♡Huge freak for Sam & Dean together. Like... together together.
♡My ao3
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Things I've written:
♡ Notes From the Sleep Well Inn - Slow burn Wincest. Ongoing chapter fic set in Season 1 with epistolary elements.
♡Analysis Paralysis - Wincest. Rated M. Dean tries to buy Sam a birthday card and has a panic attack about it.
♡The Westermarck Exception - Wincest. Rated M. Teen Sam psychosexually manipulates Dean at a diner. Also Caleb is there.
♡ A Litany of Fraternal Kisses - Wincest. Explicit. An exploration of some of the times Dean and Sam have kissed each other’s little faces over the years.
This Charcoal Hoodie is worn two times in Supernatural, First worn on Jensen Ackles as Dean Winchester in Faith (2006) and worn again on Jared Padalecki as Sam Winchester in Nightshifter (2007)
I've never seen supernatural but why tf are the two brothers so fruity for each other tho? Man my friend is always going on about destiel (which is great, love that she has a ship she loves so much!) and whilst I can see why- Sam and Dean??? Are so??? Gay??! Like- this isn't even a brothers who are just really close thing, this is straight up "I'd set every soul on fire if I knew it was warming you" . Godamn. GODAMN. Romeo and Juliet fucking wish. Me and who, bitch? Me and WHO?!
I know for a fact that Niall stayed on his bullshit. Butch was the best man at his wedding. They went to that spa LAST NIGHT and did coke in the bridal suite before Lori got there. Credit to Alby for trying, but that man is broken beyond repair. Absolute failure. One of the greatest characters of the last decade.
Reposting this from AO3 because the thing I'm currently working on is looking like a follow-up. If you leave a comment I'll be your friend forever. It doesn't even have to be positive.
Summary:
Which kind of birthday card was ideal for broaching the subject of a sexual relationship with your brother?
Notes:
I'm very grateful for feedback, but I hope you'll be gentle. I've been a huge fan of this fandom and ship since 2013, but this is my very first attempt at a fic.
Set on May 2, 2001. Lines in italics are internal monologue, imagined conversations or flashbacks.
Word count - 4,515
Rating - Mature
Which kind of birthday card was ideal for broaching the subject of a sexual relationship with your brother?
Can’t believe you’re going through with this.
‘Birthday - Boyfriend’ was a non-starter. Too forward.
Stupidest idea you’ve ever had.
‘Humorous’ would send the message that it was all a joke, but Dean’s racing pulse and the thin sheen of sweat covering his forehead that he couldn’t blame on the drug store’s fluorescent lights said this was as serious as a heart attack. Or maybe he was actually having a heart attack?
Too goddamn hot in here.
A card for children would add an extra layer of disgust that wouldn’t help his case, but the cards for adults were all boring platitudes, cringy jokes about back pain or saccharine poems on the passage of time.
Just pick something!
He needed something straightforward. Something unassuming. This whatever-it-was between them had always been conveyed subtly; a lingering graze of fingertips when one handed the other a flashlight, an imperceptible shift across a ripped pleather diner booth to get just a half inch closer. Someone in their earshot would say something about love or romance or sex and, on autopilot, Dean’s eyes would flick over to Sam, only to find Sam was already looking back. It simmered under his skin for as long as Dean could remember. And though he wanted to crank the burner to high, let everything boil over and burn the kitchen down too, he only had one shot at this. The thought of blowing it made him want to curl up and die.
Or don’t pick anything at all. Get back in the car and drive away.
So he stood there, gripped with analysis paralysis, half-convinced that if he just chose the right card, everything would turn out exactly like it did in his indulgent daydreams.
You’ve gotta be the dumbest son of a bitch on the planet if you really believe that.
The kind of daydreams he cooked up when he was alone in whatever piece of shit they were currently holed up in. Feet kicked up on a broken coffee table or milk crate. Knees splayed wide. His hand brushing lazily on heated skin. Filth spilling from his lips, cradled lovingly around Sam’s name.
He could picture it perfectly. Sam would open his card, shake his head and give him that stupid, wonderful, dimpled grin.
‘Thanks Dean,’ he’d say warmly. And they’d talk. They’d just talk. Dean hadn’t decided exactly what he was going to say. He didn’t want it to sound too rehearsed or pre-planned.
He’s obviously going to know you planned this, dipshit.
Maybe if he brought it up casually enough, he could slip it under the radar with little notice.
Yeah, great idea. ‘Cowboys are playing like garbage this year. By the way, Sammy, you ever thought about letting me blow you?’
