Maybe, why not?

A blog of hyperfixations; currently, wincest. What does the future hold next?

[zmediaoutlet]

one year to go

Today's Supernatural's 19th birthday. I think it'd be nice to hold a fest on the 20th anniversary: September 13, 2025. It's been a long time coming and we should give it a very happy twentieth birthday.

Let me know if you'd like to participate and we'll try to get something going.

[incognitokarma]

Yes!

[cadence000]

drawn for a friend

[samwinchestersgirl83]

Sam and Dean definitely fucked nasty in the Impala and Crowley definitely called their asses out on it.

“My the things I have heard…”

Sam and Dean exchanging guilty as hell (heh) looks.

What else could he mean for you to look so guilty boys?!?

[jinkieswouldyoulookatthis]

While I tend to agree that the above is definitely 100% exactly what Crowley heard them doing, ngl, part of me thinks it would be epically hilarious if the look Sam and Dean exchanged was because a couple days before this, they'd had an impromptu farting contest in the car that had not only lasted for a truly concerning amount of time but they'd then gotten a case of the giggles that carried them the last 200 miles of their drive. And sure, they were each sleep deprived to a degree that was probably criminal in and of itself somehow, which was an understandable excuse for the behavior, but didn't make them being overheard acting like sugared up 9 year olds any less embarrassing.

[spnj2fanlw]

@jinkieswouldyoulookatthis that is awesome!! This had to have happened at some point, lol.

[incognitokarma]

Sam and Dean = sure

Dean and Sam = Wtf did I just read

Someone explain it to me

[rkelspn]

kids in the headlight

[asummersarah]

you’ll never guess what show this is about

[incognitokarma]

What a hoot to read of a fine Saturday morning!

[petite-madame]

John Winchester - (2024)

[incognitokarma]

Back to Supernatural after a little break, have mirroring Winchesters, just because.

4x08 // Wishful Thinking

[incognitokarma]

Late drabble fill for @wincestwednesdays week 3, Sunshine.

Sunshine is flecks of dust flitting up when Sam thrusts research printouts on the dashboard, catching bright against dark vinyl and background tarmac. Dean’s humming and they make him sneeze but he manages to do it on tempo. Sam looks up at him in incredulous disbelief, eyes too-bright from lack of sleep, but they're not unhappy. Dean grins toothily.

Sunshine is the lightening horizon catching them by surprise on the other side of midnight. The graveyard is humid and quiet, tilted tombstones three rows away slowly forming mote by mote out of the darkness. Sam looks up at the pale blue through the branches, his knuckles raw around the shovel handle. He looks at his brother doggedly piling earth back over the burnt bones. His face is now visible but it's black and white, shadows deep under his brow and down his cheeks. A skull. It's been - the night was difficult. Sam reaches across and grabs Dean’s forearm. Just. Holds. Dean heaves a long breath that displaces the night and grabs the side of Sam’s neck. His hand is too cold for having been digging and dirt grits from his palm. They finish their work.

Sunshine is a bar of sunlight across Dean's shoulder and collarbone from a broken blind. It shows the flush on his skin and a sheen of sweat. Sam leans down, hips rolling deep but slow, luxuriating in the feel of his brother around him. He places his mouth on that bar of light, warmed skin and salt. It changes the angle and Dean growls at him. Sam adjusts. Always.

Sunshine is the perfect amount of time it takes for Sam to join him in Heaven, each moment of unfurling road exactly as long as it needs to be before Sam is there with him. It's a hug, a smile, a hand on a shoulder warm as sun-baked stones. It's Sam.

[cyberdelph]

by seagulletchippark

[cyberdelph]

by dzwser   (ccl)

[zmediaoutlet]

for @wincestwednesdays: performance

Dean’s heel won’t stop bouncing. He’s tried to cut it out a few times now but his head won’t stop bouncing, either, brain jerking around to ten different things like a car fishtailing on a gravel highway, and when he gets back to this universe again—there’s his damn knee, jogging like he’s had a triple red-eye and maybe some under the table adderall, too, just as a fun chaser. He leans forward, sets his palms heavy on his knees. Breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth. His heart thudding sick in his throat. Eight months to go.

Motel door opens. “They were out of El Sol but I got the other one,” Sam says, six pack under his arm and plastic bag dangling from his fingers and fumbling with keys, heeling the door closed behind himself, shaking night rain out of his hair. “And, yes, I got the jerky.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Sammy,” Dean says. Big grin. Sam rolls his eyes and doesn’t seem to notice how Dean jumped like a frickin b-horror starlet when he came in. His heart racing harder even though—god, what’s wrong with him. It’s Sam.

