#Lol SPN writing

[mxltifxnd0m]

cute glasses ◦◦ d. winchester

summary: your eyes are dry because of your contacts, so you have no choice but to put your glasses on

pairings: established dean winchester x reader, dean winchester x gn! reader

word count: 1.3K

warnings: none really, no use of 'y/n', major fluff, some insecure thoughts, but mainly fluff

a/n: first official fic for dean!! also this was intentionally written as a blurb but as always, it seems i have more write than intended lol

please reblog and comment, i love to see your thoughts!

𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵

You had to fight the temptation to rub your eyes as you stared hard at your laptop, the screen emitting a blue light that was beginning to give you a headache alongside the dryness of your contacts as you sat at the table in the motel room. You blinked hard multiple times, trying to bring moisture to your contacts and find some relief from the dryness, but nothing was working.

You were still dressed in the FBI garb you had put on in the morning when you and Dean were going to the station to gather information on the hunt the two of you were working. Sam would have joined the two of you, but he had come down with a cold, and Dean forced him to stay back at the bunker while the two of you would work the hunt.

You glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand, seeing that 10 minutes had passed since Dean went out to get dinner for you two. You threw your head back with a groan, feeling the soreness in your shoulders as you sat down and hunched over your laptop, researching for hours on end.

You stood up from the seat and stretched out your limbs like a cat waking up from a nap and stalking over to your bag to grab your pajamas and glasses, and headed to the bathroom to take a quick shower and get comfortable.

You jumped into the shower and rinsed off the day. After showering, you took out the dry contacts that were irritating your eyes, put them back into their case, and let out a sigh of relief when you blinked, and moisture was restored to your eyes.

You put on your glasses and strolled back into the room to find Dean sitting at the table and pulling the food out of the takeout bag.

"Took you long enough, sweetheart. I got us Chinese since there was a place I saw when driving in an-" He stopped talking as you crossed the room to see what he ordered.

"And what?" You asked him, looking at him with furrowed brows as you took in Dean's stunned expression, his mouth agape as his eyes flickered around and all over your face.

"You have glasses." Dean pointed out, blinking slowly as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

You raised an eyebrow at him. "Uh, yeah I do."

"Since when?"

"Since I was a freshman in high school." You told him as casually as you could, not wanting to make a big deal out of you wearing glasses.

"How come I've never seen you with them on?" Dean asked you with knitted brows.

"Err…" You trailed off. You didn't really want the boys to know you had glasses since you could be considered a liability if anything were to happen to your contacts or glasses. But hey, you've managed this long hunting with them, and you haven't died yet because of them. You just didn't want the boys to look down on you because you had them, and they could potentially hinder you in hunts.

"I wear contacts, and I try to keep them in for as long as I can until I can get back to my room and put my glasses on." You finally explained with a sheepish smile as you rubbed the back of your neck.

Dean's face turned into one of realization. "Is that why I sometimes feel you slip out of bed and then come back a couple of minutes later?"

You felt your face flush with heat as you nodded in response. Dean chuckled lightly at your embarrassment and leaned in to kiss your forehead. Then, a chaste peck on your lips before turning back to the food.

"You're not gonna ask me why I kept this from you?" You asked, confusion coloring your words as you saw him sit down in front of your closed laptop and dig into one of the takeout boxes with a plastic fork.

"Do you want me to?" Dean questioned through a mouthful of chow mein.

"Uh, not really. I was just ready for you to go all Spanish inquisition on me." You sat down across from him and looked through the takeout boxes before opening one of them to find the orange chicken.

Dean swallowed the food he was chewing. "Look, you had your reasons, and yeah, I have many questions about them but right now I just want to stare at you with them on."

You raised an eyebrow at him again. "You like them?"

"Yeah," He shrugged. "You look beautiful with or without them on." Dean reached across the table and traded chow mein for the orange chicken box in your hands.

You smiled at him, feeling your cheeks flush with heat again before huffing an amused breath through your nose. You narrowed your eyes at him as you leaned forward, taking Dean, who was still in his FBI suit, minus the jacket, tie, and a few of the buttons on his shirt unbuttoned.

"The glasses are doing something for you aren't they?" You teased him as you took a bite of the chow mein.

"Yeah, you have this sexy librarian thing going on. Could only imagine how much hotter you would have been if you left your FBI suit on." Dean's mouth pulled into a coy smirk, his green eyes alight with mischief and desire.

You chuckled as you shook your head. "Of course, you'd be into that."

Dean shrugged again as he popped a piece of orange chicken in his mouth.

Later, when the two of you finished eating and did a little more research and while you were doing your skincare, a sliver of worry still sat with you as you thought about how this would affect Dean and hunting. When you climbed into bed with Dean and placed your glasses on the nightstand, your world got a little blurry, but you could still see Dean's slight smile on his face as he pulled you into his side, wrapping an arm around your waist.

Dean pressed a warm kiss on your forehead. "What's going on in that pretty head of yours?" He asked lowly, his voice laced with care and fatigue.

"S'nothing." You shook your head.

"Come on, don't like seeing you like this before we go to bed." Dean squeezed your waist.

You sighed before propping your chin on his chest. "Just concerned that you might worry about me because of my bad eyesight."

Dean looked at you before leaning forward to press another kiss to your forehead and brought his hand to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against the soft skin. You leaned into his warm touch, pressing a kiss into his palm.

"I'm always going to worry about you," He started, pausing before finding his following words.

"But you've been hunting with your contacts and glasses for a long time before you met me, and you've been able to keep up with me and Sam without us knowing. I don't care that you have glasses or contacts because you're still a damn good hunter."

You smiled at his words before leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss against Dean's full lips. Dean kissed you just as softly as you pressed your lips against yours and chased your lips as you pulled away.

You rested your forehead against his. "Thank you." You whispered, your lips brushing against his as you did.

"No problem, sweetheart. Let's get to bed, we've got a bastard to hunt."

You chuckled softly at his words and pressed a quick kiss on his lips before settling beside him and melting into his side as you guys slowly fell asleep, finding that your dreams were filled with Dean's joyous laughter and playful kisses.

[today-in-the-bunker]

Today, Dean and Jack spend the majority of the day baking cookies, half the batches for them and half for their holiday party's attendees. After a few hours of labor, they are finally able to sit back and enjoy looking at the tower of cookie tins on the table in front of them. They move to the Dean Cave, where they reconvene with Sam and Cas, who were doing some last minute shopping, to enjoy the cookies and watch Sam's favorite holiday movie, It's a Wonderful Life. Cas enjoys the movie, but isn't sure how to feel about its angel representation.

