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I'm sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth, but you can call me "sorry" or "H".
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⏠SUN BLEACHED FLIES
Sam x reader x Dean. Childhood friends to lovers, polyamory, (eventual) pregnancy.
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Watched the Heartstopper movie btw. SO glad they decided to take the focus off all the diverse, secondary characters and REALLY focused exclusively on the two cis white dudes for 110 minutes. Fuck those NB and black lesbians and trans women (unless she can give a heartfelt speech about how maybe you should give a shit about trans people). Imogen's a lesbian too btw, don't worry about how she figured that out. None of the other trans characters from season 3 showed up again. Asexual write book.
- the idea that sam is mainly uncomfortable or awkward w lap dances or being in strip clubs in general but maybe once he has an est relationship
he gets a lap dance from his partner and is able to be comfortable and actually enjoy it,
just the thought of him being nervous and flustered but also kinda excited idk aaah hes so cute
Hello! I just wanted to let you know, lovely anon, that I started working on this! đ€ Making slow progress but it's all plotted out (however, it's become smutty and uh, friends with benefit, and uhh, yeah).
QUESTION: I never know how soon to reply to an ask that I want to write. Like this lovely idea came in December of last year, and I feel bad about just leaving it and others I'm interested in in my inbox for that long. However, saying "hey I'm interested in writing this, thanks!" and then not knowing how long it will take me to get to writing/posting (if I ever do) also feels kinda mean? So, I don't know. What do you guys prefer?
ring ring hello this is request request who uhh I don't know how to finish this joke
Answer request asks as soon as I know I'm interested in writing them (1)
Answer request asks when I'm well along in writing/close to posting (2)
Remaining time: 1 day 19 hours
(1) no guarantees as to when/if I'll get to it
(2) even if it takes months and months
Summary When Mrs. Ellen Harvelle receives a letter from the daughter she believed dead, she makes her way to Kansas. Takes place after Blackbird and contains spoilers for the main story.
CWs Loss of a loved one. Mentioned sexual abuse by a family member. Mentioned forced prostitution. Reunions. Murder and revenge.
2.2k words
On an afternoon in February, Ellen Harvelle receives a letter from the daughter she believed dead.
She almost throws it out. There is no return address, and the envelope looks worse for wear than she is used to. The letters Mrs. Harvelle receives are usually written on the prettiest, bleached paper.Â
The reason she is not surprised to receive a letter addressed to her personally, rather than her husband, who is in the next room, snoring while taking his second nap of the day, is because Ellen Harvelle is a business woman of the highest order. She inherited her familyâs business - freight - and with no brothers to take it on, she applied her own skills after her daughterâs birth and her husbandâs sickness that made him too poorly to work. She has amassed a considerable fortune since, evident by the fine rooms she and her husband occupy here in Chicago. She is an attractive, strong woman. People greet her by name in the street. They move to the side. They respect her. She dines in the finest establishments, wears the finest gowns. Men treat her as their equal, even if she does not â she treats them as her lessers.
Still, Ellen Harvelleâs heart is heavy.
Jo was the prettiest baby, golden curls and a smile to light up the world. Mrs. Harvelle doted on her like no mother had ever doted on her daughter. As she grew older, she developed a mind of her own, often leading to arguments between mother and daughter, but the truth is, Ellen couldnât have been any more proud. She would have hated having a daughter who was nice and quiet and always did as she asked.
Which is why when Jo ran away at sixteen, Ellen might as well have died. One day, the girl was there, and the next she wasnât, and it was as if someone had ripped her heart clean from her chest.
Efforts were made, of course, to find Jo, both by the law and people Mrs. Harvelle hired privately. But no one could find her little girl. None of her money, her strength of character and her loud, deep voice could bring her daughter back to her.
Ellen Harvelle kept living, but she was not alive. Her husband encouraged her to accept that the girl was gone, so Ellen continued paying people to look for her, only stopped telling Mr. Harvelle about it. But to no avail.
So here she sits, opening a letter with no return address, her name written on the envelope in a small and fine hand. It reads as follows:
Dear mother,
I do not know if you ever made an attempt to look for me, or if you have forgotten me at this point, but it is I, your daughter Jo, that is writing to you.
Before you continue reading, I need to ask you to not show this letter to Father. I cannot tell you now why, I only need you to trust me.
I am struggling to decide where to begin - what to tell you about first, not knowing what your turn of thought towards me is, or even if you are alive. Itâs been years since we have last seen each other, and the thought that I have waited all this time to contact you, only for something to have happened to you in the meantime⊠Mother, I cannot think it.
I realize you must not be sure that I am even who I claim to be. I could be someone pretending, someone trying to fool you for money or simply because some people enjoy playing with the lives of others.Â
Do you remember that day we went to that small park not far from where we lived? It must have been mere days before I left Chicago. It was a cold day, and I was telling you about some boy I thought was pretty and my dreams of marrying him and being his wife. Mother, can you believe I do not remember his name now? I would tell you, to further prove that I am who I claim to be, but I do not remember. It seemed like the most important name in the world that day. Now I cannot even recall his face.
You had brought some apples to the park. We sat on a bench, our noses going red from the cold. You had listened to me going on about that boy, then turned to me. And I remember your words exactly:
âJoanna,â you said. âI know a young, spirited girl like you will never listen to what her mother has to say. But there is one thing I need you to follow, no matter what: never, ever marry a pretty man.â
Ellen Harvelle does not tell her husband about the letter. She claims to need to travel to see an old friend who is sick. Jo, or the person pretending theyâre Jo, has given their address at the bottom of the letter.
Mrs. Harvelle travels with an entourage of two hired men. They are intimidating looking creatures. Even in the business of freight, she has not always gotten along without needing to make her point through more forceful measures. The two men are loyal, and handsomely paid. If someone is pretending to be her daughter, they will see that that person gets their rightful reward.
The Kansas countryside is flat and wide. The address Mrs. Harvelle was given is a farm. Newly built, beautiful. Cattle grazing nearby, and they raise their dumb heads as she passes. She gazes out of her carriage, studies the view. She feels like her heart is in her throat. She feels like sheâs going to scream, thatâs how terrified she is that this isnât real. Or that it is.
The carriage slows when they reach the main house. The last few miles have been bumpy along the narrow country road. They stop, one of the horses neighing. Mrs. Harvelle continues looking out the small window. There is light on in the house, and then the front door opens.
A man steps outside, vest and trousers over long johns, a shotgun under his arm. He walks towards the carriage. Nods his head.
âHelp you?â he says in a deep voice. Mrs. Harvelle could let the men do the talking for her, but that is not her style.
She opens the door, steps out, elegant despite her skirts. The man looks at her, eyes narrowed. Heâs handsome, pretty even. Short hair and stubble and an adventurous tilt to his jaw She walks a few steps towards him.
âI was given this address,â she says, voice loud and clear, or as loud and clear as she can manage with the painful way her heart is thudding. âI was told my daughter lives here. Joanna Beth Harvelle. Do you know her?â
The man blinks, lets his shoulders sink a little. Doesnât say anything, but he doesnât have to. Thereâs movement by the door. Mrs. Harvelle is almost certain the men behind her have their own guns at the ready. Theyâre good like that.
The woman who steps out of the house is a ghost. Mrs. Harvelle knows her, but she also knows she is dead, gone, lost somewhere to the great world out there, victim to a million horrible fates, each one of which she has imagined in great detail. So it canât be her Jo, despite the fact that she looks like her, long, golden hair half pinned up, wearing a simple cotton blouse and skirt. The way she walks isnât like her Jo, much more careful, more cautious. Her Jo skipped everywhere, never able to slow, always rushing out into the world.
âMama?â the ghost says, and a violent sob breaks from Ellenâs throat. Then the two of them are running towards each other.
Ellenâs traveling hat goes flying but she couldnât care less. She opens her arms, and her Jo runs into them, and then both of them are collapsing onto the dusty ground, holding each other close close close.
They invite her in. Ellen and Jo do not let go of each other, not for a moment.Â
The inhabitants of the house are as follows: three men, one of them old, the other two younger, brothers. The one with the shotgun is Joâs husband, Dean. So she did marry a pretty man after all. There is another woman, the wife of the other brother, who Jo grabs by the hand, pulls close to introduce her.
There are also two children, a little girl and a baby that could not be older than a few months. Those are Joâs children, Ellenâs grandchildren. She looks at them, her lips trembling. She needs to hold on to Jo. It is all too much.
The other woman offers her tea, but Ellen asks for something stronger. She smiles, nods, and gets out a bottle of whiskey. Jo laughs while tears stream down her face as she watches her mother shoot back her drink.
The others leave them, taking the children with them to give mother and daughter some privacy. They sit, hands intertwined. Ellen only looks at her daughter. Keeps shaking her head.
A ghost, but her ghost.
Eventually, she needs to ask. Needs to know what happened to Jo, where she went. Joâs face darkens. Ellen is well aware that it will be a sad story. She steels herself for it, holds her daughterâs hands. Nods.
And Jo tells her. Tells her how her father, Ellenâs husband, had been taking advantage of his daughter for some time, how he would tell her to keep quiet about it, that her mother would hate her and be jealous if she knew. A whimpering sound escapes Ellen. She cannot help it. She holds Joâs hands harder. How Jo, growing older, began threatening to tell her mother. How her father responded by taking her away. Took her to a man and sold her to him. A man that was looking for girls for a brothel in New York.
Ellen lowers her head. With the way Jo disappeared, there have been many moments of utter desperation in her life, moments when she has been filled with such grief she thought it would plain stop her heart on the spot. But she never gave up on believing her daughter was alive somewhere. Now that she is here, next to her, holding her hands, she can finally grieve for her.
Jo tells her more. About how she went to a frontier town to work there, and how she met her husband there. How he married her and they came here. She looks up at Joâs precious face, both of their cheeks wet with tears.Â
âI always knew,â Ellen says, her voice shaking. âAlways knew you were out there, my little bird.â
They hug for a long while, cry some more. Eventually the children call for Jo. They come back in, and Ellen meets them properly. Holds her grandson in her arms, her granddaughter on her lap. Talks to her son-in-law, his brother, the brotherâs wife. The old guy, who is charming and rough in a way that reminds Ellen of her own father.