Sam, pulling a beer and tossing it to Dean, tapping his open laptop to see if there’s been any update to the police scanner since he left. Like Dean wouldn’t have noticed, and said. Although, given the fishtail— “Nothing,” Sam sighs, and okay. Okay, good. Or, not good, because they’re waiting for an update, so they can figure out who’s been killing random dudes, so they can kill that thing, so they can get out of this town and do something else, anything, except there’s nothing that really counts as doing anything because they can’t, because if they do Sam will—and then all of Dean’s whole life will mean exactly jack squat, all his purpose and hope and love drained out of him like blood pouring from a bullethole, and he already had that happen once, and he’s not doing it again. Sam will just have to live, and Dean will—he’ll—

“Dude, what’s with the fidgeting,” Sam says. He tips his beercan toward Dean’s jumpy fuckin’ knee. “You can go pee, I can watch the scanner.”

“Ha.” Dean stretches out his heels, ignores his racing heart. Smiles at Sam with everything he’s got. “Just bored. Don’t think our ghost’s gonna kill again tonight.”

“The ghoul, you mean?” Sam says, and Dean silently mouths the ghoul? with his most irritating face, and Sam—incredibly—doesn’t go for the same argument they’ve been having for three days, but maybe he’s bored, too, because instead he says, “Yeah, maybe not.”

Raining louder outside, some last hurrah of late-summer weather. Covers up traffic noise and the thudding in Dean’s ears, makes the motel room seem smaller. Maybe safer. Shelter, at least. Dean licks the point of his canine and gulps beer, washing bitter cold to the back of his throat, and Sam watches him do it across the dingy grey-brown carpet, thumbing the aluminum rim of his own can. Some expression in his eye Dean can’t quite pin down. He lowers his beer and Sam’s still looking at him, and then Sam’s face changes, the corner of his mouth curving down, and Dean’s whole chest seizes up because—no, they are not talking about—

“Turn up the scanner,” Dean says. Sam frowns, jarred, but he thumbs the volume on the laptop so they’re getting radio crackle. “Okay. So we won’t miss anything.”

“Why would we miss—” Sam starts, but Dean’s already gotten off the bed and rolled onto his knees between Sam’s spread legs and is grinning up at him before he can ask the dumb question. And, yeah, he gets another eyeroll, and he gets a scoff, but Sam’s legs spread out to accommodate his shoulders and he’s not exactly getting up, is he. “Dude, really?”

“What?” He knows just the right amount to lean into it—how to tip the grin filthy, how to look up under his eyelashes. “I’m bored, you’re bored. I know how we could change that.”

“Pretty sure of yourself?” Sam says, but he says it with red rising in the hollow of his cheeks, his thighs spreading lazily. Dean drags his hands up the soft-warm denim and touches his tongue to the gap between his teeth, the way that’s always worked, and sure enough sees Sam’s lips part and his eyes drop and—yeah, another tick in the win column. It’s so easy.

Sam drags his thumb over Dean’s lower lip, drags down to his chin. “Always am, little brother,” Dean says. He sits up higher on his knees and Sam’s hand drags down his throat, fingers tangling in the amulet he gave all those years ago. Will the hellhounds tear it from his shredded body, Dean wonders, and licks his lips wet and smiles wider. Makes Sam watch his mouth and not whatever might be in his eyes. “Want me to prove it?”

“Knock yourself out,” Sam says, wide open for whatever Dean wants to do, and Dean grips him by the front of that ugly bacon-stripe shirt and pulls him down for a kiss—wet, biting. The hundred dollar treatment, if Dean says so himself. Sam gets those huge hands on either side of Dean’s head and curls forward, knocking Dean’s mouth open and taking what’s on offer to distract them both from the night, and Dean’s heart sounds like the thunder rattling the motel walls. Eight months to go.

[zmediaoutlet]

(read on AO3)

[cyberdelph]

by @amazake0909

[phantoml1mb]

wincesties where are you. let’s be friends pls 🥺🥺

[seasononesam]

[singlethread]

I’m curious, where did you first find a community in fandom?

MySpace

Tumblr

Facebook

Livejournal

Fanfiction.net

Ao3

Instagram

Specific fandom message board

Discord

Reddit

In real life

Some other site that I’m forgetting (elaborate in the tags)

Voting ended onJul 14, 2024

[saucynewf]

Tall Tales 2.15 | Various & Sundry Villains 13.12