[winchestermylove]

having thoughts about mutual masturbation with sam and dean.. them being so casual about it because it's not sex, they're just doing something fun together, sharing another part of their lives. it's not like they're touching each other or anything.

they start late one night at a motel, sam thinks dean's asleep, hears his shallow, even breaths. he doesn't want to get up and go to the bathroom to take care of his little issue in fear of dean hearing and waking up and questioning him. so, he stays on his side facing the wall, keeping his movements as slow as possible to prevent himself from making too much noise.

he doesn't even bother slipping his cock out of his boxers, just shoves his hand in and starts with tentative strokes, swiping his thumb over his slit on every other pass.

he doesn't even mean to, but his thoughts begin to wander to dean in the bed next to his, what his hand would feel like on his own dick, what kind of sounds he'd make, how his hot mouth would make him feel. he tried to push them down, down into that dark space in the back of his brain, where they could never surface. he thought of pretty girls he'd seen on tv, all smooth skin and long hair, he thought of the women in the skin mags he used to have as a teen, hidden away at the bottom of his duffel, he even thought of jess,, anything to keep his mind away from the sleeping body in the bed adjacent to his own.

sam speeds up his pace, using his thumb to pick up the bead of precum forming on his tip to drag down his length. soon, against his efforts, his mind wandered back to his big brother, what it would be like to have dean on top of him, grinding down, kissing down his neck, whispering sweet nothings into his ear.

before he knew it, sam was climbing closer to the edge, having to turn his face into the pillow to muffle his heavy breaths and stop himself from letting out a whine. he began pulling harder and faster on his cock, desperate to reach the edge and release himself.

sam heard himself inhale sharply. only he didn't feel it. and it sounded like it came from somewhere else in the room, not his own mouth. oh. oh god. he ceased his movements and held his breath, then turned his head around to face the rest of the room.

his eyes met another pair, glistening in the dark from the bed opposite. dean is facing him, unmoving but very clearly understands what sam is doing.

"sammy."

"dean. o-oh my god, dean. i-i'm so sorry, i didn't-" sam panics. this can't be happening right now. he pulls his hand out of his boxers as he sits up, his cheeks burning with humiliation and the remnants of lust.

"sammy." dean follows sams movements and sits up as well, the duvet falling down to his waist from where it was previously hiked up over his shoulders, revealing his bare chest.

"sammy, it's okay, man. stop freaking out."

sam can't even meet deans eyes. his own are beginning to glisten over with unshed tears as he twists his fingers in his lap. this turns out to be a mistake, as when sam looks down at deans lap, he notices that he's sporting a hard-on of his own.

sam's eyes widen, and he looks back up at dean's. dean shifts back until he's leaned up against the headboard, sliding out from under the duvet, exposing his boxer-clad thighs. thighs that sam was thinking unholy thoughts about moments before.

"s' okay, sammy. this doesn't have to be weird." dean's hand reaches down his toned belly to his boxers, resting his hand upon the bulge residing there.

"what-" sam's still stunned, things moving too fast for him to comprehend.

"s' okay sammy. there's nothin' wrong. 's just us."

dean's eyes are on sam's the entire time, and when he reaches into his boxers to cup himself, something inside sam snaps into place.

"fuck." sam sharply inhales as his brain catches up with the occurring events. he leans himself back against his own headboard, his head tilted toward dean and his eyes never leaving the older's.

"dean."

's just us, sammy." dean's hand is moving now, sam can see it through the darkness of the room, the faint moonlight from the window illuminating dean's form.

"god, dean." sam's own hand once again reaches back down into his boxers, his cock back to almost full hardness. he gasps, already way too close to the edge.

his eyes meet dean's, and sam whispers, "just us."

dean's pumping his cock faster now, breathing picking up into soft huffs as he gets himself closer to release.

sam isn't going to last much longer, already strung up from his earlier activities, and his senses are heightened with dean right next to him, watching. he swipes his thumb across his head again, and he's a goner.

"fuck, dean, i-" sam whines.

"you gonna come, sammy?" dean's almost there too, just needs a little more to push him over the edge. "you're so close, aren't you, baby? c'mon, sammy, do it for me, huh? come for your big brother, sammy."

dean's words ring through sam's ears and his grip tightens on his dick. sam's body tenses, he see's stars as he spasms and whines through his climax. his load shoots into his boxers and make his hand slippery for his last few strokes.

"oh, dean, oh my-fuck."

sam's release triggers dean's, and he comes with a shout, stringing together words that sound like, "that's it sammy, that's a good boy. fuck, sammy, my good boy." sam is still experiencing aftershocks and dean shoots streaks of come into his own boxers.

the only sound that can be heard in the room is heavy panting from both of the brothers.

"shit, sam. we need to do that more often." dean shoots sam a lopsided grin through the darkness, and sam sends one back, his breath beginning to even out.

"agreed."

the pair sleeps soundly that night, sated and genuinely relaxed for the first time in what feels like forever. in the morning, they don't talk about it, but share a look of understanding as they step outside for breakfast. no words need to be shared between the two.

the following night, dean sends sam one look and he's shoving his jeans down his hips, already at an agreement.

it's never weird and i think sam and dean do this every night.

[teencopandthesourwolf]

Stiles Stilinski is hard work. A menace, some say—and they're not always far wrong. Honestly, the kid's crazy can be a real challenge to circumnavigate, his behaviour a fucking nightmare to wrangle most of the time, and Derek loves, loves, loves, him.

[incesthemes]

the way i look at supernatural, there's a slight but monumental difference in how sam and dean see themselves. it's the difference between guilt and shame.

sam sees himself as containing something evil, something bad inside of him that is compelling him to do harm. and he literally does have something inside him—the demon blood that shapes his destiny. sam prays for salvation and redemption and he believes he can be saved because the thing inside of him can be taken out, and if it's taken out he can be good again.

dean sees himself as being something evil, an inherently bad person whose very existence causes harm. dean represses himself and his individuality because he doesn't trust himself to make his own decisions, because those decisions will inevitably be harmful. he resigns himself to a life of killing and harm, and he can't be saved because you can't extricate the evil from his very being.

sam does evil, and dean is evil. and this slight difference is symbolized even in their mythological roles: sam is lucifer's vessel, dean is michael's sword. containing vs being.

[morallygreyintrovert]

I have enough supernatural fic ideas to keep me going for the next decade

Also I know this has definitely already be done and I’m late to the party but I was so proud of myself when I thought of it sooooo…

[galaxythreads]

Foegive me of this is a question you've answered in the past but, what are your thoughts on the scene at the beginning of Avengers 1 where Loki sort of doubles over/trips on his way out of the SHIELD base and it's never addressed?

Also thoughts on the canonicity of various myths to the MCU Loki backstory?

no worries, I don't mind answering questions twice. My blog is long and tales tales, so I understand if people don't want to hunt for answers and just reask stuff.

as far as your question goes,

SCREAMING SCREAMING SCREAMING. Do you KNOW how much I LOVE that SCENE (the answer is no because I haven't talked about it) but I LOVE THAT SCENE! That is THE scene to me. I love everything about how carefully it's handled because what you have to look for is SUBTEXT here, because the Avengers was written in a way that forces you to think. It doesn't lay everything out for you, it's intended you come to your own conclusions.

The Avengers trusts you and that is a very strange thing for media now. It's pretty rare to find one that doesn't treat you like an idiot.

Breaking this down:

The first frame with Loki is of him kneeling. That is the first thing we learn about him. I want you guys to remember that the introduction of a character is HUGE. It tells us the most important things for us to know about that character right now

So what do we need to know about Loki RIGHT THEn. Right at the start of the movie?

he's smart. He opened the portal with the Tesseract, from across space, and teleported himself to another planet. This is something no one has replicated (using an infinity stone from across space). Loki is said to "know it's workings like they never will" which says a lot about him.

Loki was GIVEN the scepter by the Chitauri, but if you watch that opening opening scene, it looks more like it's being forced on him than him GLADLY taking it. (There's this half second where the Other waits to make sure Loki is actually going to hold it. Loki doesn't reach for it until he has to. One of the most powerful objects in existence and it practically has to be shoved into his hands) Look how close their bodies are. Like bro???

