i just realized the nature of my love for wincest.
something in me resonates with that shared trauma, the ultimate bond, incest as a twisted, ugly way to survive the impossible. the heart yearns for an unbreakable connection that is so monstrous and forbidden that no other life drama can ever ruin something so fucked up.
that being said, something in me also craves for those imaginary winchesters in my head to find a way to overcome it, to heal, to stop.
If it makes any sense, it feels like in my own personal thoughts, wincest exists as a terrible weapon that was used against the darkest shit but must one day be surrendered.
Thinking about 8x8 where Sam tells Amelia’s dad that his brother used to open beer bottles with his ring the same way. After Dean was truly and finally gone, Sam probably kept remembering him in little stuff like that.
A foam cowboy hat on rack in an aisle of an unsuspecting Texas gas station. A faded billboard off the highway that reads, “Best Pie in America, Exit 89!” The kid pushing a Scooby Doo plushie down the slide at the park. The lilting twang of “Stairway to Heaven” pooling into the alleyway from a bar.
There’s a certain jangle to someone pulling their keys out of their pocket in a parking lot and—for a second—it sounds just like Baby’s. If Sam closes his eyes, maybe it’s his big brother. Maybe he’ll toss Sammy a Snickers bar and tell him they can switch out at the state line.
You think Sam ever tucks himself into the passenger seat of the Impala and pretends he can feel it rocking, imagines Dean is humming Zeppelin down I-90? Bet he falls asleep like that, cupped in memory’s palm.
cuddle pile ❪ n. ❫ — 〔 /ˈkəd(ə)l pīl/ 〕 𝟏. refers to the grouping of three (3) or more persons close together in a ‘pile-like’ formation in a caring manner, usually for sleep.
“the cuddle pile gives sam and dean the physical touch they’ve been missing.”
IN YOUR ENTIRE TIME KNOWING THE WINCHESTER BROTHERS, you’ve found yourself in a cuddle pile with them two times.
they’ve been drastically different situations, and yet, not very different in terms of the ‘pile’ itself: you sandwiched between both sam and dean, their heads resting on you, their arms slung over some part of you. they’re both breathing deep, both relaxed as much as they could be. they’re still wound so tight somewhere you can’t reach, somewhere no one can seem to penetrate—but yet, they let their guard down around you. and you hold that fact close in your heart.
⁰¹ AFTER A NIGHTMARE.
the first time, it’s from a place of sheer desperate need. dean comes into your room first, his chest heaving from another nightmare of the pit. he’s shaking when he approaches your bedside, like a leaf in the wind. you look up at him not with pity, but with every intention to just help him. to hold him. and that’s what makes him cave like a house of cards.
you don’t ask questions. you just hold him under your blankets, like you want to shield him from everything in the world. he’s grateful you don’t say anything. you’ve always been able to figure out exactly what dean needs, without him telling you a thing. it’s made him seek you out—because half the time, he doesn’t know what he needs.
dean ends up buried in your chest, holding onto you for dear life as he fights to keep from drowning. his breathing is just starting to even out against you when you hear a creak of the floorboard and see sam standing in your door. he, like dean, is also shaking. or a brief second, you wonder if they had the same nightmare. is that even a thing? but you sit up a little more, dean still in your arms. he’s tensed up completely again—and after seeing who’s there, every cell in his body is telling him to run. sam can’t see him like this: his big brother, curled up into you like a scared little kid. but he is.
sam ends up on the other side of you, not saying anything, either. it’s quiet, the only sounds the fan and dean and sam’s uneven breathing. dean’s arm is wrapped high on your torso, close to your diaphragm, his head on your shoulder. sam’s arm is wrapped more by your hips, his head resting on the side of your chest. your own arms are wrapped each of the brothers’ shoulders.
technically, sam and dean are facing each other as they lay on either side of you, but they’re not looking at each other—probably as to not psych themselves out. they’re aware of the other’s presence, but don’t necessarily acknowledge it. after all, they’re both seeking comfort from you, not each other. you can’t see much of them through their tufts of hair, but you don’t need to. you can feel them both relaxing into your body, their once unbelievably tense shoulders now just a tad tense. you’re sure something inside both of them will never let them fully relax, but you take this moment. you take this win.
