★Ri

22, writing short fics + drabbles, wincest + samifer, TW for dark topics on occasion

[crying-in-the-pews]

Something’s off about Sam. Stanford Sam with his shiny scholarship and tattered shoes. He’s polite, soft-spoken, studious- not one anyone would assume capable of violence. So why does he stuff those gun magazines in his satchel? Why are they well-thumbed, dog-eared and worn? Why does he watch shooting-range videos, tutorials, reviews and unboxings on the library computers?

Jess can tell he likes guns, he leaves books and guides on the mantle, but, he doesn’t mention them- doesn’t talk about hunting or self-defence. It almost makes her nervous- makes everyone nervous. But it’s just a hobby, it has to be.

When Dean shows up, it feels like everything slots into place. Jess notices the gun tucked in Dean’s waistband instantly, and then the way Sam’s eyes linger on the bulge of it as they talk.

When he leaves with his brother (Sam has family- isn’t that breaking news?), Jess has no idea the extent of Sam’s fixation. She’ll never know it.

A few days after her death, Dean sits on the edge of a motel bed, a towel laid out to his side with a deconstructed shotgun on top. Smears of gun oil and wax stain the fabric. The room is quiet.

Sam’s watching him closely, more than closely, breathing heavily from his seat on the opposite bed as his eyes follow Dean’s fingers wrapping the pearl grip of his Colt 1911. He’s resting the gun flat over the crotch of his jeans, almost mindlessly, loosely, as he searches for the part he needs from the pile. Sam slides off the bed onto his knees.

Dean eyes him cautiously, locked on to the movement in an instant, but he stays quiet, stays watching, as Sam leans his face in close to the barrel. For a second, Dean thinks Sam’s going to try something stupid, cap himself out of grief, but his lips part, his pink tongue peeks out, and he plants a wet, open-mouth kiss to the metal.

Dean takes a sharp breath in, his eyes widening and his dick suddenly twitching to life. A heat swells in his stomach. His voice is barely a whisper, “Oh fuck- Sammy, what the fuck…?!”

Sam chases it with a harsher kiss, lips smooshing into the engraving. He’s delirious from the grease fumes- light-headed, burning-hot and humming, as he covers the barrel with slow, sloppy kisses.

Dean watches, ever-so-closely, as Sam drops his jaw, stunned to see the strings of saliva snapping between Sam’s teeth, his wet tongue sliding out to lave over the mouthpiece. The tip of his tongue slides into the barrel almost erotically, and the stain of the oil catches at the corners of his lips. He moans like he’s tasting something better.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Dean’s hard and leaking like an inexperienced kid, his dick, straining against the denim of his jeans as he presses up into the hilt of the gun. It almost looks like Sam’s sucking on his dick instead…

Sam’s drooling so much, there’s spit coating the gun and it’s dripping, sliding down the barrel to dampen Dean’s knuckles. He swears under his breath when it slides over the trigger guard and in between his fingers. Dean’s teeth clench; fights cumming, right there in his jeans, as Sam returns to pressing slow kisses to the outside, almost purring in content, his chin slick and shining.

He looks up at Dean, meets his eyes for the very first time, as he takes Dean’s wrist in his hand.

He guides it- guides the fucking gun- into his open mouth and pushes it, far enough back that the sight digs into his soft palette.

Sam’s lips are wrapped around the barrel like it’s a cock- his eyes, heavy with tears, flutter up towards Dean’s face- and it’s so fucking hot.

Dean gasps, shudders, his dick jerking wildly under the gun grip. He can’t take it- the sight- it’s too much, so he cums, completely untouched, as his brother moans out from between his knees.

Yeah, Jess was right- something’s off about Sam. After tonight, Dean reckons it runs in the family.

[lesbiandeangurl]

most romantic scene

[crying-in-the-pews]

Blood addict Sam staring at Dean’s neck until he’s snapping his fingers in his face for attention.