-okay, then Loki comes through the portal and he is KNEELING. so the first, and I mean the VERY FIRST thing we need to know about Loki is that he is in the subservience of someone/thing else. This gif below is artwork of that moment, but still. Like. who do you think he's kneeling TO? Well, the opening scene of the Avengers showcases that the Other is kneeling to Thanos, Ergo, using the subtext trust that the director/writers have given us, that means Loki was kneeling to Thanos before he came through the portal.

And then, Loki comes out like a hunted animal, but he legitimately does not remember he's holding the scepter until Fury points it out to him. You can see him look down at it in confusion. And okay, WHY is he confused? I remember watching this for the first time at 14 and going huh, that's kinda weird he forgot he had the weapon. What this is trying to tell us is that this is not a familiar weapon to Loki AND -- it is doing something to him. It's emitting that same misty thing that it does when Loki possesses someone later. That wispy smoke is always so interesting to me because of the implications. The scepter doesn't do that unless it is FRESHLY possessing someone. And what do we know about Loki TWO SECONDS AGO?

he was kneeling to thanos.

Anyway, so Loki gives his name, is not a well man, and the scene you're actually referring to is this one:

which GETS ME EVERY TIME. I could talk aout this scene for hours. The implications of it. (Also if you've read my work YSFSLWFTCA, that man who grabs Loki's back is Nathan Swenson ;)

So I've been getting professional acting training for about 6-7 months now and one thing I have learned is that nothing makes it in the movie by accident. The director has to approve it, the editor, the producer, up the whole food chain. This was not Tom Hiddleston sneezing and then them keeping it in the movie because it's funny. So this was put in on purpose. They WANTED you to know that Loki isn't okay. And a scene like this would get like what? idk 3-6 takes at a minimum, which means that they flimed this ON PURPOSE 3-6 times. Tom Hiddleston was instructed to do this ON PURPOSE. That guy who approaches Loki's back was told to do that ON PURPOSE. Loki was supposed to be shown to be a mess physically. Like. Then they go and KEEP doing this later, when Loki can't get into the car and can barely keep himself upright. Loki doesn't start to look "okay" until Germany and even then he's not doing amazing.

What's interesting to me, beyond the obvious implications toward bodily harm - torture! :) - is the timing. Loki immediately topples when Clint hands the Tesseract to Selvig. There's something about Clint doing that that seems to cause him physical pain. That could be a coincidence, and I bet it is because it's not brought up again in the movie that the Tesseract exchanging hands gives Loki physical pain, but it is interesting.

Another interesting point is that Clint looks away, Selvig doesn't care, but that sheild agent Immediately moves up to put his hand on Loki's back to support him. And Loki doesn't flinch. That always struck me as weird, right, because even people who don't have trauma flinch when someone touches their back and they weren't expecting it. And Loki clearly wasn't? So why didn't he twitch at least a little? Tom Hiddleston is too good of an actor for that to be a mistake.

So to me that means that Loki just... doesn't have feeling in his spine at that moment. Or he was in too much pain to even register it. Loki was clearly tortured with some type of heat. If you watch him in this scene he's displaying all the signs of heat exhaustion. So I kinda think that maybe Loki got burned so badly on his back before this happened that he just... doesn't feel anything anymore. It had to have been recent for walking to nearly send him toppling, but Loki's back is a source of issues for the entire movie.

That is why this scene is here from a directing perspective. to SET UP Loki's back problems. The extent of them are left vague, but I think when Tom Hiddleston and Joss Whedon sat down to talk about Loki for the Avengers, one of the things they must have agreed on was that Loki was not in good physical condition and they planned to show that THE ENTIRE MOVIE. I don't know if they talked about torture or Thanos, but they talked about SOMETHING.

But I just...idk. That guy grabs Loki's back to support him in an effort to help and it's just so interesting to me. Because how does the mind control WORK then? Selvig is obsessed with the Tesseract. He almost seems possessed by that rather than Loki. Clint goes completely silent and doesn't do anything except the mission. THIS GUY immediately comes to take care of Loki, and Loki himself is ruthlessly efficient with one goal in his mind. So it's interesting. Subtext! :D

So what do I think about this scene. I think that Loki was tortured and his back is giving out and I LOVE THIS SCENE BECAUSE IT IS SO DARK BUT TRYING NOT TO BE.

Thanos' immediate response to something not going his way is torture and he knows Loki. Knows him well enough to pick his brother out of a crowd in Infinity War and leave him alive until the end. Knows him well enough to make his death personal. Strangulation is a crime of passion. Thanos hurt Loki and he knew Loki, and the idea that Thanos made sure that Loki wouldn't see the torture coming - by doing it to his back/spine - is just an extra layer of awful. Thanos left Thor alive. On purpose. He could have killed him. He didn't.

That was Loki's punishment. Leaving Thor alone. Because Thanos knew that would hurt him the most.

But Thanos also chose to kill Loki, and in infintiny war, while hunting the stones, Thanos doesn't make any unnecessary bodies. Which to me, means that Thanos had to kill Loki because he saw Loki as a threat.

So anyway, somehow I'm talking about Loki and Thanos again, who are my favorite horrible duo and I love talking about them because their relationship is so so messed up. I wish that the Loki series had DONE something with Thanos and Loki, but they didn't. :/

But why Loki's back? Like Thanos started with Loki's head in the post-credits scene of Thor 1:

why did he move to Loki's back? Also the fact that Thanos was having Loki hunt down the Infinity Stones through astral projection and/or enchantment is just so messed up and I love it. Wish it had been explored because THIS ^^^ was the giant beast I wanted poked at in Loki season 1.

[ro-sham-no]

Sam’s wall breaks, and he won’t stop screaming.

it's his birthday so you KNOW i had to whump my boy

It’s been two days and fifteen hours and Sam won’t stop screaming. 

Blood droplets fly out of his mouth with wracking coughs as he chokes on hurried inhales, mucosal spit gumming up his trachea.

It’s been two days and sixteen hours and Sam won’t stop screaming.

The only times he’s been silent in the last two days and seventeen hours is when he’s unconscious. The first bout - four hours and twenty-three minutes of silence - Dean’d just clocked him in the jaw when it was clear Sam was going to scream himself into involuntary suffocation - diaphragm and abdominal muscles locking up from the abuse. Dean knocked him unconscious for those four hours and twenty-three minutes, after six hours of his weeping and gnashing of teeth.

By the time he had woken up, Dean had shots of sedative and they were two hours into a twenty-eight-hour drive to Bobby’s - if nothing else, Dean’s efficient. Sam didn’t take notice.

And if the sounds he won’t stop making can be described as screaming, then the sounds he makes when Dean has to touch him while he’s awake can only be described as a death wail. Wailing and scrambling to get away from Dean with a fervor that earns them both violent shades of bruises.

It’s been two days and twenty hours and Sam won’t stop screaming.

During the drive, whenever Sam’s anguish would escalate back into hair-tearing, along with beating his fists against his arms and thighs and threatening to bash his head into the windows of the Impala, Dean would pull over to force another dose of sedative into him. 

The sounds he makes while Dean tries to subdue him… Well, even in the most remote location on their route, Dean was afraid the farmer whose house they could just barely see in the distance would be able to hear. It had to have been at least three miles away, with how flat the land was, and Dean was still worried that someone would hear. 

