#thank you wincestmas santa!!!

[crooked-sleep]

Day 9 -- The Sunlight in My Growing

sam whump! because i love writing it and i love when dean gets to look after him :’)

warnings: description of torture and hurt!sam ft. protective!dean, dean looking after sam, and semi-naked cuddling

—

Dean closes his eyes, gritting his teeth together as he hears another muffled scream. Part of him wants to know what they’re doing to Sam, but another part of him is grateful that Sam’s in another room. He doesn’t think he could keep himself together if he could actually see Sam.

The screaming doesn’t leave much to the imagination, though.

He redoubles his efforts to saw through his bindings with the nail file he’d hidden in his boot. His fingers are bleeding from the effort, and his wrists have been chafed raw, but his brain doesn’t even register the pain right now. All he knows is that he has to get to Sam.

Another scream. A tear falls from Dean’s eye before he can stop it. Blood drips down his hands, making his fingers slippery as he tries to saw through the coarse rope. “Please, please, please oh fuck,” he whispers, a desperate plea to no one.

The file almost slips, but Dean grabs on to it at the last moment, the point cutting into the meat of his palm. He bites off a curse and manages to maneuver it upright, and continues sawing.

Sam is past words now. Has been for a while. Whatever they’re doing to him, it has him letting out raw, guttural sounds of pain, and if Dean closes his eyes he’s back in hell, being tortured with Sam’s face on the rack below his eyes.

The file slips from his hands just as he manages to saw through the last of the ropes. He lets it fall, pulling his wrists apart and bringing his arms to the front, rotating his shoulders to get his blood moving again. From there it’s two minutes for him to untie his feet and get off the hard metal chair, and locate his knife. Their kidnappers are not particularly smart, as proven by the fact that they left Dean unattended with his weapons in clear view. They probably thought their stupid rope could hold him.

Dean is going to kill every last one of them.

His hands hurt when he wraps his fingers around the familiar knife handle, but he pays it no mind. In the next room is his little brother, the love of his life, screaming himself raw, and that’s where his focus lies.

Both the kidnappers – human, because they’re literally worse than demons when they want to be – have their backs to Dean. He spares a second to wonder at their limitless stupidity, before burying his knife to the hilt in the nearest one’s back.

“What the fuck–” begins the second one, pausing with his own knife halfway to Sam’s throat, but he doesn’t get to say more than that; Dean rips his knife out of the first guy and shoves it straight into the second one’s throat, moving it sideways in a brutal motion. The man falls to the ground, gargling blood, hands flying to his throat in a futile effort to stem the bleeding.

Dean doesn’t watch. He has eyes only for Sam, slumped in the chair they’ve tied him to, hair falling over his face. What scares him is that Sam is not moving.

“Hey,” he says, falling to his knees next to Sam and putting a hand under his chin to raise his head. “Sammy, hey.”

Sam’s eyes are half-shut, face slack as Dean holds his head up. He doesn’t respond. His skin is terrifyingly pale.

“Sammy, baby, hey.”

Behind him he can hear the man continue gurgling; he doesn’t even turn. The fucker will die eventually. Dean hopes it hurts like hell.

There are twin pools of blood around Sam’s bare feet, and his hands look like mincemeat. Sam’s lip is split and bleeding sluggishly too, and one eye is swollen shut, ringed in bruise-blue. When Dean puts his free hand on Sam’s back, it comes away covered in blood too, and Dean has to swallow bile when he moves behind Sam and sees the mess they’ve made of his back.

“Fuck,” he chokes out, slicing through the ropes around Sam’s wrists. Sam’s skin is chafed too; he’s been struggling, and it shows.

Dean has to move quickly to catch Sam when he falls the moment his wrists are free. He’s completely unconscious now, and Dean lets out another curse as he presses two fingers to the soft, blood-sticky underside of Sam’s jaw. His pulse is elevated, but there, and Dean lets out a bitten-off sob of relief.

“I got you,” he murmurs to Sam, untying Sam’s ankles and lifting him over his shoulder in a careful fireman’s carry. “I got you, Sammy, gonna get you fixed up, you’re gonna be good as new in no time…”

He leaves the two men choking for breath on the ground on his way out.

—

He breaks several laws on the way back to the bunker, going at least twice the speed limit. He doesn’t even whisper apologies to Baby the way he normally would when pushing her like this. He loves her, but he’d gladly burn her a thousand times over if it meant saving Sam.

Sam remains still in the backseat, and Dean keeps checking the rearview mirror to ensure he can still see the slow rise and fall of his chest. Every moment feels hours long, and Dean is beginning to feel like he’s back in hell again. Time seems to be running at that pace, and this scenario seems tailor-made from his worst nightmares.