Blood addict Sam watching Dean shave from the bathroom doorway on the off-chance he gets nicked by the blade.

Blood addict Sam watching his brother sleep- eyeing that one artery in his throat that thrums with blood at every heartbeat.

Blood addict Sam salivating, gasping for air and snarling at the smell of their latest kill- who pins himself against the far wall as Dean readies a pyre.

Blood addict Sam, whose brother doesn’t know he’s in danger. Who sleeps and eats and talks and bleeds like an apex predator isn’t white-knuckling in the chair across from him.

[crying-in-the-pews]

Sam, frantically jerking off at night, a bed across from Dean in their motel room. It feels way too good- his fingers are shoved all the way back in his mouth and he’s crying, gagging, sobbing and snivelling loud enough to rouse Dean from sleep- worried, his brow furrowed, just barely orientated enough in time to hear the wet-splutter of his name as Sam cums all over his fist.

[crying-in-the-pews]

Sam has always known how to get exactly what he wants. He uses it rarely- wisely- the pout, two puppy-dog eyes, a wobbly chin and a pair of cinched eyebrows- always gets the job done. Dean’s reactions are… predictable, identical every time- his frame melts, shoulders droop, eyes soften and his head tilts to the side, like he’s seen a kitten yawn. A few slow, baby-babbled words’ll have Dean snapping to a stop- whatever he’s doing, wherever he’s going, discarded in an instant to coddle and coo. ‘Yes, little brother?’ ‘Of course, little brother.’ ‘Anything you want, little brother.’ It makes Sam smirk, sadistic and drunk off the power. He makes sure never to abuse it, that might impact its effectiveness, may have Dean wisening up to his game, but, well, that hasn’t seemed to be a problem so far.

[crying-in-the-pews]

Sam asking Dean to hurt him.

Sam’s begging, all wide eyes and clasped hands- “please, Dean, please-“ he’s asking, “I promise it’s okay- we’re okay-“ Dean can’t say no to him, no matter how much he wants to- Sam’s been through too much, he’s been hurt, broken and scarred more than anyone they know…

But he does it. Because Sam asked him to.

Dean’s fucking him, hard, from behind, Sam’s neck crushed into the crook of his elbow. Ass up in a headlock. They did a lot less prep than usual, Sam’s too tight, and Dean hates how good it feels. Sam’s moaning, groaning, whining- he’s so damn loud, so into this. He’s never like this normally. Dean’s slapped him around tonight, bruises are starting to plume across his stomach, his face, his wrists, but Sam’s still meeting every blow with a lazy grin pressed into the pillows.

Everything’s so wet, so slick, too warm. Dean’s sweaty, panting and tiring-out when he slams in an especially cruel thrust, coupling it with a fast, gruelling punch to Sam’s gut. Sam curls around it, choking himself on Dean’s arm. And that’s when it happens. Lost in pleasure, Sam screams for him,

“Lucifer!”

[crying-in-the-pews]

Oh Sam, did you really think you could get away?

[crying-in-the-pews]

i just found your account the other day and i think i spent like oh idk an hour or so reading everything on your blog and its all soooooooo fucking good like i’m doing zoomies around my room, banging my head against the wall, i need to crawl inside your brain, good. we’re like the same kinda sicko is what i’m saying!!!!! my most pertinent thoughts tho involve your age regression hc (i love stuff like that its so fun and sweet) and then the blurb where sam mistakes dean for lucifer and calls him master like i left that one shaking like a rabid purse dog 😵‍💫😵‍💫 all of this to say if you had any more thoughts regarding either of these aus of yours i am all ears!!!!! thank you for sharing your writing its such a treat :)

Thankyou for all of this, I’m glad you like my silly stories! I love dark Samifer, and wholesome agere will always be the best antidote for angsty canon, so I’ll be writing more around them in the future, I’m sure!