Sam won’t stop screaming, and his screams are deafening- except when he’s unconscious, from the shots Dean gives him, the screaming is just in Dean’s mind. A haunting kind of tinnitus that rings in Dean’s ears, just as nauseating as the real deal, but a touch less heartbreaking.

He only allows himself to sleep for the first few hours of Sam being down for the count, despite the catatonic state that seemed to have taken over him. Dean wasn’t about to risk Sam waking up without him. They sleep together in the car, in the weeds and the bramble off of back roads, hidden from view. Baby’s paint has never been so scratched up.

It’s been two days and twenty-three hours and Sam won’t stop screaming.

They’ve been at Bobby’s for the last twenty-four of those, trying to hold back on the sedative, because god knows they can’t keep it up forever or Sam’s heart is liable to just straight up quit, so they’ve been rationing it. Walking the nerve-wracking line between acceptable amounts of incomprehensible human suffering and causing an overdose that could just kill Sam, for good this time.

On the 72nd hour - that’s two days and twenty-four hours, or three days and zero hours, or 4,230 minutes and zero seconds, or 259,200 seconds and -

It’s been three days and zero hours, and Sam is awake, but he stops screaming.

And on the third day he will be raised…

Dean rushes over to check on him, but Sam is still breathing, heart still beating, body still holding itself upright, and he’s stopped screaming.

Now, though, two lines of salty tears trail down his face. For all his hysteric shrieking over the last three days, through all the rocking and swaying and the occasional distinct syllable of “no” over and over again, he hadn’t actually shed a tear, until now.

It’s been three days and zero hours and Sam’s tears are silent. 

He’s staring far off into the distance - into the wall that’s four feet in front of him - and he is silent. Even his gasps are inaudible. No sniffling, not a single huff or quiver of breath. Just tears.

It’s been three days and zero hours and two minutes and both Dean and Bobby are in the room now, staring at Sam with undisguised fear-horror-confusion. 

They stare at him and he begins to shake. Lightly, at first, but it grows. It always grows. Sam is silent, and he’s shaking, and his eyes stream tears with the consistency of a downpour, and Dean moves back in front of him. He’d stepped away to yell for Bobby out the door when it looked like Sam would live after his abrupt descent into silence. Dean steps back in front of him and reaches out to touch Sammy, and now Sam’s not silent. A three-minute silence and now it’s broken by Sam scrambling backward with a gasp that’s really more of an inhaled moan of fear, hastening back so far that he pushes off of the bed he’d been sitting on.

He crashes to the floor, out of Dean’s reach even as the man leaps forward with a cry of, “Sam!”

But Sam’s flight had been too fast, so he crashed to the ground and has now fallen silent again, but Dean can’t tell if there are still tears because Sam has wedged himself into a ball in the crease between the floor and the wall, form-fitting his back and ass over the baseboards hard enough to bruise. He’s hiding his face in his knees, still trembling, but still silent, so Dean can’t tell if the tears have stopped. He isn’t sure if that would be better or worse.

Because now it’s been three days and five minutes, and Sam’s curled up in sublimation. 

He’s crammed against the wall, his knees are up in front of him, spread only far enough to shove his head between them - but down quite far, uncomfortably so, contorted - but his hands aren’t curled up like the rest of him. Instead, his hands are held out around his legs, stretched around them and then upward, palms out like he’s receiving something sacred. Or like he’s giving it away.

It’s been three days and six minutes and Sam is trembling in sublimation.

The room is silent, Dean and Bobby don’t know what to do, but he isn’t hurting himself and he isn’t screaming so they wait him out.

It’s been three days and thirty minutes, by the time anything happens.

At first, Bobby thinks it’s the creaks of his house. At first, Dean thinks it’s the creaks of his soul. They’re both wrong, they realize, as the sound is actually coming from Sam, but it reverberates in such a way that it’s equally loud from every corner of the room. Dean wonders, faintly and somewhat hysterically, when Sam learned ventriloquy. 

It’s a low but resounding utterance, indistinguishable at first, but becoming more distinct with every syllable, losing its eerie ambience and beginning to actually come from Sam as its focal point. Whatever Sam is saying, deep into his chest in a tone that aches, becomes clearer, but neither of the other two men can understand it.

Sam’s palms are still held up in front of his shins. His head is still shoved between his knees, and he’s still trembling. He finishes his recitation but doesn’t fall silent. Instead, he switches to a language that Dean realizes with a jolt that he can understand the words, seconds before Bobby realizes it, too. 

“Pater noster, qui es in שְׁאוֹל, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in שְׁאוֹל et in terra.”

A sickening aura falls over the room as both lucid men hear the exceptions to the otherwise familiar prayer. “On earth, as it is in שְׁאוֹל,” Sam had said. Sheol, the subterranean final resting place. The pit. “The place of no return, the land of utter darkness and deep shadow.” 

Hell.

Our Father who art in the pit of utter death and darkness…

It’s been three days and one hour by the time Sam finishes his contritions. 

By then, he’d recited that first chant in the same unknown language twice more, alternating it with the Latin rendition of the Lord’s prayer.

Hallowed be thy name…

Dean has a gnawing, sinking feeling in his gut that he knows exactly what that other language is.

Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in שְׁאוֹל, the deep shadow.

The cadence, the tone; they’re the same. Distorted by the foreign, guttural tones of the other language, but they cut through Dean with the same taste. Sam is repeating the same thing over and over again, just in alternating tongues. The familiar Latin combined with the unfamiliar, grating timbre of the other. 

The repugnant language of the wretched Divine.

Those accursed, winged beasts, just like the one his brother, his Sammy has been locked up with for an earth-year. And who knows what that timeline looked like, in the depths? Nothing sears in your mind quite like the crushing realization that virtually no real time has passed when you return from it, Dean remembers. The rock constantly lodged in the base of Dean's chest, taking up space where his lungs are supposed to go, which screams out, your pain was never real.

Did time distort further the further down you went in hell? Was Dean’s 40-year stint a mere blink in the face of the time Sam had been locked up with that thing that did this to him?

The only reason Dean’s stomach isn’t on the floor in front of him is because his stomach is empty, the pervasive ache of the last few days locking it up tight. Sam has been screaming and Dean hasn't been eating, but he's never been less hungry in his life.

It’s been three days and one hour and Dean’s been crying for every single second of them.

The wailing and screaming had gouged at him, in that way little baby's cries gouge at unsuspecting figures passing by, striking that deep, maternal cord within them. The same way little toddler-Sam’s cries had always gouged at Dean. The same way, too, that not-so-little teenaged Sam’s sniffles into his pillow that he thought were muffled had always gouged at Dean. 

If the screams had been gouging at him, this reverent recitation was gutting him. Viscerally, like a fish being pulled sharply off of a too-big hook that it had somehow managed to swallow down too far. Catch and release turned into a pitiful horror.

But it’s been three days and one hour, now, and Sam’s finished his latest round of the Lord’s prayer - Latin this time - and he’s fallen silent again.

His hands are still held out, despite how bad it must make his shoulders and wrists ache with the tension of his stillness. Before Dean can think to do anything, though, Sam continues, but he breaks the pattern. Instead, his voice is much shakier now, and he starts to plead, the only term applicable to the tone of voice Sam has taken on: wretched, and full of supplication. Pleading, in Latin still,

“Elohim, Messiah - Please take this temptation from me. Please, as you have so graciously promised, benevolent Savior, tempt me not with this Sin of the Flesh. I am too weak, Father. This temptation is too great and I cannot bear it.