He parks the Impala haphazardly in front of the bunker’s entrance, getting the door open before he lifts Sam out of the backseat. “Come on, Sammy, come on, baby,” he murmurs as he carries him as carefully as he can down the stairs while still being quick. “I got you, darlin’, you’re safe now…”

Sam is still unresponsive.

Dean’s room is closest, so that’s where he goes, setting Sam gently down on the bed before running to grab the med kit he keeps in his room for exactly this sort of situation. The infirmary is well-stocked too, but it’s so damn impersonal, and he’s got all the equipment he needs right here. It’ll be more comforting for Sam to be in a familiar room when he wakes.

None of Sam’s wounds seem too deep – just designed to be painful. Dean carefully cuts his clothes away before turning him on his front, wincing again at the cuts spanning the width of his back. They’re crooked, the edges ragged, and Dean realizes with a swoop of gut-wrenching nausea that they’d been using a dull knife. Not for the first time he regrets not taking the time to make their deaths more painful.

But of course, Sam takes priority. Always. Dean wets a rag in a bowl of warm water and begins cleaning Sam’s back gently, wiping away the blood and grime. He chokes up a little when he wipes over Sam’s old scar, the one from Jake Talley’s knife. It’s been years and years and he still can’t bear looking at it, and having it surrounded by fresh blood is making it so much worse.

“You’re okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, just in case Sam can hear him (though Sam hasn’t so much as flinched just yet). “I got you, Sammy.”

He wipes down the wounds with an alcohol wipe and then rummages through the med kit for a 3/0 suture needle. “Definitely a step up from floss, huh?” he tells Sam with a shaky laugh as he unwraps it.

Sam doesn’t answer.

Dean bites his lip, and begins stitching Sam up. It takes him a good half an hour, and throughout that time Sam doesn’t move. It’s beginning to worry Dean, and he keeps checking Sam’s pulse and breathing, reassuring himself that Sam will be all right, he’ll be up and about soon.

When he’s done he covers the freshly-stitched wounds in clean gauze. It’s probably overkill, but he’d rather err on the side of paranoia and caution when it comes to Sam.

Next he moves to Sam’s face. Thankfully none of the cuts on it seem too deep, but Dean cleans them with Betadine anyway before covering what he can in Band-Aids and small squares of gauze.

The next shock comes when he cleans Sam’s hands to find out that he’s got over half of his fingernails missing. The rest have long wooden splinters sticking out from under them, and Dean chokes off a sob before it can leave his throat. “Oh, baby, what did they do to you?” he murmurs, wiping hastily at his eyes before grabbing the tweezers.

Sam stirs feebly when Dean grasps the first splinter with the tweezers. “Dee?” he murmurs, face scrunching up in pain, though his eyes remain closed.

Dean immediately puts his free hand on the back of Sam’s head, running his fingers through his hair gently. “Right here, Sammy,” he soothes. “Right here. You’re safe.”

Sam makes an attempt to move, and then winces, falling back on the bed. “Hey, hey, stay down, baby,” Dean says, brushing Sam’s hair away from his face and behind his ear. “You’re banged up pretty bad. Let me take care of you, okay? Let me fix you up.”

“S'bad?” Sam asks, cracking his uninjured eye open to look hazily up at Dean.

“Nah, not so bad,” Dean says, only a half-truth. “You’re not gonna be having a great few days for a while, but you’ll be fine.”

“Th'hunters?”

“Dead,” Dean replies shortly. Fuckers. Lured Sam and Dean in pretending they needed help on a hunt, and then decided to exact revenge for the goddamn apocalypse. It feels like a lifetime ago to Dean, and they’d fixed it anyway, hadn’t they? Everything Sam had gone through just to keep their ungrateful hides safe, God it makes Dean’s blood boil.

Sam lets out a slow exhale, and closes his eyes for a moment. Then he opens his eyes again, and asks, “What you doing?”

“Your hands,” Dean tells him, taking the tweezers up again. “This is gonna sting a little,” he informs Sam regretfully.

“S'okay,” Sam whispers. “Do it.” He closes his eyes again.

“Just hold on, okay?” Dean says, and pulls the first splinter out in a quick motion.

Sam whimpers, fingers flexing a little as he tries to form a fist, and then relaxing again when it makes the pain worse. Dean takes a deep breath, whispering apologies under his breath as he pulls out the rest of the splinters. Throughout it all Sam keeps a brave face, biting down hard on his lip so he can muffle his sounds of pain. It makes tears rise in Dean’s eyes again, but he wipes them hastily on his sleeve and continues.