She stays for a week. Spends time with them. Sees that her daughter has a family, and love and goodness around her. She holds her often. Business requires her to return to Chicago soon, but they promise to keep writing letters, and that Ellen will visit.
She travels back. Sits so that she can watch the farm disappear in the distance. Her hand is clasped over her heart. She allows herself more tears until the farm is out of sight. Then she straightens her back, nods to herself.
She arrives in Chicago on a rainy morning. She tells the two men to follow her into the foyer, wait for her there. Walks into the study, to her desk, the one she keeps locked with the key around her neck. When she finds what sheâs looking for, she walks into the living room.
Her husband is in his chair again. Smacks his lips when he wakes and blinks at her. Smiles a little.
âYouâre back, dear?â he asks, as Ellen crosses the distance to him. âHow wasââ
She never finds out what he meant to ask her. She brings up the revolver sheâs hiding behind her back, and shoots him between the eyes.Â
The two men are paid a handsome sum to get rid of his body. Ellen disposes of the revolver, of the dress which has blood spatter on it. The armchair is burned to ashes in an alleyway a day later. Once all that is done, she sits at her desk. Writes to Jo, telling her she arrived safe and sound. That her father, shockingly, has died of a heart condition in the time she was gone.
She stops, her pen hovering over the page. Puts it down, walks over to the bar, pours herself a glass. She taps her finger against it.Â
It takes a special kind of stupid to fuck with Ellen Harvelle.
Thank you for reading! âĄ
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I WISH I'D KNOWN YOU IN YOUR WILDER DAYS
CHAPTER 1: Between retirement and a hard place
CWs Post series. Canon-typical violence. Grumpy Dean.
6.6k words
AN I wanna give a big thank you to @kblognar who basically deserves co-writer credit for how much advice and help they gave on this. Thank you for being amazing, friend. â€ïž
Fic masterlist | Dean masterlist | Next chapter
Youâre halfway dead when Dean gets to you.
No, he needs to back up. Or this story doesnât make sense. Back way, way up.
Of course, heâs not thinking that way when he gets to you. When he kneels, picks you up. Your blood immediately staining the canvas of his jacket. Dark green becoming even darker. Not when your head lolls back.
He carries you over to the Impala, manages to lay you in the back. Slashes all over your body - your arm, your jaw, your thighs, your stomach, and thatâs the one that worries him most, cause your shirt is all red and wet around it.Â
Stupid kid, he thinks as he walks around the back of the car, gets the first aid kit out of the trunk, rushes back. Stupid, fucking kid. Getting yourself killed, and then getting yourself killed in his damn car. Heâs done this job for long enough. He doesnât need to see another dead young woman, feel the blood flow ebb, feel the breathing slow. Heâs had enough of that.Â
Funny. One might think heâs gotten soft.
Donât die, he thinks, as he rolls up your shirt, does his best to stop the bleeding there. Donât die in my car. Iâm retired.
You donât die. And Dean?Â
Well. Maybe he has gone soft.
Sam sits him down in the bunker library, all big frowns and pinched lips. Dean leans back, takes a deep breath.
âI think itâs time,â Sam says. âI think⊠I think Iâm done.â
Dean always knew this day was coming. From the day Sam told him he would go back to Stanford once they found their father, he knew, in a way, he couldnât run from this. Heâs vacillated between trying to push his little brother out of the life and guilt tripping him into staying in it. But this was always going to happen.Â
He nods through it. Utters understanding words even though it feels like someone is sawing off his head. Heâs not sure heâs totally convincing. Heâs never been good at keeping his disappointment and anger in, and Sam can read him like an open book, is so sensitive to it that it makes Dean feel disgusted with him sometimes. Guilty too, but then when doesnât he feel that.
If Sam notices the involuntary reproach in Deanâs demeanor and words, heâs deciding to ignore it. Heâs still endlessly apologetic, but he holds strong on changing his mind. Dean canât help but respect that a little. Must be Eileenâs good influence. Now that oneâs got a mind of her own. He likes that about her. Despite the fact that he hates anyone else having a say, he likes it.
And then Dean is faced with staying in the bunker by himself, or finding something else. He thinks about hanging it up too. Thinks about the women he could crawl back to. Lisa doesnât remember him, Cassie was too long ago. Amara, well, gone, just like so many of them.Â
Heâs driving, on a case he takes on on his own, when he sees the cabin. Kind of rustic, kind of fucked up. Big For Sale sign out front. A project, he thinks. Thatâs what he needs. He scoffs at himself the next second. He sounds old. Pushes the thought away. Goes to kill something.
But the thought of the cabin doesnât leave him. He drives back. Breaks in, takes the place in. Wall of phones, fridge with beer, couch, TV. A bed upstairs. He scratches at his jaw. Place needs some TLC, but heâs always loved tinkering.
He talks to Sam about it over dinner when he and Eileen invite him over. Dean sips his beer.
âArenât you gonna lose your mind, all alone out there?â Sam asks, scoffing. Dean purses his lips, mulls the thought over. Heâs got his car. Thereâs a small town nearby, but actually living there sounds much less attractive. He thinks of himself, sitting on that porch, nothing but the view, a cold one and absolute quiet. He likes it. He wants to like it.
He drops two big duffels on the dusty floor a month later. Looks around, nodding. He can always sell the place again, maybe even make some money out of it if he does some home improvement on it first.
Itâs quiet. So quiet. Heâs completely alone. He swallows, waits for the panic to hit, the fear, the terror.Â
It doesnât. So he gets to work.
Itâs nearly ten years later that heâs standing in the small kitche, pouring himself a fifth - sixth? He tends to lose count - cup of coffee, when one of his phones rings.Â
He turns as he takes a sip, then walks over. The age of phones hanging off the wall is over, but he has a station with a bunch of older cell phones attached to their charging cables. The one that rings is one off the far right. He picks it up, looks at the letters written on the tape on the back. Merle. He puts the cup down, answers.
âHowâs that wildcat looking?â he jokes, and Merle returns a three-pack-a-day chuckle.
âI swear,â he says, and Dean can hear voices in the background, low music. Maybe the sounds of a bar. âThis case is getting more and more queer by the second.â Dean sits down, the groan with which he does it something that suddenly showed up a few years ago.
âI donât think youâre supposed to say that anymore,â he answers, and Merle scoffs.Â
âIâm thinkinâ werewolf-leopard-hybrid,â he says. Dean leans forward, thumb running along the rim of his cup.
âMerle,â he says, âyou been drinkinâ again, brother?â
âWhatever,â Merle says, and Dean can basically see him wave him off. Heâs got a good fifteen years on Dean, but the theories he comes up with are those of a little kid. Ghost of a Indian chief that merged with the spirit of a general of the British Army. Elvis, but the one the aliens cloned. Werewolf-leopard-hybrid. Deanâs yet to see any of them proven right.
âNeed me to send anyone your way?â he asks, turning in the chair to look at the paper map heâs got pinned up on the wall, different colored tacks showing monster sightings, hunters and solved jobs. âI got Rhonda and Ronny down in Spearfish, but you know how long they take when theyâre fighting, might fare better with your werewolf-hybrid, butââ
âAh, youâre good, kid,â Merle answers. âConnected with this greenhorn been hanging around these parts. Sweet young thing.â Dean quiets, gaze dropping.Â
Thereâs two reasons for his reaction: the first is that heâs trying to figure out who the hell Merle is talking about. He knows every hunter in this state and most surrounding ones. Ainât no one qualifies as a sweet or young, though some of them he could see earning the nickname of thing. Maybe Merle is being sarcastic. Maybe heâs talking about a ugly old thing.
The second reason is that despite living a near monk-like existence for the past years, Dean Winchesterâs ears are always gonna twitch at the mention of a sweet young thing. He used to be much worse when he was younger. The only action heâs gotten in recent memory is that one hunter he helped out a while ago, the one who rode him in the back of his car, the one he heard had died a few months later, chomped on by a rugaru. Ate her own gun, and Dean felt a deep, sad ache at that. Thereâs Lola who tends bar in the dive down in the town, and on the rare occassions he wants company and drives down there, sheâs sometimes blown him or let him fuck her in the backroom. Sheâs a bit older than Dean, something maternal about her. He doesnât want to think about why that does it for him.
But no sweet young thing. Dean clears his throat, realizing heâs been quiet. He sniffs.
âYou got a name?â he asks. Just being precautious. Just doing his job.
Merle says your name, and Dean locks it away. Heâll ask around.
âAlright,â he says, âwell, let me know how it goes. And call me if you need anything, alright?âÂ
âWill do,â Merle says. âTake care. And Winchester?â
âMmh?â Dean says, taking another sip from his coffee.
âIf it is a werewolf-leopard,â Merle says, glee in his voice, âyou owe me a beer.â
Later that night, Deanâs on the couch, catching his four hours, when heâs woken by a phone ringing.Â
He sits up, swings his legs over the side. Groans at all the parts of him that hurt, kneads at his neck. Trods over to the table.
The small lamp he always leaves on gives the big room the downstairs consists of an eerie glow. He sees the phone thatâs lighting up. Second one from the right.Â
He grabs it, raises it to his ear. About to give whoever is on the other end a piece of his mind.
âDean!â he is immediately interrupted. âJesus fucking Christ, kid, you there?â
Itâs like someone snapping their finger and bringing Dean out of his trance. Heâs wide awake immediately.Â
âMerle,â he says, âtalk to me.âÂ
The old man sounds out of breath. Panting, actually, panicked, and Deanâs never, ever heard him like this.
âIt got the girl,â Merle says, and Dean narrows his eyes. âIt got her, I just fucking barely made it out. Weâre at the Denver steel mill, itâs fuckinâ--fuck, that thing is fast, fuckinâ-â
âMerle,â Dean interrupts him. âConcentrate. What is it?â
âI donât fuckinâ know,â Merle replies, half shout, half whine. âI donât know, Iâve never seen, Iâve never seenââ
Thatâs the last thing Dean hears, apart from a sudden screech that is so loud he needs to hold the phone away from his ear. Clattering, a scream. And then silence.
