#theboykingsam

[dfenestrate]

Supernatural Color Challenge | uselessspork ↳ Prompt: Castiel (TFW) + Colors by Halsey

[leovanders]

"do I looked like a ditchable prom date to you?" for the DeanCas prompt!

Dean has eyes on their target.

Really, he does.

Okay, so he’s got their target in his peripheral because Cas looks damn good and he can’t stop staring. He should have been prepared for this. He knew they were going undercover at a formal event. Hell, he’s wearing a tux himself.

It’s just… somehow his brain never made the connection that his frumpy trench coat wearing partner would also be dressed to the nines.

Cas is at the bar with a martini in hand and his back to Dean, and Dean can’t help but admire his, well, everything.

Their handler really went all out. Charlie, he thinks, really deserves a pay raise for this one.

But Dean is a professional and he does notice when their target slips through a door on the far side of the ballroom. He joins Cas at the bar.

“Pretty sure that leads to the garage,” he says, ducking his head close as he reaches for an hors d’oeuvre.

Cas nods and sets down his untouched martini. “Stay here.”

“Hey.” Dean stills him with a hand on his elbow. “Do I look like a ditchable prom date to you?”

Cas gives him a long, heated look up and down, and says in that direct way of his, “No.”

Dean’s mouth goes dry.

“Though I could much easier maintain our cover looking for the bathroom on my own.”

“We could always be searching for a quiet spot for some alone time,” Dean says with a smirk.

Cas rolls his eyes. “Three minutes.”

“Two.”

When Cas turns away from the bar, his fingers deliberately brush against Dean’s hand.

One minute, Dean thinks. He’s giving him one minute and then he’s going in after him and they are going to wrap up this case and then he is going to finally resolve the five years of tension between them and kiss the bastard.

But first, he’s going to enjoy the view as he walks away.

Damn.

[winchester-cas]

When the Spn fandom goes to Hell and the real Lucifer meets us:

"What’s all this nonsense with Winchesters? There is nothing supernatural here and please keep down the salt. Who the fuck is Chuck?”

“No for the last time, there's no Crowley here"

"Don't laugh at me, I'm Lucifer wtf"

"No you can't have red spray paint to make demon traps. That shit doesn’t work.”

"Stop spraying salt at me, it doesn't fucking work"

"No, I ain’t scared of no Winchesters"

"Sister Jo? Your queen? What?"

"No I am not bisexual, what are you going on about"

“Who the fuck is Adam?”

"I DO NOT HAVE DADDY ISSUES, YOU CANNOT SPEAK TO ME LIKE THIS"

“I want your soul not your sympathy!”

“Stop trying to make deals with me! I’m Lucifer you fuckers”

"I don't have red glowing eyes stop asking me to show them to YOU"

“I DONT HAVE A SON NAMED JACK WHAT THE FUCK”

“What makes you think that I would do the do with a MORTAL?”

“I’m the sole ruler of hell! Who is this Asmodeus that you keep mentioning?”

"Why would I possess the US president? he's worser than me. The only thing I would do with him his torture the hell out of him, if you would pardon my pun”

“What do you mean purgatory has better interior designing? What the fuck is purgatory?”

"I will not torture souls just cause you want entertainment. What is wrong with you?"

“No I can’t show you where Hitler is. I’m not some tour guide.”

“Fine. You want entertainment? We have loads of copies of Fifty Shades of Grey so go ahead”

"nO you cannot torture the author. Why are you so violent ffs"

“Stop calling me Luci! I’m Lucifer Morningstar, the fallen Angel, the rightful ruler of Hell itself.”

"Yes I have horns and no you cannot pet them. I am not a dog"

“And no you can’t manicure my horns wtf! They are divine and should not be handled by mortals”

"Stop trying to adopt a hell hound."

"Stop petting the hell hounds, they will not play fetch with you."

“For the millionth time! We don’t have wifi here! And stop counting on this Sam Winchester guy who doesn’t even exist”

“You can’t give nicknames to my ferocious beasts of Death! Cupcake is not an acceptable name for my mightiest beast!”

"What are these memes you speak of”

"Show me more memes"

“You can’t force me to watch Infinity War! This is hell! I do the torturing”

“Stop trying to find me a date! I don’t need this Tinder”

If you’re wondering, this is what happens when you put Avi ( @alecbaene ), Ash ( @theboykingsam ) and Medha ( @originalobjecttheorist ) in one WhatsApp group. So this shipost is a brainchild of all four of us ^^

[frenchiestan]

supernatural color challenge | freckledean  ↳ prompt: Dean Winchester + “Pink Rabbits” by The National

[stanford-sam]

Things that Shine

~ 1700 words

for my darling Ash ( @theboykingsam ); you make my life shine. i wrote two but decided to be kind to you on this special day and chose the happier one;)

They’re stumbling back into their motel room, exhausted and hurting after a hunt-almost-gone-wrong, fumbling for a light switch and for the first aid kit in Sam’s bag.  Dean’s got a cut on his arm that needs stitching—not life threatening yet, but it’s got a steady flow of blood from it a half hour on.