He thought about saying something nearly every day. He wanted to whisper it across the narrow gap between their beds like a horrible sleepover secret. He wanted to spring it suddenly in the middle of a conversation and gauge Sam’s reaction. Decide in the moment if he should laugh it off or drive straight over a cliff. He wanted to answer honestly when he was melding into the couch, staring at the bottom of a bottle like it had all the answers and heard his brother murmur with a tinge of concern “What are you thinking about?”
‘Sticking my fingers in your mouth. What are you thinking about?’
He’d mentally played it out hundreds and hundreds of times without saying a word. But, he was certain — almost certain, barely unsure — that this time he’d be brave enough to say it. And maybe it would be fine.
Or he’ll tell you to get fucked and it’ll be just another shitty birthday. 18 in a row Sammy! Must be a world record.
His eyes flicked unconsciously to the enormous display of Mother’s Day cards farther down the aisle, surrounded by oversized boxes of chocolate and cheap bears with plasticky fur. His pulse quickened again. This time of year, every store became a minefield of unwanted reminders. Dean wrinkled his nose. He used to know what her perfume smelled like, but now he willed away the phantom scent of smoke and rot.
What would she think of you now?
He shook his head, dismissing that particular intrusive thought, not for the first time that day or even that hour.
This isn’t about her, he argued to no one. This isn’t about anybody but him and me.
Nothing ever was. From the moment that little bundle of blankets and brother was shoved into his arms, Sam became his entire world. Dean was his protector, his teacher, his caregiver. Barely a second of his life passed where he didn’t have some part of his brain focused on Sam.
Where is Sammy? Is he eating enough? Is he fitting in at his new school? Does he miss the one he left last week? Is he pissed off Dad left him behind again?
It was a lot to put on the shoulders of a four-year-old, but Dean always felt uniquely suited for his role of motherfatherbestfriend. He had a sole mission in life. Look out for Sammy. Take care of him. That always felt as natural as breathing.
Take care of him like walk him to school and keep the salt lines intact, asshole. Not take care of him like shove your hand in his jeans and kiss him until his lips bruise.
The doubt that gripped him now, seizing him with the urge to bolt from the store and forget the whole thing, was a near constant presence these days, especially since he’d hatched this harebrained scheme and talked himself into getting this far.
He shoved his misgivings back down and repeated the affirmations that made him feel mildly saner.
It’s not just you. It can’t just be you. You’re not blind and you’re not crazy.
For Christ's sake, he spent nearly every waking moment within arm’s reach of his brother. He raised the kid. He could read his mind.
You used to, but not anymore. He’s different now. He hates Dad. He hates you. He’s hiding things.
Dean resisted the urge to smack himself for that particularly painful thought. Didn’t want to draw any more attention to the grown man standing motionless staring at greeting cards for going on 10 minutes now. He shoved the thought to the back of his mind where it belonged and tried not to linger on the feeling that it was the only rational thing he’d told himself today.
It’s not too late. You can still turn back.
It was true. He could continue on with more of the same if he wanted to. He made it this far in life without doing anything. Maybe he could just keep going. Take it one day at a time like an addict.
He envisioned himself going down that route. Taking every thought that nauseated and exhilarated him, putting it in a lead-lined box and tucking it away in a secret corner of his mind, bricked off with a thick, sturdy wall of denial. He could be good, starting today.
First day of the rest of your life.
He could throw himself into hunts a little more recklessly. Shoot first. Think later. Start drinking whiskey with Dad and tell Sam where he could shove that piss poor attitude he’d been sporting these last few months. That’s what a good brother would do. Fuck his birthday.
He’d almost convinced himself to step away from the card display when his eyes finally landed on it. The image scratched at his brain in an oddly comforting way, a memory forming in dribs and drabs as he reached for the card and plucked it from the shelf.
He stared down at the staged photograph of a fluffy yellow pup with a paper birthday hat strapped to its head. Why did it look so familiar? They’d never owned a dog. Never even had a stray that hung around begging for scraps of food and friendship.
Never a dog like this anyway. Probably met a few junkyard mutts that were nothing but skin and—
“Bones,” he whispered, running his thumb over the dog’s glossy snout, the memory finally solidifying.
Sam, 11 years old, sprawled across the hardwood floor of the kitchenette. Pencils clacking together as he swapped between brown ochre, dark cadmium yellow and raw umber, trying to get the hue of the coat just right.
Dean, perched on the windowsill like a gargoyle, watching the sun go down on a gorgeous Indian summer. Plenty of kids outside, even in this part of town, running wild and carefree, soaking up one of the last good days before the inevitable chill.
