you?" he chuckles again. "It's hard not to notice when one of your students, especially one so beautiful, is practically drooling all over their table."

The scraps of flattery were evidently working on you as Sam smiled when you fiddled with your fingers in your lap as your skin got all warm and tingly. So he kept going.

"Besides, you're too intelligent to do this terribly on something you should've aced. Maybe you wanted to fail it. You wanted to get my attention, didn't you?"

"Oh, no, I wasn't trying to waste your time, I was just–"

"You weren't wasting my time. Wasting your time is continuing this pointless back and forth when you could instead be proving yourself."

"Proving myself?"

"Yes. Spread those legs...and earn your grade," he ordered.

Breathing in and out slowly, you did what you were asked. The knots in your stomach told you this was wrong. But the smile of approval that slowly grew on Sam's lips said that this was exactly what you both needed. 

You'd never been more embarrassed to be wearing a skirt. One the fabric pooled around your hips, it only framed the damp patch on your underwear. Perhaps part of you had wanted something like this to happen. Because your pussy was already pulsing after simply being observed behind the cotton curtain that soaked up her anticipation.

"Very good," Sam breathed out.

"What do I do now?" you asked.

"Just...play with her. Show me what you like to do to make her happy."

You nodded, then pursed your lips as you thought. If you were going to present to him...you might as well go all out. So you shifted each of your thighs around, pulling down your underwear until your bare ass was planted on the desk and the garment was caught on one of your ankles. You lifted your left and held it out gently, the panty hanging in the air a little below Sam's face.

"Take them," you said. "Visual aid."

He smirked lazily at the offering before pulling them over your shoe, being careful not to actually touch you. Sam balled them up before bringing them to his nose and slowly breathing in the scent. You could tell he enjoyed it thoroughly as he let out a deep sigh from within his chest.

"With how wet these are...it's good to know you were prepared even for a surprise presentation. I knew there was a reason you're my favorite."

His words went straight to your cunt as a few drops of slick leaked from your hole and landed on the dark wood beneath you.

"Go on," Sam urged, gaze flickering to the drops of you on his desk. "She's waiting. And so am I."

You began to treat yourself with the same level of care as you did when you were alone. One of your hands reached up your shirt and you cupped one of your tits. You kneaded the flesh for a few seconds before focusing on the nipple, pinching it until it pebbled and poked through your shirt. The action made your breathing turn ragged. 

You finally let your other hand travel south, bringing warmth to the soft skin of your thighs. Wanting better access to yourself, you pulled your leg up, resting a foot on the desk itself. Then you reclined back and let your fingers roam where they wanted.

Using two fingers, you spread your outer lips, only exposing yourself to Sam’s scrutiny even further. The cool air hitting your most vulnerable part, you shivered as goosebumps erupted across your skin. You looked up at him, gauging his approval of your performance.

“You’re doing so well already, keep going,” he encouraged, hardly concealing the arousal that clung thickly to his tone.

You took the praise with pride. It emboldened you enough to slip your two fingers between your folds to gather up some of the slick. You couldn’t help but feel mortified as you involuntarily gasped when your digits brushed slightly against your clit.

Sam let a quick puff of air out his nose. “Sensitive?”

“Mhmmm,” you whined.

“Bet you can’t even touch that pretty clit directly without crying, huh?”

You nodded.

“Then be gentle. I want you to last for me.”

You took that to mean that he didn’t want you touching yourself there yet. So instead you switched to focusing on your entrance. It wasn’t often that you went straight for penetration. Rarely did it bring the kind of relief you craved.

But you had the feeling that Sam would want to see it; to see your fingers filling yourself up and stretching you out.

With your fingers practically pruning already, you pushed one in ever so slowly. It took a second to adjust to the slight pressure, but still you began to carefully pump. The slick squelch only intensified when you slipped another one in and sped up your movements.

Though the pressure increased and built up tension in your belly, you could already tell it wasn’t going to go anywhere. You bucked your hips pathetically against your own hand, trying to get deep enough to hit your g-spot. But no matter how far you tried to probe, it was useless. Your fingers simply weren’t long enough.

Your eyes went wind, catching sight of something that most likely could reach that spot inside you. While you’d been fucking yourself, your professor had undone the button and the zipper on his pants and slipped himself out. There he sat, your panties in his hand and wrapped around the thick length of his cock. The angry red tip poked up and out of the fabric with each slow thrust. And you could already tell based on how long his strokes were that you’d most likely be able to feel him poking against your belly from inside you. The idea made you moan and throw your head back.

