#vetala in samarkan

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S P N, WHEN THE LEVEE BREAKS A M Y M E I S S N E R, SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION

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john winchester meticulously seeking out that cheesy samarkan font to write the vetala’s name in fake devanagari script so his boys would one day think he was like, culturally sensitive about how to kill one <3 good job king

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Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005) Warnings: Underage Relationships: Dean Winchester/John Winchester, John Winchester/Sam Winchester Additional Tags: Parent/Child Incest, Voyeurism, Possessive Behavior for dadfucker december 2023 / @dadfuckerfest​ Summary:

John develops a habit when they settle somewhere that's not a motel, and baby baby baby do you like it?

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Is this what you want What you need What you wanted me to be Always loved me strapped to you Lock it down and drive me through [x]

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11.04 | B A B Y

out in the back seat of my brother’s ’67 chevy when you just don't seem to have as much to lose strange how the night moves

[ for @wincestwednesdays - week two, "favourite episode / blood" ]

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O U R O W N P R I V A T E I D A H O

VIEWS OF THE CITY OF Portland Oregon digressing into the seedy areas of the small city. ARCADES, and yellow storefronts, of PORNOGRAPHIC BOOKSHOPS.

TWO YOUNG MEN LOITER IN FRONT OF ONE OF THE BOOKSHOPS SOLICITOUSLY AND EYE A CUSTOMER.

BOTH POSSESS A CERTAIN PAINFUL DOWN AND OUT HANDSOMENESS OF A STREET HUSTLER.

[ for @wincestwednesdays - week one, "american gothic" ]

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Smiling makes more sense to Dean than any of the long meaningful therapizing looks that Sam keeps giving him or, god help him, Bobby's schtick about how being a Hunter means not being a person. Dean still feels like a person, just a fucked-to-hell one who can't stop seeing the long line of his inadequacies straight out the door and on till sunrise. Frank might not know him but Frank knows ... something, about what it's like, about your biggest life loss coming at age twenty-six and the one-foot-in-front-of-the-otherness of everything that comes after.

Frank's also something new and a little odd but Dean doesn't mind odd when it comes with a never-ending parade of pet names that are rolled in that sour candy coating so they're just this side of cloying, a little sarcasm to take the sugar off. He's not into psychedelics much but with Frank he's curious about the old guy's bag of tricks, so he says fuck it one time and drops acid with the geezer. It's, predictably, odd; Frank spools on and on about his routine and all the steps he's employed to keep on truckin' and by the time he's giving Dean that shiatsu massage he'd mentioned, Dean's still curious so he leans into it.

Twelve minutes later he's not altogether sure if his tianshu meridian is any better for the way Frank's rolling his knuckles against Dean's stomach, but sixteen minutes after that, Frank's fucking him nicer than a lot of people do and Dean mumbles, "i'm the one paying you, y'know," and Frank stares at him with one hand cupped at the base of Dean's skull and says, "listen, poodle, at our level of transaction nothing's a one-way street so lie back and let me get my kicks," and that sounds reasonable enough so Dean sinks his hips back further in the cot and lets it all be easy, for once, easy as it gets for somebody like him. His head jostles a little in the cup of Frank's palm with each rolling thrust and Dean opens and closes his mouth and looks up at the ceiling and doesn't see Amy's face and her cat eyes, or Bobby's face and his sadness, or anything at all. Maybe fire, rolling in. Maybe not. "Mom," he says, experimentally, and Frank slows for a minute, then gently moves his hand from behind Dean's head and covers his eyes with it.

"Thank you," Dean rasps. Frank doesn't say anything. His thumb sweeps along Dean's forehead once, twice. Sweet one way and sour the other.

---

going to lebanon : flash creations

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we take care not to touch each other in public, nor do we look into each other's eyes except furtively

(malina - ingeborg bachmann)

JOHN WINCHESTER WEEK  |  DAY 4: JOHN & DEAN

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Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005) Relationships: Dean Winchester/John Winchester, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, John Winchester, Mary Winchester Additional Tags: HunterCorp Universe, The Winchester Family, Father/Son Incest, Normalized Incest for dadfucker december 2023 / @dadfuckerfest​ Summary:

A family, like a corporation, works at its best and smoothest when everyone understands their job description.

