call me kostas. she/her. 30s. supernatural/wincest blog with a sprinkling of the rest. terminal deangirl. weekend deanjohn enjoyer. if you hate mary winchester, please turn around.
ao3 -> text post -> ask -> edit
writing blog: liketheguns
fanfic masterlist
gen
siege perilous rating: teen + up | word count: 998 | dean & sam | 8.21 coda
You said all kinds of weird shit as a kid, did I ever tell you that? Like, this one time, a few years later, we were sitting in the car, can't even remember where now, but it was near end of summer and you were in the backseat and I was in the front and we were waiting for Dad, he'd gone into a pawn shop and he'd been awhile and the car was turned off but it was probably a thousand degrees and you had your hand out the window and you caught my eye in the rearview and you asked me, you said to me, You ever feel like you're here and you're not? Like you're not a part of your body? Like you’re watching everything happen to you? And I looked at you and—fuck, I didn't say anything. Not right away. What could I say? You were, like, ten. Who says shit like that, when they're ten? I told you to shut up, to stop fucking around, to stop talking weird. What could I say? I was fourteen, man. What the fuck was I supposed to say. You were just a kid. We were just kids. I'd been looking after you on my own for six fucking years and I didn't know what to say. Like I didn’t even know you.
compline rating: teen + up | word count: 2023 | dean, sam, john | pre-series
This is how you dig into half-frozen dirt of January and how you kick the lid in with your bootheel and the violence of it rattles your bones right back up to your teeth and you suck in the dead through your nose and take it with you; this is how you land a massé shot, this is how you get out while the gettings good; this is how you take 'em for all they've got; this is how you get the good money that spendin' cash when they catch you out tilted circling slantways in the bar bathroom truckcab flush red in the mouth and hands motel room two doors down from yours but you don't tell him that, that's all yours; this is how you take a hit, square your shoulders, clench your jaw, get that tongue out from between those teeth if you wanna keep it; this is how you land a blow, do it again, get that blood in their mouth; this is how you give as good as you get; this is how you talk about the blood without mentioning the colour or the taste.
seven, seventeen rating: gen | word count: 616 | dean & john | pre-series
He calls you kid, he calls you my boy. Hands you a candy, surprised at the look on your face. Three Musketeers, just like the three of us, he used to joke. Half melted in its wrapper, like it's been left out on the dashboard. You wonder when he bought it, if it was on his way back this time from a some trail he’d reached the end of, madly, blackened and uneasy, on the outskirts of Tuscaloosa. It's his favourite and when you were younger, when you still sat on the floor for him to cut your hair, he'd buy one at every truck stop and gas station and split it with you and Sammy, giving the both of you the bigger pieces. It was your favourite, too. You can't remember the last time you had one.
open season rating: teen + up | word count: 1761 | dean, john, omc | stanford era
When you’re the last one left in the bar and everyone’s cleared out and you're back in your seat, you dial up his number, let it ring until you hear his voice dull and all business, snap the phone shut. Butt it up against your chin, then your teeth, thinking it through. Dial it again and this time you sip your drink and lean forward on your elbow to shove your thumb between your eyes and you wait for it to ring through and the voicemail and the tone and you say: hey it's me again getting worried you know and I just thought I'd try—
But now that you think about it, it's obvious. Cause why the fuck would it ever work that way, like he'd know that you came here and that you took this call and suddenly he'd need to come find you, to explain or to apologize or say fuck all cause what does he ever have to justify to you, it’s not like he’s gonna start now, but at least he'd just be here.
sam/dean
the geography of blood rating: explicit | word count: 10066 | RAPE/NON-CON | 10.03 coda
He'd been careful, hadn't he? Been careful about so many things. Where he touched, how long he looked, close enough to get what he wanted just to get by, not enough that he'd lose control, to lose the only good thing he had left in the world, for how many times he had let it slip through his hands. It crawled up his nerves and along skin every night while he slept, woke up covered in it in the mornings, this sickness he’d always known, as familiar to him as his own heartbeat, his own thoughts. It was sick, the lengths he would go, just to have a small portion of it, so he could pretend he knew what it would be like. He could point out every scar on Dean's body, he could tell you where he got them and how, could pick out the ones he patched himself. Could tell you how Dean's heartbeat feels as it moves through his body, along his veins. He could tell you the maps pink-silver of his skin, the ones that healed fine and smooth, the ones that left thick bands of skin where a knife or bullet or claw had gotten him. He knew—he knew him, better than a brother should. Better than anyone ever has.
panagia rating: teen + up | word count: 2073 | mary, sam/dean, mary/john | season 12, mary pov
There is space between them now, but not enough, she’s sure, because they are brothers and they are hers. They came from her and this, this she still cannot relent. That they are a part of her. They had ever been so small, so fragile, all hers. It’s a kind of space that exists nervously, not without an unwillingness, a clung to distance. She can see it, in Sam’s remaining hand on Dean, two fingers looped loosely his wrist, something so appallingly tender and considerate about it, a horrible shame that sweeps up the back of her neck and across her face, and Dean’s mouth falls open and he steps as if he wants to reach out to her, his cheeks flushed and pink—and his pink darkened mouth and he had fit, once, into the cradle of her arms and she had kissed those pink cheeks and that small pink mouth countless times and she could not do this now, cannot even think of it now, and Dean takes another step to her and Sam stays where he is but his hand does not move from his brother.
