#Lol SPN writing

[saltcxrcle]

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, Jack walks out to a nearby creek and admires the way the water has frozen around the foliage. They enjoy a few moments with the frosty nature before briskly walking back to the warmth of the bunker.

[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.

[profoundstarfishmusic]

[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.

[notcryingtoday]

Lowkey I feel like I could appreciate deep and profond platonic bonds if the writers proved they were not cowards by actually having a gay couple who's not in the backgroung so they can edit it out when the movie is released in the countries where LGBT+ people are being killed.

(Yes this is about Marvel.)

[peanutbutterandbananasandwichs]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64760905

Title: No Choir

Word count: 1,797

Sam/Amelia, Dean Junior, post-series, disabled sam, chronic fatigue, just Sam quietly living his life as best he can x

---

“Sam?”

The voice drifted to him, light but edged with concern, as he came-to in the flowerbed he’d collapsed into. He shifted, stiff and slow, damp earth clinging to his palms as he tried to push himself upright. Too late. There was the sharp yap of Miracle, a blur of sandy fur hurtling toward him like a cannonball. She skidded to a halt just inches from his chest, tail wagging. Behind her, Amelia appeared, moving fast.

“Sam.” Her voice was more urgent this time, not angry. Just . . . tight. Worried.

She dropped to crouch beside him, one knee sinking into the soft ground, her eyes sweeping him, the same way she looked over an injured animal brought into her surgery, all quick assessments and quiet urgency.

She spoke his name again under her breath, mouth pressed into a tight line, frustration creasing her forehead and the lines around her eyes. He saw her try to suppress it as she lifted them to meet his.

“Hey,” he whispered, soft and contrite. His hand lifted, fingers brushing a loose curl from her face. They left a smudge of rich black soil on her cheekbone, and he almost apologised—but she didn’t flinch, didn’t seem to care.

“Hey,” he said again, even gentler. “I know. I’m a pain in the ass.”

Her breath caught in a half laugh. She leaned in, pressed a warm kiss to his forehead. Her lips lingered there for a moment, then: “You’re damn right you are.”

A low chuckle rumbled out of him, tension easing in them both. “Your bedside manner needs work.”

“I’m a vet, not a doctor,” she said, matter-of-fact, hand dropping to his elbow, steadying.

“So, you're saying your patients don’t usually talk back?”

“Not as a rule.” Her grip tightened, readying herself to help pull him to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.” Miracle nuzzled at his side in agreement.

Sam waved his free hand in the direction of the flower bed, Amelia’s gaze followed, landing on the small rose bush, half-set in the dirt.

“Was supposed to be a surprise.” He said, sheepishly.

“Oh”, her fingers slipped from his arm, reaching toward a little plastic label nestled under the bush. She flipped it over, brushing the dirt from its surface.

Renaissance Rose. Variety: Amelia.

She smiled to herself, that little crooked half smile they shared in common.

“I saw it in the garden centre last week. Went back for it while you took DJ to school yesterday.” Roses always made him think of her, prickly but sweet. Not that he'd ever explained it to her quite like that.

“You want me to . . .?”

He nodded. And she got to work getting the rose settled properly into place.

They kept talking as she pressed soil down around its base. The dog crawled into Sam’s lap as he slumped back against the stump of the old apple tree they'd cut down last fall. It had been a loss to all of them, but time and disease had taken its toll upon it. He tried not to think about that too much.

“How long were you out for?”

“Not sure, minute at the most I think.”

“Sam . . .”

“I know.”

Amelia stood, wiping off the dirt on her jeans, then bent down to offer him her hand, he took it and she let him lean against her for a moment, getting his bearings.

“Come-on.”

They stumbled back across the garden together, Miracle trotting at their feet, Amelia grumbling lightly that this would be much easier if he wasn't a giant. He should have brought the cane out with him, saved her the trouble. Sam's fingertips reflexively rubbed small, conciliatory circles into her shoulder. He was going to start using it more, Sally at the support group had shown him where she got her custom one with a dragon painted onto the shaft. Maybe he should get something like that, not a dragon, but something fun.