But Sam was grounded, probably for a year at least after his little stunt, and Dean was right there beside him in self-imposed solitary confinement. Terrified of what could happen if he let Sam out of his sight again.
They worked in silence. Sam drawing and Dean watching. That wasn’t part of the punishment, but after the ordeal of the last few weeks, Dean’s nerves were too frayed to let him properly form words. His thoughts came in broad, ever-changing swaths of emotion. Betrayal. Fury. Relief. His limbs throbbed from the extra hours of PT he’d been put through, first by Dad as penalty, then by himself as penance.
Sam squinted up at the dying light in the window and huffed out a frustrated little sigh. Like he thought it was unfair. Like he didn’t understand what had been so wrong about tearing Dean’s chest open, shoving his grubby little hands inside the cavity and squeezing every organ until it ruptured.
A moment later, he stood and placed his sketch on the counter before wordlessly shuffling into the bathroom and slamming the door with the same level of force he’d used on every door across the last six states. The kid was starting to gain some muscle. Dean could see broken knobs and pissed off general managers in their very near future.
He waited until he heard the shower running before pushing himself off the windowsill and heading to the cabinet to grab the one dusty pot that lived inside. As he scrubbed it under barely tepid water, he scrutinized the drawing. A little stick boy with gangly limbs and dark hair, holding a bright yellow bag and tossing a golden ring at a golden dog. ‘Sam and Bones’ scrawled across the top in deep cobalt green.
That was the first appearance of Bones. For a while, Sam doodled him on the back of every receipt, diner placemat and motel notepad he could get his hands on. Dean never asked him about his fantasy dog. For one thing, he couldn’t utter a proper sentence to Sam besides ‘Wash up’, ‘Time for school’, or ‘Go to bed’ for weeks, and by then they were so far removed from the nightmare that he didn’t want to risk dragging up anything that reminded them of Arizona.
But they were almost seven years passed it now, and with a little flutter in his stomach, Dean wondered if Sam would be impressed that he remembered that particular dream of owning an energetic golden retriever who could chase frisbees around a lush, grassy yard.
The dog on the card was posed lying down with his paws outstretched. The forlorn expression in the dog’s eyes looked like the one he’d seen on Sam nearly every day since he began to understand who they were and what they did and why it couldn’t change.
The retriever’s gaze was fixed sidelong on a floor-smashed cake next to its head. Dean ran his fingers over the raised lettering. ‘Maybe this year has been ruff…’
He flipped open the card and smirked at the punchline. The previously heartbroken pooch was now on all fours, gleefully devouring every scrap of frosting his long tongue could reach. ‘But cake is cake. Happy birthday!’
It was so stupid. It was so cliche. It was so utterly and completely lame.
It was perfect.
His mind was quiet as he paid for the card and the scratch-off ticket and crossed the parking lot. He couldn’t keep the stupid grin off his face when he spread the card open on the roof of his car and scribbled ‘Happy birthday Sammy. Hope you get lucky.’ He affixed the scratcher to the inside of the card with a piece of electrical tape from the glove box and tossed his completed gift on the passenger’s seat.
As he drove, his thoughts turned to the contents of the trunk. Wedged in between the sawed-off and a Hawthorn stake was a cooler of cheap Buds and a moth-bitten blanket he’d stolen off a housekeeping cart last month. There was even a single cupcake that he’d bought for a staggering $3.75 at a vegan bakery across town.
With the free space in his head to think positive thoughts, he started to craft his pitch. He mentally set the scene in the high vantage point he’d scoped out last week. Maybe it used to be a lover’s lane back when this town had young, hopeful teens with an itch to scratch. There hadn’t been anyone there during Dean’s recent reconnaissance missions as he tried to figure out the best time of sunset to strike.
With the evening light just perfect in his mind’s eye, he imagined laying out the blanket, tossing Sam a beer that he’d catch one handed and casually passing him the card. His eyes, usually narrowed in concentration or petulance these days, would go child-like wide. ‘Oh wow!’ He’d say. ‘That looks just like-’
‘Bones. Your little dream dog that you drew over and over.’
‘You remember. I can’t believe you remember.’
‘Listen. I can’t promise things are gonna change overnight, but you’re an adult now. Dad is slowing down. I can tell. It’s getting harder for him to keep up with the job and I think he knows he’s had too many close calls. I think if we really prove ourselves, we might be able to convince him to stay with Uncle Bobby for a bit and let us strike out on our own. We could do it our way. Not just motels. Set up a home base somewhere. Maybe… get a dog.’
