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Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
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One Nice Bug Per Day
we're not kids anymore.
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Jared Padalecki | Jibcon 2026 | Grateful
i tune out for one day and what the fuck is this
i thought maybe it was shitpost but no
Jared Padalecki & Matt Czuchry Reunite to Talk ‘Gilmore Girls’ & Life in Stars Hollow
The gray in his beard is SENDING ME.
OP theaverycottage on TikTok ♡
snoopy of the day
Sam is flipping through Men's Health magazine in Dr. Ellicott's waiting room. Men's Health is a real publication, and this is a real edition from July/August 2005.
Pablo Neruda, from a poem titled "Our Child," featured in Love Poems: from Spain & Spanish America
He walks a thin line.
And that's a wrap for my own celebration of Sam's bday :'3 Thank you, everyone!
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Here's the king version:
. Here's the dark king version:
Supernatural Commission inks by *elfkin
wincest fic rec | late seasons
a wincest fic rec list with a variety of word count, genre, vibe, and spanning seasons 8-15!
swesson au where they remember they’re brothers during sex. send tweet send tweet send tweet sen
May I “yes, and” this? I hope so because I definitely did 😳
Under the cut for immediate and unmitigated filth.
Keep reading
I have been looking for this for days!
Quilted Portraits No. 4 of Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester
17” x 17” cotton fabric
Stills from “The End.” Finally finished! See my pinned post for details about how these are made.
a muffled ringing wakes dean up.
he’s barely asleep; even though the impala is pulled over far enough away from the highway that dean can only faintly see the headlights, the rumble of semis keeps jerking him out of restless slumber.
the woman in white had been more than he’d been expecting. it wasn’t a hard case, but the work had felt…more than usual.
dean, as soon as it was over, chest still smarting from her ghostly claws (lady, i got no one to be faithful to), had lain heaving for breath in the impala’s front seat and fantasized that he’d actually gone to get sam.
it had been a nice thought, anyway.
two days ago, he’d gotten as far as the san francisco city line before he turned the car around. sam doesn’t want to see him. dean doesn’t even know what he’d say. he can’t imagine a string of words that would get sam back. he’d had four years to think them up. dad's missing. dad's gone. dad left. dad hasn't been home in a few days. yeah right.
the ringing continues, and dean muzzily fishes his phone out of his pocket. his heartbeat kicks up a notch. dad?
but his screen is dark and silent. dean blinks at it uncomprehendingly, a crick in his neck from being pressed against the impala’s side panel making itself known.
then, dean is throwing himself across the bench seat and scrambling for the glove box because oh shit. it’s one of dad’s phones.
he flips through them frantically, discarding them as soon as he can see if they’re ringing or not. on what must be the last ring, he finally finds it, an old motorola that’s held together with gauze tape and not much else.
“h’llo?” he asks. he winces, trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes. that’s something he’s noticed since dad fucked off. he goes hours, sometimes days, without talking. his voice comes out croaky and disused when he finally breaks his silences. this one makes his throat hurt, and he looks around dazedly for an old bottle of cola he knows he left somewhere.
he squints at the little clock on the dashboard--it's still in PST, he's pretty sure, so...5:18 AM? 4:18, maybe?
“is this dean winchester?” a woman’s voice, neutral and plain.
dean freezes.
his body flushes completely cold, ice sharp in his veins and prickling across his scalp.
there is not a single contact in these phones that should know his real name. not anyone that sounds like that, anyway. dean gapes, staring into the middle distance as his mind whirls. maybe an old hunting friend of dad’s? dean can’t think of a single woman besides annie, and her contact name would’ve pulled up. who—
“hello?” the woman asks, still carefully, unflappably neutral.
“wh—yes. yeah. that’s um. that’s me.” dean flounders, startled into honestly. hackles raised, he adds, “who’s askin’?”
“i’m calling from st. florian’s medical center in palo alto, california. you’ve been listed as the next of kin for samuel winchester. is that correct?”
time
stops.
“what.” dean croaks, numb.
“is that correct?” the woman repeats blandly. dean can barely hear her over the ringing in his ears, getting louder and louder as his heartbeat pulses in his throat.
“sam. is he—i’m his big brother. is he—…” his throat closes around the words, too fucking horrible to say. sammy. sam. dean's kid, eighteen years old, fury and righteousness and hatred, slamming the motel door behind him. four years of complete radio silence.
dead. dead. dead. deaddeaddead. dad gone, sam dead--a strangled noise squeezes out of dean's throat and he struggles for breath, time moving too quickly around him now, the woman back in his ear as dean begs his heart to stop so he can hear every syllable.