He sleeps in his jeans, so he doesnât need to waste time putting them on, throws on his jacket, grabs the emergency pack of weapons and first aid material he keeps near the front door, and then heâs in the car.
He knows the steel mill. Itâs an hour away, so if whatever got Merle is the kind that kills immediately, heâs a goner. However, thereâs enough freaks that like keeping their prey alive. Like playing with it, marinating in it. Taking small bites and nibbles.
The lights of the Impala illuminate the road ahead. Dean chews on his tongue, laser-focused.Â
He makes it to the steel mill just as dawn breaks. The world slowly waking. He parks, arms himself to the teeth - silver bullets and knives, in case Merle is at least half right. A machete. A few other things, carefully selected to cover a wide array of possibilities.Â
The air is cold and burns his nostrils. He sneaks around the outside, listens, watches. No signs of anything, so he enters the main building, half collapsed.
He smells Merle a long way off, and distantly he thinks he shouldnât quite stink this bad yet. Needs to crane his neck to look up, taking a step back so none of the blood dripping from the old hunterâs torn out guts drops on him.
âGoddamn it, Merle,â he mutters. Merle doesnât reply. His eyes remain ripped open. He stays dead, except for slightly swaying where he hangs.
Deanâs gonna have to come back, figure out how the fuck to get him down from there, and give him a hunterâs funeral. But right now, there is a monster to find. Another body to locate.
He walks outside again after searching the part of the mill thatâs still accessible. He really hopes whatever this thing is that it didnât drag you to some deep, hidden part of it. Worse chances of getting a good angle, or the element of surprise. Harder to drag a body out of there.
Heâs rounding a small outbuilding when he sees something in the grass. Draws his gun. He undoes the safety. Ready to put one right between the thingâs eyes.
He sees your shoes first, and lowers the gun, just a little. Sighs. Good that youâre out here, where he can get to you. Maybe he can build the pyre right there, drop Merle on it too once heâs killed the thing that killed you two. Plus who knows what information he can glean from the wounds on you, the way you died.Â
He also remembers the young part. Fuck. Another one gone.
He walks closer, gun still in his hand, mind still sharp to his surroundings. No birds singing, he notices, despite the early morning. Whatever is roaming this place must be bad.Â
He kneels down next to you, surveys your body. Youâre young alright, and Dean understands where Merle got the sweet part from too. Pretty, even. Slashed all over, and chest not moving, Dean notices, when his eyes rest there. Shouldnât think that way about dead bodies, but he considers it paying respect to you. If he died, again, he would want someone to think he was hot, too.
The sudden breath you take has even a seasoned hunter like Dean flinch, grab his gun a little tighter. Death rattle, maybe, except itâs way too much for that, thereâs movement behind your eyelids, and a twitch in your right hand.
Youâre alive. Barely.
Split-second decision. The monster can wait. If thereâs a chance you can make it out of this, he needs to take it, despite how low he actually thinks that chance is, what with all those big gashes over you, the amount of blood coming out of you. He pushes his gun into the waistband of his jeans, gets his arms under your knees and shoulders. Lifts you, one boot on the ground, then the other. Carries you towards the car.Â
Donât die, he thinks, as he drives the Impala back onto the road, the wound on your stomach haphazardly bandaged, trying to avoid the potholes so your innards donât get jangled around too much.
Donât die.
He carries you upstairs to the bedroom. He doesnât use it, and heâd rather have you bleeding out there on the bed than on the couch downstairs.Â
The first thing he does is press one of the silver knives to your palm. No sizzling, no screaming. He lays it on the bedside table, surveys you. Itâd be damn helpful if he knew to trust Merleâs assessment of whatever the two of you were hunting out there. He sighs, then gets the silver cuffs. One around your wrist, one around the bedframe. Just in case. Then he starts patching you up.
He cleans the wounds, assesses the damage. The one on your jaw is gonna leave a scar, despite how careful he is with it, and he hopes youâre not vain. He needs to cut open your jeans where theyâre tight over your legs to get at another one. Exhales through his nose as he does.Â
The one on your stomach is mean. Could really use some angel mojo, but all the angels he knows are dead. Maybe stitches. He sighs again, stands to wash his hands in the bathroom opposite the bedroom. Heâs had one knee on the bed, and the frame creaks under him.
Later, he realizes you must have been awake for a bit, waited for your moment. Heâs not sure when exactly you woke up, and how you hid it from him, and that is a miracle unto itself. Maybe heâs wrong, maybe this is when you actually wake up, but your hand goes to the silver knife he put on the bedside table so quickly, so directly, with such surefire aim, that he canât explain it any other way.Â
You shoot up, and immediately slash at him. Dean has no choice but to throw himself backwards. His hip meets the dresser, the mirror standing on top of it rattling in its frame, and he cusses at the pain. He blinks once, and then youâre on your knees, unable to get off the bed with your wrist still in the cuffs. Youâre holding the knife out towards him, teeth bared.
âWho the fuck are you?â you nearly scream. âWhat the fuck are you doing to me!?â He sees you tug your wrist inward, but the metal holds. He raises his hands, showing heâs unarmed, although his gun is nearby and youâre basically dead on your feet. Not like itâd be much of a fight.Â
âWoah, calm down,â he says. Your hand with the knife is shaking, whether from fear or adrenaline or pain, Deanâs not sure. âIâm trying to stitch you up, okay?â
You keep staring at him, eyes wide. Thereâs sweat on your face, in your hair, on your chest, and you tug at the cuffs again. Dean indicates in that direction without lowering his hands.
âSomething got you, okay?â he explains, voice low and clear. âJust a safety precaution while I figure out what it is and take care of your wounds.â And let you bleed all over my goddamn bedsheets, he thinks, but doesnât say.
You sway, and Dean wonders for a moment if youâll pass out. Lids going low, but you shake your head, bring yourself back. Tough, heâs got to give you that.Â
âWhatââ you say, your voice sounding weaker. Your hand with the knife in it briefly drops, before you raise it again. Dean sees you wince.
âMy name is Dean Winchester,â he says, looking intently at you. Because yeah, distantly he understands the horror of waking up tied to some dudeâs bed, covered in blood, in a place youâve never been. He works his jaw. Maybe he could have done better there. âIâm a friend of Merleâs, maybe he mentioned me. Iâm trying to help you, okay?â
He sees you swallow, the blood there that made your skin look wet and violent only a while ago now dried and flaking. He should have washed it off you, but it just wasnât his top priority.Â
âMerle,â you say, slurring a little, âwhere is he?â
Dean makes a split-second decision. What will make you feel more safe? Knowing Merle got ganked, or⊠See, he knows heâs safe to be around, but you donât. He raises his chin.
âHeâs out there hunting that thing down,â he says, forcing an encouraging smile onto his face. âHeâll be back soon. But someone needed to take care of your wounds.â
You keep looking at him. Your eyes look wild and fierce in contrast with the blood. Youâre still shaking, but it seems more controlled now.Â
âHe says he wants that leopard-werewolf-hybridâs head as a trophy,â Dean continues, now giving a one-sided grin. âI guess you know him well enough to understand why I didnât try to stop him.âÂ
And that seems to do the trick. You unclench your jaw, slacken your hold on the knife, but donât drop it. Blink a few times. Dean indicates for you to stay calm with his hands, then reaches one towards the bedside table. You tense, but when you see heâs going for a small key, you calm down again. He takes it between his thumb and index finger, holding it out for you to see, then tosses it your way. It lands on the bedding, somewhere close to your knee.Â
You keep the knife trained on him a second longer, then drop it, reach for the key, quickly, uncoordinated. Dean exhales slowly, lowers his hands, has half a mind to disarm you anyway, just for the sheer fucking annoyance and stress. But he doesnât. Your fingers fumble with the key and the cuffs, and you drop it once before managing to open them. You pick the knife up again immediately, but donât threaten him again. Instead, you crawl back on the bed, off the other side.
You straighten, and then immediately fold in half.
The way you cry out rattles Dean, the suddenness and pure fucking pain of it, and then heâs rushing around the bed. Heâs not quite enough of an idiot not to make sure to get his arm between the knife youâre still holding and any of his soft parts, but his hand goes to your shoulder, helping to hold you up.
Your eyes are squeezed shut and youâre breathing hard. He sees the way youâre holding your arm over the big gash on your stomach, not actually touching it, and thatâs probably a good thing. You take two sharp breaths through your nose before you force your eyes open.
You turn your head and look up at him. Dean looks into your eyes, then gives a small nod. You nod back, so he brings his arm around your back and helps you turn around.
You sink down on the bed slowly, still sucking in air. Your ass meets the mattress and Dean keeps his hands up in case you topple before finally taking a step back. Youâre grasping the edge of the mattress, skin taut over knuckles, knife still clasped. Dean drops his hand, fingertips brushing against something wet on his jeans. He looks down. Great, you bled on him some more. He sighs. Looks at you again, the way youâre staring down at the floor, still trying to control the pain.
âListen,â he says after a second, and squats down so he can catch your gaze. You look at him, briefly, then look away again. âI know this is fucked. But I really am trying to help you.â He sees your jaw move.
âIâm fine,â you say, and Dean sighs again.
âYou look like you did a stage show with the worst magician in the world,â he replies. When you look up and frown at him, he raises his eyebrows. âWhen they saw their assistant in half? Anywayââ He changes how he squats, taking some weight off his bad knee.Â
âYou can keep the knife,â he says, and you turn your head, look at where youâre still holding it. âBut I gotta patch up that wound on your stomachââÂ
âWhenâs Merle getting back?â you interrupt him. Dean swallows. Fuck, he thought he had more time to leave the lie. He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. If you freak out now and run, your chances arenât looking so great. If he can get the wound cleaned and stitched and then you run off, that might make the difference between life and death.