He mouthed the last few words in a silent rehearsal, lest he stumble and stutter and make a fool of himself. A homebase and a dog led to routine which led to normalcy which led to comfort which led to trust which led to everything else. A direct throughline to everything he’d ever wanted. “He’s gonna say yes,” Dean muttered to the card in the passenger seat.
Card-Bones met his gaze with those big melancholy eyes and he had to force himself to not second-guess, pull a U-turn and head back to the store. He hadn’t gotten a receipt.
Standing on the dilapidated, kudzu covered porch of the condemned farmhouse they were squatting in, Dean was greeted with the familiar sound of expletive and insult-laden raised voices from within. Didn’t seem like anything too out of the ordinary at first. However, it was the unmistakable high-pitched ring of a dish shattering that signaled this wasn’t a typical Wednesday night pissing contest.
With a reluctant sigh, he pushed open the warped, weather-worn door and marched straight into a warzone.
“- arrogant, self-obsessed asshole hellbent on destroying my life!”
“I’ve spent every waking minute of the last 18 years saving your life! And this is how you repay me? This is how you repay us?!”
“Oh! Thaaaank you for this wonderful existence, Dad,” Sam spat as he brought his hands together in a loud, exaggerated slow clap. “It’s been awesome living out of roach motels and never making friends.”
Dean softly closed the door behind him and felt a dull throb deep in his chest. He’d never felt bereft in the friendship department and the fact that Sam did was one of their more agonizing differences. He didn’t like to think about it.
Sam and their father stood on either side of a splintery kitchen table that was littered with dirty dishes, food-splattered Styrofoam containers and empty bottles. The casualty, a dinner plate stained with ketchup, was in pieces by the sink. Hard to tell who had started throwing things first, but if no one intervened they’d both be equally guilty of wrecking the place in a matter of minutes.
Dean took a few steps further into the room, futilely trying to break the spell of the donnybrook with his presence alone. But, as usual, Sam and Dad only had eyes for each other.
“We have a purpose, Sam! We make sacrifices to protect people. We fight what’s out there so no one has to suffer like she did.”
Dean could sense what was coming a split second before it happened. Mom was always Dad’s trump card. It was his bright, flashing “Press here to win the argument” button. But something was different tonight. Something about the way Sam was carrying himself. He had some extra ammo hidden away. Some alternate path he could take. “Yes sir” was no longer in the script.
He could sense it, but he couldn’t stop it.
“You know she would’ve left your pathetic, inebriated ass years ago, don’t you? I’m glad she didn’t live to see us up to our necks in this pile of shit you built for us."
That broke the dam. John Winchester grabbed an empty glass bottle off the table and sent it hurtling towards the door. Dean shifted a half inch backwards, just in time to see it whiz passed his head and explode against the knot-filled wall.
“Get the fuck out of this house,” he roared, pointing a thick finger at the only escape route. “Go if you’re so goddamn eager! And stay gone!”
Dean rolled his eyes, preparing himself for the usual post-fight pep talk. This wasn’t the first time Dad kicked Sam’s surly ass out and told him to come back when he’d put his head on straight.
We’ve come a long way since Flagstaff.
It threw a kink into his plans, but he figured he could, once again, soothe these emotional wounds and still get Sam in the car and out to the abandoned lover’s lane without missing too much of the sunset.
It wasn’t until Sam shoved passed him without a glance and Dean saw the bulky backpack he was shouldering that everything started to go up in smoke. This fight was pre-meditated.
The door slammed shut with Sam alone in the muggy spring air. “No son of mine,” John growled. “Abandon his fucking family.” Dean could hear his words, but they weren’t adding up. The metallic, bitter taste of panic filled his mouth and wheeled around to follow Sam out into the night.
He caught up at the bottom of the porch stairs, a hand clasping his brother’s broad shoulder. “Sammy, wait! What— “
“Go inside, Dean.” He sounded tired. Worlds removed from the bombastic performance he’d given inside, now he just seemed drained. He didn’t even turn around. “We can’t both— I mean, you have to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”
“What the hell are you talking about? You know he doesn’t mean it. Sure, the stuff you said about Mom was a little—”
“I’m leaving,” Sam told the ground. “I got into Stanford. Full ride.”
The wall shattered in Dean’s brain. Every impure, depraved thought and impulse he tried to bury rushed forward.
Tell him tell him TELL HIM! You can’t leave. It’s you and me against the world, like always. I need you. I want you. I love you.
“What?”