Riot, curled up in his favorite chair, was soaking up the last of the day's warmth. The sunlight had faded but the heat lingered, and Sam felt it, too, as his fingers ran through the soft fur on Riot’s head.

“I should be taking a page from your book, hey old man?”

Riot cracked one eye open, gave Sam a reproachful stare, that was most definitely in response to Sam waking him up, but he chose to think that maybe he was agreeing, he did need to learn to take it easier.

Sam lowered himself gingerly into the chair next to Riot, he was going to have a nasty bruise on his hip tomorrow. Not that that was exactly a new experience, although there was a level at which it was comforting to come by them by such relatively mundane means.

Amelia placed a hand on his shoulder. Sam reached up and squeezed her hand gently. For a minute, they just sat there in quiet, comfortable silence, the ambient hum of the old house around them. Eventually, she slipped her hand away, and turned to grab something out of a kitchen cupboard.

Before he could settle into the stillness, DJ came barreling into the room, his small legs carrying him full-speed until he screeched to a halt right in front of Sam’s chair. A soft toy turtle, his current obsession, was clenched tightly in his fist. He looked Sam up and down for a minute and said, in the blunt tone 5 year olds specialised in, “you're all dirty”, scrunching up his nose. He'd definitely picked up some of Sam's hangups.

“Yeah,” glancing down at the dirt caked on his hands, his jeans, his shirt, face mirroring that of his son's as he took in the mess properly for the first time himself. “It's alright, though, kiddo.” Kiddo. He often found himself referring to DJ that way. His father's voice echoing in his mind, a confusing mix of nostalgic comfort, and disquiet.

Sam rubbed his hands together to shake off the loose dirt, then extended them for DJ to inspect, holding his breath as the little hands turned his hands over several times, making sure.

“Better?” Sam asked when the inspection was done. DJ nodded solemnly, his expression as grave as a small child could muster.

Sam returned the nod, ruffling a hand through the kid’s hair. He should go wash them properly, and change his clothes. Funny how dirt never bothered him in the moment, be it gardening, or hunting, but the moment he was done and had a moment to really notice, his skin felt itchy with it.

The reflection in the bathroom mirror greeted him the same way it had for what now amounted to most of his life. Sometimes he thought he should avoid looking altogether, but he could never quite manage it. He kept locked eye contact with the figure in the mirror as he turned the tap and let freezing water rush over his hands. He could feel the two of them drifting slowly apart from one another, not that he was ever really instep with his body, but he held it well enough together, with sticky tape and safety pins, most of the time.

One of the reasons he struggled with this energy accounting thing he was supposed to be trying was that “listening to his body” took such a conscious effort. That, and the years (centuries) of practice at pushing through the kinds of pain most human beings couldn't even begin to imagine, hell, he couldn't even really comprehend it most days, not fully.

He dragged his eyes away from the mirror, there was still dirt under his fingernails, he grabbed the nail brush from the soap dish and scrubbed as hard as he could, some habits die hard.

When he returned to the kitchen, hands stinging but satisfactorily clean, fresh long sleeve jersey top, and jeans, there was a steaming hot mug of tea waiting for him at the table. Amelia was gone, probably upstairs getting ready for her out of hours shift at the surgery. DJ had set himself with a colouring book, focusing intensely on filling in something with a light blue crayon as neatly as he could, the flipper of the turtle had made it into his mouth and he was chewing on it absently. Sam smiled fondly.

He was about to sit back down when he spotted the note next to the mug.

“Eat something. Vet’s orders xx”

Sam chuckled. She'd stop finding that joke funny.

He grabbed a bag of salted peanuts from the cupboard and returned to the tea. Carefully tearing open the packet he fished out a single nut, looked at it suspiciously for a moment, then popped it in his mouth. It was disgustingly salty for his tastes, but he'd promised he'd try. He grabbed another, repeating the process. “It's a good thing you're not here right now”, he thought to himself, “you’d never let me live it down. See, I told you salt was good for you Sammy.”