“samuel’s apartment building caught fire tonight, and he was brought in by an ambulance. we don’t have a lot of information at this time. samuel was severely injured, in a lot of distress, and had to be sedated. he's in critical condition. are you willing to come and make medical decisions on his behalf?”
numb. numb, numb, numb down to his toes.
he knows his hands are shaking because the phone is vibrating on his cheekbone, knows he must be breathing because there is a trapped, animal wheeze echoing in the car, knows the world must still exist because another semi rattles down the highway in the distance.
dean asks to confirm the only thing that matters, needs to hear it explicitly, or the world will end on a shitty no-name county road, and dean will die, aged twenty-six. "he's alive?"
"yes. are you--"
dean doesn’t remember much after that. he doesn't remember anything at all until he hits city limits.
the ventilator whirs, and sam's chest rises in an inhale. his eyes are taped shut, long lashes folded awkwardly underneath the bandage tape. to keep his eyes from drying out, the nurse had said, when dean asked.
"you're a goddamn fucking idiot," dean says, in the second pause where sam's chest stops, before the machine exhales for him. sam says nothing, and the ventilator exhales. "why'd you go back inside?"
the question comes out like a plea, but sam does not answer him.
it's a silent treatment, dean thinks, for not coming to get him. for not calling. for letting him leave in the first place.
police officers had come in and out of their room--of sam's room--over the past few days. dean doesn't know why. a medically-induced coma means he's not fucking awake, goddamn it.
they ask dean questions he can't answer. why wasn't sam home when the fire started? did he run into the building to save his girlfriend? to save something else? did sam smoke? was anyone else in the apartment? did anyone in the apartment smoke? sam received a call thirty minutes before the fire started--who is brady johnston?
they show him yearbook photos and glossy print-outs of a blonde girl. jessica moore. twenty-one years old, dead. burned to death. they show him photos of jessica and sam feeding each other slices of pizza, and looking tipsy and in love at some kind of formal, and wearing matching giants baseball hats.
how long were they dating? did sam ever introduce her to you? who were their friends? what was his major? what was her major? how did they meet? were they having any problems? could sam have started the fire?
dean had reacted so explosively to that question that they threatened to arrest him. dean had only quieted down when he realized it meant they'd take him away from sam's bedside, which he hadn't left.
why did sam assign you as his emergency contact if you don't know anything about him?
dean gives them the same answer: i don't know.
he doesn't say, but i do know his allergies. i do know his fears. i do know he loves the red m&ms and hates the brown ones even though they all taste the same. i know his feet always get cold and his favorite month is november and he used to be scared of the dark and that scar on the knuckles on his right hand was from saving my life. i know that i have his initials carved into my left leg with a knife. i know that he's the only thing that ever truly belonged to me. i know that i only breathe right now because he does.
for the fortieth time that day, dean reaches his hand out and catches himself just before he can put a hand on sam's arm. it's covered in bandages. all of him is. even up to his neck, sam is covered in bandages that ooze pus and smell like rot. when dean looked, the hospital gown barely touches sam's knees, but those are wrapped too. second and third degree burns. 30% of his total body. extensive smoke inhalation damage to his lungs, his throat, his mouth.
the cops tell him sammy pushed past the firefighters to get into the collapsing building. that they'd had to go in and haul him out. his arms had been the worst, almost burned entirely through, in some places.
his surgeons--because sammy has multiple, and they come and steal him for hours at a time and dean can't watch or wait by the door in case sam needs him--tell him they don't know if sam'll be able to move his arms again.
he might never write or flip through a book or dress himself ever again.
there's a bald spot behind his left ear, where he must've landed on something metal, because his skin is warped and melted in a triangle shape. just that one spot. a lot of his hair was burnt--and the gagging odor of singed hair had followed him even after dean and a nurse gently combed water through it--so they shaved it off. sam's hair has always grown too quick for his own good through, and it's started to grow thicker.
he looks young. terribly, horrifically young.
his eyes are sunken and his wrists are thin and his bones are too prominent, like his skin has been shrink-wrapped to his skeleton. the skin that dean can see is pale. dean is constantly fighting off the urge to chafe it, to breathe in his palms and press it to sam's skin, because he looks so fucking cold.
but he's not allowed to touch sam because 1) it'll hurt him and 2) it could kill him. dean is a danger to him, as much as the flames. he's severely immunocompromised now that his skin barrier is gone, the doctor told him, one of the ones that dean likes, because she tells him things straight even if dean has to look it up later. don't touch him, don't breathe on him, don't try to move him. we'll wear gloves when we come to turn him.