Cleaning the rest of Sam’s fingers prove harder. “Do it,” Sam grits out when he notices Dean hesitating, hands hovering over Sam’s.

“Sammy, it’ll hurt,” Dean says, voice hoarse.

“’M okay,” Sam insists, squeezing his eyes shut again.

So Dean steels himself, and cleans Sam’s bare nail beds with the warm water-soaked rag, and disinfects them with Betadine, and pretends he can’t see tears dripping down Sam’s closed eyes and into the pillow underneath his head. “God, Sammy, I’m so sorry,” he says again and again, caressing Sam’s hands with his thumbs whenever he can. “I’m so sorry.” He kisses the back of one of Sam’s hands, and then begins the slow, careful task of bandaging his fingers.

Sam’s breathing heavily by the time Dean is done, and he doesn’t say a word when Dean begins to clean his wrists. He remains quiet as Dean wraps gauze around them, and is totally still while Dean repeats his ministrations on his ankles. It’s only when Dean touches the soles of his feet that Sam lets out a half-choked sob.

Immediately Dean is at his side, med kit forgotten on the nightstand. “Sammy?”

“’M all righ’,” Sam tells him, biting down on his lip once more. He’s split it open again, and Dean carefully thumbs the blood away, wiping it off on his own shirt. “Jus’… my feet.”

Dean looks, and can’t help a harsh “Fuck” when he notices the cuts spanning the width of Sam’s arches. Clearly to prevent him from running. “Fuck,” he whispers again. “I swear if I could kill them all over again–” He stops midway, and wipes angrily at his eyes.

“S'okay,” Sam tells him again. “Jus’ – jus’ do it, Dee. Fast,” he adds.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, picking up the rag again. “Hold on just a little bit longer for me, okay, Sammy? Just a few minutes. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” whispers Sam.

So Dean hardens himself, and gets to work again. Clean. Disinfect. Wipe Sam’s tears away. Wipe his own tears off his face. Suture. Clean and disinfect again. Cover.

“I’ll get you something for the pain, okay?” Dean tells him when he’s done, rubbing at Sam’s ankle.

Sam nods, trying to curl up as much as he can with his injured hands and feet and the fact that he’s lying on his front. “‘Kay,” he whispers.

Dean digs out the heavy-duty stuff from the mid kit, and casts a glance at the expiration date. They’re good, so he puts the bottles down on the nightstand and runs to Sam’s room to fill a glass of water from the sink in it. He returns in under a minute to find Sam in a sitting position, a light sheen of sweat on his face.

“What the hell, Sammy,” he says, exasperated, as he shakes out a couple pills from the bottles for Sam.

“Hadta sit up for th'pills,” Sam manages to say. He still looks far too pale for Dean’s liking, and it looks like just the simple act of sitting up has taken a lot out of him.

“Coulda waited for me to help, man,” Dean chastises as he gives Sam the painkillers and antibiotics, and then helps him take a few gulps of water.

“’M fine,” Sam argues weakly.

Dean just sighs, putting the glass aside. “Sure,” he says, not having the energy to argue anymore. He feels drained suddenly, soul-tired, and his fingers are shaking when he bends over to unlace his boots.

“Dee?” Sam says softly.

“I’m all right, babe,” Dean mutters, managing to untie his laces and kick his boots off. “Just – just tired.”

“Did you get hurt?” Sam asks.

Dean shakes his head before standing up and turning back around. “Wrists hurt just a little, but I’m good, Sammy,” he tells him, taking his flannel off.

“You gonna take care of it?”

“In a few,” Dean answers, hoarse. He sits back down on the bed when he’s stripped down to his boxers like Sam, and then pulls the med kit towards himself.

Sam leans forward, watching closely as Dean cleans his own wounds and bandages them. It warms Dean up, knowing Sam’s concerned for him even in the state he’s in. Always so worried for Dean.

“You’re gonna be okay, you know,” he says when he’s done.

Sam nods. “Yeah,” he says. “S'not that bad, huh? Had worse.”

That doesn’t make Dean feel much better, but he manages to give Sam a strained smile anyway. Sam returns it, one dimple showing for a second for vanishing again.

Dean reaches over to grab the blanket and pulls it up before lying down. “C'mere,” he says softly, and helps Sam shift closer to him. “Lie down, Sammy.”

He helps Sam lie down slowly on his side, and wraps an arm cautiously around Sam’s shoulders. Sam puts his head on Dean’s chest, right under his chin, and gently intertwines his bandaged fingers with Dean’s free hand.

“You comfortable?” Dean asks.

“Mm,” hums Sam, his eyes falling shut.

“How’s the pain?”

“Better,” Sam answers.