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the brother within: #3

3) being liminal, the dog is the guardian of the threshold, and is thereby a protector of hearth and home, of structure and tradition; and, – Daniel Deardorff, The Other Within: The Genius of Deformity in Myth, Culture & Psyche

When Sam was two months old, a wasp flew in the window and landed on his tummy. Mom had fallen asleep for just a minute, Dean knew she needed a minute sometimes so he didn't wake her up, he stood by the crib and watched the wasp's pointy brown body moving in circles against Sam's so-soft onesie. Sam hadn't noticed yet. Dean put two of his fingers on Sam's tummy and the wasp crawled onto them and it felt gross but he held his breath and walked to the window and the wasp flew back out before he even got there. He went back and Sam was looking at him, and Dean said, "you're ohhhh-kay," the way Dad said it sometimes, which meant that it was.

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Dean started crying and couldn't stop when Mr. Darling sent Nana out to the doghouse when he watched Peter Pan. He never did finish the movie.

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There comes a time when Sam has an imaginary friend and Dean doesn't much like it. There comes a time when Sam has a secret dog during secret Flagstaff and Dean doesn't like that either. There comes a time when Sam has both a girlfriend and a dog that Dean doesn't know and that's shitty too.

Dean doesn't like dogs in his car. Dean paid attention to that one Aesop's Fable about the manger, but he doesn't think it applies to him, not really. Who uses mangers anymore anyhow? They'd just burn up in the fire and take the baby messiah with them.

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"Good boy," Dad says, tired, and hauls Dean onto his lap all sprawled and sideways so he can swizzle his fingertips into Dean's hair and then wrap him up in a tight hug. "You're always taking care of us," Dad mumbles against the side of Dean's head, fingers moving behind Dean's ear as he sighs. They both smell like the tomato and rice soup Dean had managed to cobble together out of a tin of Campbell's and some leftover fried rice, and the tang of it isn't exactly the nicest but it's comforting. Like home. Sam's on the other end of the sofa conked out from eating the last tin of pudding, and Dean turns around until he can settle against Dad properly. The rise and fall of Dad's stomach, the occasional thick way he clears his throat -- he swallowed some kind of ectoplasm on the last hunt and it's still working through his system -- and the swish of Dad's fingers through his hair. Dean's getting too big for this, he knows. But for tonight he made it all feel right, he did it all good, and his brother and father are sleepy and quiet and Dean's a good boy.

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He wasn't gonna fuck a poodle, come on. Not one that looked like that.

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"You're me but backwards," Chuck says to him at one point. Dean's still stinging from the don't confuse me with your dad remark, especially since technically Chuck is supposed to be basically everyone's dad, otherwise what's the whole frigging point of the Our Father?

"You're backwards," is what Dean says, and Chuck grins and shoots finger guns at him. "You should've kept your dad's dog tags," Chuck says. "You know what I do with lukewarm things. You should commit to the motif."

Dean doesn't ask what the hell Chuck's talking about. Dean leaves it alone.

---

Sam's the one who guts the hellhound. Dean can't do anything but watch.

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The bunker is the best place they've ever been and Dean doesn't waste time in making it a home, because Dean knows better than to waste time. For a while after that extra forty in Hell he'd counted his age in dog years, because that seemed to make more sense. But most of that wasn't really living. Most of that was a choke chain, and sometimes he still feels it biting into his throat in Alastair's voice, and Azazel's, and John's. He feels bad about that last one and he doesn't. Dad had outlasted him in Hell, after all. If anybody would understand it would be him.

---

Sometimes, Dean thinks, all of their hard work and sacrifice isn't what they're left with in the end. It all comes down to a miracle.

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The good Dale is in the Lodge and he can't leave. He's gonna tear you apart. He's gonna taste the iron in your blood. Write it in your diary.

t w i n  p e a k s s u p e r n a t u r a l

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.. it will brighten all our way human cas/trans dean, food, gender issues, rough sex

"I want eggs," Cas had said, when he came in and looked around with his head drooped forward, with his mouth open and downturned, perturbed frown crinkling his forehead. "Quickly. Eggs."

Then he'd sat down at the main table in the bunker, instead of going to the kitchen. "You want those on a raft?" Dean had said, for lack of any other response, and Cas stared at the table and said, "If that's how many you're making. I do want a lot of them."