âIâm sure heâll be a while,â he says, âstill havenât figured out what that thing is. You can call him once Iâve patched you up.â Your hands tense again, but you nod slowly.
âOkay,â you say, voice quiet. Both of you donât speak for a moment. Your lids are low. Not a great sign.
âAlright,â he says, then nods at the bed. âLemme see to that wound now.â
Heâs sure you wonât let him, but then you move. Lean back, raise your legs, but drop them again with a whimper. Dean stands, takes a step closer, and you give him a defiant stare. He tilts his head to the side. Come on, he means for it to say. Stop with the tough guy act.Â
You groan, which could be a reply to the pain or to him, but allow Dean to help you lift your legs back onto the bed. Your boots are heavy, stained, and heâs gonna have to change the bedding at some point if you stick around.
Stick around. He doesnât know where he got that from.
You lie back, head meeting the pillow, let out a breath when you can finally relax your muscles. Dean straightens, walks around the bed. Grabs the supplies he has, lays them on the bedside table on the other side. He looks down at you, hands on his hips.
âIâm gonna go wash my hands,â he says, eyebrows high, eyes narrowed. âDonât fucking run, okay?â You look up at him, and rather than nod, you just look away. Dean sighs again. Itâll have to do.
He rolls up his sleeves as he walks towards the door. Leaves it open, crosses the tiny landing into the bathroom with the tub with the curtain in front of it that has seen better days. He pumps his hands full of soap, washes them, up to the wrists. The water is loud and sputters, but he keeps his ears open. Wonders if heâll hear you clomping down the stairs, all to get away from him. But he doesnât. Maybe youâre sneaking instead.
But no, youâre still there when he comes back. Heâs almost surprised, but he doesnât let that show. He sits down next to you on the bed, doesnât miss how you try to scoot further away from him, but only flinch at the movement. Seems youâre finally understanding that youâre out of commission.
âLift your shirt,â he says while he busies himself with threading the needle. When he looks at your face again, youâre looking at him like heâs insane. Dean rolls his eyes. âDonât flatter yourself.âÂ
You pinch your lips together, and Dean wonders if youâve actually managed to be offended at him asking you to lift your shirt and at the same time insulted at him not wanting to grope you, but then your hands go there, lift. Fingers brush over the shitty bandage he applied there earlier, when you were out, and he doesnât miss your blinking, the way you swallow. More dried blood flaking off your neck. He really should get you something you can wash yourself with.
âThis is gonna suck,â he says, reaching for the saline. Used to be heâd do this with whiskey, he and Sam holed up in some shitty motel room, but heâs well equipped here. Has to be. If the service goes out and he falls on his head, he canât afford mistakes. Sammyâs not here to scoop him up and pour liquor down his throat. Still, he feels almost nostalgic for the sting of it. The new pain that lays over the initial one like a scratchy blanket.
ââS fine,â you mutter, and your gaze moves to the ceiling, focused on it. Dean sees you ball your hands into fists. Maybe not your first rodeo.
He tries to be careful, but cleaning an open wound is not an enjoyable experience, and he has no illusions about making it one.
You manage to stay quiet for the most part, although he sees the way your eyelids flutter, blinking away tears. The tension in your body, the way you stop yourself from trying to get away from the pain. The chopped breathing. He would be cussing and cursing, but you seem intent on not even letting that effect show on you.
When heâs done with the cleaning, he picks up the needle. He finds he feels bad about the pain heâs about to inflict. He clears his throat, looks down at his hands. Then he raises them, the side of his palm skating the skin of your stomach.
âYou been hunting for long?â he says, pierces your skin on long. You suck in a hard breath, and your eyes go glassy. Dean clenches his jaw. He knows heâs doing this to help you, but in a case like this the brain canât differentiate between fixing and inflicting. And boy, does he know something about inflicting. Fuck, he used to be better at this. He really has gotten soft.
You donât answer, so Dean pierces skin again. A soft whimper comes from you, and a tear runs out of your eye, down the side of your face. Dean notices his chest feeling tight.Â
âDonât think Iâve heard your name around, andââ
âDude,â you interrupt him, voice chopped but loud. âI donât wanna talk right now, okay?âÂ
Deanâs hands still as he looks at your face again. Kinda bitchy for someone whose guts heâs basically just been in. He smacks his lips, looks at the wound again, narrows his eyes to focus.
âSuit yourself,â he says, pierces skin once more. You tense again. He keeps going.
The day has the quality of late afternoon by the time heâs finished, but then thatâs what winter feels like out here. He sighs, drops his hands. The stitches arenât pretty, but then this line of work isnât exactly a beauty contest. Thatâs what the bandages that go over it are for.
âIâll get you something to clean up,â he says as he stands, looks at your face for the first time in a while. You seem far away, lips slightly parted, but you blink when he addresses you, dislodging another tear. You sniff, raise your arm, unclenching your fist for the first time to wipe at it.
âYeah, thanks,â you say, voice cracking. Dean walks into the bathroom, washes his hands, happy to be out of that vulnerable moment. Give you a moment to collect yourself. He grabs some smaller towels, then puts a bigger one out in case you want to shower, even though he knows you probably wonât be in any condition to do that by yourself, and thatâs a future problem he really doesnât want to think about right now.
He walks downstairs, gets a bowl, fills it with warm water. Grabs a bottle of whiskey for good measure, then walks back upstairs, towels under his arm. He walks in, then remembers he maybe should have knocked, but itâs too late for that now.
Youâve managed to scoot up the bed, head resting a little higher, and thereâs a sheen of sweat on your forehead from the effort of it. You could have waited for him, have him help you, but Deanâs starting to realize thatâs not your style. He puts the stuff on the bedside table, then goes to the dresser.
âYou got your stuff anywhere?â he asks, back to you. âMotel, orâŠâ
âSundown Motel, yeah,â you say, voice sounding clearer. Dean nods, drags out a shirt of his. Youâll be drowning in his clothes, but your things are ruined, ripped and bloodied, so itâs not like thereâs another option.
âI can get them tomorrow,â he says, laying the shirt on top of the dresser. He turns, walks around the bed again. He wants to sit, but sitting on the bed feels like intruding on your space, so when he grabs the whiskey bottle and opens it, he does it standing.
âIs that to clean the wound?â you ask, nodding at the bottle. Dean chuckles, the sound surprising him, then shakes his head.
âNo,â he says, âfor internal application.â He takes a long swig, the burn feeling like it chases something from his brain. Then he holds the bottle out to you. You raise your eyebrows.
âAlcoholâs a blood thinner, you know?â you ask, and Dean has to work hard not to roll his eyes. He sways the bottle back and forth.
âYou donât want it?â he asks. You look at the bottle, then reach your arm out - carefully, so Dean leans forward, hands it to you. You raise it, take a swig too, making only a bit of a grimace when the liquor hits your tongue. You hold the bottle out to Dean again, and he takes it.
âSo,â he says. âWhat was that thing you were hunting?â
Your face is still tensed from the drink, but it slackens at the question. If Dean didnât know better, heâd think you look afraid.
âIâm not sure,â you say, shifting a little. âIt was⊠fast. I know that. Didnât get a good look, even while it was slicing me up.â Dean frowns, steps from one foot to the other. As if youâre reading his mind, you nod at the foot of the bed. He nods back, then sits, as far away from you as he can before handing the bottle back to you.
âSilver didnât work?â he asks. You scoff, shake your head.
âDidnât get a chance to try,â you say. Dean nods, watches as you drink again.
âDid it try to bite you?â he asks. What he means is: did it bite you? He didnât see any toothmarks, but then with how much blood there was on you, those are easy to miss. You shake your head, hand the bottle back to him.
âNo,â you answer. âI donât think it was out to feed. I think it was just trying to get rid of us. I think itâŠâ You stop, look down at your bloodied jeans. Dean tilts his head to the side.
âIt what?â he asks. He sees you chew at your lip, gaze pinned, like youâre replaying something in your head.
âIt⊠played with us, I think,â you say.Â
Dean feels that familiar prickle at the back of his neck. The one thatâs been put there by a lifetime of hunting the things that go bump in the night, and doesnât seem to want to go anywhere even though heâs not out in the field anymore.
âTell me,â he says. You look at him, and thereâs fear on your face. It makes you look younger, or maybe just as young as you actually are, less bluster. You raise your shoulders, steel yourself.
âWhen we got to the steel mill,â you start, âthere was this⊠stench. I mean, unlike anything Iâve ever smelled. Rot and decay. Something⊠dead, but like, times a million. And itâŠâ
You swallow, so Dean hands the bottle back to you. You hold it by the neck, but donât drink. Rest it on your leg.
âThe stench would go away, and then come back, go away again,â you say. You press your lips together, then focus on Dean. âLike it was circling us. Toying with us.â Dean raises his chin, looks at the wall over your head. While you drink again, he thinks about what the hell this thing could be.Â
âNo birds,â he mutters. Whatever was roaming that place was bad.Â
He expects you to ask him to elaborate, and when you donât, he lowers his gaze again, looks at you. You look less terrified, more sad. He shifts, which seems to break you out of it. You blink, then put the bottle on the bedside table, but donât look at him.
âMerleâs not coming back, is he?â you ask, voice low.
Deanâs entire body tenses. Itâs the feeling of being caught in a lie, the embarrassment of it. The anger at himself. He doesnât know enough about your and Merleâs relationship to know if there is something there that tipped you off, or if it was his lie. He needs to swallow before he can speak.
âNo, heâs not,â he says. You nod slowly.
âIs he dead?â you ask. Dean grinds his teeth. Goddamn it.
âHe is,â he answers. âAt the mill. That thing got him.â Strung him up like a Christmas ornament, he wants to add, because part of him is looking for comfort in sharing the horror he witnessed. But he knows you donât need that information.
He sees your face crumple, scrunch up, maybe to force back tears. You turn to the side, hands shaking in grief, or pain, at the movement, heâs not sure. All he knows is that youâre moving away from him, hiding your face against the pillow. Fuck. He messed this up royally.