Sam swiftly reprimanded you, “Ah, remember your eye contact. I want you to look at me.”

Shame spread over your body. What the fuck was going on? Were you really fingering yourself on his desk right next to papers that he was surely going to return to students? Was Sam really fisting his own cock with your underwear? And were you actually enjoying this?

“Sweetheart,” Sam’s self control faltered slightly with the name. But it grabbed your attention nonetheless. “I need you to look at me. Let me look into your eyes when you make yourself come on my desk, alright?”

This was about more than fixing your grade. This was about pleasing him…by pleasing yourself. And as you returned his look, you were all in.

Under his watchful, half lidded, hazel eye you allowed yourself to focus on your aching clit which laid in wait like a pearl beneath the hood of skin covering it. Carefully, you pulled that hood back before lightly spreading some of your slick with a finger. You let the skin settle back in place over the sensitive nub before going straight to work.

You began to rub slow circles on the hood and finally properly moaned. It took only a few seconds for the muscle memory of your nightly ritual to kick in as the pleasure started to mount. Finally, all of that pressure in your core had some actual weight to it; a weight that was already beginning to roll in shallow waves over your whole being.

"There you go, sweetheart. Let me hear you loud and clear. Don't wanna miss a single sound from you," Sam groaned and you caught how the grip he had on himself tightened, how his pace quickened.

While rolling your hips against your hand, you pulled up a side of your shirt, exposing even more of yourself to him. Now he could easily see one of your tits rise and fall with your staggered breaths. He could see how the ball of fat dimpled under your fingertips as you squeezed and pulled at your hardened nipple.

Both sources of simulation had you whimpering breathlessly, "Sam, I-I'm so close– Let me come, please?"

Sam glared and asked through gritted teeth, "That's not my name. What do you call me in class?"

"Professor?"

Sam nodded darkly.

You took the cue quickly and begged helplessly, "Please, professor, please let me come–" you were cut off by the sound of your pleasure starting to push you over the edge. 

Sam left you teetering, staring right over the border of this boundary. That boundary being an ethical nightmare that you had no clue how you'd navigate. But you wanted to be good for him; you craved his approval.

And thankfully, Sam gave it as he groaned, "There you go, good girl. You can come, you've got permission."

With that, you arched off the desk and burst with glorious clarity. A thin stream of your arousal drooled from your entrance as you rubbed yourself through the enormous implosions and the small aftershocks that followed. Your head was heavy with the fog of pleasure and you wanted to hang it back, give it a break.

But still, you were determined to keep your eyes on him, even as you pulled your fingers away from your trembling cunt and stuck them in your mouth. Your tongue swirled around the wrinkled digits, soaking up every bit of yourself that you could.

Any sort of professionalism Sam had been trying to maintain up until that point shattered completely when he rolled his chair forwards. Closer to you now, you looked down into his soft eyes and watched how his normally objective stare went personal; emotional. He looked at you with the kind of admiration that made your heart flutter with pride.

He took his hand, placed it on your knee, and spread your legs further. His touch was so light, so soft that you could help feeling electricity dance along your spine.

"I thought you said you wouldn't touch me?" you whispered, only a hint of a smug smile tugging at your lips.

Choosing his words as carefully as ever, he explained, "That was before I decided that you needed some of my...guidance."

[valleydean]

Chapter 14 [Read Here]

CHAMPION Part III of Heavyweight a deancas boxing au by valleydean (emmbrancsxx0) read from the beginning | playlist

SUMMARY: Brooklyn, 1933. Dean Winchester, the number one contender, trains to become the next Heavyweight Champion of the World, and this time he won't let anything get in his way. Title holder Castiel Novak has second thoughts about retiring, especially when someone from his past arrives in New York and asks for his help. Meanwhile, a new contender rises to fame and threatens to complicate both of Dean and Cas' ambitions - and their relationship.

CHAPTER PREVIEW:

“I’m going to get a drink,” he said. To everyone but Dean: “Would anyone like anything?”

Everyone shook their heads, and Charlie said, “No, thank you.”

Cas shot Dean another heated look before walking away. And no way was Dean letting him slip away that easily. He grabbed his whiskey and knocked back the rest of it in one go just to have an excuse to go to the bar. The burn of the liquor made his throat close up. It got stuck in his chest, right over his heart. His head swam.