“Good,” says Dean, voice cracking. “Get some sleep, Sammy. Been a long day.”

Sam huffs out a weak laugh. “One way t'put it,” he mutters, before raising his head a little to press a feather-light kiss to Dean’s jaw.

Dean gives him a soft smile, and kisses his temple before Sam lays his head back down again. “I love you,” he tells Sam, suddenly feeling scraped raw on the inside. His heart feels like it’s been rubbed against a cheese grater. “You know that, right, Sammy? Right, baby?”

“I know,” Sam tells him, squeezing his hand as lightly as he can. “I love you too, Dee.” His sentences aren’t as slurred from pain anymore, but he’s still using his childhood nickname for Dean, and for some reason that soothes Dean like a balm. It feels good to know that no matter what, Sam is always going to look up to him for protection and reassurance.

“Yeah, I know,” Dean whispers into Sam’s hair. “I know, babe.” He doesn’t have words to express the way he feels right now, tangled up in Sam and so fucking grateful, and so damn tired.

Sam is quiet for a few minutes, long enough that Dean thinks he’s fallen asleep. That illusion is gone when Sam asks, voice beginning to slur again but from sleep this time, “Dee?”

“Yeah, Sammy?”

“Can you– can you sing?”

“You want me to sing you something?” Dean asks, surprised. Sam hasn’t asked that of him in literal years.

“Please,” Sam says. He sounds so young suddenly that it makes Dean’s heart ache again.

“Of course, babe,” he says, rubbing circles into Sam’s shoulder with his thumb.

“Thanks,” Sam murmurs, wiggling a little in Dean’s arms before he settles again.

Dean kisses his hair. “Any time, Sammy.” And then he begins singing, the first song that comes to mind.

It is the springtime of my loving The second season I am to know You are the sunlight in my growing So little warmth I’ve felt before

Sam’s breathing evens out slowly, getting deeper the longer that Dean keeps singing. He’s hoarse, and his voice keeps cracking, but it doesn’t seem to matter to Sam, whose entire body is relaxing, melting into Dean, his head growing heavier as he gets closer to sleep. Unable to help a smile, Dean continues singing.

“I know that I love you so,” he whispers, “oh, but I know…”

In the morning, he’s going to get up earlier than normal so he can give Sam his antibiotics and painkillers on time. He’s going to go over Sam’s injuries again, and he’s going to fuss and helicopter and smother Sam until Sam’s making bitchfaces at him and accusing him of mother-henning. And then he’ll crack a joke, and Sam will laugh against his will, and they’ll be all right. 

They’ll be all right.

—

i’m an awful person, i know, but i just can’t help it – sam whump is just so ridiculously fun to write! feel free to scream at me and cast me down into hell, god knows i’m asking for it at this point lmao

hopefully something less hurty for tomorrow!

love, wincestmas anon <3

 ___

WINCESTMAS ANON! This was me reading your warnings:

Because I, too, love a good whumping. The darker the setup, the more cathartic the um.. catharsis, I always say. And that was deliciously dark. Like, I’m ready to go all Dean on those jackass hunters. GRRR.

I looooved “his little brother, the love of his life.” - CORRECT!

Also, Dean’s “the fucker will die eventually” was just so Dean. (As was later wishing he’d made their deaths more painful.) 

And the singing. Oh my god. That was lovely and now I just feel so soft and tender toward the boys. Thank you, thank you, thank you for this lovely, lovely gift!!!!!! 

Love,

Sin

[ilovejared]

Day 12: Gifted (Mature)

God was dead—or, neutralized, at least, and somehow Darkness and Death being at the wheel had brought the world—or, universe or, multiverse or, whatever-the-hell—something like peace.

Dean took off for a last supply run. Everyone was coming over: Cas of course, Donna and Jody and Jody’s girls, bunch of the hunters from Michael’s world, Aiden and Krissy, Josephine, Eileen… even Donatello was crawling up out of his prophet-hole for Christmas dinner.

So, Sam had the Bunker all to himself on Christmas Eve. Gas-station presents wrapped in their traditional Sunday funnies sat under the tree. White twinkle lights and silver tinsel sparkled on the boughs. Red ribbon and green garland—“It’s called Winchester pine, Sammy! We have to!”—wound around the stair rail.

Place smelled like peppermint and pumpkin pie. Sam’s boots thumped the tiles, rang loud in the quiet before, between the chaos. 

Dean had the kitchen laid out just-so. But Sam could execute his plan without disturbing much. Big pot for boiling water. Baking dish. Mason jar of farmer’s market pasta sauce and Dean’s homemade, three-meat, grilled meatballs from the freezer. Sam set about heating, seasoning and assembling. Basil, fresh from the Bunker’s greenhouse. Good mozzarella that Dean liked to gripe about but always kept around because Sam snacked on it. 