He thought about what Dean would have made of his little fainting incident this afternoon. Well for starters, he'd have clucked around him like a mother hen for hours afterwards, in that way that always made Sam feel smothered, babied. And then, the second he felt the imminent danger was gone, he'd have given him a sharp nudge in the ribs with his elbow, and laughed about how Sam had gone for a 5 mile run that morning, but that half an hour gardening had brought him down. And Sam would have laughed along, because it was better than being “looked after”.

He crunched another peanut, they weren't getting any better. He glanced up again at his son, who he'd given his brother's name, even if they never used it, and felt the familiar, dull ache in the pit of his chest. Maybe it had been unfair, putting that name, and all the . . . weight behind it on the kid. It had felt right at the time.

Sam let a deep sigh huff from his chest, slid the mug, and the half empty packet across the table, and scooched his chair over, trying to ignore the way the screeching sound it made as it dragged along the tiled floor set his nerves on fire. He leaned in to peer at the colouring book, “whatcha colouring?”

“Turtle.” DJ replied, still deep in concentration.

Of course. Sam smiled. “What kind of turtle is it?” He asked.

He grinned a wide gap tooth grin up at Sam, delighted at the question “leatherback.”

“Mind if I join in?” Sam enquired.

DJ passed him a forest green crayon and gestured at the seaweed bordering the image.

Sam took a sip of the tea, and got to work.

[headlightsontonight]

in harmony

with the recent rise of deanbenny jealousy i was prompted to finish one of my earlier drafts so have this 🤝

Benny was a man who knew how to escape trouble, despite (or due to) his penchant for attracting it like a magnet. A little flirting never hurt, especially not when the reward was Dean’s flushed cheeks and bright green eyes, more captivating than the new forests he had grown used to.

Confident in his ability to survive, or die fighting if the situation called for it, Benny was not fazed by Dean’s warning about his big, bad younger brother. Sam was but a man, in the end, and Benny continued to lean forwards, intruding onto Dean’s personal space—an intrusion only if it was unwanted—just to hear Dean’s heart beat that much faster. Delightful.

Daggers being stared into him did not always translate into actual stabbing or beheading, no matter how much Dean fretted. However, with the intensity that Sam was devoting to the task, he wouldn’t be too surprised if a machete was telepathically findings its way behind him. He had heard some stories of the psychic demon-blood abilities of the other, although Dean had been quick to assure him that those were gone, the relief stark in his voice.

Still, harmless glares were a worthy risk for harmless flirting, Dean the first breath of fresh air he had taken in Purgatory, hope bleeding through him the same way he had stolen life from others. Fighting with Dean had been natural, like falling into a dance designed for two, even if he was not the partner Dean expected.

Talking with Dean had been equally as easy, the other man opening up as soon as Benny had proven himself trustworthy, like a flower in desperate need of sunlight. Purgatory was purer, nothing except the blood of their battles for survival and the company they allowed themselves to indulge in.

Earth was a more complex delight, flavors he was still trying to get used to. Their relationship was the same, an added layer of the other man, the original partner to Dean’s dance. Although, Benny supposed that in Sam’s eyes, he was the other guy, the interloper. The way Dean’s eyes furtively darted to Sam periodically, as if guilty, confirmed that implication, prompting a semi-permanent amused smirk to make its home on Benny’s lips. Having such a jealous third-party made it all the more fun, and Sam was much more responsive than Castiel, that was for sure.

It was almost like conducting a symphony, if he had any real experience in that field. One teasing remark would speed up Dean’s heartbeat, strong and steady and a touch of nervousness, triggering Sam’s own heartbeat to increase, an angry pounding that filled in the spaces of his brother’s rhythm. A sly look here, a wink there, and the song would start up all over again.

Benny had enjoyed dancing quite a bit in his past life, the music thrumming through his veins in a similar manner. He was tempted to take it up again, especially if he had such a lovely partner.

He had said as much to Dean, partially as a genuine offer and partially as a goad to Sam, although the idea of watching Dean sweat from something other than brutal combat was certainly appealing. Dean scoffed in response, but his lips turned upwards slightly, so that was a win in his books. Sam had not responded nearly as favorably (or he did, depending on the criterion), rolling his eyes and muttering underneath his breath in a tone still audible to Benny.