“I’m gettin’ another one,” he announced.

“No, Dean, come on,” Sam tried.

Dean ignored him. “Anyone want?”

“Still no,” Jo said, but Dean was already walking away.

Sam tried calling Dean’s name again, only to throw up his hands in defeat.

Dean sidled up to the bar and pressed his shoulder against Cas’. Cas didn’t look at him, but his body locked up and his profile shifted, all pinched lips and jutting jaw. Dean waved one of the bartenders over and said, “Bourbon. Neat. Thanks.”

“What do you want, Dean?” Cas asked, his posture curled in and his elbows on top of the bar. He still wasn’t looking at Dean, but at least he was acknowledging him. Dean could work with that.

He turned toward Cas and leaned one arm against the bar. His chest brushed up against Cas’ elbow. “Another drink, for starters,” he answered smartly. “After that? You admitting you were wrong might hit the spot.”

Finally, Cas turned his glower toward him.

He looked good tonight. His hair was tamed of its loose curls with gel, and his blazer stretched across his broad shoulders. His stubble was darker than he usually wore it—and he knew that Dean loved it like that because the scratch felt delicious against his skin. Not to mention, it accentuated Cas’ jawline.

Dean licked his lips and dragged his teeth across the bottom one, mesmerized, forgetting himself. The sound of the music and chatter around them was a hollow, constant warbling that sounded alien to his inebriated mind. He could only focus on Cas.

“What would be the point?” Cas asked, knocking Dean back into reality.

Dean cleared his throat into his fist to right himself. He reminded himself he was mad at Cas. “Point would be to end this stupid fight.”

The point would be moving past all of this crap. It would be Dean coming back home.

Cas shook his head in a rueful, minuscule movement before looking forward again. “If the past has taught me anything, it’s that apologizing will have no effect on you whatsoever. No matter how much I mean it.”

Dean barked out a bitter laugh, because that was just bullshit. Dean didn’t even know what Cas was talking about, but it didn’t matter. It was probably just another excuse Cas had cooked up. “You could try.”

“No, Dean.” Cas turned bodily toward him, putting his face too close to Dean’s. And not close enough. “I could get on my knees and beg, and it wouldn’t make a difference.”

Now, that was an idea. Dean was very interested in seeing Cas in that particular position. It made some of his blood rush down to his dick.

“You saying you wanna get on your knees for me?” he taunted.

Cas opened his mouth—then slammed it shut, like he’d expected an argument and belatedly realized what Dean had insinuated. It was fun, watching him flounder like that. The anxiety Dean had been feeling a second ago turned into anticipation because, for the briefest flash, Cas looked like he was considering it.

But then he breathed out and dropped his shoulders dejectedly. “You’re trying to get a rise out of me.”

If Dean got him alone, he was pretty sure he could get something else to rise. Maybe Cas’ dick; maybe a welt on his handsome face.

“I’m not taking the bait like I did when we were younger. It’s asinine,” Cas told him. “We’re at our friend’s birthday, Dean. We can be civil, or you can stop talking to me.”

All the humor drained out of Dean, leaving hostility behind. And something else, too. Something circling the drain but refusing to go down.

Just be with me again, he wanted to say. Don’t you miss me half as much as I miss you?

He could practically feel the words pressing down on his tongue, but he didn’t want to say them. Because, as always, Cas was reticent in the face of Dean’s abject misery.

Dean resisted the urge to thumb at his ring.

“I bet you’d like it if I never talked to you again, huh?” Dean challenged, if only for Cas to tell him he was wrong. “That what you want?”

Before Cas could answer, the bartender returned with Dean’s whiskey and Cas’ Rob Roy.

Cas snatched up his drink and turned to Dean again. “It doesn’t matter what I want,” he growled through his teeth, and it looked like Dean had finally managed to get that rise out of him after all. “You made it abundantly clear that your wants are what’s important in this relationship.” He shoved past Dean, checking him with his shoulder. With finality, he added, “Excuse me.”

Dean sneered, drink clutched in his fist, as he watched Cas walk purposefully toward where Eileen and Jo were chatting at the table. Everyone else had dispersed. The whole way there, Cas didn’t look back once. Even now, he kept his sturdy back to Dean.

