This is a fan artist appreciation post! I finally bought myself some beautiful art by @husbro and what I recieved surpassed my expectations. Look at this bounty, feast your eyes!
The piece of art you see below of Sam and Dean in silhouette, the pilot version layered with the finale's forehead touch, really reached out and grabbed me. Seeing it in person, in my hands, it immediately became one of my favourite pieces of art.
Am I in love with Sam and Dean's finale forehead touch? Maybe just a smidge! I wanted to gift myself with something tangible of that intense moment, one that caused such a flood of emotion. I knew I wanted the print you see just above, of Sam dipping down to touch foreheads with Dean, that moment he knew was going to be goodbye. Sam felt his brother's last breath. And that painting captured the intensity with use of colour and light.
Thank you @husbro for the extra stickers, too, I love everything so so much. I appreciate the passion you put into your art and the care put into these packages you send out to us. 🖤
in support of Black Lives Matter, @husbro donated $110, and requested ‘wincest, a/b/o.’ Thank you for donating!
to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)
First time Dean gets his heat when they’re working together again, Sam doesn’t--at first--have any idea what’s going on.
He’d been with a woman, for two years; before that, he didn’t really date anyone, girl or hal, at least not long enough to get to know their cycles. It’s not much of an excuse, with Dean, who got his first heat when Sam was eleven and followed pretty much the same pattern, twice a year, every year.
They’re in Florida, and it’s only March but it’s already getting hot there, humid and sticky and gross in the sun or shade. A ghost hunt just finished, and a decent collection of bruises between them, and they take a day off to stock up the car again, to regroup. The motel, at least, has working air conditioner, and Sam’s stripped to a t-shirt and boxers at the table, biting his nails and lazily looking for a case, and Dean--still hasn’t gotten out of bed. Ten in the morning, and yeah, maybe they don’t get the opportunity much to sleep in, but still. Sam squints at the lump in the bed. Throws the motel notepad somewhere near a rounded curve of hip, and says, “Seriously?”
A grunt. “I’m tired,” comes Dean’s voice, scratchy from below the pile of blankets. He doesn’t even know how Dean can stand the covers--even with the a/c set to 70, he can feel sweat gathering below his hairline. “Go away.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Are you sick or something?”
A shift, and the blanket tugs down enough for Dean to give him a look, his hair rumpled and his eyes bleary. “Or something,” he mutters, and fitfully pushes the blankets down to his waist. He’s got his usual grey camisole on, the USMC logo nearly illegible over the chest, but his skin’s flushed pink at his shoulders and cheeks and throat, and he actually does look a little--Sam frowns. Dean rubs his eye, smearing the raccoon-stain of the eyeliner he never washes off right, and then squints at Sam. “Could you--coffee? Food?”
“Was that a request?” Sam says, raising his eyebrows, and he doesn’t exactly want to be an errand boy but--Dean’s nodding, vaguely miserable, and Sam sighs, and stands up, and points. “You have to get the next one.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Dean says, and flops back into the pillow.
*
Closest thing to them is a Pilot, and even if it’s less than two blocks Sam takes the car. Too hot to walk. He wishes he owned a single pair of shorts. The truck stop’s not too busy, and Sam wanders up and down the aisles in the c-store, just stretching his legs, not in a hurry for once. A t-shirt with three wolves on it--Dean might actually wear that. Keychains, license plate holders. Oil in gallon jugs, and Sam thinks that might actually be a decent price, and makes a note to tell Dean, in case the Impala needs a change. Around the other aisle there’s the usual light drugs, caffeine pills and aspirin and Pepto and everything else a trucker needs to get through a haul, and Sam’s got a bottle of Tylenol in hand when his eye glances over the familiar tubes with their dainty purple labels that say Kool Kream, and he pauses, and realizes--oh. Fuck.
Kool Kream, and he’d always made fun of the name, but when they were kids Dean used it semi-religiously. His heats were about average, as far as Sam knew, but he would overheat sometimes, and chafe, and Dad would bring it home for him without even making rumbly pronouncements about the extra cost. A few times, when Dad wasn’t home, Sam would get sent out too, and he’d put it on the counter with beef jerky and a Coke like somehow that’d mask what he was buying, and he knew he was blushing to the top of his head, but the cashiers usually didn’t say anything. Weird kind of practice, for buying Midol and tampons for Jessica.
He gets two cups of coffee, and two ice cream bars, and a bag of the slightly suspect deli-case sandwiches, and two tubes of the cream, and the cashier just smiles at him and wishes him a nice day. He doesn’t know how he missed it. Dean always used to get super tired, the day or two before his heat, and then it was--embarrassing, sure, but also made Sam feel kind of... tender. Dean was a pain in the ass, a lot of the time, and made it his life’s mission to annoy Sam, a lot of the time, but for that week Sam always felt...
Shower’s going, with the door barely cracked, when Sam comes into the room. Dean’s bed is a complete wreck, and Sam leans over it to tug the blankets into some kind of order, just to make it more comfortable in case Dean wanted to crawl back in, and--yeah. Smells like... sweat, a little, but more like the tang of slick, and Sam’s mouth waters and he has to swallow it back. Dean’s favorite kind of porn is still heat-sex, and even if Sam tells him he doesn’t want to hear it Sam’s watched it, too, and unfortunately real life isn’t the sex-crazed, impossible-to-deny, irresistible ravishment of that genre--but, fuck, if Sam hasn’t jerked off to the idea, more than just about anything else.
Shower sputters off, and he calls out, “Coffee’s here,” just so Dean knows that Sam is too.
The bathroom door immediately swings further open and Dean sticks his head out, wet hair pushed back from his forehead. “Thank god,” he says, and makes a grabby hand.