Temptation? Father?

The formal tone rankles. The self-deprecation vexes. The use of Father to refer to the most foul being to ever walk above and below the earth seethes and horrifies. Dean is rankled. Dean is vexed. Dean seethes, and he is horrified.

“Take Him from my sight, יהוה, keep me away from His fraternal presence, please, Lord. Balm though He is to my soul, grateful though I am for this offering, I am too weak to refrain from Sin.”

Fraternal? Sin?

“I would naught but bastardize this precious gift, and thine hand wilt be forced against me, as thou shalt flay me apart; dissect me to make penance for my transgressions. I do not wish this, Father, so please: Take Him from me, do not allow my wretched Sin to pervade in thine realm.”

Just because Dean’s stomach is empty doesn’t mean it isn’t trying valiantly to make an appearance. At the word “fraternal,” Bobby had started pushing him out the door. Stunned, Dean hadn’t fought back. There’s bile on Bobby’s hardwood floor outside the bedroom Sam and Bobby were still in.

Sam spoke as if Dean’s presence was the temptation, one too great to bear. And he spoke as if to God, but Dean knew better, he knew where Sam had been. Where Dean let him go. No gods to be seen, not there. What Sin had Lucifer contrived between them, to make Sam pay penance for? What occurred between them for Sam to be… Flayed alive. Dissected. 

Dean’s not stupid enough to believe that's anything but literal.

Bobby swings the door mostly-closed just in time for Sam to finish his pleas and lower his arms.

It’s been three days and one hour and ten minutes, and Sam raises his head.

Dean watches through the crack in the door, concealed in the darkness of the hallway. He’s holding his breath and he’s not sure he’ll ever forgive himself for not rushing right back to Sam's side. But something is holding him back, and he doesn’t want to name it. 

(Fraternal… Sin?)

Sam raises his head but keeps his eyes scrunched shut - tears and snot are dripping down his face, which is a blotchy red but somehow still pallid with fear. He’s shaking worse than before as he straightened his back out, sitting up and letting his legs fold down so he’s cross-legged. Not relaxed, but no longer contorted. Finally, he releases a shaky breath and opens his eyes, pointing down at the floor.

Bobby shifts his weight purposefully and Sam’s eyes fly to him with a wild flinch of fear. It hangs in the air uncomfortably long before he recognizes the man in the room with him, and he lets out a sob of what Dean hopes is relief.

He quickly bows his head and shifts up onto his knees in a simple prayer position, hands pressed together in a booklet of gratitude as he sobs out, “Thank you, Messiah, Morningstar. Thank you.”

Then, with a big sigh, he allows himself to look back at Bobby, but his gaze is clinical, observing. He whispers, through his hitching, wet breaths, “He did it. I can't believe he did it. He’s gone. I don’t have to do it again, not yet.”

Sam’s face crumples as he’s hysterical with relief, and Dean’s clawing his own arms raw and bloody outside the door, desperate to get to the crying baby and soothe it, desperate to kiss toddler-Sam’s scraped knees, desperate to tell teenage-Sam that nothing will ever change the way Dean feels about him, despite whatever darkness he seems to think is inside of him. But still, he’s held back by that unspeakable Sin between them. Lucifer didn’t contrive it, Dean knows that. He holds himself back.

Bobby speaks up then, gruff and wary, “Don’t have to do what, yet?”

Sam startles before finally, really looking at Bobby like he’s a human on the same plane of existence as him, not like he’s a mildly interesting fixture on a non-existent wall.

“Nothing, don’t worry about it, Bobby. It’s good to see you,” Sam cracks a smile, and it encapsulates one thousand shades of grief.

Sam continues quieter, once again to himself, “I wish it wasn’t like this. I’m sorry. So, so sorry. But you’re not Him, so it’s fine, it’s fine…”

Bobby squints at him long and hard, eyeing his more relaxed posture and at least somewhat lucid speech - odd though it may be - before he glances at the crack in the door and gives a tiny eyebrow raise that says, get your ass in here.

Dean slowly cracks the door open and calls out to his baby brother, just as he comes into view, “Sammy?”

His reaction is violent. If Sam was pallid before, he’s now a putrid shade of green, face twisting up in horror as he shakes his head, wringing his hands and mumbling out at first, devolving quickly into yells into the aether, into the corners of the room, “No! No, no- please, you promised, no-”

He collapses into himself on the floor, half hidden behind the bed, putting it between him and Dean. The trembling returns with moans and cries incessantly pouring out of Sam’s mouth as he buries his head in his hands, gripping at his face and whatever hair is in reach with too much force, wailing out a constant stream of no, no, no!

Dean takes an involuntary step forward into the room, drawn in by that maternal wretchedness. Desperate, always desperate, to comfort his baby brother. 

When his boot sounds on the carpet - muted but oh-so-loud to Sam’s ears - the cries lose their shape, hiccupping wails of no quickly becoming unintelligible and increasingly frantic, building and building until it can only be described as a howling scream.

It’s been three days and one hour and fifteen minutes, and Sam won’t stop screaming.

[lambmotifz]

I hate teenchesters, not teenchesters themselves but the weecest. HATE it, I just want them to have the relationship they had then — of course I like wincest but not weecest.

honestly i can’t take weecest seriously because there’s literally zero hints of such dynamic being a thing in canon. also it adds unnecessary sexual context to their relationship which takes most of the appeal of this ship away (the subtlety & metaphorical nature of their potential romantic/sexual dynamic)

as a side note, this is also part of why i don’t think we should label them as “switches” when it comes to the sexual part (i’ve noticed that most weecest enjoyers interpret sam and dean as strictly switches). IF they ever did have a sexual dynamic in canon, on screen, it’d be when they’re adults, and it’d mirror their non sexual dynamic, with all its nuances (dean’s desperate need to possess & control sam, sometimes punish him when he feels like he’s losing control over him, sam’s need to earn dean’s trust & approval, especially during s5, his willingness to offer himself for dean’s physical violence). you also have to keep in mind that dean practically raised sam and sees himself as his father and the one holding power over him (one of the reasons why the idea of romantic teenchesters feels unrealistic — they’ve never been lovers, their relationship has always been about unhealthy family dynamics and power imbalance, there’s really no need to make their pre series dynamic about sex with each other especially when there’s no such implication in canon), and he needs to keep that role in their relationship. he enjoys being a big brother in charge, the whole siren thing wasn’t just about him being attracted to sam (once again it’s shown indirectly: we can come to this conclusion because of how sexually charged the interaction between dean-sam-the siren was and the fact that all the sirens took a form of a lover) but also about him craving the ideal version of sam aka a submissive little brother who listens to him, looks up to him and lets him take the lead, so obviously it would make it’s way into their sexual dynamic too, which is why top!dean/bottom!sam would make perfect sense. the siren episode also heavily implies dean’s pining/desire for sam but it’s pretty much one-sided, which lessens the possibility of them being in some kind of long-term romantic relationship pre canon

also to be completely honest, it’s hard to imagine them having regular sex like normal couples, much less being in a serious sexual romantic relationship since childhood, because their dynamic isn’t inherently sexual (this is also the reason why weecest doesn’t work in the context of canon). the sexual subtext of their relationship is based on metaphors, the power imbalance that comes from the fact that dean raised sam, the canonical feminization of sam’s character, and dean’s obsessive possessiveness & desire to control him which sometimes makes him do pretty much fucked up things to sam without his consent (why sexual noncon is never really off the table). the subtle freudian subtext & metaphors surrounding their relationship is large part of the appeal of their unhealthy brotherly dynamic, and the idea of them being in an established romantic relationship pre canon definitely simplifies whatever they have between them

[nerdwholikesnerdythings]

Is it just me or do you guys ever go to one of your unfinished fanfic drafts/wips, read them, and then get upset you left yourself on a cliff hanger?