“Let’s see how well you can dance without a head,” a nasty snarl (not nearly as pretty as when Dean did), not half as intimidating as Sam intended it to be. Benny had had his fair share of posturing, both on Earth and in Purgatory. When one faced down a dragon, still hungry after eating a dozen monsters, a snarl was the equivalent of a dirty look- harmless and a waste of muscle movement. The height wasn’t all that impressive either.

Dean, knowing his brother or from their close proximity, shoved Sam lightly, cuffing him on the back.

“C’mon, let’s get out of here. Go wait in the car if you can’t be civil for five minutes.”

Like a petulant teenager, Sam didn’t move, leaning back on the car and pulling out his phone instead. He fiddled with the buttons unconvincingly, ignoring Dean’s stare, and Benny suppressed a laugh. He knew the difference between teasing and suicide.

With a small huff, Dean pushed off from the Impala’s hood and walked away, head motioning for Benny to follow. They didn’t end up that far from the car, just on the edge of Sam’s hearing, as if crossing that invisible line would be too heavy of a trespass. Not for the first time, Benny had to wonder the lengths of their relationship, although he had never actually breached that word with Dean, preferring to keep things light in the midst of their life-and-death reality.

“Look, we’ll probably be away for a while. You okay on your own?” Dean looked down at him, green eyes searching his own intently, concern poorly hidden.

That was sweet, and Benny let a slow smile spread across his face. “I’ll be alright, but you come back when you can.” A pause, “I’ll miss your company every night.”

The song started up again, as Dean shifted his stance into something more open, inviting. His eyes stayed on Benny, and his voice dropped to a murmur.

“Call me if there’s anything, okay? I’m serious. Don’t leave me in the dark.” Benny stepped closer, leaning in under the guise of hearing him more clearly, although all parties knew better. “Or if you just want to talk, whatever.”

Dean looked a little shy from the offer, not blinking at the proximity— which was very much explained by his short observation of the two brothers. Benny tilted his lips up and closer to Dean’s ear, saying just loudly enough, “You got it, mon cherie. I’m sure we’ll still get up to lots of fun. There’s a lot you can do with these new devices, yeah?”

Savoring the warmth from Dean’s cheek before he was nudged back, Dean’s laughter filled his senses, no force behind the push. Sam’s song was taking itself to a new height, and Benny supposed he should stop before the other man gave himself a heart attack.

The two exchanged sincere goodbyes, Benny watching as Dean slipped into the driver’s seat and sped away.

He hadn’t missed Sam’s unwavering glare throughout the entire exchange, eyes locked onto the picture he and Dean must’ve made. But what was a glare compared to the monsters he faced in Purgatory, the humans he slaughtered as their monster? Benny was not afraid of one human, even with all the stories Dean had spun for him, devotion and affection clear in his tone. Even if Sam was so clearly jealous, who would go after their brother’s friend?

Benny walked away, whistling, looking forward to the day he would see Dean next and hear that lovely symphony again. What a pair they were.

[nerdwholikesnerdythings]

The other day one of my friends (and fellow supernatural fan) told me to tell them a bedtime story. I'm unoriginal, so this is what came out...

One night, after the mother went to bed

She heard her baby cry. "Fuck this." She said

She walked to the nursery where she checked to see if it was dire *"if not, I'm going back to sleep"* she thought, before seeing her husband standing by the crib. *"Finally, I can fucking sleep."* she thought, before she realized her husband was downstairs

She tried to scream, but she was quickly on fire

Against the ceiling with a stab wound on her torso, she burned in her white nightgown. Her husband woke up and thought to himself *"well fuck."* and went to investigate

He went up the stairs and up there he became scared

As his wife was roasting like a marshmallow

He gripped his oldest son by the shoulders

"Take your brother outside as fast as you can. Don't look back, now Dean, go!" He yelled before wailing at the ceiling, where his baby mama laid

"MaaaaAaaAryyyy”