⁰² AFTER A DAY OF SWIMMING.
it’s a sunny day at bobby’s—and for once, you and the boys have a day to yourselves. no case, no leads to chase down, no research to do. sam suggests going to the lake nearby bobby’s house, and you all agree. soon enough, you’re on the road in baby, cooler sitting next to you in the backseat.
dean, of course, cannonballs into the lake. you and sam are walking side by side on the dock, chairs that bobby digged out for you in hand—and a whoosh of air flows past you both as dean jumps in, the splash starting a ripple spreading through the entire lake. his head pops up after a few beats, grinning wide. you shake your head as dean goads you to come join him, but you hold off for now.
sam’s next to go in the water—well, dean may have triple dog dared him to—and you pretend to be annoyed that he splashed you upon jumping in. you think at this moment, they kind of remind you of dogs. their hair’s wet, and you can almost imagine a pair of floppy ears on sam.
you find the frisbee one of you packed, wiggle it at the boys wading in the water. you promise whoever gets the frisbee the most times gets first pick on the lunch you all brought. it’s not much of a prize at all—but sam and dean take it seriously. you’re not sure who wins, anyway. sam and dean push at each other every time you threw it, splashing at the other to deter them. they’re laughing—and you haven’t heard that sound in a while. a long while.
after the lunch is eaten and the sun is dipping into the horizon, you decide to head back. droplets make their way down, soaking into the soft fabric of your shirt as you sit in the backseat once more, looking at the sunburned necks of the winchester brothers. it’s silent, but not uncomfortable. it’s probably the most comfortable you’ve been in a while, you think.
after you showered, you realize your day the sun has taken most of your energy away. you lay down on the bed bobby brought into the living room for you, sighing once your head hits the pillow.
sam’s not sure why he lays down next to you after his own shower. his entire face hurts from the sunburn, and his back isn’t doing so hot, either. it’s cold in the room, but he doesn’t reach for the bigger blanket, just the sheet that’s covering you. he doesn’t reach for you or anything—he doesn’t know if he’s allowed—but you seem to find him in your sleep, regardless.
dean, still wincing from the shower’s stream hitting his own sunburned skin, also finds himself laying on the opposite side of you, the cold pillow a contrast to the red on his face, giving his freckles a chance in the spotlight again. you and sam are both asleep already—and dean falls under quickly too, his head resting close to the crook of your shoulder. sam’s slumped on your other side haphazardly—but still touching you. you’re all dead to the world as you lay there.
it’s strange, how these boys are just that: boys. even though they are well above 6 feet and could hunt and kill anyone and anything, they’re still boys. they’re still full of energy, like when they were young—although, it may be a little depleted now. but they had a good day today.
a good day in the sun.
📨 many a time have i discussed this concept with @aseafullofstars… now it has come to life. also still wishing we got a beach episode. guys let them play frisbee.
He shouts it across the clearing, a lopsided grin across his face. The shot was perfect, and he knows it- he always thinks your shots are perfect. He likes knowing you have his back, that he can trust you when things get tough. He wants you to know how much he appreciates that.
"Good girl."
His voice is quiet, pressed against the shell of your ear, fingers curling into you as another desperate gasp falls from your lips. "Doin' so good for me- that's it sweetheart, just a little bit more."
"Can't- De- too much-" you whine. You're still giddy with the last orgasm, body overstimulated, head swimming.
"You can- just keep going-"
"Stop moving- let me take care of you."
He says it firm, a short breath pushed out his nose. He's trying to sound patient, but with your blood still seeping out of the cut in your leg, he knows he needs to get you bandaged up quick.
You'd do the same to him, frustrated as you both try to sort through each others injuries. But that frustration never lasts. It always ends with him kissing your forehead, an affirmation that he's not actually angry- and that you're okay.
"Stop moving, baby, I'm takin' care of you."
It's not like you have a choice- wrists bound to the headboard, stretching your arms above your head as you lay against the mattress. Your hips are still lifting off the bed, thighs twitching as Dean dives his head back between them.
His tongue presses against your clit again- you tug at your restraints, another loud moan pushed out of you. You feel him grin, looking back up, "Thought I told y' to stay still."
