#ohsamtumbles

[moonlightdistractions]

Just claimed a prompt on the hurt/comfort Sam Winchester extravaganza run by @ohsamtumbles - as soon as I saw the request, I knew I had to write a little something. Already got notes scribbled down!

Check out the ao3 page to find tons of hurt!Sam requests & finished fics - there's something for everyone.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[themegalosaurus]

There’s something really fascinating about this persistent dynamic in Sam and Cas’s relationship (bonus, from 11x14, which puts a dark spin on the pattern just after this moment with some noncon Casifer soulfisting:)

[lemon-wedges]

Just wanted to tell you how much we love your Sam and Rowena art! There's precious little sweetly sexy SamWitch in the world.

Ohh!!! Thank you ☺☺☺

It is a crime that their tag is so tiny u_u im just playing my part in giving them what they deserve >:)

[samwinchesterbigbang]

Hey all! The deadline to sign up for this year’s Sam Winchester Big Bang is today, November 4. The challenge rules and timeline can both be found on our Tumblr page but our key upcoming deadline is November 25th, when we ask for rough drafts to be submitted. These have to be at least 50% of minimum wordcount so could be as short as 2.5k words if you’re writing a mini bang (5k total minimum). You’re also free to drop out without penalty at any point up to rough draft submission (if you don’t submit a draft, we’ll assume you’re out). So if you’re thinking about it, please do sign up today!

Also: artist sign-ups are open until November 25. If you love drawing Sam’s beauteous face (of course you do) or, indeed, his luscious body (and who could blame you), take a peep at the rules and timeline, linked above, and then register to participate! You know you wanna...

[purifiedblood]

can the child within my heart rise above?

Title: can the child within my heart rise above?

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester/OMC

Rating: E / NC-17

Tags: Underage, Eating Disorder, Body Dysmorphic Disorder, Feminization, Dark Fic, Daddy Kink, Slut Shaming, Hurt/Comfort, Bottom Sam, Top Dean (PLEASE heed these warnings)

Summary: Big brother praises. They taste a little like alcohol where Dean presses them into his lips. He can’t see it with the way Dean leans over him, lapping into him like a desert-stranded man, but he can feel the way his brother’s fingers meet at his navel and his lower back. There’s always more he can lose, and Sam watches it all slip away with every ounce of fat that washes away.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14553384

[clairesncvaks]

prisoners here, of our own device (13x14 coda)

Dean wonders what it says about their lives that of all the fucked up shit they’ve done, lugging Donatello’s still form to the hospital, feeding them some bullshit about finding him by the side of the road, then unceremoniously hauling ass before anyone thinks to ask any questions is way, way down the list. Definitely not top ten. Probably not even top two hundred.

But of course, the whole time Sam has this semi-devastated look on his face that’s he’s obviously desperately trying to hide, and that, along with the topographical map of bruising on his forehead, only serves to make him look even more like a pathetic kicked puppy than usual. It’s doing twisty things to Dean’s heart. And yeah, maybe when they get back, he’s gonna kill Castiel. A little, and very gently. But still. Because Sam’s been spiralling lately, especially since finding out Lucifer is back in (still in?) the picture, and this is just another load of angst and guilt on his shoulders that he doesn’t fucking need.

Dean expects this will end the same way these things always do, lately: an awkward late night talk over beers, wherein Dean flounders, hopelessly out of his depth, until Sam takes pity on him and fucks off to lie in bed and not sleep and let his thoughts swallow him up. (Dean realises, belatedly, that his fingers are curled so tight around the steering wheel that his knuckles are bone-white, and deliberately relaxes his grip.)

He doesn’t expect, ten minutes out from the hospital, for Sam to break the silence in the car by saying, with a voice like a rusty hinge, “Pull over.”

Dean glances at him, frowning, and finds him hunched over himself, looking smaller than a person his size has any right to, jaw clenched so tight he’s liable to crack a tooth. “Pull over,” Sam says again, breath coming harsh in his chest, and Dean wastes no time in veering onto the grassy verge and stepping on the brakes. Before the car has even stopped moving, Sam is out of his seat. Dean follows, and rounds the front of the Impala just in time to see Sam stumble two steps then sink, with surprising grace, to his knees in the grass.

[keep reading on ao3]

[aquestlikethat]

Recovery

Chapter One

This is a tag to 12x02 Mamma Mia. I know its crazy late but I am always still looking for more fics to fill this moment in the show. I hope you enjoy.

Sam is dead on his feet. The two Brits of Letters walk out of the cellar and he finds the adrenaline that was keeping him up is gone. His legs wobble, knees bucking but before he can hit the ground, three sets of hands are on him. And it is all too much, his whole body starts shaking, and a horrible thought strikes him - how does he even know if this is real. Toni manipulated his mind before, he has no doubt she would do it again. Dean alive, his mother here - magically back from the dead - Sam wants to punch himself for believing for a minute that any of it was real. He tries to shake off the hands supporting him and only manages to bring all four of them to the ground. Seems like that’s all he ever does. “N-no-” he strangles out. “’S not real. Not-”. 