Sam finally turned and slowly, despondently, forced himself to meet Dean’s eyes. “I. Am. Leaving. Tonight.” He enunciated every syllable as though that were the only way to get it through his brother’s thick skull. Maybe it was.
“What, now?! It’s a thousand miles away. You gonna walk?”
Sam shoved a hand into his pocket and pulled out a crumbled piece of paper with his name and a flight number on it. Dean had the wild urge to snatch it and set it aflame like he’d burned countless other objects imbued with pure evil.
“My roommate is a townie. He said I could spend the summer in his parents’ guest house. I knew as soon as Dad found out he’d— And if I leave now he can’t report me as a runaway since I’m— Since it’s my—...”
Of course. The very first decision Sam made as a full grown adult was to turn tail and abandon the person who raised him.
Dean swallowed what felt like a wad of broken glass as he cast his eyes towards his car. They still had a little time. Maybe on the drive to the airport he could make some compelling points. Maybe there was time to get a room at some roadside hole in the wall that reminded them of their childhood. He wasn’t above using this new development as leverage. One last night together where they could finally be honest about how desperately sick they were about one another. If it still didn’t work, Sam could always take a later flight.
“Well, get in,” He said quietly. “I just have to fill up and—”
“I called a cab. Right before I showed Dad the acceptance letter.”
Dean’s heart jumped into his throat. His vision swam and darkness was gathering much faster than anticipated. He’d read this all wrong. He had been reading it wrong for years. He really was a stupid son of a bitch. He thought this was some secret, silent burden the two of them had been shouldering together, locked in a stalemate and terrified of the consequences of giving an inch.
But it wasn’t. Dean was in this alone. Sam didn’t want him. Didn’t love him.
He never would have done this if he did.
“I just got home,” he murmured pitifully. “You weren’t even gonna say—...” He couldn’t get his mouth to form the word. It was locked up tight somewhere, inaccessible. He didn’t have use for that word with Sam.
Sam’s eyes were back on the ground and he was gnawing at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t confirm or deny. He didn’t have to.
Gleaming yellow headlights illuminated a tree at the end of the country road. Thirty seconds until the end of Dean’s life. It was do or die. Now or never. He had to say something or Sam would slip through his fingers like wet sand. The wall was already demolished. It would be easy. He just had to say something. Say anything!
He opened his mouth, finally ready to ruin both of their lives, when Sam closed the gap between them with an oddly familiar wounded animal expression warping his features. Not even a hint of those dimples. He crushed Dean in a hug, lanky arms snaking around his brother’s shoulders. They were the same height, but Sam tipped his head down slightly so his chin rested right in the crook of Dean’s neck.
It was the same comfort Sam sought when he was six and fell off a bike they “borrowed”, when he was 10 and a boy at school called him trailer trash, when he was 14 and Dean finally woke up from a three-day coma after a tussle with a nocnitsa.
Dean’s mind went blank as he tapped into his default state of protecting and calming Sam. His sole mission. He tilted his head a fraction of an inch, the edge of his bottom lip a hair’s breadth from Sam’s cheek. He heard a sharp inhale next to his ear. If he didn’t know any better, he could almost convince himself Sam was breathing him in, storing away his scent.
They were bathed in yellow light as the cab crawled to a stop. Dean’s fingernails dug half-moon imprints into his palms as he valiantly fought every instinct warring in his body and broke the hug first. Wordlessly, he pulled out his wallet and shoved several crumpled fifties into Sam’s hand.
“Dean, don’t. Keep your—”
Dean cut him off with nothing more than a heated glare.
They stood there for a beat, too much to say and nothing seeming important enough to cover it all. Maybe they could just stay in that moment forever and never have to face what came next.
The cab’s horn beeped, pulling them both out of a trance. Sam gave Dean a curt nod and sidled up to one of the rear doors. He was halfway in when he looked back up and offered a pathetic “I’ll call when I’m settled in.” Dean knew he wouldn’t, but he nodded. It didn’t matter.
The car door closed softly and Dean was left standing on the yellow, median lines as the taxi pulled away. He stared at the shaggy head of dark hair and half convinced himself that the person in the backseat glanced over his shoulder for one last look back, but it was probably just a trick of the moonlight.
“Happy birthday, Sammy,” he whispered into the darkness.
His birthday! Dean's pulse kicked up as he remembered the items in the car. He dashed to his passenger seat, threw open the door and grabbed the card. He only needed to take two steps into the cab’s lingering exhaust cloud to know that he was never going to catch up. The moment was gone. He met Card-Bones’ hangdog eyes and felt like he was going to be sick. It was the same dreary look Sam had fixed him with in the moment before their embrace.