And now he was eating them. Dean brought a few slices of bread just in case but Cas didn't care about that. Cas had loosened his tie and it was hanging lopsided as he ate his eggs, sunny-side up because that was fast to cook and Dean liked cooking them better than scrambled, but Cas wasn't eating that bread and Cas wasn't using a fork. He was dipping his fingers into the plate of ten fried eggs and breaking them open, bringing drippy scoops of yolk streaming up to his mouth. Steadily, staring ahead.

"You don't want some toast, buddy?" Dean tried. It was uncomfortable to watch. He couldn't even sit down, he had such heebie-jeebies; he just hovered next to Cas. Yellow-gold yolk was crusting along the corner of Cas' mouth, because these were free-range eggs that Sam liked to buy at the farmer's market, the colour almost startlingly orange. "Or a fork, or a spoon, or a ... vacuum hose..."

"Tempera paint is made of egg yolk," Cas said, and drew his fingertips along his face. Then he stood up and stepped close to Dean, so close the smell of warm buttery oil and the crackly edges of the whites came with him and Dean's mouth sprang water, against his back teeth. "Take off your clothes, Dean."

"Easy," Dean said, looking at the smear of slowly powdering yellow across Cas' navy blue tie. "Finish your breakfast."

Cas didn't move and his eyes were entirely blue, just a pinpoint of black as his gaze dragged down Dean's body. "I'm hungry," Cas said, and when he looked up at Dean's face his pupils went big and black so fast Dean almost reached for Cas' unused butter knife. But then Cas grasped for the hem of Dean's tshirt and yanked it, so Dean said, "easy," again and took it off himself. Carried on undoing his jeans and shoving them down with his shorts, and Cas' hands were on him immediately, gripping his hips, pushing him back against the table.

Back, and down, Cas following him with dirty fingers and dirty face, his eyes intent. He leaned in close and stuck his yolk-streaked fingers between Dean's legs, finding his clit and rubbing hard, two fingertips, while Dean gasped and said, "--come on, man, you couldn't use your other hand?" He whined when Cas twisted three fingers into him, body jolting against the table, and Cas made a sound in his throat that was either interest or satisfaction or evaluation. He was easier to read as an angel. Dean didn't want to dwell on that.

Cas reached up to grab Dean's jaw, cinching it hard, his own jaw set firm with his underbite jutting as he stared down at Dean and fucked him mean with those fingers. "Rebirth," he said, "and new life. But also your brain on drugs. Did you know American children can't be trusted with eggs that are literally called Children Surprise?" He took his fingers out, sucked them clean of the glistening wet that overlaid the streaks of yolk, and shoved them back into Dean, fucking and fucking with them.

"There's no prizes inside me," Dean said gruffly, his voice catching on a particularly deep lunge of Cass' hand, the jut of his thumb against Dean's clit again. Cas took his hand away, trailing his wet fingers down to Dean's asshole and stroking there before holding his sides and pulling him up. They were face-to-face and Cas was just looking at him. The egg yolk had dried, no longer orange-paint gluey; now it almost looked like gold on a religious painting, arcing over the left side of Cas' upper lip. Like it had been outlined there deliberately.

Cas breathed, a look of aggrieved concentration crossing his face, and turned Dean around, pushing him facedown against the table this time. He heard Cas' belt, his zip, the particular music of buckle and cloth, and Dean's mouth opened panting against the tabletop. Pavlov's dog when it came to that sound; trained to it from his youth. Cas' hard dick slid through his wet folds and Dean spread his legs out more but then Cas bypassed his dripping cunt, already worked open, and Dean made a sound when Cas pressed to his ass and held his hip steady with that fucking wet-spit-yolk hand as he forced the head of his cock in with the other. He pushed in without pause, without considering the way Dean tensed up automatically, caught off guard, before forcing himself to relax and take it, the way Dean breathed, "--easy!" against the table as his hands slapped down against it and groped immediately into fists.