[soullessjack]

good morning everypony here is my overly long caffeinated autistic analysis of the end scene from 14x19 ^_^

so for starters,

Jack’s glowy-archangel-eye color is canonically **gold.** not yellow like the princes of hell or shifters, but **gold.** Very shimmery, very sunshiny and starry and warm. yellow and gold are also the colors/aesthetics associated with jack most often in the fandom because of this so it’s his Thing™️ . however, in the smoky fiery background, they appear to be glowing so intently that they start to become a little…red …like Lucifer’s eyes so poignantly glow. the background is also extremely red (courtesy of the bunker going into lockdown, effectively *caging* them in), of course with some orangish yellows from the fire, but it’s very … “Lucifer in the background of Jack.”

secondly, jack is almost completely obscured by all of the smoke and backdrop fire/lockdown alarm lighting. if you zoom in close enough you can just barely see the white stripes on his cuffs, but otherwise he has absolutely no discernible features besides his glowing-out-of-skull eyes. he’s unrecognizable, vaguely human, but the prominent and most visible trait is the one he inherited from his nonhuman father, Lucifer, whose shadow he was pretty much born in and fought to get out of.

He feels nothing here but “icy hatred” and “fury,” and later on after he leaves he visits his grandparents specifically because “it’s clear—rejected by sam and dean—Jack’s looking for some kind of connection. Some kind of family.”

Lastly, of course, the utter destruction surrounding him; the twisted scrap metal remaining of his coffin, the numerous tiny fires that sprung from its’ demolition, the smoke that fills the entire dungeon so much that it engulfs and obscures Jack’s very being; it’s a very small scale of destruction compared to the “universe devouring” he was hyped up to deliver, but destruction nonetheless—and destruction in its own furious vengeful right, born from a deep sense of grief and pain of rejection and, like Fenrir, lashing out at being treated like a monster by those who you believe loved you; coming full circle into becoming that very monster in the process.

At his core, Jack’s base desires have almost always been to belong and have a family and be loved, especially for who he is, but he is also deeply afraid that ‘who he is’ is something evil and unlovable, something that can only ever destroy and ruin and take away; something that should die for the greater good of the world. he builds up a very specific well-mannered and optimistic hero/protector persona, not just to appear normal, but to be someone he thinks is “good” and useful and therefore worth loving, and the core fear of his “true nature” manifests as an avoidance of anything being ‘wrong’ with him in any capacity.

he lashes out at Mary over this direct fear, because she says something is wrong with him, and he can’t even cope with that with a soul. he tries to reassure Mary that “[he’s] not any different, that [he’s] still [himself]” and becomes defensive when she says otherwise; “the jack she knows would never have done that,” which, in his state of mind and rooted insecurity, would very easily translate into “you are not the person I know,” and likely goes even further to “you are not the person I know and love.” Mary insists on helping him, but Jack “shuts down; knows there’s nothing anyone can do.” He tells her that she can’t [help him] and just wants to be left alone as he begins spiraling, and we of course know the rest.

But afterwards, throughout Jack’s psychosis, Hallucifer basically tells him that he’s useless to the winchesters now, and useless = unlovable = not worth saving to them. He calls Jack their “pet monster,” “muscle to take out their enemies,” and just “pet,” diminishing Jack’s place in the family as their surrogate son (and likewise, them as his surrogate fathers), and reinforcing that he’s still a monster to them, and one that’s only valued or “loved” for his power. vocalizing his subconscious fear. He also taunts Jack’s obsessive motivation to resurrect Mary and, presumably earn forgiveness/regain his place in the family, as pathetic; not just a pointless effort to fix the unfixable, but something he shouldn’t even care about or want anymore, because he doesn’t really belong there anyways. The grief he feels for Mary is “just a reflex” from having a soul, not a genuine emotion or motivation that Jack still has; it’s not really about her, it’s about him being loved again. all of which Jack responds to with increasingly agitated “Shut ups.” And remember, that these are literally Jack’s own thoughts; his intrusive thoughts and long-held insecurities.

much like when Michael said he’d become more powerful and less human as he got older, and Jack “didn’t want to admit it was possible,” — he’s afraid to admit the possibility that he’s doing this selfishly; that he’ll never be loved again, that he was never really loved to begin with; that this is it. This is his true nature, the evil and destructive and pathetic unlovable pet monster that’s only good for being shown an enemy and told “sic-’em, boy.” he’s afraid that he might be doing this selfishly and is adamant that it’s because he really loves Mary. he really wants her back, too. he also goes and does those biblical atrocity murders with the same motivation, so much so that it actually irritates Duma to see he still cares lmao.

it’s a horrible culmination of grief and fear from the same root place, a horrible desire to be loved. to desire is to suffer and such. and that specific obsessive grief-stricken desire to be loved is intimately what twists jack into that unrecognizable rage-filled shadow.

jack’s desire to be loved and his fear of becoming/always being an unlovable monster is ultimately what drove him to becoming that monster.