[crying-in-the-pews]

The strobe lights hurt his eyes and the air is dank and heavy in this club. Dean probably hates it just as much, he only came here to punish him- knowing full-well Sam would follow.

That entire hunt had been tense. Dean wanted to go in all-guns-blazing, as usual, but Sam wanted to wait. It’s his fault more people died, and Dean is, clearly, refusing to let him live it down.

The music is loud and thumping, the bass shaking the floor, so Dean doesn’t turn at the sound when Sam comes up behind him. He sidles in next to him, propping himself up against the bar. At this point, he’d do anything to break the tension.

“Hey, you come here often?” He jokes through a grimace, leaning in close so Dean can hear.

The man turns his head, slowly giving Sam a once-over (What the hell?). Dean flashes him a brief smirk of appraisal, before turning back to his drink. “Just passin’ through.” He shouts.

Sam’s stunned- yes, all he wants is for Dean to talk to him again, to look him in the eyes, but- “Same, Can I buy you a drink?” his mouth works faster than his brain.

Dean glances over at him again, eyes squinted thin. “You don’t even know my name, pretty boy, yet, you’re askin’ to buy me a drink?” He chides, amused, his voice dark and smooth. Sam doesn’t miss a beat, refusing to let this go, “I’m Patrick, and you are?” Dean’s eyes flare playfully, just for a second. “Dean. I’ll take a scotch.” Game on.

They drink, and drink, and drink some more. Probably a lot more than they should have, considering, when Dean leans over to yell in ‘Patrick’s’ ear how they should ‘get outta here,’ Sam’s barely able to keep them upright as they stumble out of the club and into the cold night.

Dean’s got him by the lapels of his shirt, he’s dragging him into an alleyway and nothing is making sense. Dean’s crowding him against the brickwork and burrowing his face, deep, in Sam’s neck. This is so wrong, so wrong, so wrong.

“Say, Patty,” he drawls, peppering quick kisses all over the skin there. “Were you hopin’ to get lucky tonight?” He’s purring, both hands rough-groping at Sam’s stomach, his waist, rapidly approaching something lower and much more serious. Sam’s gawking like an idiot. “Um- fuck-“ he’s too drunk to think. That’s what he’ll use as his excuse, he decides, for lunging forward and crushing their mouths together in a sloppy, misguided kiss.

Dean lets out a low groan, muffled, as he makes to take control. He coaxes Sam’s lips apart with his tongue and plunges on inside. He tastes like cheap whiskey and the pizza they had for dinner. Sam’s brain is struggling to keep up as the sounds of wet, slick kisses echo throughout the alley.

“Patrick-“ Dean grits against his lips, “touch me.” he growls, an order, and Sam’s fingers are hooked through his belt loops within the second. He jerks, and Dean’s hips are yanked flush, their hard-ons, forced to mash together through two denim layers. Even that feels too much, too good.

They cry out, moaning into each-other’s mouths. White clouds of breath plume between their faces. Sam rolls his hips forward, in retaliation to a sharp nip the elder leaves on his bottom lip, and Dean’s entire frame shudders. “Fuck- Sammy-“

Now that’s more like it.

[crying-in-the-pews]

Quick Sammy doodle <3

[crying-in-the-pews]

He hasn’t seen Sam in ages, missed him like a limb, so the beard really shouldn’t be as big of a deal as it is.

It was definitely a surprise, after the brief time he’d spent away, but Dean’s never been one to take Sam’s affections for granted. Mere minutes after getting back, the younger man had him pinned, up against a wall in the hallway. Dean’s waistcoat still hangs off one shoulder and half his dress shirt lays untucked, as his brother forces their noses together, their cheeks, pressing in like a cat and scraping his beard all over Dean’s face.

Anyone could find them here- the gaggle of strangers in their home, Jack, their mother- but Sam just can’t seem to get enough. He’s gasping, whining, mouthing wetly at Dean’s cheekbone as if, if he pulls back, Dean’ll disappear again.