For a few moments, heâs unsure about what to do. Should he comfort you? What the fuck is he gonna say? If you and Merle were close, which he didnât assume, cause Merle made it sound like he just met you, but if you were, this was the worst possible way for you to get the news. He raises his hand, runs it over the lower part of his face. Looks around. Your shoulders arenât shaking, but youâre not turning back to him. So he slowly stands.
âYou should get some rest,â he says, trying to stop his voice from dropping into fake joviality to make up for the tension heâs feeling. He nods at the bedside table even though you canât see it. âGet yourself cleaned up, and⊠and get some sleep.â He takes a step backwards, towards the door. Feels like he canât leave it at that, pity or shame or a weird cocktail of the two warring in him.
âIâm gonna leave the knife,â he says. âAnd Iâm⊠Iâm gonna put my car keys on the small table near the front door. Theyâre for the blue truck, not the Chevy. If you want to leave.â He clenches his jaw again. Youâd have to sneak past him on the couch downstairs, maybe terrified heâd wake and stop you.Â
âJust,â he says when he reaches the door, âjust leave my car somewhere I can find it, okay? And donât scratch it. I really mean it. Don't scratch it.â
You still donât react. Dean lets his head drop forward, shakes it. Then he walks out.
He sighs as he walks down the stairs, needing to duck his head at the bottom so he doesnât smash it against the part where the ceiling is too low - something that happened to him a lot when he first moved in all these years ago. When he reaches the bottom, he cusses under his breath. He left the whiskey upstairs.
He opens a second bottle - no skin off his back. Pours it into a glass, cause he thinks the line between drinking from the bottle and not drinking from the bottle, extenuating circumstances like he just had upstairs notwithstanding, is the line that lets him keep his sanity in this life. He wonders if youâre able to go to sleep, what with the trauma just inflicted on you and the wound. Should he have helped you wash? Get changed? Probably, but also, would that have freaked you out worse?
He realizes heâs standing in the middle of the room, rolling the glass in his hand. He sniffs, shakes his head. He needs to stop thinking. He downs the glass, then fills it again. Takes the truck keys from where they are on the table.
Dumb idea to offer the truck to you, though better than offering Baby. Maybe he should have offered to sleep in the car, so you could have the cabin to yourself? But thereâs no way for you to get away from this place. He imagines it, you in your ripped clothes, bloodied, panting, running, or limping, more likely, out into the dark, away from him, right into the arms of God knows who.Â
He sniffs again, walks to the table next to the door and puts the keys down. No, it was the right thing to do. If you do come downstairs, heâll wake from it anyway - small chance heâll catch any sleep. He can offer to drive you somewhere.
Dean plops down on the couch, rolls his shoulders. Thereâs some of your blood on his clothes, and he should probably change, but all his clothes are upstairs in the dresser, and heâs not about to walk in there again. Fuck it. Heâs slept in worse.Â
He drains the glass again, puts it on the floor before stretching out on the couch. Years of sleeping on it has given it a dip where his ass goes that he knows canât be good for his back, but at the same time, it feels like he fits somewhere. More nostalgic than he likes to be, but it is what it is.Â
He closes his eyes. If youâre still there in the morning, heâll drive you to your motel. You can make your way from there, if youâre up for it, and then he can go back to burn poor old Merle, and then life can go back to normal. Or as normal as it gets for him.
Sleep comes quickly, and that, in itself, is surprising.
Thank you for reading! âĄ
Want just my writing? Follow me at @yayitsmylastdayonearth.
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Iâm sorry itâs taken me forever, but can I just say up front that I love the premise youâve given him here. Not only THE LIFE HE FUCKING DESERVES, but ten years on from the episode that shall-not-be-named and clearly never happened. If he didnât own a bar THIS would be him, enjoying the tranquility of a cabin in the woods somewhere (minus the phones maybeâsomething something technologyâthatâre bound to get annoying some days). Still with his toes in the family business. Still sane because heâs being social in his own way, and can help other hunters in need if necessary. Itâs just so so good for him (Iâm sorry again, Sorry, Iâm rambling)
Letâs see if I can remember why I highlighted these bits to quote back to youuuu đ
Later that night, Deanâs on the couch, catching his four hours, when heâs woken by a phone ringing.Â
This is what Iâm talking about lol. And the poor guy. He doesnât have to save the world anymore and heâs still only getting his four hours? Might have something to do with sleeping on that couch with the *checks notes* - ahhhh yesâ
Years of sleeping on it has given it a dip where his ass goes that he knows canât be good for his back
You have a bed old man! What happened to your memory foam dreams? You couldâve brought that with you or god forbid bought a new one. You have a truck to transport these things now (love that heâs also concerned with the truck, but not as much as Baby). Seriously though, it makes sense if heâs by the phones. The man likes to suffer - possibly so he can whine about it lol
He smells Merle a long way off, and distantly he thinks he shouldnât quite stink this bad yet.
Oh dear. This line hit me deep in the gut. I donât want to imagine what it smelt like. And to try and save her from the image of it later on. Pure Dean. The worlds most humble, self-sacrificing and self-deprecating man right there
He stays dead, except for slightly swaying where he hangs.
RIP Merle
Later, he realizes you must have been awake for a bit, waited for your moment. Heâs not sure when exactly you woke up, and how you hid it from him, and that is a miracle unto itself. Maybe heâs wrong, maybe this is when you actually wake up, but your hand goes to the silver knife he put on the bedside table so quickly, so directly, with such surefire aim, that he canât explain it any other way.Â
I LOVE how feisty this reader is! No wonder heâs going to fall for her (aside from the fact he was intrigued by Merle calling her a young thing). But she can clearly hold her own, even when sheâs bleeding and all scratched up. Hold those tears. Refusing his help even to sit up.
Because yeah, distantly he understands the horror of waking up tied to some dudeâs bed
Iâm glad he realises how creepy this is. Thinking back to that season 13 episode with Kaia (not that i remember it all that well), but the amount of times heâs done some dodgy shit for the sake of what he sees is justified. I could see him potentially holding someone against their will because he wants to save them. Good boy for giving her the option with those keys and leaving her be
Heâs not quite enough of an idiot not to make sure to get his arm between the knife youâre still holding and any of his soft parts, but his hand goes to your shoulder, helping to hold you up.
Soft parts! Iâm shoving this in my brain to use it. Why the hell have I never thought of or can recall seeing this before! Fucking genius if you ask me. Be wary of your soft parts sir!
When they saw their assistant in half?
You know me. I just love the references he comes up with, whether from pop culture or general life, but this is also genius, my love. Comparing her wounds to a failed magicians trick⊠SoâŠsheâs stuck there for a while youâre saying? How terrible to be stuck with Dean đ
Stick around. He doesnât know where he got that from.
âDonât flatter yourself.âÂ
Dude you just had the little thought that she might stick around lol
The day has the quality of late afternoon by the time heâs finished, but then thatâs what winter feels like out here.
Bea-you-tiful line đ
What he means is: did it bite you?
Smart Man. They canât throw him out just yet. Unrelated butâ
Heâs just so clever đ
Ahhhhhh. What a brilliant start. This is going to be fun to see how this plays out. Will she try and leave when heâs not sleeping (love that he did fall asleep at the end there). Hereâs hoping she stays with him and heâs not so alone in his tranquility once they get to know each other. But I guess, even a bit of fun for him (and her) temporarily will be good for him â€ïž
Now, Beth, you don't ever have to apologize, ESPECIALLY not if you're sending me a gif like that. Look at those laugh lines. Truly old man Dean supreme! â€ïž Your feedback always is so lovely, thank you, my friend!
He doesnât have to save the world anymore and heâs still only getting his four hours?
LISTEN, did Dean survive the Great Rebar Incident of 2020 in this fic? Yes. Did he get out of the family business and move on and find something else to live for? Y... no, not really, but also kinda? I am fully convinced that Dean would not know what to do with the freedom of not needing to hunt, and in my thesis fic I will be showing that. đ
The man likes to suffer
And here we are already at the crux of it. đ There's a certain masochism about keeping up certain parts of his past life that I feel is very Dean. ALSO I genuinely think without all the God stuff, he is not able to sleep more. His sleep schedule is forever screwed, so he might as well sleep on the couch, and so the cycle continues. He's just one of those grumpy old men who do things just because they've always done 'em like that. đ
The worlds most humble, self-sacrificing and self-deprecating man right there
In MY fic? How dare you đ
but the amount of times heâs done some dodgy shit for the sake of what he sees is justified. I could see him potentially holding someone against their will because he wants to save them.
I MEAN lest we forge "When the levee breaks", he HAS held people "for their own good". But dare I say he wasn't acting entirely unreasonable here - not that it makes it less upsetting!
Be wary of your soft parts sir!
I love this! đ„Č Dean's soft parts are gonna get taken for a ride, I tells ya that! (penis joke)
Hereâs hoping she stays with him and heâs not so alone in his tranquility once they get to know each other.
Wellll, you'll just have to read and see! đ Thank you so much for reading, my dear, and I hope you enjoy the rest if you continue! â€ïžâ€ïžđ
Hello my dear! Damn, I thought nobody would notice. đ
I orphaned around 10 fics over on my AO3 the other day, (For those who don't know, orphaning a fic means it stays on the site, but it is no longer attributed to its original author, and also doesn't show up under that author's works) and deleted one work. The deleted one was an unfinished series that I might want to continue one day, so I might put it back up if I ever rewrite it.
Basically, without diving too deep into it, I get really, really anxious looking at my number of total works on AO3 (and here on Tumblr as well, my smut masterlists for Sam and Dean are like... nightmare fuel to međ). I've been posting fic for two years now, and I'm close to hitting 200 works, and seeing that makes me feel like... I don't even know how to describe it. Like most of it must be bad? If there's that much of it, it can't really be that good? I don't have that feeling when I look at individual fics, I love almost everything I post (or I wouldn't post it), but looking at the overall number just makes me feel bad. I can't really explain it.