Dish in the oven, tinfoil-topped. Sam set a timer on his phone and headed down to the storerooms. Took him some searching, but he found what he was looking for. Made his way back up the stairs and got to work transforming the library. 

Sam was reading in the map room when Dean got home.

“Heya Sammy!” 

“Hey.” Sam looked up.

“Good news! I found that douchey organic eggnog you—” Dean sniffed, squinted at him. “What am I smelling here?”

Sam put down his book and stood. “Baked ziti.” 

“You cooked?” Dean clanged down the stairs, bulging grocery bags in both arms.

Sam shrugged. “I reheated, mostly.” Took the bags and turned for the kitchen. “Go have a seat.”

“Damn, Sammy!” Dean’s footsteps trailed toward the table he’d set. “You went all out, huh?”

Sam grinned to himself. “I am capable of nesting too, y’know!” 

Click of Dean’s Zippo followed him around the corner. Sam put up the groceries and carefully pulled his ziti and garlic bread out of the warm oven. 

Dean stepped up behind and slid his arms around Sam’s waist. “I’ll hand it to you, man; you surprised me.”

Heat climbed Sam’s neck as Dean bunched up his shirt and scratched circles on his belly. “Grab the salads, huh?” He was not gonna let Dean distract him, let their meal get cold.

Dean huffed against Sam’s neck, but he got in line. Helped carry plates to the library, where he’d lit the candles, opened the wine. 

“Good stuff.” Dean picked up the bottle. “Is this—”

“Yeah.” Sam ducked his head. “Been sitting in that box—”

“Since Dad was here.” 

Sam peeked up. 

Dean licked his lips and thumbed the label. “Ain’t no sense lettin’ it collect dust.” Stuck out a hand. “Here.”

Sam passed him the glasses and Dean poured. 

“Sit!” Sam gestured. Grinned. “Or, I could pull your chair out for you—”

“Fuck you.” Dean sat.

“Merry Christmas!” Sam smiled, extra sweet.

Dean speared penne, spun his fork through stretchy cheese and scooped up sauce. “Holy shit, Sam,” with his mouthful, “this is awesome.” 

Blush lit Sam’s cheeks.

Dinner passed in easy silence. Clink of forks on plates and Dean’s pleased groans the only sounds. Sam stared. Watched Dean’s lashes flutter, lips and jaws work. Callused, crooked fingers lifted delicate glass, and Dean’s tongue flashed. Throat flexed as the wine washed down. 

Sam poured their second round. Dean jerked his chin in thanks. He dabbed his mouth—with his actual napkin, plucked from his actual lap—and raised a toast. 

“Merry Christmas, Sammy.”

Glasses tapped.

“Merry Christmas, Dean.”

Later—candles snuffed and dishes washed and funnies shredded on the floor—Dean spread Sam out on a blanket by the glittering tree.

“Want you, Sammy,” breathed on his skin, as gifted hands skimmed down his sides. 

Sam arched, sparked where they collided, muttered, “Yes, Dean. God.”

And Dean moved on him—stroking, stretching, kissing bruises in between his thighs—after all this time, Sam still reacted, bucked and writhed and trembled. Opened, moaned Dean’s name and took him, quick and deep and brutal. Beautiful. Sam roared. Soaked their bellies. Muscles quaked and tears escaped and Dean drove on. Hammering. Panting.

Dean was cleaning them, next thing Sam knew. Green eyes, swollen lips and sweaty shoulders shined in the soft light. Sam seized Dean, back of his neck and dragged him down. Kissed him. Tangled tongues and mingled breath. 

“Take me to bed,” Sam said.

Dean smirked. “Probably oughta straighten up in here first.”

Sam shook his head. “Tomorrow.”

“Okay, Sammy.” Kissing again. “Okay.”

———

Hat-tip to wetsammywinchester for the bunker greenhouse! Also I now lowkey ship Amara/Billie. O.O

Santa hopes you’ve enjoyed your wincestmas, in spite of the irl challenges. I’m gonna go on hiding here behind my long white beard for now (you know, so as not to spoil the mystery!) In the meantime, all my best to you and your elf. Santa is thinking of you. 

♡♡♡♡♡

[omegaqueencas]

Hey! I'm your wincestmas secret santa. What are you into in fic? Particular likes and dislikes? NSFW yes or no?

Hello!