Over the next eight hours, the beers in the cooler would be consumed (and regurgitated) at an embarrassing speed. It took the cupcake two months to rot into a goopy liquid that made him gag whenever he reached for a weapon and caught a whiff of it. The moth-bitten blanket served as a shroud for a possum he accidentally rammed going 40 over the speed limit in September. But the card he tossed immediately. He couldn’t stand the way those eyes looked into his soul. How they seemed to reflect every measure of a man Dean failed to live up to in his 22 years on this earth.
Dad was passed out at the table by the time Dean re-entered the farmhouse. He didn’t look down at Card-Bones as he ripped it into four tidy pieces and let them fall into the overflowing kitchen trash. It was only when he was at the threshold of the bedroom they had shared that he remembered the scratch-off ticket and the $200 he’d shoved into Sam’s palm. The car needed gas and they were almost out of painkillers.
It only took him a minute to fish the pieces out of the trash, assemble them back together and take a quarter to the colorful acrylic ink.
Ok, but now I really need What Is and What Should Never Be lawyer Sam and Dean Smith. Just real masc4masc American Psycho toxic masculinity late stage capitalism bullshit. Choke each other with your ties. Please. Has someone written this? Do I need to write this?
Includes more intrusive thoughts and Sam jerking off while wracked with guilt.
Read on AO3
Thanks to @kit-and-kaboodle-02 for beta reading.
Rating: Explicit
Words: 2,280
Summary:
After each hunt, when the grave is filled in and the cops lose their trail, the Winchester boys check into to dingy motel rooms to eat, clean their wounds and keep a record.
Dad's journal says "Write everything down.
So they do—the good, the bad, and the things they won’t say out loud.
Riding shotgun wasn’t so bad every once in a while, especially when Dean was sore, bandaged to hell and smelled like barbequed cannibal. On top of all that, he was exhausted, but it was a fool’s errand trying to get to sleep. Even with the engine’s comforting purr sounding like home and the smooth highway stretching out for miles ahead of them, every time he closed his eyes images of his father (tied up, bleeding, lost) kept him from truly resting.
‘Sam is right,’ he thought with more than a twinge of annoyance. ‘He’s been missing before and he’s always been fine.’ It surprised Dean that he could even conjure up the image of his father being in such peril when, for all these years, he’d seemed untouchable. Sure, he got scraped up and Dean couldn’t count on both hands how many times he’d had to pop his shoulder back in place. But in all these years no one had ever gotten the drop on John Winchester.
‘So then where the hell is he? And why did he leave me behind?’
He kept his eyes on Sam in the driver’s seat, trying to focus on anything other than the cold, roiling anxiety that was gripping his intestines. Sam’s steady gaze was fixed on the road. Driving exactly where? Neither of them were sure, but as long as it was East and not West, Dean wasn’t complaining. If Sam felt eyes on him, he didn’t give any indication. Dean took in every minuscule muscle twitch, especially the frequent tightening in his jaw as Sam clenched his teeth. He wished he could peek inside that big brain and read Sam’s exact thoughts. His brother was a pot of water about to boil over and he’d been like that for days.
‘Hand on the inside of his thigh ought to calm him down. Little road head to blow off some steam?’
Dean’s fingers flexed and he shoved both hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. He knew he needed to stop thinking like that. Sooner or later he was going to slip up, cross some line and run Sam off again. Even in the last few days he knew he’d gotten too comfortable; sitting so close on a dead tree that their knees knocked together, guiding Sam by the shoulders or roughly gripping his wrist to keep him from stumbling over a root or a patch of poison ivy, keeping contact for just a second longer than necessary. He needed to pull himself together while he still had plausible deniability.
It didn’t help that Sam had given him this look back at the Ranger Station when he’d asked for the keys. Hell, practically demanded them with this heat in his eyes that Dean couldn’t remember ever seeing there before. Add to that the way he’d looked when their eyes met over the torched wendigo. At the time, he’d told himself Sam was just impressed with his creative solution, but the more he compared the look Sam gave him to the look Haley gave him, the less he could tell them apart.
‘Haley Haley Haley. Think about hot chick Haley. Bet she had more in her than a kiss on the cheek if we’d stayed.’
He brought a hand up to his cheek and absently scratched at the place she had kissed him. He’d remember her. Brave, stubborn and smart. She was really something, but all he felt was a kinship with her. She’d do anything for her brothers.