He yelled, before the fire encompassed the room, causing him to have to leave

He sat outside still nearby, close to the cover of some leaves

He sat on a fire truck thinking *"wow. I'm fucked."* as he gripped his eldest son tight

Driven by revenge he raised his kids to kill the things that go bump in the night

They grew up without a hint of luck, sleeping in motel rooms while their dad was gone for many nights

Dean took care of little Sammy. Dean did everything his father asked, he was a scared, young boy

Sam on the other hand did all he could to make sure he passed (school) and strove to be normal without a hint of the ordinary in sight

As they grew older Dean was a daddy's boy, doing everything he could for approval. Although none came and he sat in shame as Sammy got into collage. "A full ride!" He exclaimed as Dean's heart was shot with pain. Was Sammy going to be leaving them some night?

He couldn't, right?

It was Dean's job to protect Sammy since that faithful fiery night, and Dean had taken it in stride.

But Sammy held, and his dad soon swelled with anger brimming inside

"If you leave, don't you ever come back." He said, his voice devoid of light. Dean gazed at Sam, sadness but also pride in his eyes, although he was unseen.

Sam left and didn't come back, not taking into account the feelings of Dean.

It was a couple years later when their dad went missing. "Son of a bitch!" Dean thought

[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.

[saltcxrcle]

sweet smiles and sweaters ── . ✶ s. winchester

summary: you want to be close to sam as possible, which means you might crawl into his old hoodie... with him in it

pairings: established sam winchester x reader, sam winchester x gn! reader warnings: no use of 'y/n', fluff, pure fluff, like tooth-rottingly sweet, word count: 1.3K a/n: this is just me being obsessed with sam bc who isn't?? but this was inspired by a video i saw on my feed lol hope you guys enjoy this fluffy fic with sam hehe <3 sam winchester masterlist

IT WAS SCARY how fast you fell for Sam. But how could you not? Sam’s smile never failed to make your stomach flutter whenever he aimed it your way. Oh, and how could you forget to mention the adorable dimples that appeared when he smiled brightly and never failed to make you melt in your seat. You could feel your heartbeat race at the sound of his loud and boisterous laugh when you said something funny and couldn’t help but laugh along with him; his laugh was the best type of pick-me-up you could ever ask for. 

Sam’s mind was one that you always admired; he was brilliant, and you always loved to hear what he had researched for the hunt you guys were on. You loved hearing him talk; the low timbre of his voice never failed to fill your veins with warmth as you stared at him as he spoke—no doubt with love in your eyes; you always smiled and nodded along as he spoke. 

Sam made you feel in a way that you never had experienced before—and it scared you. You never entertained the thought of the chance of him reciprocating your feelings because you thought he could never see you as more than as a friend, someone he hunts with, and someone to confide in—but not be in a relationship with.

The thought of confessing to him made your stomach churn and twist into knots (a rejection from Sam would probably hurt more than the time you were thrown down a flight of stairs by a vengeful spirit on a hunt). Besides, there was no way you were risking messing up the friendship you had established with him, nor with the dynamic you had with the brothers. 

So, your plan of shutting up about your feelings was your best bet to save you from messing everything up until Sam came in with a sledgehammer (a metaphorical one, of course) and shattered it completely. 

The two of you were chatting quietly through a movie (a terrible one at that) that was playing on the TV in the motel room the three of you were sharing. Dean was out at the nearest bar, and Sam was sitting next to you, his shoulder against yours. You chuckled at the joke he had made about the flimsy plot. You looked at Sam as your laughing subsided, seeing a soft smile on his face as he looked at you—fondness glinting in his hazel gaze. 

Sam unconsciously leaned toward you, his hand coming to rest against your face and his thumb swiping against your cheek softly. You couldn’t help but lean into the warmth of his hand, but you were slightly confused at the action. You didn’t verbalize it, not wanting to break the spell Sam had put you under. 

His eyes flicked from yours to your lips before meeting your gaze again. “Can I kiss you?” Sam’s breath was fanning over yours, resting his forehead against your own. 

You didn’t realize how close he had gotten but gave him a soft smile. “Yeah.” You murmured. 