Sam rolls his eyes, comes over. Coffee, and a sausage sandwich that Dean makes excited noises at, and then Sam offers up the tube of cream. Dean blinks at it, then at Sam. “I just thought,” Sam starts, and shrugs. “If you still use it.”
Dean licks his lips. He’s pink all over, his shoulder curving out from around the door, and his throat, and his cheeks, and his ears where his hair’s tucked back. He’s washed his face and there’s hardly any eyeliner left, but his lashes are still thick, damp and dark. “You remembered,” he says, soft. He takes it, too, and leans over to put his coffee and sandwich on the bathroom sink. He pauses there, towel caught around his waist, and looks at the tube in his hand.
His bare chest is pink, too, flat but soft, and Sam swallows. “Anything else you need?” he says.
Pause, and Dean lifts one shoulder, still looking at the tube. “Don’t suppose they had dildos in stock at the Pilot, huh?” he says, crass, but his heart’s not in it.
Sam huffs. He leans his shoulder against the door frame, hands in his pockets. “Thought you used a toothbrush holder,” he says--wondering, careful, if Dean would remember--that time, in Eugene, when Sam had walked in, and Dean had had the covers tugged up to his chest but his knees wide and his hand working under the sheets, and he’d gasped and said god, Sam, knock, and--
Dean bites his lip. Looks up, and Sam sees that he does remember, and Dean doesn’t move but his eyes are massively dark, his pupils wide, and he says, level, “Not if I can get something better,” and Sam tugs his hand out of his pocket and touches Dean’s jaw--soft, incredibly hot--and Dean’s lips part and then Sam steps forward and ducks the however-many-inches down and kisses him, hard and all at once, and Dean shoves at his chest and says, mumbly between their mouths, “How fucking long have you been waiting to do that, you dick?” and then loops his arm around Sam’s neck and kisses back.
“So long,” Sam breathes, “so fucking long--” and Dean moans, grabs at him. The towel falls immediately and Sam drops his hands, grabs him under the ass, hauls him in. Jesus, jesus, he’s so soft and so built, his hips that heart-shaped curve that Sam dreamed about for ten years, his ass full and sweet, his shoulders strong and his hands grabbing, grasping, pulling at Sam’s shirt, wanting just as much as Sam has always wanted. “Dean--”
“You are killing me,” Dean says, tugging back, breathing hot up into his face. He’s red-cheeked, his mouth wet. “Sammy, for fuck’s sake.”
“I know,” Sam says, even if he doesn’t--and he ducks and kisses Dean again, and then ducks another inch and grabs him under the thighs, picks him up in an easy haul--just what he’s always pictured--porno scenarios slipping through his mind--and, yeah, Dean gasps, squirms against him, his clit hard and rubbing against Sam’s stomach, through his t-shirt. He dumps Dean on the closest bed--Sam’s--follows him down, getting his hips between Dean’s spread-wide thighs, pushing his dick up against Dean’s clit. Overwhelming--all this skin, soft and hot, and Dean’s face most of all, watching Sam with laser focus, his hands sliding into Sam’s hair.
“You got a condom?” Dean says, dark, offering, and Sam grimaces--not the kind that’ll hold a knot, not with Dean’s body pumping out hormones like it is now. Dean throws his head back against the mattress, groans, and Sam shakes his head--”It’s okay,” he says--”it’s okay, let me just--I’ll--” and he slides his hand down Dean’s side and gives his clit a few pumping strokes, makes Dean squirm, and then slides two fingers down the soft smooth stretch from the root of the clit down to his asshole, where it is--god--soft, and wet, and open, and Sam says hotly, “Were you fingering yourself? In the shower?” and Dean says, on a groan, “What do you think, Sherlock?” and Sam kisses his throat and shoves his fingers in, fast and to the knuckles, all at once. Dean flinches, moans loud. Fuck, fuck--hot inside, so hot, and squishily wet from how much Dean’s giving up. Tight at the entrance and softer inside, and Sam can imagine--how he’ll get in there--”How do you like it?” he says, against Dean’s throat, and Dean shoves his hips down against Sam’s hand and gulps air, so that Sam has to lift his head up, look at him. “C’mon, c’mon. Tell me. Like this, on your back?”
“Sam,” Dean groans, and Sam starts really working his fingers, shoving in and out, pressing and curling to try to find that rough patch, the holy grail, and Sam says, “I’d do it however you want--however, you just gotta tell me. That good?”
Dean reaches down between them, grabs Sam’s wrist. “You know it’s good,” he says, curling his hips. “Shit, shit--”
Slick all over Sam’s fingers, slipping down his knuckles. Dean’s going to be a mess. “Fuck, you’re wet,” he mumbles, and kisses Dean, and Dean squeezes his wrist hard and humps his hips up and comes rippling, shockingly fast, his ass clenching around the space where a knot should be, where Sam should give it to him. Where he will. He’s throbbing, in his jeans, and he kisses Dean’s mouth, his jaw, his throat, breathes in his smell. Fuck.
Dean’s thighs fall open, slowly, and Sam drags his fingers out with a gush. They feel almost bruised, from the pressure inside, but he doesn’t care. He sucks them clean and gets that tang, sharp and almost vile, intense, and Dean opens his eyes then and drags in a breath, shaky. “Jesus, you’re a freak,” he says, but--admiring.
Sam smiles at him. He’s covered in sweat and his balls feel like they’re going to explode and he hasn’t even had his coffee, yet. “You haven’t seen anything,” he says, soft as a promise, and Dean grins, happier than Sam’s seen him in months, and pulls him in for a kiss.