For what it's worth, even if I end up wanting to get rid of more stuff, I will only orphan and not delete. So you can still find those fics, cause I know how much it sucks to have something you like disappear. I don't know, I was in kind of a self-destructive mood, so hopefully I won't regret the orphaning. But I've been thinking about it for a while, and even just with ten fics less I feel better looking at my AO3 accoun.
Tl;dr: I orphaned ~10 fics on AO3, you can still find and read them, nothing's changed here on Tumblr, I get anxious when I see high numbers apparently lol.
2003-5 Stanford era Samantha with her aaaabsolute bombshell of a girlfriend Jess Moore, theyâre so special to me oml
Speedpaint under the cut and the non show coloring version of them
I love samwena and saileen a lot but theres just something so gut wrenching about samjess dude, like they really were doomed from the start- god it blows
people say sam is ungrateful and had a great childhood but even the magical being posing as his imaginary friend was like girl iâm bored we should run away and go to social services
somehow 99% of the time it's @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery or @velvourne (and that amnesia one by @godmadeaterribleerror)
it's been almost 17 years but the "you don't think you deserve to be saved" line in 4x01 still makes my eye twitch. one line and the fandom has adopted this idea that dean thinks he'll never get redemption, meanwhile sam let the devil possess him and then threw himself into hell and STILL thought it wasn't enough to make up for his faults
I just wish there was a scene where Sam and Crowley are sitting down, and Sam with both elbows on his knees says "So... You don't have to call me dad-" and Crowley just loses his shit
CWs Explicit sexual content (penetrative sex, potentially getting caught, masturbation). A little bit of excessive drinking & hangovers Bad choices & communication. Tension. Forbidden/suppressed sexual and romantic feelings.
6.1k words
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It's only about two weeks until it feels like Sam has been there forever.
Eventually he can take his cast off, and you have to get used to him walking around the apartment at full height, not bent over from using his crutches. The time comes when he could go back to Stanford, take up his classes again, but he just winds up staying without any of you really talking about it. Eventually he talks to his advisor on the phone, and he says Sam could take the semester off, rather than quit completely, so Sam does that, asks if he can stay a little longer at your place. You see how happy it makes Dean and it makes you happy as well.Â
Sam and Dean slip into something you canât name. They move around each other as fluently and smoothly as they did when they were younger, but it seems even more strange because you expect that kind of behavior from children, but not from grown men. The way they talk sometimes makes you think they can read each otherâs minds. You watch them, fascinated, almost jealous.Â
But the longer Sam stays, the more you become a part of it too. The three of you go on a trip for a weekend, and while you could pay for a second room, you prefer to be frugal and donât. You lie in bed, Dean hugging you from behind, and Sam in the bed across from you. He happens to be rolled towards you when at some point in the night, youâre both woken by something. Dean is still fast asleep, but you and Sam find each otherâs eyes in the dark and smile. Then you both go back to sleep.Â
The days on the road change how you behave once youâre back home. You always made sure to be out of your pajamas and fully dressed when you left the bedroom, and Sam always woke up early to do the same as well as put away his bedding, but for some reason, after that trip, you donât do that anymore. On many mornings Sam and you have coffee together with him still lounging on the sofa, you in your sleeping clothes huddled close by.Â
One day in early fall, Sam and Dean visit you for your lunch break at the occult shop. They bring you food, sandwiches Dean has made, and itâs the sweetest thing in the world. Dean leans over the counter the register is on and you stand up on tiptoes and kiss him while Sam looks around.Â
âThis place is amazing,â he says, expression excited.Â
Thereâs a small park across the street with a few picnic tables and the three of you sit outside in the sun while you eat. The brothers are on the bench on one side and you almost sit on the opposite side, but then you realize itâs too far away, that you want to be closer. So you simply sit cross-legged on the tableâs surface. You bite into your sandwich, look down the street, the last rays of the year warming your face, Sam and Deanâs voices pleasantly buzzing in your ears.Â
Samâs talking about how he wants to find a job so he can pitch in with the rent, and while you tell him he doesnât have to, you also offer to ask your boss if they need anyone else at the shop. Sam grins.Â
âThat would be awesome,â he says, and Dean mutters: âDamn nerds,â under his breath. You bunch up your napkin and throw it at him.Â
Sam gets the job, and a few times a week you end up working the same shift. Samâs out front, with an apron that he makes you swear never to tell Dean about. You grin but the truth is, Sam looks absolutely adorable in it. Youâve started helping with the bookkeeping, and although thereâs a small office in the back, on slower days you sit out front with Sam, work from there while the two of you talk about anything and everything.Â
With three of you there to pitch in with the rent, you and Sam from your job in the shop, Dean from some hustling, you can quit your job at the bar. It gives you more time to spend with your boys.Â
Halloween comes, and somehow the three of you get it in your head that you want to be ready in case you get trick-or-treaters, so you buy a ridiculous amount of candy. One kid comes by, dressed as Dracula, and you give him so much of it that he's set for life. The three of you laugh, joke about your severe misjudgment of the trickâor-treat situation in your neighborhood, then plop down on the sofa, watch horror movies and eat candy until you feel sick.Â
You fall asleep at some point. You wake up, warm and comfortable, the soft light of the TV making the scene seem surreal, and Sam and Deanâs low voices making the air vibrate around you. Your head is on Deanâs lap, his splayed fingers resting gently on your arm, and your feet are on Samâs, the weight of his wrist on your ankle, and you can only guess that they wanted you to be comfortable when you fell asleep. You think about getting up, but then you donât. You simply close your eyes again and let the warmth take you.Â
Another road trip. This time Sam and you get your way and you go on a hike. Dean trudges after you, complaining and moaning the entire time. Samâs fit, and you donât want to admit how winded you get on a steep incline. He stands on a little outcrop that overlooks the valley beyond.
âCome here,â he says, reaching his hand down and you take it, let him help you drag you up. You need to stand close to him, can feel the way his chest rises and falls against your side. Look at the way the clouds gather over the display of nature in front of you.Â
You turn your head, look up at Sam. The way he watches is full, appreciative. Itâs only when he looks down at you that you realize youâve been staring. You quickly grin, turn to Dean whoâs just then catching up with you.
Youâre all exhausted when you get back to the motel, but there is something beautiful about it. Dean grabs beers for all of you, while Sam helps you take off your hiking boots. You groan and Sam chuckles before taking a bottle from Dean, who he switches places with for the second boot. He shrugs off his jacket, then reaches for his backpack. Blisters and bandaids, but an hour later, the three of you are getting drunk on the couch. Dean grabs a bottle of hard liquor from his bag, which you didnât know he had. He shrugs when he pours glasses for all three of you.
âYou guys get your hiking, I at least deserve a drink,â he says, making you laugh before you all cheers.
The next morning, you groan at your sore body and your pounding head when you wake up, and hear Samâs chuckle from the other bed.Â
âYeah,â he only says.Â
âWant me to distract you from the pain?â Dean quips next to you and you just have time to roll your eyes at him when his hand sneaks under your shirt, up your torso and to your breasts.Â
âDean!â you half squeal, half laugh.Â
âIâm sure Sammy doesnât mind,â Dean says, kissing your cheek, and Sam slaps his hands over his face, groans.Â
You push Deanâs hand away and get up, go to the bathroom, the two brothers laughing behind you. While youâre washing your hands, you wonder what would have happened if youâd asked Dean to keep going. You have a sudden image of yourself on that motel bed, Deanâs hand traveling down your body until itâs nestled between your legs, his lips on your neck, Sam only a few feet away, watching.Â
You clear your throat, turn off the water. Youâre just wound up, you think, because you and Dean havenât had a moment to yourself since you came on this trip. Thatâs it.Â
Christmas comes, and while you think youâre not gonna make it a big deal the same way you have the last few years, Dean gets it in his head that he wants to make it a special occasion. He buys a turkey the size of a house, and you and Sam laugh at him, but he just throws you a look that says: youâll see.Â
Since Dean doesnât want any help with cooking, you and Sam open a bottle of red wine. The foodâs taking longer than expected, so you drink a little more. You walk up to Dean, wrap your arms around him and raise the glass up to his mouth. He drinks, makes a face, so you pour him a whiskey instead.Â
The food is incredible, and you shake your head at Dean.Â
âWhere did you learn this?â you ask but Dean acts mysterious, wriggles his eyebrows. Maybe heâs a natural, or maybe itâs warming up all that canned food over the years, you donât know, but Dean leans over, kisses you.Â
âIâm just a helluva catch,â he says and you kiss him again with a grin.Â
âYou sure are,â you say. Dean runs his hand over your leg under the table, going high on your thigh, squeezing, and thick arousal explodes in you. You wish you could just drag him away now, fuck him fast and hard right there on the couch. You donât think too much about where Sam would go in the meantime, what he would do, because you donât think you should think about that.Â
You finish eating, have more wine, even start on a bottle of eggnog you bought in a rush of Christmas spirit. You sing some Christmas songs that none of you really know the words to. You sound like cats getting skinned.Â
Itâs late when Sam finally stumbles to the couch and you and Dean go to bed. Dean grabs you, and the two of you barely manage to get enough of your clothes off to get at each other.Â
Deanâs inside you what feels like a second later, your mouth wide open and high-pitched moans leaving you when he flips you over, gets on top of you. His hips piston against you and you are feeling that heady high, when you look over his shoulder and see that the bedroom door isnât fully closed.Â
âDean,â you say but he misunderstands you, thinks you want him closer, so he leans down, kisses you, gently compared to how hard he is fucking you.Â
âFucking love you so much,â Dean grunts into your mouth and all thoughts of the door disappear in a barrage of love, arousal and drink.Â
The next morning, you wake up, mouth dry and head pounding with the kind of hangover only red wine can give you. You groan, try to sit up.Â
The bedroom door is closed. Distantly, you remember something about it, but you canât quite put the pieces together. So you simply lie back down, wrap your arms and legs around Dean and go back to sleep.Â
For Deanâs birthday, you and Sam bake him a cake. You put frosting on it, try to draw something but it turns out so damn ugly that when you stick in the candles, light them and finally present the cake to Dean, the two of you are laughing so hard you have tears running down your faces.Â
The vibrations of goodness and happiness in you are so strong that you can hardly believe it. You look at Sam and Dean, watch them talk while Sam gets some plates, and something comes over you, something big and violent like a storm. It almost makes you dizzy. Itâs love, you realize, the feeling of things being right. A family, and Dean already said it, but it feels stronger now. You pretend the tears on your face are still from laughter, and then Dean blows out the candles, all in one go and all three of you clap and cheer.Â
Itâs a Sunday afternoon when Sam asks you about your family.