[peanutbutterandbananasandwichs]

Soulless Sam tries to figure out why he still has the Samulet.

Sam Winchester, Soulless Sam

Words: 1,818

--

Sam held the amulet again. He had been doing this almost every night since he somehow woke up on Earth; it had become a routine. He opened his palm and stared at it. Nothing.

He remembered plummeting into hell. In those final moments - before everything became black and meaningless— he had fumbled desperately in his right jacket pocket, curling his fingers around the little lump of brass, clutching it so tightly it dug into his flesh. He recalled the pain and something else—something that nagged at the edges of his mind. But what was it?

The inability to remember bothered him. Not in the way some distant and detached part of him thought it should, where it would eat him up from the inside, gut-wrenching, soul-twisting. No, it wasn’t like that at all. It was the nagging frustration of a crossword puzzle whose answer you know but can’t quite access.

He closed his hand again, trying to recreate the sensation. His fist tightened until his knuckles turned white, veins on the back of his hand popping. Hard press of cold metal against his skin, pain so bright and sharp it should be bringing tears to his eyes. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

When he unclenched, his palm was stained with blood. Passing the amulet to his other hand, he examined it, watching dispassionately as a bead of scarlet slid across his palm, trickling down to his wrist.

Sam walked to the bathroom and rinsed the blood away, watching the red swirl into the freezing water. It was faintly hypnotic. The cut wasn’t deep, just a pinprick, and the bleeding had already stopped. He dried his hands on the scratchy motel towel and returned to the main room. Where had he put it? After searching the bed, under the covers, and the floor, he was ready to declare it lost. But when he dropped down on the bed, something poked his thigh. He’d slipped the amulet into his pocket, a force of habit, he supposed.

His phone rang. It was Samuel. They had caught wind of a vampire nest two towns over. Sam grabbed his already-packed duffle, slung it over his shoulder, and headed out. Instinctively, he patted his pocket, checking the amulet was still there before locking the door behind him.

-------

Two weeks later, Sam found himself in a gloomy patch of marshland, deep in the middle of nowhere in northern Michigan. He hadn’t thought about the amulet in days. This hunt had been complicated, tracking the creature on foot as it followed the Lake Superior shoreline.

He had always been prone to fixating on problems, often to the exclusion of almost everything else, sometimes forgetting to eat or sleep until he was near collapse. Dean had found it unnerving, and told him so on more than one occasion. After Ruby, Lilith, the apocalypse, Sam had started to agree.

But lately, he'd begun to see its utility. Now, he didn’t sleep, and he could ignore hunger pangs in ways he couldn’t before the fall. He could push himself to limits he didn’t know he had. Dean was busy playing house with Lisa and the kid, and there was no one around to call him a “weird, obsessive bastard.” Well, maybe Samuel—but he wasn’t one to throw stones. In fact, Samuel seemed pleased to have someone who wouldn’t—or couldn’t—stop until the job was done.

The sun had set, and the chill in the air was bone-deep. Sam barely registered it, except for the way the hair on his arms stood on end. He might not care about the cold, but he knew he’d be at his best if his body wasn’t fighting against it. He shrugged off his backpack, pulled out his jacket, slipped it on, and paused for a second to calculate the last time he ate. Grabbing a protein bar, he decided it was time to refuel. He couldn’t stop for long, or he'd lose the creature’s trail. 

Then he heard it, a guttural rattling sound, somewhere close, too close. He’d been made. Shit. Sam dropped to the ground, the squelch of sodden peat beneath his knees, and crawled as silently as he could to the nearest thicket of thorny briar, crouching behind it, watching, waiting. It loomed into view, vaguely man-shaped but with raw, exposed flesh that seemed to be sliding off its bones. Stinking marsh mud and half-rotted weeds clung to its decaying form.

The rawhead he and Dean had hunted years back was the more common southern type, they died by electrocution, the northern ones were a small isolated pocket, a remnant of the very first of their kind that had crossed the Atlantic stowed away in trunks and cabinets of colonists coming from Lancashire and Devon in England. They died by silver. 

It hadn’t spotted him yet. Sam reached into his jacket pocket and drew out the little silver knife. As he did, the handle snagged the string of the amulet, and it tumbled into the boggy ground at his feet with a splosh. The rawhead turned, eyes glinting in the gloom. 

Sam seized his chance. He lunged forward, barreling the creature onto its back. Caught off guard, it twitched as he drove the blade straight into its heart. Then it went still. He hauled himself upright, blood, and mud, and stench coated him. He would have hated this, that Sam from before, it would have made him shudder and feel the need to scrub himself in the shower until his skin turned raw. He used to do that a lot.

-------

“That went better than the last one.” He said out loud to himself, as the memory of Dean lying in the hospital, weak and pathetic and his heart giving out flashed before him, a sliver of satisfaction and faint contempt sliding over him. And he knew he should feel something else, but he didn’t. And then he remembered the amulet. Staggering back over to the spot he’d been hiding behind the bushes, he found it, he’d trampled it underfoot in his rush to get to the kill, pushed it down into the peat. He pulled it out, holding it up by the leather thong, inches from his face, glinting in the moonlight. He still didn't know. He stuffed it back into his jacket pocket.

Six months later and he’s back with Dean. They’d stopped at a roadside truck stop on the way back to their motel. Dean had declared he was going to die if he didn’t eat “something with enough grease for ten heart attacks”, and stat. Sam would rather not have wasted the time, but on the other hand, he knew that after a burger and a beer or three Dean would pass out faster, and it would be easier to disguise the fact that he wasn’t sleeping if Dean wasn’t conscious. 

There was only so much Sam could take of lying in the dark, pretending. It was exhausting—everything about being with Dean was exhausting. Remembering to frown, or laugh, or furrow his brow just right, at just the right moment, to convey just the right amount of puppy dog empathy. Old Sam had this down to a fine art, the difference was that under the performance he felt it, really felt it. Sometimes he thinks about how much of a misty-eyed milksop he’d been, and he’s not sure how he’d ever functioned. This was better. His mind was so much sharper without the constant screech of shame, and guilt, and worry about everybody but his own damn hide.

Dean was rambling on about Ben and Lisa again, and Sam was nodding at regular intervals. Too regular, maybe, judging by the sudden look of annoyance and suspicion that clouded Dean’s gaze. 

“Sammy, have you been listening to a damn word I’ve said?” Dean asked sharply.

Sam thought for a fraction of a second, carefully arranging his features into a shape he’d learned read as apologetic. “I have, Dean. I’m just tired—it’s been a long day.” He added a crooked smile and pantomimed a yawn. Dean seemed to buy it, his face relaxing.

���You gonna eat that?” Dean asked pointing at Sam’s untouched burger. 

“Be my guest.” Sam slid the paper across the table. Dean snatched it up, devouring the burger in less than three bites, which was almost impressive.

