#dean in hell

[yeahsoapy]

Cool date spot rhymes with bell

[szlez]

Poking and Proding

My first contribution to @halfwaytohalloweenchallenge . I have no idea how did I miss on that and found the challenge after it started 😬

But trying to do my best

Here’re Dean and Alastair in Hell for the first prompt eye trauma.

Other prompts 2. Underground, 3. Lost in the Woods, 6. Eldritch Horror

[theboykingsmichaelsword]

i don't have many fandom pet peeves because if i don't like it i scroll away and try not to think about it but regarding the spn fandom in particular, people downplaying dean's hell trauma will never fail to grind my gears

[weanwinwhester]

cas kissed dean when he met him in hell. oh really you don’t think so? explain that funky ass hand placement then. and dean doesn’t remember anything about getting pulled out and cas has loved him this entire time.

[roonyxx]

Firefly Masterlist

By @roonyxx​ and @jay-and-dean​

Pairings : future Dean x reader

Summary :  40 years in Hell, but he didn’t spend all this time all alone, he had her.

Prepare to know what happened during those years Dean never talks about. To immerge yourself in Hell, only lit by the mysterious kid growing here…

And to see some of your favorite villains again : Crowley, Lilith, Lucifer… And also Sammy and Jack…

Serie Warnings : Hurt!Dean, Hell (torture, even if we tried to not give it graphic descriptions, creepy demons, blood, violence), swearing, angst, future fluff and smut.

Note : This is a collaboration beetween both of us. We can’t both edit the same post, so we decided we would post 1 chapter/2 each.

We both worked as much on this story and it’s the result of both our brains but also both our hearts.

Please, if you want to show love for this story, don’t forget we were together in this.

Chapter 1: Five years old

Chapter 2: Seven years old

Chapter 3: Nine and twelve years old

Chapter 4: Fifteen years old

Chapter 5: Eighteen years old

Chapter 6: Eighteen years old: the dawn of Firefly

Chapter 7: Eighteen and twenty - eight years old

Chapter 8:  Twenty- eight years old

Chapter 9: Twenty-eight years old, Come what may.

Chapter 10: Knocking on Heaven’s Door

Want to read more:

Jay’s Masterlist

Roonyxx Masterlist

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Firefly Tags: @waywardsistersandpie​ @jessica-marsh09​​ @teller258316​ @busy-bee-angel-misska​ @theatrechic26​ @lovelyrocker​ @couldabeenamermaid​ @kitkatherine2001​ @captainpinapplesbloguniverse

[missroserose]

Whumptober Day 10: Whipping

The bullwhip lands with a thud on the bound figure’s back, limp cord dangling from Dean’s hand.  He pauses, rolling his shoulder; his arm’s beginning to get pins and needles, repetition and strain taking their toll.   Distantly, he wonders (as he often has cause) why it is that here, of all places, he seems so bound by physicality—shouldn’t souls in Hell be more soul-like?  Unconstrained by physical bodies?  Sure, they wake up each morning whole and uninjured and ready to be picked apart once more, but if anything, Hell seems to trap them there, denying them even the sweet relief of unconsciousness until the day is done.

He swings again, the heavy whip hssssssing through the air before landing again.  CRACK-thud.  The figure cries out, but it’s hardly noticeable—after years on both sides of the rack, even the loudest and most dramatic pleas blend into the background.  Dean half-glances at the figure, wondering if it’s somebody he once knew.  It’s a hobby he indulges sometimes, something to pass the long hours—imagining if they crossed paths somewhere in life, all unknowing how intimately bound in blood they would be, here and now.

At least he knows there’s no chance he’ll encounter his father—

“Ahh, the bullwhip.  One of the more deceptive of our instruments.”  Alastair’s sinuous voice trickles ice water down Dean’s spine.  He doesn’t look up, doesn’t give the demon the satisfaction of seeing him startle, doesn’t hold half a hope that the demon doesn’t know it anyway.  “It’s so large, so blatant, so obviously nasty.  Surely it must take all your strength to wield properly.”

Dean forces his teeth apart from where they’re grinding together.  “I’m strong enough,”  he says, matter-of-fact—he’s not going back on the rack today, he’s not, he can learn this—

“Of course you are,” Alastair says, easy agreement sliding like grease into Dean’s gut.  “It’s simply a matter of…subtlety.”  Dean’s vision wavers for a moment—he fights the panic, it never does him any good—his spine tingles, his limbs are no longer his, Alastair’s consciousness sliding into them—breathe, breathe, except even his breath isn’t his anymore—Alastair’s taken control, as easily as a child puppeting a rag doll.  Dean can only watch, listen to the voice as invades his mind.  Allow me to demonstrate.

It’s not like watching somebody else do it.  Each muscle that moves through the complex compound movement is his—his tricep contracting, his wrist flicking, his fingers keeping steady pressure along the braided leather handle.  It’s his arm that’s responsible, as the bullwhip traces a graceful arc—slow-motion, almost, tiny tip moving at supersonic speed, caressing the supplicant’s skin with careful application of concentrated energy—

—then Dean’s vision is back to normal, his fingers flexing under his own command, the figure on the rack crying out loud enough to be noticeable even over the background din.

You see, it’s not just strength.  Alastair slithers out, handing the rest of his body back as casually as a groom handing the reins to a coach driver.  “Power is important, but what makes it useful is concentration,” he continues.  “Application.  Control.”  A hand falls, paternalistic and ghastly, on Dean’s shoulder.  “Let’s see you try it again.”

Control.  Control.  Control.  Dean takes a moment, breathing deep once more, and envisions where he wants the bullwhip to land.  Sees the tip float above the skin in slow motion once more, feels the flesh part delicately beneath its caress.

Alastair leans in, voice so low Dean almost thinks it’s in his head again.  “I know you can do it, son.”

The whip cracks perfectly, and for a moment, Dean can’t tell if the answering scream is the supplicant’s, or his own.

[the-good-the-bad-the-old]

I just love the order of pics in my gallery

[the-couch-potato]

The way Dean hugged Cas in purgatory BOTH TIMES haunts me!

both so different yet both so desperate🥺