"You want me to teach you?"
He raises an eyebrow, a genuine question. He likes being able to show you things, likes being useful. It's difficult with you- when you already know so much, when you have hunters instincts and skills he sometimes feels envious of. He secretly relishes those small moments where he can actually teach you something new.
You nod, looking down at the gun in his hand, the object of question in the first place- "Yeah- yeah show me how you did that-"
"You need me to teach you a lesson?"
You've been teasing him all day- the makeout in the police station that left his cock swollen in his pants, the way you flirted with the witness while keeping your glances on Dean the whole time, your outrageously short skirt. You knew he was gonna get you back for it- but maybe that's part of the fun.
He's got you pulled over his lap, that same skirt bunched up to your hips, his handprint already etched red against your skin.
"This what you've been asking for all fuckin' day?"
"Dean-" you whine, cheek pressed against the sheets.
"Asked you a question, sweetheart- you better start answering-"
"You just need to relax."
He's got the bath running, your candles are lit in the corner. Your body's still aching from the hunt, your mind more exhausted than you realized. He helps you pull your T-shirt off over your head, you manage to get your own pants down.
"You want some ice-cream? I've got some in the freezer- get in the bath and I'll grab you a bowl."
"Relax, darling."
His body envelops you, touching every part- lips on your neck, one hand on your chest, the other wrapped around your hip. He's going slow- torturously slow. He knows it's making you frustrated, whiny and bratty as you try to lift your hips for friction.
But he likes you like this- that's why he's gonna keep you on the edge, smiling against your body like he's just trying to be sweet. "You gotta take it easy, sweetheart, let me take my time."
"Jesus- that tastes good."
Dean doesn't trust Internet reviews- why should he believe strangers online, who gives a shit about their opinions?
Which is why you've started working strategically. You've got a list of the top burger spots in each state- you leave little hints during cases, "maybe we should head north after this, see if there's any more leads?", "let's come off the highway, I wanna go the scenic route.", "hey I'm getting hungry, why don't we stop here?".
This time it's paid off, Dean thinks he's found a hidden gem- the grease from the bacon coats his lips, fries scattered across the plate. He grins at you, still chewing the bite- "How'd you always find such good places?"
"Jesus- you taste good."
He looks up at you from between your thighs, eyes glosses with admiration, trying to hold himself back from rutting against the mattress like a fuckin' dog in heat.
He always gets like this when he goes down on you- you've actually had to stop him during cases coz you know it makes him so dumb he'll be useless for the next 3 hours. His tongue circles your clit again, fingers pushed into you to the hilt. He's gonna make you cum at least 4 more times before he even thinks about getting his cock inside you.
"So good- fuck sweetheart- fuck-"
///
A/N: me? Hopping on a trend while it's actually still a trend? Whaaaat
Obsessed with hell permanently changing Sam and Dean's characters in opposite ways.
Dean who gets traumatized by being the torturer. He has the soft parts of himself hardened into a small, condensed ball of hate that he gets brief pleasure in hurling at those who hurt him before going numb again. He still has love, but it's a hard, inflexible thing that refuses to learn or grow, and the part of himself that accepted cruelty as an act of self-defense is not afraid to beat that love into submission so it stays right where it is - firmly his, firmly under control.
Sam who gets traumatized by being the tortured. All his defenses are burned away, leaving the soft parts of himself pulpy and malleable as an open wound for the world to prod at. He wears his heart on his sleeve, but it has no boundaries protecting it. He's learned to not trust himself, so he puts everything into trusting others even when it hurts him more. Fighting back never worked in the cage - not even the smallest, meekest "no." Why would it work now?
Dean used to tell Sam he could go back to school and live his life once their hunt for Dad was over, and he meant it. He used to want Sam to move on after his death, not crucify himself to bring him back.
Sam used to tell Dean what he wanted, feeling safe enough with him to be totally honest, even if it caused conflict. He used to love with self-respect, staying when it was healthy and leaving when it wasn't. He used to say No.
Now they're both people who would be unrecognizable to their younger selves - would probably horrify them if they knew. They're the "bad future" versions that an after-school special would show to scare kids straight, show them the adults they don't want to be.
And isn't that just perfectly tragic?
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