Dean’s hands are on his face - no not Dean’s hands, not real, Dean is dead. He has to remember. But his brother is warm and his voice is soft and Sam can’t help but listen to what he has to say. “Hey, hey, hey. Sammy look at me buddy. I’m here, I’m real okay?” 

Sam tries to ignore him. Dean is dead, don’t ruin his memory by falling for cheap party tricks, he tells himself. He tries to pull his head out of the hands that feel so much like his brother’s. There is a hand on his back and someone is tentatively stroking his hair and he is so overwhelmed that he can’t hold back his tears. A sob drags out of his throat and Sam feels like the walls are pressing in on him. He can’t breathe, there’s no air, and he can’t breathe. His nerves are frayed from days of torture and all of this touching, gentle as it is, is sending him into a panic.

Sounds are muffled but he can hear Dean’s voice loud and clear. Not Dean’s voice, he thinks but doesn’t have the energy to really try to convince himself. "Just give him a little space, I got this.” A few seconds and the hands don’t move. “Seriously, back off.” Dean sounds frustrated and angry. Sam wants to tell him its okay, apologize to Cas and his mother. But it’s not okay, Sam is not okay and when the other, less familiar, hands leave his skin he allows himself to lean into Dean’s hands on his face, just for a moment. I won’t tell him anything, Sam swears to himself, but this little bit of touch, of comfort, Sam finds he can’t pull away from. Not when the real Dean is, is- 

“Okay Sammy. Just you and me now. I gotcha, I gotcha. Alright.” One of Dean’s hands moves to brush a strand of hair from Sam’s forehead and he winces as it pulls free from the dried blood of the cut there. “Okay, you’re okay. Let’s slow down that breathing, alright?” Dean pulls Sam’s right hand up and places it on his own chest. “Try to match my breathing okay? Nice and easy.” Sam does as his brother says and he can feel himself starting to relax. He stops trying to hold his head up in Dean’s grasp, fading completely into the warm pressure of his big brother’s hands. “That’s it, just relax Sammy. You don’t have to worry about anything else. That’s a good boy.”

Sam jolts back into awareness at those words, remembering a similar taunt coming from his torturer. “Be a good boy.” The dark haired woman had said and suddenly he remembers that this isn’t real, it can’t be and he is a fool if he thinks it’s safe to fall asleep in this hallucination. Sam is well versed in coercive attempts to get information - or consent - a voice in the back of his head reminds him. Whatever this is, if the British bitch is trying to get him to relax then he can’t. 

Sam tries to pull away and almost face plants onto the stone floor, his breathing picking up again. “Whoa, whoa. Easy Sammy. Hey, relax. Relax, you’re safe.” Dean tries to soothe but Sam knows better now and he won’t let himself fall for this again. 

“No. You’re not real. You can’t be. Dean is- he’s-” Sam chokes up, trying to pull away from the hallucination of his brother. “You’re not real.”

Sam tries to pull away, tries to wake up to end this torturous hallucination that makes the pain of what he has lost bubble to the surface. He can’t do this again. Dean is gone and he has to accept it, anything else will only tear him apart.

But the hallucination is powerful and it won’t let go. Sam feels pain in his leg and his foot but he can’t stop, he has to get away, has to wake up-

Suddenly there is a new pain. Not the burn on his foot or the bullet wound in his thigh. A familiar stinging pressure in the palm of his left hand. Sam opens eyes he doesn’t remember closing, blinking at the brightness of the basement. Dean is still in front of him, one hand on his face and the other gripping his left palm tightly, pressing his thumb into the cut there from Sam’s failed escape attempt. 

“Dean?” He asks, perplexed. Everything feels sharper somehow. Not more real but more likely to be real.

“That’s it Sammy, eyes on me. Remember this trick?” His brother asks, pressing his thumb deeper into the cut. “I taught you this, remember Sammy?”

Dean seems to actually be waiting for an answer so Sam nods hesitantly, not yet trusting his voice.

“I taught you this. Me. Okay?” Sam nods again, a little stronger this time, and feels his breathing start to even out once more. “I know. You thought I was dead and I know you’ve got problems with reality, but remember this? Stone number one.”

Sam takes a breath, stone number one.

“Now I know I haven’t exactly been employee of the month in this category with what happened - what I did - with Gadreel.” Sam flinches. “And Sammy I don’t know what these bitches did to you, but I need you to know that I am real. Mom is real. Cas is here too. And we’re going to take care of you, okay? Can you trust me, just for a little bit?” Dean’s grip on Sam’s hand doesn’t falter but he eases the pressure on the cut, letting Sam decide, letting him choose. 

Sam stares for another moment and then nods. He thinks he can, he will try. Dean still looks expectant so Sam opens his mouth, meaning to agree, to tell his brother that he wasn’t sure he would be able to but he would try with everything he has, but all that comes out is one word, “Dean”. 