It’s definitely unpleasant for Dean, thick hairs scratching at his skin. It reminds him that Sam’s a man now, and not just his bratty, little-kid brother. He does look good, and Dean resents it for that, too. Sam’s his- no one else gets to see him like this. Though, following that gospel, he should probably attempt to wrangle Sam into either of their rooms, lest someone gets an eyeful.

Sam’s sucking on his Adam’s apple, his chin, under and behind his jaw, in his ear- the beard repeatedly grinding and scratching at his skin. There’s a deep rumble where Sam’s purring, happily, against his throat, and the combination drives Dean’s brain to static. “Missed you, De, missed you so much...” Sam grumbles, deep and smooth and masculine. This big, powerful man.

Yeah, it’s gotta go.

[crying-in-the-pews]

please never die so you can keep posting these forever

This is incredibly ominous… what do you know

[crying-in-the-pews]

Playthings Sam, led there- all fuzzy and heavy lidded, slumped flat to the mattress- feeling something pushing in and out behind him.

He can hear a wet, squelching noise, like there’s way too much lube, can feel the damp heat of someone’s heavy breath at his nape, and the weight of someone, pressing down on his back.

A voice that sounds a lot like Dean is cursing in his ear, slurring his words, calling him tight and good. It feels nice- Sam can’t really tell what’s going on, but there’s a warmth in his groin and a pressure in his stomach that has him humping the sheets.

His lips are numb and dragging against the pillow as Dean tongues at his sideburns, sucking sloppy, wet and messy. The alcohol clouds his mind, he can’t remember how they got here, why Dean’s doing this. Sam pushes his hips back, moans, and Dean’s hips stutter against his ass.

It sounds like he’s begging now, up against Sam’s ear, but he can’t fully make out the words. He’s drunk and begging for forgiveness, for more, for Sam, for everything to go back to how it was.

Sam comes, wet and sticky against the bed. He feels the pleasure of it, but doesn’t quite process the finality of the act, rather remaining loose and humping back for Dean to fuck him to completion.

He barely registers the overstimulation, his mouth does though, choking, groaning, whining. Dean cums with growl. He’s angry- why is he angry? Sam thinks, before passing out, half-dressed, sweaty, dripping in cum and stinking of booze.

[crying-in-the-pews]

Teen Sam getting his big brother so drunk he won’t remember it, and riding him.

It’s pretty easy, double-digit whiskeys and he’s out, led limp on the bed. He cycles between bouncing and grinding down on Dean’s nonsensical hard-on, moans soft and stuttered in the quiet. Dean’s looking up at him with a confused pout, a furrowed brow, but Sam needs this- he’s fixated on it- needing to know exactly how it feels to have his big brother’s thick cock splitting him open before he leaves him for good.

And it’s so worth it- worth the wait- it burns and aches and every bounce makes his dick jerk. Sam wraps a hand around his own throat, the other over Dean’s heart. He squeezes, and his vision greys, slamming his hips down over and over- he’s so close. He wants Dean to come inside him, begs for it, gasping, comes imagining Dean leaving a hot, wet claim inside. He orgasms, with the knowledge that he’ll feel this moment, this stretch, every second of the days to come.

Sam’s still choking himself with one hand, staring down into the hazy, glazed look in Dean’s eyes. He looks worshipful, up at him, and Sam almost regrets the circumstances. He won’t remember this, but Sam will, once he’s gone.

[crying-in-the-pews]

Once they finally get together, Dean would definitely try out all his favourite porno cliches on Sam. He’s the pizza man who’ll take alternative payment, he’s the “step-bro” who finds him shoulder-deep in the washing machine (He can’t even do laundry without getting jumped, now?!), but it’s ‘the plumber’ that’s the most ridiculous.