“Alright, let’s get going.”

Sam dug into his jeans pocket for two ten-dollar bills, and his knuckles grazed metal. He’d been thinking about it more since Dean was back. Mostly he’d been thinking about how Dean had cast it aside, and how he’d dug it out of the trash, warm, wet, pathetic tears dampening his face. Why had he done it?

More importantly, why did he still have it?

When he’d first met back up with Dean he’d thought, briefly, about giving it back, technically it was his after all. Then he could stop fixating on the puzzle, trying to find that missing piece to the memory. Except he couldn’t, he needed an answer.

-----

Two weeks later, they drove over to the Campbell compound. Sam's insides still ached, the phantom pain of where Cas had shoved his fist through him lingering. It was the first real pain he’d felt in a year—horrifying, yet strangely clarifying.

Dean kept glancing over at him, tension coiled in him like he was scared Sam was about to crack his skull open. Sam rolled his eyes, and turned away, staring absently out the window. His fingers tangled into the thong of the amulet, it was in his jacket pocket again, the one he’d been wearing when Dean had beat him into unconsciousness. 

He didn’t have a soul. Honestly, he had no idea what that meant. But it, somehow, made sense.

It explained why he’d been so fixated on the amulet. He hadn’t just been trying to figure out what it meant—he’d been trying to figure out what had changed. His soul. That was the missing piece.

“You're not gonna hold me, Dean -- Not here, not in a panic room, not anywhere.” But some part of him, a big part apparently, was still being held, trapped with Lucifer and Michael, in the cage. 

Old Sam, his soul, whatever. He’d truly believed he deserved it when he was shut away and left to rot. Not once, but twice. And he’d believed he deserved it when Dean had thrown the amulet away. He’d believed he’d deserved it as he’d jumped into hell. 

Sam manoeuvred the amulet into his palm, and for the first time in a while, tried again. Closed his fist and let the memory of endless, inky blackness suffuse him. Well maybe old Sam had deserved it, he didn’t think so, but either way, he wasn’t that guy—and he was the one in charge of this hulking lump of meat right now.

And right now, that’s what the amulet meant.

[mxltifxnd0m]

heat wave ࿔ s. winchester

summary: heat waves suck in the bunker

pairings: sam winchester x reader, sam winchester x fem! reader

word count: 1.7K

warnings: no use of y/n, not beta'd, fluff, complaining about heat, nudity, suggestive content, one or two dirty jokes

a/n: i made a post about complaining about this heat wave that is happening in my area and decided to write about it. this was intended to be a blurb but it spiraled out of my control LMAO

(also i haven't posted this frequently in like... ever LOL. so please say thank you to sam winchester for being my muse)

please reblog and lmk your thoughts and opinions!! i wanna hear what you guys thought about the fic!

𝘴𝘢𝘮 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵

You hated the heat. Nope. Scratch that you loathed the heat. Despite growing up in hotter climates, you never grew to like the heat. You can tolerate it, but you've always preferred the colder months, where you can layer all you want and get warm and cozy.  

But with summer, there was so much you could wear until you were almost naked.  

The bunker could only do much to keep out the heat during the summer and keep the heat in when winter rolled around. An unexpected heat wave hit Lebanon, and since the bunker didn't have any AC or windows, it was practically hell on earth in the bunker.

Sam and Dean were out on a hunt, and you were stuck in the bunker due to having a nasty run-in with a witch that left you concussed and bruised ribs. They said the hunt was a quick salt and burn a state over, so they would be back in a few days. But in the few days they were gone, the heat became almost unbearable.

You spent the past few days stripped down to a bra and the shortest PJ shorts you had. You would have strolled around the bunker naked, but you were a little paranoid that Sam and Dean would come home early, and you didn't want to give Dean a free show. The amount of water that you had drunk could be considered criminal, but you managed to sweat most of it.

You even went out and bought multiple box fans for the library, war room, kitchen, and your bedroom (To hell with your boyfriend and Dean's bedroom. They could buy a fan for themselves.) because you could barely stand the stifling heat that managed to worm its way into the bunker.

The heat had gotten to the point where you were sprawled out on your back, starfish styled on the cool tiles of the shower room. This was your only saving grace in this place (and taking cold showers right before you went to sleep). When the tiles below you would get warm and sticky, you would just shuffle (drag) your body slightly to another patch of cold tiles.

You were so focused on cooling down your hot body that you didn't hear Sam calling for you when he couldn't find you in your room. He and Dean eventually found you on the shower floor.

"What the hell are you doing?" Dean's voice echoed off of the shower room walls.

"Finding reprieve from this god-awful heat." You sat up on your elbows to see Sam and Dean standing in the doorway, uncaring of your state of undress. Being a hunter and getting injured in inconvenient places had left you topless in front of the boys plenty of times and vice versa, so it left no room for modesty.

"This bunker doesn't have any AC or windows, and this heat wave has been terrible. You guys need to fix that." You said before sliding back down and moving to a patch of cool tile.

Sam's chuckling made you smile despite the heat. "Considering this bunker was built in the 30s, they didn't exactly have to worry about heat waves or AC."

Your smile dropped as you scowled at Sam's words. "I hate global warming. Also, how are the two of you not sweating your balls off yet?" You had noticed that they were wearing their flannels.

"We just got back and spent the past 10 minutes trying to find you. Safe to say we haven't spent much time in the bunker to feel the heat."

"Well, you're about to Deanie-boy, be prepared to strip." You went to take a sip of water from the bottle you had brought with you, only to find that it was empty.

"You would love to see that wouldn't you."

"It's nothing I haven't seen before." You said before getting up from the floor with a slight groan.

"Besides, I'd prefer to see a strip tease from a different Winchester." You winked at Sam as you walked in between the boys, giving his ass a quick tap as you left the shower room and headed toward the kitchen to refill your water bottle.  

About two and a half hours later, the heat had gotten to the boys, and they were stripped down to their boxers, trying to survive. Dean ended up stealing one of the fans you bought and stashed it in his room, but even then, the fans were just blowing around the warm air that was in the bunker.

When it came time to eat dinner, you guys quickly got dressed because none of you wanted to spend another second in the hot bunker. The cool night air was like a healing balm over the heat wave as you guys found a diner that also had outside seating. After you guys were done eating, Dean drove the three of you around for a while with the windows down in the Impala, not wanting to go back to the stifling hot bunker.

You guys got back home at eleven o'clock, and the temperature in the bunker got significantly better, but it was still uncomfortably warm. You all headed to different bathrooms to shower off the stickiness that the three of you were already feeling.

You took your time in the cold water, not wanting to leave it just yet, but you eventually left the shower once your skin acclimated to the water and started to feel warm to you. You wrapped yourself in a towel and made your way to your room.

Once you made it to your room, you turned on your fan, cranked it to the highest setting, and dropped your towel. You didn't bother with any clothes or getting under the covers because you would throw them off of yourself the second you started to sweat. You crawled on top of your covers and rested your back against your headboard. You wanted to read a bit before you went to bed, so you grabbed your Kindle off of your nightstand and began to read.

About fifteen minutes later, you got a knock on your door. "Babe?" Sam's voice was muffled by the thick door.

"You can come in." You tell him, not looking away from your Kindle.

You heard the door open, and that's when you looked up at Sam entering your room. You caught his surprised expression as he took in your nude form and quickly shut the door. You saw lust flashing through his hazel eyes as his gaze traveled up and down your body.