Sam mirrored your smile before placing his lips on yours, drawing you in for the sweetest kiss you had ever gotten in your life (until that moment, of course). Your eyes fluttered shut when Sam kissed you, savoring the feeling of his lips against yours.

You were convinced that you were dreaming, but the warmth of Sam’s palm against your cheek told you that this was very much real and Sam was kissing you. It seemed to have lasted forever, but Sam pulled away from you slowly like he was reluctant to part from your lips. But he didn’t stray far; his forehead was still resting against yours.

You could feel your lips stretch into a broad smile, feeling giddy at the fact that Sam just kissed you. You slowly peeled your eyes open to see your favorite sight, Sam beaming down at you—something akin to love coloring his gaze as the two of you locked eyes with one another. 

Dean had a shit-eating grin on his face when the two of you woke up the following day after you guys had shared your first kiss but congratulated the both of you for finally getting over your fears and getting together. 

Now, you were at the table in another motel room, on another hunt in a random town in the Midwest, researching and typing away at your laptop. You couldn’t help but cast glances at your boyfriend, who was lying on your shared bed, his back against the headboard, as he flipped through one of the lore books he was able to check out from the library in this town. Sam’s brows were slightly furrowed, and you wanted to smooth out the wrinkle between his brows with either your fingers or a kiss. 

You smiled at the thought as you continued to look at Sam. He was wearing an old, worn Stanford hoodie that rarely saw the light of day, having been at the bottom of his duffle bag since he left university. You looked back at your laptop; you hadn’t found anything useful before looking back at him. You smirked to yourself before closing your laptop and getting up from the table you were hunched over for the past hour. 

Your hands went above your head, stretching out the stiff muscles in your shoulders and back before you padded over to the end of the bed where Sam was reading. He hadn’t noticed that you were there until you started to crawl onto the bed and towards him. 

Sam glanced up from the book to see your smirking face as you climbed up his body. “What are you doing?” He asked with a confused smile on his face. 

You didn’t bother with answering him verbally; you just shot him a sly smile before lifting the hem of the red hoodie he was wearing and crawling into it head first. 

Sam let out a shocked laugh, and an exclamation of your name fell from his lips. The book he was reading fell from his grip as you shimmied your way up his sweater. Sam squirmed slightly as your body shifted up his, plastering yourself against his. You eventually got your head through the top of the sweater, now being nose to nose with your darling boyfriend. 

“Hi.” You greeted him with a wide grin. 

“Hi.” Sam chuckled at your antics. His hand came to rest on your back as you straddled his body. “Is there any reason why you’re in my sweater with me?” 

“Do I need a reason to be close to my boyfriend?” 

“I suppose not, but you could have done without almost suffocating yourself in my hoodie.” 

You shook your head. “Nope, this is way more comfortable.” 

Sam let out a chuckle at your words, shaking his head. “Okay then honey.” 

“To answer your question, I was bored and I felt like it.” You weren’t exactly lying. Doing research on your laptop had lost its charm when you kept hitting dead end after dead end. But you weren’t going to admit that you just wanted to be as close to him as possible (there were days that you wanted to crawl into his skin, but you weren’t going to address that thought any time soon). 

“You got bored doing research didn’t you?” 

“Yep.” You popped the ‘p’ as you answered Sam, and he shook his head at you. 

He kissed your forehead, and your eyes fluttered at the feeling of his lips on your skin. Sam pulled back slightly before kissing you. You sunk into the kiss before he pulled back, placing another peck on your lips. 

“Are you going to stay there the entire time?” Sam asked you as he picked up the book from the bed. 

You nodded. 

“Will that be comfortable for you?” Sam had a slight frown on his lips. Not that he didn’t love having you this close to him, but he didn’t think that his sweater was big enough for the both of you. 

“I’ll be fine.” You told him before shifting downwards slightly, resting your head on his collarbone, and closing your eyes. 

Sam couldn’t help but smile at the sight of you through the opening of his sweater. He kissed your forehead again before going back to reading. 

[join my taglist !; read rules before sending in an ask]

[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.

[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