Dean knows that itâs a painful topic, which is why it doesnât really come up between you two. That and you havenât seen any of them in years and years. Youâre not sure if Sam is just less aware of the situation, or if heâs less afraid to touch the painful things.
Sam and you are reading, you sprawled across some pillows on the ground, while Sam is in the armchair you bought with your combined salaries when you decided you didnât want to always all be sitting next to each other on the couch like youâre roosting. Itâs Dean whoâs on the couch now, spread out and napping. Sam lowers his book, and then you can feel his eyes on you, maybe because youâve been watching him out of your periphery.
âHey, did your dad ever keep a journal about his hunting?â he asks, like itâs the most casual question in the world. You raise your head, then sit up, look at him.
âUhm, no,â you reply. âI mean, I donât know. I donât think so. Why do you ask?â Sam pulls the corners of his mouth down, shrugs.
âJust been wondering,â he says. âOur dad has one. I donât know if itâs a common thing.â You drop your chin, raise your eyebrows.
âYour dad⊠journals?â you ask, voice unbelieving. A broad smile comes over Samâs face before he looks down, grimaces.
âI donât think itâs that kind of journaling,â he says. He seems deep in thought for a second, then looks at you again. âIs there anything you remember about him? Your father, I mean?â
Itâs like someone unwrapping a bandage youâve worn for two and a half decades and finding you still bleeding and open underneath.
âUhm,â you say, surprised to feel your eyes misting up. You donât even know when the last time you talked about your father was. âNâno. No, I was pretty young when he died. KindaâŠâ Your eyes shoot up to Sam. His expression is gentle.
âKinda like you when your mother died,â you finish, eyes going to Dean. You know the way he tenses when you mention Mary, the way all the air seems to leave the room. But Deanâs snoring away, so you look back at Sam. He nods, slowly.
âDid your mother talk about him?â he asks. You press your lips together, then shake your head.
âYouâd think it was immaculate conception,â you say, and Sam gives a surprised huff.Â
âWas sheâŠâ he continues, then shifts around, like heâs trying to find the right words. âShe was sick, right? I remember Dean mentioning something like that.â You pull one leg in, angle it against your body.
âShe was,â you say. âAnd I left her.â Sam keeps watching you, raises his chin. You expect him to tell you not to blame yourself immediately, that you did what you had to do. Itâs what Dean usually does, the very few times the topic has come up - you donât point out that he would never say the same to his brother, although you canât deny the similarity between the situations. But Sam doesnât.
âDo you ever think about going back?â he asks. You blink, look down.
âI have this dream sometimes,â you answer instead, your voice a little hoarse. âIâm in the house we lived in, and Iâm trying to find her. I look in every room, and then I do find her, lying in her bed. Thatâs where she was the last time I saw her. But the blankets are tucked over her. I can see the outlines of her face through it. Kinda ghostly.â You take a quick, sharp breath, let it out slowly.
âBut when I pull back the covers, sheâs gone. And in the dream I know sheâs gone, not just out of the house. But really gone.â You look back at Sam, suddenly embarrassed about sharing this. His eyes are on the ground in front of you.
âWell,â he says, blinking a few times, âdream interpretation isnât really considered a serious scientific field anymore. So, I wouldnât read too much into it.â He looks at you again, face deadly serious. You open your mouth to reply, feeling confused.
A grin breaks over Samâs face and a second later you need to laugh too. You shake your head, watching him as he looks away, obviously proud of the fact that he managed to pull your leg. Managed to make this painful situation light again. You look down, still chuckling, pick up your book again.
Ignore how fast Samâs grin made your heart beat.
It's the closeness, you tell yourself. The fact that having Sam there, after all this time, feels in a way like bringing Dean even closer to you. It's your happiness at how well things are working. That's what it is.
The boys go out for a beer but you stay home, feigning tiredness. You lie in bed, your mind flying in a million directions.Â
You close your eyes, hands slowly running along your own body. You imagine Dean - it might be sappy, but you mostly do. Heâs almost exactly like he is in real life. A little easier to grasp. A little more settled. Heâs over you, in the dream, kissing you deeply and you roll your hips, imagining itâs him driving into you. Your hand slips into your underwear, warm and familiar.
Deanâs fucking you slow and deep, like youâre the most precious thing in the world. Your legs are high up on his sides and one of his hands is clamped over your thigh, holding you open.
âYouâre so fucking gorgeous,â he mutters, looking down at you, eyes full of reverence. âMy special, beautiful girl.â You moan, drag him down by the neck. In reality, you begin touching yourself.Â
Itâs only when Dean pushes himself up again, still driving into you, that you look to the side and see Sam is there as well.
His hair hangs into his face, covering his forehead. Heâs naked, but you canât see beyond his shoulders. Theyâre broad, the skin soft. Thereâs a beauty mark at the bottom of his neck that you want to kiss.
He leans in, and you donât have to look at Dean to feel his approval. He moves to the side, just enough, and Sam bends down. His lips, soft and pink, ghost over yours and then heâs kissing you, one hand, fingers long and strong, going up to hold your chin.
As your pleasure rises, theyâre both moving against you - the details of how that is possible are irrelevant to you. You just know that Dean is kissing your shoulder from behind, grabbing you hard, while Sam is in front of you, keeps kissing your mouth.
You come with a silent scream, neck stretched, grabbing the pillow under your head with your free hand.Â
When, hours later, you wake from low sounds in the living room and then again from the mattress dipping next to you when Dean climbs into bed, slings his arm around you to give you a kiss, you grab his arm. Hold it. Youâre more awake than youâre letting on when Dean follows your pull, brings his head close to yours.
His closeness makes you feel soft and warm. Heâs the man you love, have loved, for as long as you can remember. You cannot let whatever is happening in your head get between you.Â
So you open your eyes, look at him in the almost perfect dark of the room. Dean looks back, and when you donât say anything for a few seconds, a frown builds on his face. You can see from the slight sway of how heâs holding himself up that heâs at least a little drunk. It should maybe stop you from saying what you want to say, but it doesnât.
âWe should get married,â you say.Â
Dean doesnât react, just blinks, and then he huffs. He lets himself drop down so that heâs lying against your side. Chuckles a little.
âAlright,â he says, laying his arm over you, patting your side with his hand. âSure thing.â
Then he closes his eyes, and his breathing slows.
For a moment, you canât believe that this was his reply, and then you canât believe you said what you said.
You lie there, staring at the ceiling, for long after Dean starts gently snoring. Samâs soft movements in the next room.
You half hope Dean will forget what you said in the night. Instead what he does is ignore it. But from how he behaves, you can tell he definitely remembers.
He seems deep in thought whenever you look at him, like heâs far away. Burns the eggs in the morning, the room filling with smoke. You rip open the window, turn to see Dean shaking his head as he angrily stabs at the frying pan.
When you kiss him goodbye before you go to work, he stutters in the movement. You give him a long, lingering look, but heâs not meeting you.
Itâs awkward. Obviously, you brought this up for all the wrong reasons. But also. Also, this shouldnât be Deanâs reaction. Should it?
You take the bus to work, telling Dean that he doesnât need to drive you. On a different day, he might insist, tell you that his girlâs not taking public transport while heâs got a perfectly good car. Put his hand on your thigh while he drives one-handed. You lean against the big window, watch the rainy day outside pass you by.
That fear starts creeping in again. If you can ever really have Dean. You do have him, the reasonable part of your brain tells you. But itâs never enough. It never feels like enough. You roll your eyes at yourself. Open up the shop, pour yourself a big cup of coffee that burns your tongue when you drink it too quickly.
Sam comes in for the afternoon shift. Walks through the door, the bell above it announcing his arrival. Not like he needs it - your eyes fly to him immediately. The way he keeps his head low, the way his gaze sucks you in. You turn back to the customer you were wrapping up a tarot set and some candles for. Sam moves behind the counter, stands close to you.
âHey,â he says, quiet and breathless. You smile up at him, feeling heat shoot to your face at his closeness.
âHey,â you say back. He squeezes your arm and moves away, and you wish he wouldnât.
Itâs over a week later that you confront Dean about what you said, about the weird tension between you two. Heâs been sleeping rolled away from you. No kisses, or only quick, formal ones, no hands sneaking under your shirt every chance he gets. No hungry little looks that make you feel right and good and like you belong to him.
Samâs in the shower, so you walk up to Dean, sling your arms around his neck. He tenses under your touch, but you donât let that deter you.
âSo,â you say, bending your voice into forced casualness. âAbout you asking me to marry you the other nightâŠâ Dean pulls his head back, deep frown, eyes wide.
âWhat?â shoots out of him, and you grin. âMe asking you?â
âI donât think weâre quite there yet,â you continue. âWouldnât you agree?â Deanâs lips move while he tries to make sense of what youâre saying, but he gets it a second later, understands that, just like him, you have your ego to protect, and when he puts his hands on your hips, you could cry from happiness. You smile at him, rub your hand over his neck.
âDonât know that Iâm exactly husband material, darlinâ,â he says. Now itâs your turn to frown.
âItâs not that,â you say, ânot at all. Itâs just that itâs not a topic that should be breached when youâve partaken in some serious pain medication because you had a headache that made you want to blow your brains out.â Lies, all lies. But a small lie to fix something big. Because the truth is so much bigger. Too big for you even to repeat to yourself.
But it makes Dean chuckle. His fingers trace over your side.
âBesides,â he says, âif anything, a guy should be popping that question. Thatâs not your job.â You frown at him.
âHow charmingly chauvinistic," you say. Dean shrugs.