He sighed and squeezed his eyes shut, but now the only image swimming in his brain was that moment on the hood of the car over and over and over again. And honestly, he didn’t know which was worse; picturing Dad dying in a hundred horrible ways, or replaying Sam fixing him with an expression that his screwed up brain told him were ‘fuck me eyes.’
*****
11/5 or 6. Don’t feel like checking.
Wendigo. Like in Pet Sematary.
Casualties: 1. Mountain guide named Roy. Could’ve kept him safe if he’d listened to us.
Starting to worry about Sammy. He was so pissed at that campsite. Thought we were wasting time hunting something that has nothing to do with Dad or Jess. I think if I’d said yes, he wouldn’t have thought twice about taking off and leaving those civvies to die in the woods.
Coordinates Dad left weren’t where he was gonna be. Just wanted to get us out here to Colorado to hunt something he didn’t have time for.
Sam can’t follow Dad’s logic (shocking!) Thinks if he wants us somewhere he should just call us and tell us where he is.
But I get it. I think there’s only one thing in this world that would make Dad take off like he did. Don’t want to get Sam’s hopes up in case I’m wrong.
But sending us on a hunt of our own, this is his way of getting us in shape for the final showdown. Set us on the path to take down a handful of evil sonsofbitches and when the time comes, he’ll let us know where to meet him.
Don’t regret grabbing Sam from school. Wouldn’t make sense to take down the thing that killed Mom without all of us there.
Could’ve been rough without him here. Wendigo invited me and the vic’s sister over for supper and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Sam’s a good partner when he gets his head out of his ass, but next time he can be bait. That’s only fair.
I think I’m right about what Dad wants and I think I’m right that we’re gonna find him. Just don’t know if he’ll be alive and in one piece when we do.
*****
November 6, 2025
Jessica’s funeral is today. My voicemail is full of messages from our friends. They’re worried about me. They understand I needed some time alone, but they know I’ll regret it if I don’t come back to say goodbye.
There’s nothing to say goodbye to. Just like Mom, there was nothing left of her after the fire. Her parents are burying an empty box for some sense of closure.
I’ve got that Ramones song stuck in my head. Pet Sematary. Dean was humming it for three hours.
I think if there was something to bury, if I had the chance, I’d try to bring her back. I know messing around with necromancy flies in the face of everything Dad ever taught us, but I understand the temptation.
I just want a chance to explain everything that I never got to say when she was here. And I want to apologize for being a fucking failure.
I wouldn’t even want her to stay alive forever. After I said all I needed to say I’d put her to rest. I’m sure the ritual isn’t too difficult to find.
I need to get a new number. Deleting all the voicemails is really tedious and time consuming.
*****
Sam closed his journal and placed it on the bedside table in the middle of the room. Across the narrow gap, Dean was sawing logs. His brother always slept great after a successful hunt and these were the first real beds they’d seen in days.
But sleep wasn’t coming to Sam. He’d caught a fitful few hours here and there over the last week, but nothing that could be classified as restful. When he slipped into unconsciousness, the horrible dreams were there to greet him.
Not the premonitions he’d been having the last few weeks. No, these dreams were a fresh hell. Last night, Jess descended from the ceiling and floated six inches from his face, screaming at Sam for letting this happen, for keeping secrets from her, for being a freak. He’d been able to feel the heat from the flames licking at her hair.
Better to just let his body rest if he could. He was sore in muscle groups he hadn’t used in years after a days long trek through the mountains.
Sam sighed softly and let his head thunk back against the headboard. The room looked like it hadn’t been updated since the early 70’s. The walls were adorned in macrame and geometric orange and brown patterns everywhere he looked. There was even a lava lamp staring back at him from across the room.
Sam studied it intently, breathing deeply and trying to let go of everything clouding his mind. That was the appeal of these things after all, right? They were supposed to be meditative. But, watching it made the hair on his arms stand on end, the way the wax inside shifted and bubbled, melting into itself. Would he scream if he poured it over his skin? Did the wendigo feel relief after centuries of unending hunger when the flare gun purified its evil soul? Did Jessica have time to be afraid when hellfire engulfed her twisted limbs?
Across the room, the sheets whispered as Dean rolled over in his sleep. His breathing quieted. Sam found himself matching each inhale and exhale.
Dean’s eyes had glowed in that cave, pupils blown wide with the adrenaline of a fresh kill. After all these years, he’d almost forgotten how lethal his brother was. How capable. And when Dean stood over the burned out carcass, Sam thought he looked the happiest he’d seen him in years.
Sam kept his eyes glued to the lava lamp, mirrored his breathing to Dean’s and slowly reached down to palm his cock with the heel of his hand. He didn’t have the decency to be surprised that he was already half hard.