Sam cleared his throat as he kept his eyes trained on yours. Ever the gentleman. You thought as you smirked at his reaction.

"Did you need something?" You asked, batting your eyelashes at your boyfriend as you placed the Kindle in your lap. Your eyes also wandered up and down Sam's bare torso as he was only in his boxers. His anti-possession tattoo stood out against his tan chest and was littered with scars that had faded with time.

You saw Sam swallow thickly as his eyes flickered from your chest to your eyes. "I was wondering why you weren't in our room?"

It was technically Sam's room before you moved into it. After a couple of months of dating, you found yourself sleeping in his room more often than your own when you initially moved into the bunker.

"As much as I love you, Sammy, I cannot sleep with you during this heat wave."

Sam frowned slightly as he made his way to your bed and sat on the edge of it. "Why not?"

You scoffed. "Because you're practically a human furnace, and as nice as it is sleeping with you during the winter, I just know I'll be soaked just sharing a bed with you."

A dirty smirk wormed its way onto Sam's face as his warm palm landed on your ankle and slowly trailed up your leg. "I'm glad I have that effect on you, but I already knew that."

You narrowed your eyes at him as you wriggled your leg away from Sam's grasp. "Ha, ha, you're so funny." You deadpan. "But I'm being serious. You radiate heat, which isn't fun when we're trying to survive a heat wave."

Sam started to pout at you. "But babe-"

"Nope. Not hearing it." You cut him off and shook your head at him as you moved your Kindle to your nightstand. "You're sleeping in your bed alone until this heat wave is over."

"Now, go back to your room." You gestured to your door.

A small huff left Sam as he got up from your bed. "Fine, but at least give me a goodnight kiss."

You rolled your eyes slightly. "Get over here, you big baby." Sam moved to the side you were lying on and bent down to kiss you.

You intended the kiss to be chaste, but Sam (being the little shit he is) had other ideas. He grabbed both of your cheeks with his hands and pulled you into a passionate kiss.  

It was unexpected, but you melted into the kiss as your hands instinctively went to his chest. He tasted like mint and something that you could only describe as Sam. Sam swiped at the seam of your lips, and that is what broke you from your Sam-induced haze.

You pushed him away from you and glared at him lightly. Sam just had a cheeky grin on his face.

"Nice try, now go to bed."

Sam still had a grin on his face as he bent down again and kissed your forehead.

"Goodnight, baby," He murmured softly against your forehead before pulling away.

"Goodnight, Sammy," You said with a soft smile as he left your room.

You turned to your nightstand and turned off the lamp that illuminated your room. Your room was engulfed in darkness as you shuffled further down your bed until your head hit the pillows. You fell asleep as your fan blew cool air towards your bed.

Little did you know, Sam ended up sneaking into your room once you were asleep and woke up in the morning soaked in sweat and having a moose of a boyfriend wrapped around your sweat-slicked body.

It's safe to say that you gave Sam a very rude awakening that morning.  

[purgaytorysupremacy]

oh nuts. a life experience has given me a new layer of perspective on Cas's homosexual declaration of love to Dean.

recently I had occasion to tell a person I had feelings for them knowing full well they didn't feel even a twinge of the same thing for me. while the whole thing was a decidedly unpleasant experience, I kept laughing at myself internally bc I didn't want to say "the happiness is just in saying it" like fucking Castiel over here. (we don't need to talk about it, it's fine.) (I am happier having said it and it's kind of bullshit, but I digress.)

because the thing is, the happiness isn't in just saying it, right? the happiness is in the having. I made a whole TikTok "proving" that the Empty didn't come for Cas when he confessed his love, but rather when he realized Dean loved him back. even for Cas, the happiness was in the having, not in the saying, however brief it was.

and I've always been one of those people who rolled their eyes at the whole concept. why would the happiness be in just being, in just saying it, if it's right there in front of you to have. and then it hit me like a tonne of bricks (as I was washing my kitchen counters).

Cas really didn't think he could have Dean.

at all. in any capacity. he really, truly, and honestly felt to the depths of himself that Dean did not have any twinge of similar feelings, that this really was a Hail Mary shot-in-the-dark. and I think me, personally, really didn't understand that about Cas. that his belief in his love being unrequited was that unshakable.

something else I've been pondering is how audiences have so much more empathy for fictional characters who share traits that IRL they find objectionable and unappealing. but the thing is about fictional characters is that we follow them around in their most private, vulnerable moments. we see Dean mourning Cas when he dies, literally killing himself because he can't live without him, but it's so easy to forget that we're the omniscient ones here.

Cas never knew.

Dean's whole thing was pushing him away, keeping him at arm's length, making it seem like whatever heroic thing he does for Cas he'd do for anyone. he downplays how important it is for Dean to share the Deancave with him, to show him his favourite movies, share his favourite songs. he acts like the things Cas does for him don't mean that much to hide how much they do mean. he uses "we" whenever he even gets in the vicinity of expressing a feeling. "We were worried." "We're glad you're back." "We needed a win." "You're our brother." The audience knew the difference. We saw how he'd clench his jaw or swallow hard or make a face that said "God, I'm being such an idiot". Because we saw him in those little moments. We got to see the cracks in the mask.

but Cas never knew.

the self-hating angel of Thursday was never going to think it was all a way for Dean to protect himself. obviously, that's the delicious tragedy of it all, but what I think I realized at the end of all that is Cas confessing his love to a Dean who didn't love him back wouldn't have worked. Because the happiness really is in the having. If happiness was just in saying it, then The Empty would have come before Cas even finished getting the words out of his mouth.

so Cas's plan wouldn't have worked if Dean didn't love him back.

this is just me yapping on about my own nonsense, but I do think it's really interesting. there's contentment in "just saying it". there's freedom and relief and an unburdening. I think one can argue that it makes being happy in the being easier. there is certainly some joy in telling a person you think that highly of them. but true happiness?

nah.

true happiness is always going to only be in the having. Cas didn't understand the difference until he experienced it, and by then, it was too late.

[queerstudiesnatural]

I found my way living in you

Words: 3,088

He lifts Dean's head up with tender fingers until they are looking in each other's eyes, and his thumb wipes the tears on his cheek. “Hi,” Dean says. “Hello," Cas smiles. "Cas?" Dean asks, and a sob is threatening to break out of his throat again, this time brought on by the overwhelming rush of his senses and reality coming back to him, not brighter and louder, but more tangible. "Don't ever leave." Cas' face changes surreptitiously, eyebrows lifting ever slightly. “Dean—" "Don't. Don't argue with me, Cas. Just stay. Please. Please." The expression on Cas' face is one of awe, and somewhere in Dean's mind he thinks the painting must have shifted to show a halo around him, too. "Alright," Cas says. "If this is what you really want." "Cas," Dean whispers, and he can't imagine why it was so difficult to say it before. It's the most natural thing in the world. "I want you." He brings Castiel's hand to his lips. "Wherever we are, whatever we're doing, I want you. I need you."

read the whole fic on ao3

[opens-up-4-nobody]

Redrawing a thing I drew a million years ago (x)

[mattzerella-sticks]

In various stories, Zeus later put Ganymede in the sky as the constellation Aquarius (the "water-carrier" or "cup-carrier")

Wikipedia, Ganymede (mythology)

Dean Winchester as Ganymede (the cup-bearer)