âIâm a romantic, sweetheart,â he says. You bite your lip, move your face closer to his, and Dean, your Dean, moves closer too. Meeting you halfway, which is all youâve ever wanted.
âI know you are,â you say, voice low, your chest now pressed against his. God, youâve missed touching him. Youâve missed being touched. Itâs like your skin has been screaming for it. âYouâre the biggest romantic I know.â Dean chuckles again, but this time it sounds like heâs not sure if he should be offended or not.Â
âThe Impala,â you say, raising your chin and Deanâs gaze drops to your lips, âthe leather jacket. Jethro Tull in a bar parking lot while you finger me.â Dean scoffs at the memory, then runs his hands over your back.Â
âThatâs romantic,â you say, nodding, ânostalgic even.âÂ
Dean shakes his head a little, then looks down at you. You can see his defenses break down. Part of you knows that you should talk about this more, but you donât want to. Youâre tired, anxious and you want nothing more than to bury yourself in Dean, fuck him until your head is beautifully and blissfully empty. You want to be reminded that you are loved.
âBesides,â you say, voice less flirty, and it gets his attention. âYou would get bored out of your mind being married to me. A house and kids and all that, it sounds nice in theory. But itâs not what you want.âÂ
Dean clenches his jaw, and youâre sure heâs about to defend himself, deny what youâre saying. Because a man should want these things, right?Â
âWell,â he says, then doesnât continue. You look deep into his eyes, trying to make sure he hears you.
âI donât want to wake up in ten years,â you say, voice clear and neutral so he can understand you even through his potentially bruised ego, âwith three kids and a mortgage and have you resent me because we did what you thought I wanted.âÂ
Dean studies your face. Youâre not sure if heâs buying what youâre selling - that youâve come to your senses, that this was all just a little hiccup, not a symptom of something much bigger. That you now need to swing into the other extreme to protect your relationship, but more than that, yourself. So you push yourself up on your toes, bring your face closer to his, your body automatically pressing closer against his.Â
âI want to live in sin,â you say, looking at his lips. âAnd I want you to be able to leave from one day to the next. Because that way I know you want to be here.â You look into his eyes again.Â
âAnd now,â you say, just to drive the point home and show how very done you are with this conversation, your hands running over his arms and shoulders, âI want you to fuck me to show me how much you love me.âÂ
Dean hesitates, just for a second. He has a certain picture of himself. No matter how much he has done little to achieve it, that small house with the pretty wife is still the ideal that lives in his heart, you think, no matter how much he might pretend itâs not. Letting go of it is like letting his mother die all over, like letting that house burn down again.Â
But you know what would happen if you ever tried to ask Dean to settle, really settle. Youâd rather have half of him for a long time than all of him only for a little bit. Or thatâs what you tell yourself. Thatâs what feels reasonable.Â
Because you too think of that house, of little footsteps, birthday parties, summers in the garden. Or you have been since you talked about it with Sam when he first moved in, when you cut his hair and he told you youâd be a good mother. But you know you canât keep Dean. Not like this. Because what if you turn out not to be the most important thing for him?Â
Luckily, just then, he kisses you and youâre able to shove the thought away. Dean drags you close, makes your head empty, empty, empty, the way he always manages. You get to lose yourself in him, in the pure physicality, no need for thinking.Â
No need for remembering the past, or imagining the future, which at the end of the day, is the same thing.
Itâs a few weeks later that the three of you get stuck in the Impala in a rain storm.Â
Youâre supposed to go out to a bar. You left the city this morning, another road trip, but spring has been unkind, and the heavens opened like they have a score to settle. Rather than hightail it into the bar, you have been sitting here, while it feels like the world is ending around you. Itâs strangely comfortable.
âTruth,â Dean says, turned around in the driverâs seat, the light of the street lamps outside shining through the rivulets of rain on the windows giving him a surreal look, âor dare?â
You press your lips together as you raise the flask Deanâs been passing around to pass the time. You take a sip, the metal cold against your lips despite the humid air in the car.
âIâll do dares all day,â you say, putting on a self-satisfied look. Dean raises his eyebrows, then looks at his brother on the bench seat next to him.
âHear that, Sammy?â he says. âThe girl wants to fight.â You huff.
âTry me, Winchester,â you say and both brothers chuckle.
âFine,â Dean says, looking at you again. âI dare you to kiss me.â
You roll your eyes and Sam gives a half laugh before he looks out the front of the car, out into the rain. You press yourself up, then lean forward over the bench. Dean meets you halfway with a one-sided grin on his face. You give him a sweet peck.
âGoddamn softy,â you mutter as you let yourself drop back against the leather bench. Dean gives you a wink heavy with double meaning, before looking at his brother.
âYour turn,â he says and Sam looks at him. He was still staring out into the night, but he quickly looks attentive.Â
âTruth or dare?â you ask. Sam turns his head to look at you, his face remaining neutral.
âUhm, truth,â he says, nodding slowly. You bring one hand to your chin, look up to think.
âWorst hangover youâve ever had,â you say and Sam chuckles, while Dean throws you a frown.
âBoring,â he mutters as he reaches over the bench to take the flask from you, and you use the opportunity to slap his shoulder.
âUhm, freshman year, for sure,â Sam answers, not letting his brother reaching over the bench again and pinching your leg distract him. You swat his hand away, then look at Sam, wanting to make sure he knows youâre listening. âBeer and vanilla flavored vodka.â You make a face, half disgust, half confession that youâve been there yourself.
âThat sounds rough,â you say, and Sam laughs.Â
âIt was,â he confirms, smiling at you and you smile back.
âDid you at least get laid?â Dean asks, just lowering the flask again. Sam gives an unbelieving expression, one where he is still kind of smiling but his eyebrows go low and his upper lip is pinched.
âI could barely stand, dude,â he replies and Dean raises his eyebrows.
âHe just needs to stand a little,â he replies and Sam groans while you lean forward once more, snatching the flask from Dean.
âYouâre cut off,â you say when he gives you a hurt look, âuntil you can come up with better jokes. Itâs your turn anyway.â Dean rolls his eyes, then looks back at Sam.
âTruth or dare?â Sam says, leaning in, a touch of theatrics in his voice. It makes you smile around the rim of the flask when you drink.Â
âDare, baby,â Dean says, scooting around. âAnd make it something fun.â
âGet out,â Sam says, âand run around the car once.â Dean makes a face.
âSomething fun, I said,â he complains.Â
âI think you got your instructions,â you cut in, taking another sip before passing the flask to Sam. He takes it but doesnât drink, a look of amusement on his face as he looks at Dean expectantly.
âUgh, fine,â Dean groans. He throws open the car door and basically jumps out. You hear him yell and shout as he runs around the car, and both you and Sam laugh. He climbs back in, the shoulders of his leather jacket dark and wet.
âYou two are goddamn kids,â he says as he closes the door again. âOkay, my turn. UhâŠâ
âI already told you,â you cut in. âDare.â Dean looks your way.
âOkay,â he says with a cheeky little grin. âI dare you to kiss Sam.â
You feel your heart shoot into your throat. You need to clear it before you even look at Sam. He looks shocked, but then he looks at you, his head slightly turning. You look at his lips. Imagine yourself leaning over the bench, kissing him. Fingers tracing his soft skin, his beauty marks, while Dean tells you what to do next. Imagine yourself...
âSure,â you say, and then you lean over, peck Sam on the cheek before he can even move, sit back again. Hoping to God and anyone else who will listen that you donât look the way you feel - heated, breathless, fidgety.Â
âOh, boo!â Dean says, looking between you two, at least until Sam turns his head, looks out the window again, and Deanâs grin broadens. âDude, are you blushing?â
âShut up,â Sam says, turning back, and itâs hard to say in the dark of the car, but it does look like Sam has a slight redness to his cheeks. He raises the flask, drinks, long and deep, coughs a little when he lowers it again. Dean reaches forward, takes it from him.
Dean watches Sam as he squirms under his brotherâs gaze, and for a second you canât read his expression. The blink of an eye later, he catches himself, is all Dean again. Your heart is beating fast and hard. You should say something, break the moment. You know Dean is about to say something, something he canât take back. You can almost see it coming.
But then he just raises the flask, drinks too. Turns his head and looks out the front. Itâs still coming down hard.
âWe should probably find a motel,â he says, and you canât see his face.
He closes the flask, drops it on the seat beside him. Turns the key.
All of you are quiet on the drive. Thereâs something in the air you canât name. Samâs avoiding your gaze like the plague.
The motel is all dark wood, log cabin decor. One room, and Dean tosses his bag down on the floor, looks around. You drop your bag too, standing too close to the door, and Sam needs to gently press past you. He turns his head, gives you a polite smile.Â
You stand there, watch them. Whatever happened in the car, whatever made Dean look like that, has disappeared, the air clean and fresh again. You canât tell if Sam is acting differently.
Dean collapses on the couch with a groan, arm going over the back while he turns on the TV with his other hand. He shifts around, then looks over at you. Motions you over with his head. You walk over to him, drop down next to him. His arm goes around you and he pulls you in, pressing a kiss to your temple. He pulls back, then gives you two more, quick ones. You canât help but chuckle. He looks at you for a second, like youâre the most special thing in the world. Like heâs never seen you before.
Then he turns back to the TV. Sam drops down next to you, holding his hand out. You look down. A mini bag of Skittles, crumpled from his bag. You take it with a smile at him, one that he returns.
You turn to the TV as well, slowly exhaling, both big, warm bodies pressed up close.
Next time on SUN BLEACHED FLIES:
âHope we werenât too loud last night, Sammy,â he says and you feel heat shoot to your face. You try to be quiet. Sometimes Sam blushes, shakes his head, but sometimes he only raises his eyebrows at his brother. You walk past him to the coffee machine.
âDean,â you say, grabbing the pot and turning around. âCan you be, I donât know, a little less of a weirdo?â But Dean grins at you, leans back in his chair, checking you out shamelessly.Â
âIâm just saying,â he replies, âa manâs gotta be proud of the work he does.â
Thank you for reading! âĄ
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