@dakrapatops @dragonsareattackinghogwarts @aurorasleepsin @shallowseeker @jvnkless @ / anyone else I forgot lol

[normaltothemax]

@parameddic liked this for a starter

“Look, I know you’re just doing your job, but I’m fine. I don’t need medical attention.”

Never mind that a particularly nasty tackle in gym class had jolted his already cracked ribs and had left him wheezing on the ground, unable to get a proper breath in for ages. Never mind that he hit his head when he fell and it’d been gushing blood (headwounds bled a lot, it didn’t mean anything, and Sam was pretty sure he didn’t even have a concussion). Never mind that, even now, he was holding himself carefully and not breathing too deeply to avoid jostling his ribs any further, or that he was cradling his left arm to his chest because he’d definitely done something to mess up his wrist.

Sam didn’t need anyone looking at him too closely. He didn’t need anyone seeing the bruises or wrapped ribs or new scars. He didn’t need anyone jumping to conclusions and thinking he was being abused when he wasn’t. He didn’t need anyone calling CPS on his dad, again. “I just got the wind knocked out of me. Mr. Harrison is freaking out over nothing.”

[downs1de-has-moved]

PLAYLIST BASED STARTERS

@fellandfeathers → Rose-Colored Boy / Paramore

"You say we gotta look on the bright side..."

"I say: Well, maybe if you wanna go blind."

[s4memistake]

SAM W1NCHESTER-DAVIS TAG DROP (2/2)

[dreammakcr]

@reiignonme liked this post for a starter from // sam winchester

"It looks worse than it is," he sighed, removing the cloth from his wound to inspect it before pressing it to the blood again.

[arcane-vagabond]

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🕊️ My Masterlist

🕊️ My FAQ!

🕊️ I currently write female reader-insert fics as well almost exclusively AUs (Alternate Universes). I try to make my fics as inclusive as possible, but I understand that I will fall short of this at times. The moodboards I make for the heroines of my stories are based off of vibes only, but the reader characters themselves will not have physical attributes save for something like hair length.

🕊️ I mainly write for Jake "Hangman" Seresin, but I write for other TGM characters as well from time to time. I have also started writing for the Twisters fandom, and have been thinking about venturing into writing for the MCU.

🕊️ Writing Updates: I do not currently have a posting schedule. This is mainly because my job/life are pretty hectic and I never know when the mood or time to update will strike me.

🕊️ Taglists: I no longer do taglists. If you would like to be notified of when I post fic updates, drabbles, moodboards, or polls, please head over to my sideblog: @arcanevagabond-library and turn on post notifications!

🕊️ Requests are currently: Closed!

🕊️ I love talking about things with you all, so please feel free to send in any thoughts/thots, conversations starters, or whatever at any time! I especially love it when it's about my fics!

🕊️ I happily accept gifs, photos, videos, moodboards, fanart etc., anything that reminds you of one of my fics, AUs, or characters.

🕊️ I do NOT consent to have my work posted, translated or published to any third party site or app. If anyone sees my work anywhere but here or AO3 under the username sailor_aviator, it has been reposted without my permission.

🕊️ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

I will write: Smut, Fluff, Angst (within reason), light, soft!dark, dark!, AUs (there's not much I won't do), age difference (both adults), threesome, reverse harem, dubcon, consensual non-consent, Dom/Sub, cockwarming, praise, praise and degradation, breeding, chase, power imbalance, choking, knife play, bondage, edging, overstimulation, A/B/O, and I'm sure there's more. Just ask!

I will NOT write: Real Person Fic (RPF), age regression, pedophilia, bestiality, necrophilia, incest, race play, underage scenarios, scat play, piss kink, cheating between "main" couple, accidental pregnancy, miscarriage, Taylor Swift inspired fic.

Who I'll write for:

🕊️ TGM Characters: Jake "Hangman" Seresin, Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, Javy "Coyote" Machado, and Mickey "Fanboy" Garcia

🕊️ Twisters Characters: Tyler Owens, Boone, Javi, and Scott

🕊️ Misc. Characters: Soldier Boy, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, and more to come!

Happy reading, y'all!