Cas lurched forward and Dean hissed. "You're human right now, Cas," he said, half angry and half pleading. "You can't heal me when you're done. You have to fuckin' ease up." Instead of splitting Dean open over his cock without anything to help things along. But Cas started to thrust, saying nothing, switching to hold Dean's hip with his clean hand as he pumped and shoved himself in further each time until they both felt when the blood made it warmer and wetter. "I fixed it," Cas said, and Dean said, "ahhh--" and turned one of his fists on its side. Cas had never been good at listening when they fucked. This was nothing new. Knowing that he'd be limping out of here when it was over, that was the new part (but not new at all, in the bigger scheme of things, not if you looked at it honest).

Dean gritted his teeth and relaxed, and pushed back into it, and rode against and with Cas until he started to feel the slightest warm curlicues of heat low in his belly, a tightening and arc of pleasure, and he felt something drip thickly onto his back. Movement to the side and he turned his head to watch Cas grab a handful of sunny-side-up eggs, heard Cas eating them. Felt more yolk drip onto his back. "Are you fucking kidding me," Dean mumbled, and Cas said, "I wanted eggs."

He slid his oily hand around to Dean's front, below his navel, cradling. "I wanted eggs." Cas' hand pushed in, meaningful, sprawling.

Dean shoved up on his forearm, twisting so he could scowl at Cas, flakes of ice crystallizing in his blood. "Man," he said, "fuck you." They stared at each other for a moment, Cas' hand still spread out over Dean's shivery skin, and then he turned it and slid down to Dean's clit. Watching. Intent and pupil-blown until Dean's angry breathing skipped, turned sideways, melted into puddles of orange.

"I can't heal you," Cas said. He straddled up close, his cock buried all the way inside of Dean's body, finally fucked open enough for this not to hurt the way it had started out. "I don't need it," Dean said, and put his face against the table again. Cas was still for a moment and then started fucking him, rolls of his hips, abandoning that for thick, deep strokes. He dragged over another fistful of egg. Dean opened his mouth.

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Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: John Winchester/Mary Winchester Additional Tags: Pegging, Object Insertion, Married Sex @spnkinkevents​ bingo card fill: object insertion

Summary:

When she was a Campbell, Mary had been a resourceful and determined hunter. So she's not about to let some speedbump derail her sex life when there's a perfectly obvious solution.

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You didn't seem like trouble. You seemed like you were lost in the world because you'd had a good woman and you wanted to be at her side for the rest of your life, and nobody needs to see their good woman die the way you and your boys did. But it wasn't even Dean and Sam who my good man was thinking about when we brought you in from the dark cold and that loneliness you wore around you like a damn halo, the kind that turns to whiskey fumes, the kind that says:

there's nothing i can do to you that's worse than what i live through every day;

and my good man, Bill, he said to me, John Winchester might make it through a sight more hunts but he won't make it through with that whole family alive. And they might not even realize they're dead.

Hunters talk that way. You see enough things looking back at you from the dark, smiling, with eyes that burn around the edges, and you get to talking that way.

And I said: fine, Bill. We need another goodlooking sad-eyed stray like we need a hole in the roof, but fine. I said: he don't seem like trouble, at least.

You looked over at us at the bar from where you were showing Jo how to draw seagulls that looked like m's, and you smiled that slow sideways smile, and Bill hummed in his throat and we got a hole in the roof.

Your letter's two years on the heels of my good man dead and it's writ heavy in blue ballpoint on that thin onionskin paper. Sets my teeth on edge and I won't even read your words, John, because I'm still that angry. You think I'm angry with you but that ain't how this works. Hunters know that shit can go far south every time they step foot out the door, and Bill was better than you. You gotta be real good at this to be bait, and we both told you that.

I'm angry you ate at our table and played with our daughter. I'm angry you showed us snapshots of your little boys and had story after story to tell and you were tumbling over yourself to get them out and Bill held my hand under the table every time because we could see you had nobody else to tell them to. I'm furious I felt bad for you and that you looked at Bill like he was some big brother you never had and I feel angry that you were trouble, John, you were trouble that night you wandered down the hall and knocked at our bedroom door and opened it and Bill said, well, shut it behind you.

I'm shutting this door behind me, John. If you were here it might change my mind because you were the last person other than me to touch my good, good man and that might be too much for me to not put my hands on you. I'm not reading your words -- and I forgive you -- and you will never be nothin' to no-one -- except trouble.

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going to lebanon : flash creations