"was it for your girl?" dean asks, voice cracking with disuse. "you went in to get her out?" sam doesn't reply. "you're a fucking idiot." sam's chest rises. pause. sam exhales.
dean doesn't know why he's here.
most of the medical decisions have come down to doctors saying "we think sam's best chance is--" and dean agreeing to whatever it is before than can get the rest of their words out. his best shot. yes. whatever it is, dean'll do it.
he doesn't think sam would want him here.
it was probably a left over from a school form or maybe even back when sam had gotten his only real driver's license. sam just hadn't gotten the chance to change it. he would want other people here, other friends.
none of them have shown up, yet.
dean was told jessica's body hadn't even gone to the hospital, it had gone straight to the morgue. the funeral was a few days ago. sammy had only been under a week and a half, but things move quickly, dean guesses, when it comes to dead bodies. he wouldn't know. he only ever deals with them when they're bones. sammy's going to be real torn up he missed the funeral. he's going to be real fucked up that she's dead. he went in that building for nothing. burned himself almost to death for nothing.
dean's going to have to tell him. no, dean will tell him. it needs to come from him, not these doctors that don't know him, who don't even know what color his eyes are because they've been taped shut for a week.
dean doesn't know what to do with himself, with his body. he can't touch sam, he can't ask sam any of the thousands of questions he has. he ignores the texts he gets from dad, what look like coordinates. he calls dad and tells him sam's in the hospital, but he doesn't call back.
one of the ICU nurses brings dean a cot that dean has been sleeping in, tucked into the corner away from sammy's machines so he can't mess anything up. there's a shower in sammy's bathroom that dean has been using, and all the nurses call him by name. they talk to sam like he's awake, which dean appreciates. they don't talk around him, like the surgeons do.
dean has never felt this helpless in his life.
he's been having nightmares, when he can sleep, of being four years old and the baby in his arms bubbling and melting and turning to ash. he has nightmares of trying to haul sam out or screaming at him, and sam can't hear him.
he can't do anything. he's completely useless. there aren't bones to burn or artifact to find or magic potion to take. this is entirely sam's battle, his cells working overtime to heal each other and keep him alive.
dean wonders how many of those cells they have in common, and knows his must be working themselves on overtime in sammy's blood, under his skin, in his lungs. sam has to want to live, and dean doesn't know if he's enough of an enticement.
suddenly, sam's eyelid twitches. dean sits up straight in his chair. he gets as close to sam as he feels comfortable, and--there it is again, a single pulse, like his eyes are swiveling underneath his taped lids. dean's heartbeat punches up into his throat.
sam hasn't moved once, since they got him here. what does that--
there's a noise, and sam's monitor, which has been ticking steadily, beeps loudly. dean's eyes flick up to the monitor, and one of the numbers pulses red. it jumps from 62 to 88 to 101 to 120.
"sammy?" dean asks, but sam has fallen still once more. quick footsteps, and a nurse sticks his head in. before dean can ask what's going on, sam's monitor lets out a long, trilling beep that makes him flinch.
"can we get a doctor in here?" the nurse calls, and the footsteps get louder. the numbers on the monitor are changing, and dean doesn't know what any of them mean, but suddenly, the room is full of people. someone has hands on dean's shoulders, and he's being moved.
v-tach, they say, how long? what's his pressure? they ask, someone call a code blue, they shout.
no longer sam, just the patient, and dean is no longer dean, he's mr. winchester as people continue to move him, as he's shoved out of sam's room, as he fights to get back in, as an orderly holds him back, as he shouts what's happening, what's happening, someone tell me what's going on, please, sammy, sammy, sammy, sammy, sammy--
Okay, posting here to see if anyone else knows what fic this is...
I swear I remember reading a Swesson/It's a Terrible Life fic where Zachariah returned the boys' real memories while they were in the middle of fucking on the floor, I think, in Dean Smith's apartment???
Inopportune by averycoolguy was suggested, and while it's really close, it doesn't feel like quite the fic I remember... but maybe it is??? Idk. I really think read one were they were on the floor not on the desk.
Anyway, anyone else know of any Swesson fics where they get their memories back mid-fuck?
I've read this, but can't find it in my bookmarks. Reblogging to widen the swesson net!
p.s. love all the fic recs found within the comments!
it's all wrong, it's alright.
Sam and Dean's incestuous relationship (in your opinion/in the fics you enjoy) is
only sexual, not romantic at all
mostly sexually, incidentally romantic
equally romantic and sexual
mostly romantic, incidentally sexual
only romantic, not sexual at all
secret other thing