Neither of them understand the Bunker’s cisterns but here he is, leaning up against the main door, coveralls tied at his waist and a backwards cap on his head. He’s smarmy, keeps making way too many innuendos, but Sam’s annoyingly hot-under-the-collar at the smudge of grease on his cheek and the way Dean keeps wringing the rag in his hands like he’s trying to keep busy- stay in character. It’s charming- infuriatingly charming- so he plays along, shows Dean the troublesome pipe under the kitchen sink and bites his lip when Dean lays back, stretches out, and makes his lap look so fucking inviting. He proposes he checks out a pipe of Mr. Plumber’s instead, and Dean almost bangs his head on the garbage disposal.

[crying-in-the-pews]

Sam loves it when Dean kills for him. It’s a sick satisfaction, hearing a soul’s life end with a snap, seeing Dean’s thick fingers break bones and stain with blood. Sam wants to lick it off, taste the iron on his tongue, feel those capable hands cradle his neck, his waist, his hips. That look in his eyes, hot, smouldering, wild and wrathful- a power Sam wants pining him down and fucking his guts like a starved animal. Dean forces a vampire’s face onto a circular saw and the blood splatters his cheeks, he’s snarling, growling, and Sam has to bite his lip, steady himself against the wall, as the image of Dean shuddering to orgasm fills his mind’s eye- wrathful, powerful- just like that.

[crying-in-the-pews]

“God, you’re acting like you want me to hit you.” Dean snapped, stopping cooking to glare at his brother over the kitchen island.

Admittedly, Sam had been asking way too many philosophical questions, and he probably should have stopped once Dean’s answers switched from words to grunts. He didn’t, and now he’s slack-jawed and red in the face- staring back at Dean from across the counter.

“What? So, now you shut up?” Dean scoffs, rolling his eyes and turning away to open up the fridge.

Out of eye, Sam makes a break for the door, rushing out into the hall and scrambling to his room. Dean calls after him, but it sounds muffled and quiet as the distance grows between them.

Sam slams the door shut, locks it, and throws himself face-first on the bed. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck- why is he hard? His brother threatened to hurt him and now he’s wet in his underwear.

God- he wants it, Sam realises- he wants it to hurt. Hurriedly, Sam stuffs two fingers in his mouth, one cheek pressed to the duvet, both knees firmly planted behind him. He shifts his weight to his face so his spare hand can shove frantically at his jeans and boxers, pushing them down just below the swell of his ass. When that’s done, he pulls out the fingers, slick and glistening in the warm lighting of the bunker, and throws his hand back, forcing both digits- one, then the other- inside. It’s uncomfortable, unnatural and way too fast- but Sam wants the pain, needs it, so he disregards taking time to adjust, and begins thrusting in and out. It’s a drilling pace, mouth slack-open against the bedsheets, eyes screwed shut, ears ringing. It feels so fucking good. He thinks about Dean, holding him down, punching him, slapping him, kicking him, pulling his hair like a playground bully. He’s going to cum so fast-

Down the hall, Dean realises something- he needs to apologise. Despite everything he knows Sam’s been through- Lucifer, The Cage, even himself with The Mark of Cain- he threatened him.

He’s likely brought on the works- flashbacks, memories, trauma, fear- Sam ran from the room for fuck’s sake! He needs to fix this mess, now.

Walking down the hall at a quick pace, the closer he gets to Sam’s room, the louder the noises become. Moaning, not like he’s injured- that knowledge alone keeps Dean outside the door rather than barging in- but carnal. Wet slaps of skin on skin, panted breaths like he can’t get enough- he’s- is he? Because he? Fucking hell.

Sam screams when (Dean can only assume) he comes. He can hear Sam’s teeth grit and grind, and a hand slapping repeatedly at the sheets.

His moans are soft and high as his breathing struggles to slow. Dean almost feels the thud of Sam’s body as he collapses down onto the bed.

There’s a following lull. An almost silence.

‘What’s the rush?’ Dean thinks. He can always apologise tomorrow. Right now, he thinks he’d be better off taking a cold fucking shower instead.