I'm totally fine with NSFW, I just want it to have a happy ending, and if it's smut and there's a kink in it, it would be better to check with me first hahahahahah (although I usually don't like the more "intense" kinks, like blood, scat, etc)

About my likes, I loooove bottom!Dean, happy ending as mentioned before, feel good fics are also lovely, because the boys need a restTM.

About my dislikes, I don't particularly enjoy serial killers AU or dark fics (mainly with smut - bottom!Dean is not very common and there's far too many bottom!Dean fics in which there's dark!Sam, but I'm a sucker for happiness and love).

Basically, I just want them to be happy hahahahaha if you have anything specific you'd like to know, please feel free to message me again!

I know I can be a little picky, sorry!

Thanks for messaging me!! Can't wait to hear from you again.

[soy-em]

I just wanted to say again how much I enjoyed being your Secret Santa for the 12 Days of Wincestmas. I’m working on posting the fics on AO3 and I’m getting distracted by your wonderful stories there! Now I can leave comments! Yay!

Thank you! I very much enjoyed having you write for me, and thank you so much for uploading them all onto a03 as gifts too - now I can find them easily when I want to re-read them :) And comments are always good. I love your writing too - was just rereading No Time yesterday - one of my favourite fics ever!

[laughablelament]

nisaki-chan replied to your photo: Day 9 of wincestmas Dean serenading Sam.. And Sam...

I think I got the better deal being your santa. I’ve never been so appreciated, thank you. This is beautiful btw

Aw, well then I'm doing my job. Think I've said before, artists are wizards to me, and I was the most spoiled. ^_^ I'm glad you like your poem, my sweet.

[wincestmas]

Annual invitation for Santas who migrate to AO3 to join the collection. Just type "12daysofwincestmas2016" into the Post to Collections/Challenges box. Note: It's anonymous by default this year. If you want to come off anon, please put that in your story notes or comments. (I'm the one guilty of messing with settings, so I'll take care of those requests.) Thanks, wincestmas, for another awesome 12days!

thank you so much for this!

[specialagentrin]

Hohoho! The wincestmas Santa arrived! Please let me know what you'd like to receive this holiday and I'll try my best to comply and bring you joy for twelve whole days. (Please let me know things that you absolutely DO NOT want as well, just in case. I honestly want to bring you all the joy this holiday, and for it to be perfect I need to have a clear image of what you like!) I'll come back, hohoho.

Write whatever you please! I have no objections to anything -- espically if's it fluffy, I'm such a dork for those. I really do love Team Free Will or Wincestiel too -- but thank you for taking your time out for asking! 🌟🌻

[deansmixtape]

HOHOHO it's your wincestmas santa, baby! I'm here to ask for a few of your likes/dislikes so I can ensure your gifts are to your liking for you have been VERY good this year (and by good I mean naughty - Santa sees ALL!) If there's anything you'd really like to see or definitely do not want to see, whisper in Santa's ear!

Hey there Wincestmas Santa!

I am pretty open to all sorts of Wincest, but do have a preference for first-time, or curtain!fic.  I’d really love to see how celebrating (or not) the holidays works(or not) for Sam and Dean at various points in their life together. 

Oh, and I don’t like non-con or super hardcore stuff.

Thank you so much for asking, and I can’t wait to read what you come up with!

[sweet-sammy-kisses]

Your Wincestmas Anon here, I stopped by to submit today's gift but stopped to look through your post cause I love your blog and I'm taking the time to say two things. #1-Congrats on the job interview, I'm sure you're gonna do great on it. #2-I love that fan art piece of Sam&Dean in (reindeer)panties and santa boxers you reblogged. It's perfect for the reindeer games ficlet I sent you so can we pretend that I sent that instead of the pictures I did send? ;-)

Thank you! That was so nice of you to say on liking my blog and about me doing well on the job interview. I believe I did okay and even if I don’t get the job 2017 has started out on a positive note for me. 

If you want to, but I did enjoy the picture you sent me. 

[crooked-sleep]

Day 6 - NYE [Pt. 1]

hello and happy new year!!! sorry this is late, i’m a dumbass who went camping in a desert and then spent all of today sick ;-;

you mentioned you like pining, and first times, so i hope you enjoy this!

—

Dean’s found some campsite in the middle of nowhere, and according to the bartender’s sister three towns over it has a wonderful view of the fireworks. Sam’s not so sure about this whole plan, considering that they’re in the midwest and it’s really fucking cold, but they don’t have any cases, and he kind of misses spending time with Dean doing nothing, so he agrees to go along with it.

They arrive early in the afternoon and find a nice spot by a tree. It’s not so much a campsite as it is just an empty field, but there are already other people there with tents and lights. Dean picks a spot a good few yards away from the nearest tent, and parks.