And then he is crying again and leaning forward into the touch that he can finally believe, or at least try to believe, is his brother. His brother who he had thought he would never see again. His brother who was meant to be dead but was somehow here, saving Sam and making him feel safe despite the horror he had gone through.

Dean pulls Sam forward and the younger man doesn’t hesitate to tuck his face into his brother’s neck, bringing his arms around his big brother’s shoulders and fisting his shirt. 

“That’s it, Sammy.” Dean is whispering in his ear. “I’ve got you. You can relax now, it’s all good. I’ll take it from here.”

Sam wants to ask how. How are you alive? How is mom here? How did you find me? How can I be okay? Instead he buries his face deeper into Dean’s shoulder, closing his eyes, and the rest of the world falls away.

I know this is a really lame and unoriginal title, but I started this fic almost right after the episode and then I just stopped working on it. So I finally picked it back up tonight and I just wanted to finish it and post it and that was all I could come up with for a title. Let me know if you have suggestions for a better one. Also, did not mean for this to have chapters but that just felt like a stopping point. There will definately be more to this fic. 

Read it on: AO3 or Fanfiction.net

[wetsammywinchester]

The Ancient Tradition of Geometric Problems

OhSam-spnlittlebro CelebratingSam challenge Prompt: vellichor (a wistful feeling you get in used bookshops) Pairing: Gen | Rating: G | Wordcount: 725 A/N: Thanks to samshinechester for the beta!

The smell. It’s what gets him every time. Linen and leather and dust. Books like this would sit on a shelf, unchanging and uncaring whether they were read or not, a legacy in black and white.

He had walked through the narrow bookshop, trailing his fingers along the bindings, a small absent smile on his face. Dean left for the motel earlier; bigger cities like San Francisco always put his brother on edge. Bumping elbows with people on the street, Dean would look over his shoulder, scanning for a threat in the unknown faces. But Sam loved it, the anonymity of the crowd. He could slide right into it, fading into the tourists and the business people. No need for badges or false names because no one cared who you were in a city this size.

The waning sunlight of the summer had been lighting up the shop windows as they finished their interviews, and it had made him restless. Too bright to head to the motel, too early for dinner, Sam had walked the streets instead, hands stuffed in his suit pant pockets, the breeze off the Bay ruffling his hair, cool even in June.

This tiny bookstore, tucked back into an alley between a dive bar and a coffee roasting shop, was familiar. Palo Alto was only an hour away, and when he first moved to California, Sam would take the train north up the Peninsula. Friday nights, he would run out of school work and start to fill up on raw memories, so Saturday mornings, he would explore the City.

The same old man manned the register up front, his head bent over a biography of Kafka. Sam gave him a nod, which was received with nothing more than a quick flickering glance. He wound his way through the stacks of books - Historical, Literature, Poetry, Folklore. A title on banshees caught his attention. He might pick that one up on his way out.

His feet dragged to a full stop in front of Classics. A small mint-green paperback was wedged inexplicably between Ovid and Pindar, probably shelved by the old man in a rush to get back to the existential anxiety of Kafka. Sam pulled it slowly from the shelf and his smile widened.

“The Ancient Tradition of Geometric Problems”.

Jess rolled her eyes at the title when she saw it sitting on their coffee table. She was smart, had to be to get into Stanford, but she liked her classes to be more grounded - the feel of chalk and charcoal under her fingers, the play of light and shadow - not ruminations on ancient math and science.

She lifted her beer bottle, that cute little wrinkle between her eyes. “Incommensurable magnitudes? Really? C’mon, Sam, it’s Friday night.”

This book didn’t have the same layer of dust as the others, a new addition of an old title. He cracked the spine with reverence and leaned in, nostrils flaring a little at the smell of fresh ink and newly cut paper, so heady that he slumped against the bookcase. This edition was pristine while his own copy from that class years ago had been covered in highlighter pen and scrawled notes for conversations with Professor Singh, who appreciated Sam’s enthusiasm during Thursday afternoon office hours.

He slid to the floor to sit cross-legged, lost among the piles of musty books and his nostalgia. It burned in his chest, and flipping through the pages brought back all the small things Stanford had given him, a brief reprieve from monsters and death, an indulgence of discourse. But only too brief.

“Need any help?” the old man said. His frail figure towered over Sam on the floor, specter-like, and Sam sat up, embarrassed to be caught buried so deep in his own thoughts.

He wiped at his eyes. “Uh, no. I’m fine.”

***

Sam tossed the books on the motel’s dinette table, and removed his jacket as Dean stepped over to hand him a cold beer. His brother took a sip as he scattered the book titles out on the table.

“Banshees. Always a classic.” Dean pushed the first book to the side and then held up the thin mint green one, a smirk on his face. “Ancient science? You’re such a nerd. C’mon, Sam, it’s Friday night. Live a little.”

Sam smiled back, his heart settling for the first time that night in familiarity. “What? Haven’t I ever told you about incommensurable magnitudes? It’s fascinating stuff–”