lovers busy talking rating: mature | word count: 6648 | sam/dean, sam/dean/oc | outsider pov, early series
You'd seen them first, disappearing in and out of shadows cast by the stained glass pendant light over the pool table in the back corner of the bar, looking relaxed and agreeable, laughing easily, talking loud, leaning on their pool cues, beer bottles dangling from longer fingers, stack of cash held under an empty on the rails.
It was Sam who met your gaze first.
You liked how they moved around each other, giving the other room to move past when they were lining up for a shot, passing a bottle or cube of chalk without looking, still keeping close, swaying back to make space, rocking up on their heels, never drifting that far apart.
wretched creation rating: mature | word count: 5065 | pre-wincest | pre-series
It had been a year of Sam's bony arms filling out, legs stretching past the cuffs of his jeans, still somehow fitting himself alongside the length of Dean's body, long fingers catching in the hem of his shirt, at the arm of his sleeve—stay close to your brother, Sammy, an old refrain, well-used, mocked under the breath of the two boys who follow in the Winchester wake. His strange teen-boy smell: milky, newborn-sweet like Dean remembers with a burrowing ache around his heart. The deodorant they share and his clean simple sweat, Dean so aware of it that it made his skin burn on his palms, burn at his ears, at the back of his knees, and he let's Sam take up too much space around him because of it, to feel that thrum under his veins when Sam threw a careless leg over his knee, like he's never going to outgrow it, needing to find a part of Dean's to be attached to. Sam started shaving, face spotted with nicked flesh, pinprick scabs on the jawline, torn pieces of toilet paper to blot the blood. He showers too long, his legs bounce in the back of the car, angular and weedy, protruded knees pushing into the front seat of the Impala, right at Dean's back. Dean, reaching behind him sightlessly, getting Sam by the knee, pressure point with his middle finger and thumb to squeeze hard until Sam yelps, his hands (bigger than Dean's now and that made his spit thick, bitter) a vice grip around his wrist, nails at his pulse. Wonders if Sam ever notices it kick up under his touch.
last stop rating: teen + up | word count: 3905 | sam/dean | post-finale, established relationship
Time moves differently up here. They’d been in that car for too long but the sun never quite made it down the skyline, no stiff and achy legs cramped up in the footwells, the radio played every song he ever loved, the gas tank stayed at full. Sam with his head tipped back, resting in Dean’s open palm, smiling over at him, all brilliant love, as real as he’s ever been, all of him some kind of spectacular, a great type of remarkable that takes Dean's breath from him, even now I missed this, Dean.
He had wanted to ask, right then, if Sam had taken her out for a drive, before. He wanted to know if she met the blacktop and open air a few more times. He wants to give him shit for it, tell him he always drove like an asshole with her. He wants to know she was taken care of. He wants to know it was Sam who did it. He wants to know that someone took care of him. He doesn’t, leaves the moment as is. Smiles back at his brother, threads his fingers up through his hair, thumb at the soft give behind his ear, looking back to the open road.
dean/john
and up from the graves rating: mature | word count: 2882 | pre-series
He’s looking right at you, been waiting for you, bare pale feet moving over the matted carpet. You drag your hand down your face, scratch of your days old stubble on your palm waking you up, leaving you uneasy. You hear him suck in the air through his teeth, see his toes curl up against the floor. The back of his hands are covered in faint milky-pale scars, and you see his skinny ankles, his slender unselfish body giving itself up to you and it all comes back to you, the rise and fall of him beneath your spread wide hand, your fingers slotted to the valley of his ribs, the darkened freckles scattered in contrast to your own pale skin, it comes back to you, the soft, hungry sounds pulled from him by your mouth, your hands at his waist and he’d ask you, he’d ask you so nice and sweet, thin thread of voice begging, please please, Dad, you gotta, please, and he’s so good to you, you’re so good to him right back.
route 87, nye rating: teen + up | word count: 871 | pre-series
Dad parked us at the end of the line, kind of covered by trees, and he kept the car running and I looked at him, one of my hands still on the dash, and he looked at me for just a second and he took my other hand and he held it and my heart was going so fast I could taste it and I was afraid he’d hear it, that it would make him aware of what he was doing, that he’d stop. But he didn’t hear it and he didn’t stop and he held my hand, his fingers flat against my palm, and he said, hey, look, and I did and I could see figures moving in the field, flat black shadows, and I looked at the dash and it was a minute from midnight and I realized. Outside the car, someone started counting and others joined in. He didn’t look at me again; he was watching the field, the people moving around, the sky.