It doesn’t take them long to set up. They don’t have a tent, so all they do is spread a couple blankets on the ground in front of the Impala and place their cooler in the center. It’s too cold for beer, so Sam’s stocked it with vacuum flasks of coffee and hot chocolate instead. Dean’s contribution is his little hip flask, which Sam rolls his eyes at and declares, “That’s not going anywhere near my drinks.”

“Wet blanket,” Dean accuses him, but it’s all in good fun.

They play poker for a while, sitting cross-legged on the blanket across from each other, and it catches the attention of a couple parked nearby. Sam’s not too happy about it considering the whole point had been to spend time with Dean alone, but Dean looks more than delighted to have more people join in, and so Sam keeps his mouth shut. They go a few rounds, and by the end of it Dean has acquired a sweet pocketknife, a cell phone charm shaped like a gun, and a half-full bottle of whiskey in winnings. The couple are pretty good-natured about it, but they don’t play any more rounds against Dean, and presently, much to Sam’s relief, they wander off again.

“Want some?” Dean asks Sam, holding out the bottle of whiskey.

“No, thanks,” Sam answers, and Dean shrugs before taking a swig directly from the bottle.

“This is nice,” he says after a few moments. “Haven’t really done this in a while.”

Sam hums in agreement. “Yeah,” is all he says, eyes focused on the sky. It’s steadily getting darker, and soon enough there won’t be any light. “Can’t remember the last time I saw a sunset,” he says quietly to Dean.

“Me neither,” Dean says after a moment of surprised contemplation. He takes another swig from the bottle. “Man, we miss a lot, don’t we?”

“Can’t help it, I guess,” Sam says. He reaches into the cooler and withdraws the flask of coffee. “Probably not a bad thing, though,” he adds, offering the flask to Dean. “Means we appreciate it when we do get to see it.”

“I guess,” Dean answers. He takes the flask, pours some coffee in an old, chipped mug Sam hands him, and adds whiskey to it before handing Sam the flask back. “So. Any resolutions?”

That makes Sam laugh, though he’s not sure why. “I don’t know,” he says, taking a sip of his coffee. “Um… try not to get hit in the head too much?”

Dean laughs too. “Good luck with that,” he says, eyes crinkling as he smiles at Sam over his mug. 

“What about you?” Sam asks, resolutely ignoring the butterflies in his belly.

Dean shrugs. “Ah, I dunno, get laid more often, I guess?”

The butterflies turn to lead. Sam tries not to let his smile fade as he says, “Even more than you already do? Your dick is gonna fall off.”

“Then it will have died a noble death,” jokes Dean, but his expression is off, too. 

There’s silence, but of the awkward kind, and Sam curses himself for it. They’d been having a good time, and he’d gone and let his stupid feelings ruin it. And it sucks, because for the past few weeks he’d been letting himself think that maybe Dean felt the same way that he does, that there’s actually a chance for the two of them. And he’d thought that maybe, just maybe, if this whole evening went well, he’d man up, and tell Dean how he felt, and see how that went– except there’s no point now, because it’s clear Dean doesn’t feel the same way.

It’s getting sort of painful to just sit there and keep his eyes away from Dean’s, so in the end Sam just checks his watch, and says, “Okay, I’m gonna, uh, I’m gonna nap in the car for a while, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, too quickly. He looks grateful for the change in subject. “I’ll wake you up at half an hour to midnight, okay?”

“Sure,” says Sam, and gets up.

It takes him a while to get to sleep, though, despite being bundled up in four layers of clothes and a thick quilt in the backseat. It’s not even that he’s cold. He just feels vaguely nauseous every time he thinks of what Dean said, and then even more nauseous whenever he tries to rationalize it. And it’s not even that Dean did something wrong. He didn’t. If anything, Sam’s the one in the wrong here, he’s the one with weird fucked up feelings for his own brother.

With that not very comforting thought, Sam finally manages to doze off.

True to his word, Dean wakes him up at 11:30 by knocking on the car window. It takes Sam a few moments to return to full consciousness, and he emerges from the car with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The temperature has dropped in the time he’s spent sleeping, and Sam shivers a little as he makes his way to the front of the Impala, where Dean’s sitting on the hood with his feet resting on the bumper.

“Here,” Dean says, handing Sam a mug of hot chocolate when Sam joins him. Sam takes an experimental sniff, which makes Dean roll his eyes and add, “No alcohol in it.”

“Okay,” says Sam, and takes a sip. It’s not as hot as he’d like it to be, but that’s to be expected considering it’s spent hours in a flask. “Thanks,” he says quietly, knocking his shoulder against Dean’s.

Dean smiles softly. “It’s nothing,” he says. “You, uh, you sleep well?”