He lifted his hips up slightly and slipped a hand into his boxers to grip himself properly. It only took a few gentle pumps to coax himself to his full thickness. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips as he settled into a slow pace.
He was both adept at keeping quiet and unashamed of doing this here and now. Waking up to the sound of hitching breaths in the next bed over was a part of life on the road. And if Sam sometimes stayed awake to listen, well, that was between him and his conscience.
Sam wanted to stay as quiet as possible, though. If for no other reason than the feeling that Dean would accuse him of grieving wrong and call him a freak again. His head was a mess of rage and guilt and want and if he could just release all that tension, maybe he would finally sleep soundly.
He pictured Jess in her raunchy little nurse costume, a light sheen of moisture on her brow when she’d leaned over to kiss him under the bar’s dim lights. How she’d sweat from every pore later that night, pushing her panties aside and riding him on their bed.
His eyes slowly unfocused as he followed each bloom of wax up to the lamp’s ceiling-
‘Heat rises. Is that why they burned to death on the ceiling?’
and back down to the base. He matched the squeeze-roll-drag of his hand on his cock to the wax’s glacial speed. He tried to focus on the memory of Jess’s warm, wet mouth mashed against his own. The heat that rolled off her body in waves when they moved together. He always gripped her thighs tightly to keep his fingertips from sliding on her damp skin. She would chastise him after, complaining that the bruises would keep her out of shorts for a week. But Sam would catch her admiring them in the mirror and she always came faster when he was rough.
She burned so brightly. The fire clung to her flawless skin and crushed her into ash in seconds. Sam’s chest clenched painfully. Her mouth had been open in a silent scream. He could hear the wendigo's final howl bouncing off the cave’s walls.
Dean let out a soft snore and Sam bit his lip hard enough to taste iron as he bucked up into his fist. What the hell was wrong with him?
‘Her skin melting off her bones. Beautiful. Clean.’
Sam squeezed his eyes shut and was greeted by the sight of an inferno blazing brightly in green framed blown out pupils.
‘Not bad, huh?’
Sam wrenched his gaze over to the other bed, his stomach dropping 20 stories, so certain he’d heard those words spoken aloud again. Real or imagined, they pushed him over the edge. Bitterly, he covered the head of his dick with his palm. His jaw clenched tightly to keep in the curse that threatened to spill along with the clear fluid. His body shook with the effort to stay still as his cock finished pulsing into his hand.
After he cleaned himself up, he laid his head down on the pillow, a churning sensation in his stomach. He’d fucked it up. He couldn’t hold on to one good memory of her for five minutes before it morphed into something else.
He closed his eyes and strained hard to hear Dean in the next bed. For one terrifyingly long moment, the pounding in his ears deafened all sound but the beating of his own heart and he wondered wildly if Dean had somehow stopped breathing. And if Dean had stopped breathing, how was he supposed to breathe?
Finally his ears caught the long inhale followed by an exhale that sounded like a sigh of relief and he synced up, letting his mind go blank. Forgetting the inflamed monster. Forgetting the blazes that destroyed his homes. Forgetting the heat delivered to him in those green eyes and the way he’d returned it tenfold.
what about switch!sam/switch!dean where it all depends on who’s more stressed, hurt, and emotional that day??
dean who’s putting up a front because he’s days away from going to hell, so sam fucks the brattiness out of him
sam who’s angsty and unsure of where his life is headed, so dean kisses the tears away as he praises sam for taking him so well as he pounds in and out of him
the power imbalance they share switches constantly throughout the show anyway, so why can’t they switch also *shrug*
Chapters: 2/12
Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005)
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester
Additional Tags: Season 1, Slow Burn, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Sam Winchester, Emotionally Hurt Sam Winchester, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Intrusive Thoughts, Angst, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Diary/Journal, Epistolary, diary entries, Journal Entries, Epistolary Elements, Pining, pining in motels, Multiple Pov, mostly Dean POV, Wincest - Freeform, Past Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Masturbation
Summary:
After each hunt, when the grave is filled in and the cops lose their trail, the Winchester boys check into to dingy motel rooms to eat, clean their wounds and keep a record.
Dad's journal says "Write everything down."
So they do—the good, the bad, and the things they won’t say out loud.
----------------------------
Chapter 2! Thank you to the wonderful @kit-and-kaboodle-02 for beta reading. This chapter contains some guilt-filled Sam self love. Enjoy!
This is absolute bullshit. Ken is the only real wizard living among us. He is full of extensive ancient knowledge and a stiff breeze would knock him over.