Sam nods. “Yeah. What did you do?”

“Just talked to a few people, played a few games,” Dean answers vaguely, looking straight ahead.

“Had fun?”

“Nah,” Dean tells him. “Got kinda boring after a while. I thought about waking you up, but then I figured you need your beauty sleep.”

“Well, why didn’t you?” Sam asks.

“I almost did,” Dean says. “But you looked so damn adorable, wrapped up in like twelve blankets. Didn’t wanna ruin that.”

“I’m not adorable,” Sam mumbles, ducking his head a little.

“Yeah, you are,” Dean retorts, grinning. “You’re being adorable right now.”

“No,” protests Sam.

Dean laughs, and wraps an arm around Sam’s shoulders. “If you say so,” he says, amused, and it’s obvious he’s only saying it to end the argument. 

Sam leans into his side, grateful – Dean is exuding warmth, and the weight of his arm on Sam’s shoulders is comforting in its familiarity, something he’s always associated with home and safety. Dean leans back into him too, and the two of them watch the dark night sky for a few minutes, occasionally taking sips of coffee from their mugs. There are still a few minutes to midnight.

“You warm?” Dean asks eventually, his voice low.

“Mm,” Sam answers. He’s still got the blanket about his shoulders, and he’s appropriated Dean’s scarf and paired it with some mitts he’d found in the Impala earlier. All of that combined with Dean’s body heat next to his is serving to make him quite comfortably warm.

“Good,” says Dean. His arm is still around Sam’s shoulders.

Sam leans further into him, letting his head rest against Dean’s shoulders. Dean shifts to accommodate him, and the two of them sit there in comfortable silence. If Sam keeps his eyes on the sky, he can pretend it’s just him and Dean here, and no one else.

Midnight arrives with a bang, and the first firework explodes in the sky in a shower of magnesium-white. Sam sits up straight at that, coffee mug forgotten on his hands, his face turned up towards the sky. Besides him, Dean is doing the same, both of them watching the display of fireworks in awe. Around them Sam can hear people wishing each other, interjected with the occasional shout and whoop.

He turns his head to look at Dean, and is surprised to find Dean looking back at him. Dean’s eyes look golden in the light from the fireworks, and his lips are slightly parted, almost as if he wants to say something but isn’t quite sure he should.

“Dean?” Sam asks when this goes on for over a few seconds too long.

Instead of replying, Dean moves forward and kisses Sam. His lips are dry from the cold, and he seems unsure of himself, a little bit hesitant. It takes a few seconds for Sam’s brain to come back online, and he tries to kiss back, to let Dean know that he’s more than okay with it.

That helps; the hesitance vanishes, and Dean presses into him, nipping lightly at his lower lip until Sam opens up. The fireworks overhead fade, but they don’t stop kissing, and the butterflies in Sam’s belly are performing some sort of strange victory dance, making him feel all weird and light-headed and dreamy.

“Happy new year, Sammy,” Dean whispers when they part.

Sam laughs, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against Dean’s. “Happy new year, Dean.”

—

there’s a part two coming up soon! i’m sorry this is late, i’ve been super sick today thanks to my allergies acting up. i’ll try to have part 2 up soon!

i hope you have a lovely year <3

–wincestmas anon

____

Santa - OMG! This hits all my buttons. No lie - I love, love, love pining and first times. Also, Sam saying he’d try not to get hit in the head as much that year was hysterical. At least that boy is self-aware. (I swear Sam would have some kind of awful TBI if not for Cas constantly healing him.) I’m as warm as Sam’s hot chocolate before he took his nap now. And I’m so giddy that there’s a part 2.

Thank you for this! <3 <3 <3 

P. S. You feel better! Don’t forget your allergy pills!

[soy-em]

Hey! I thought I already asked but now I can’t find your answer so. I’m your secret santa for 12daysofwincestmas this year! What do you like? What are your squicks?

You definitely did but Tumblr wouldn’t let me tag it so it will be really hard to find!! 

I’m so excited for Wincestmas! I’m pretty easy in what I read - I don’t like the usual squicks i.e. watersports, scat, bestiality, extreme underage. Most other things are fine, if there’s something you’re not sure of, feel free to check in. 

In terms of likes, I love all Wincest! I’m more of a bottom!Sam girl but happy with either. I love hurt/comfort, domestic!Winchesters and fluff over Christmas but angst is good too if that’s where inspiration strikes. I love Weechesters and Weecest but also late season Wincest, and there’s nothing as nice as watching the boys pining for eachother, as long as it ends up happy! 

Thanks for checking in and I look forward to receiving Wincestmas goodness!