They’re stumbling back into their motel room, exhausted and hurting after a hunt-almost-gone-wrong, fumbling for a light switch and for the first aid kit in Sam’s bag.  Dean’s got a cut on his arm that needs stitching—not life threatening yet, but it’s got a steady flow of blood from it a half hour on.

Sam’s good; he’s got a few scrapes and burns and bruises, but that’s to be expected when you torch a Wendigo in its home territory. Nothing that screams for immediate attention.

He’s got a nasty cut somewhere on his scalp that stings like a bitch. He’ll get Dean to look at it after Sam’s done with his arm.

Dean swears as he takes off his shirt, keeping his injured arm as still as possible. Sam gets the sewing kit from the first aid box, lights a match for sterilization before threading it. He sits cross legged on the bed next to Dean and instructs his brother not to move.

Sam can feel hot blood trickling down his neck, soaking his hair and drip drip dripping down onto the bed. He suppresses a shiver and forces certain memories from his mind. Focuses on the task in front of him. Ignores the sidelong glance Dean gives him.

He takes a deep breath and cuts the thread, trying not to wince at the sound the blades of the scissors make rubbing together.

Dean flexes his muscle, grimaces, and stands. “What about you?” he asks.

“Scalp. Here.” Sam gestures vaguely to the side of his head. “Bit of a mess, sorry.”

“Jesus, Sammy… ‘Bit of a mess?’ Really?”

Sam shrugs. “Yours was worse. Objectively, it was. Mine looks worse than it is.”

“Fine, but you’ve ruined your shirt, and—oh, shit—the bed too? Sam…” Dean sighs and gently tugs at Sam’s hair, sending a small shiver down Sam’s spine. “I really think you should consider giving yourself a trim. It’s gotten long, even for your standards. At least let me do it.”

“No.” He hasn’t cut it since he got out of the pit. He won’t start now.

“Sam, I watched you on this hunt. It gets in the way. Hell, it was the reason you got this cut. It had you by your hair—”

“You made it in time.”

“It was a goddamn inch from slicing your throat wide open! If I hadn’t lit it up when I did—”

“But you did! That’s the point, you did!”

“No! That’s not the point! That’s not good enough! Come on, just to your shoulders?”

“I’m not cutting it, Dean!” shouts Sam.

“Why not?” Dean demands.

“I…” Sam trails off, looks around the room for help. Finding none, he squares his shoulders and faces Dean. “I don’t want blades anywhere near my head—my face—again. Not if I can help it.”

“I…what…?” Sam can see the moment the realization hits his brother. Dean straightens and says, “Alright, Sammy. No haircuts. I’ll drop it.”

And he does.

Dean cleans and stitches Sam’s head without another word. Sam throws out the bloody shirt and washes the bedspread to the best of his ability.

They carefully avoid each other on the long road back to Lebanon, Kansas.

It’s a few weeks later. Sam’s sitting on the floor in their library, absentmindedly flitting through book after book. He recognizes Dean’s footfalls from the hallway and glances up to see Dean drag a chair over to Sam’s corner.

“What’s up?” Sam asks.

“I wanna try something. Sit?”

Sam heaves himself up and sits upright in the chair. “What’re you doing?”

“Just trust me. How’s your cut?”

“Fine. It healed well, thanks to some good stitching.”

“Mmm. Mine too.” Sam turns and cranes his neck to get a view of Dean’s upper arm; he’d taken the stitches out a few days ago, and it looks good.

“Where is it?” asks Dean, and in response to Sam’s confused glance, adds: “Your cut?”

“Oh. Here.” Sam traces it with his pointer finger.

“Can I…?” Sam nods, and shivers when Dean’s hands run along his scalp, firm, yet somehow unmistakably gentle. Almost tender. “Here?”

“Yeah.” Sam tries not to wince when Dean’s fingers brush the scab. “Dean, what’re you—”

“I’ve been thinking about your hair and—hear me out, Sam,” Dean says when Sam takes a breath to interrupt. “I’ve been thinking, and I was on a beer run a few days ago and I picked up some of these.” He holds up a sleeve of elastic hair ties.

Sam raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah, uh…” Dean clears his throat. “I’ve been teaching myself… well, can I try something?”

Sam glances up at him suspiciously.

Dean hold up his hand. “No blades, I promise.”

Sam nods. “Okay.”

“Face forward, close your eyes.” Sam obeys, nerves tingling. He feels Dean’s fingers card through his hair, then something else against his scalp—a hairbrush.

Sam almost tells him to be careful of his wound but bites his tongue when he realizes that that’s what Dean’s doing—brushing carefully around the cut, working gently through the tangles of Sam’s hair.

Sam brushes his hair every morning, except those rare few days when he ignores it and it turns into a nest of tangles and clumps. On this particular morning, Sam had tied his hair into a knot—a literal knot—and gone jogging. He untied it when he got back and hadn’t thought of it again.

But he’s never spent more than a minute brushing his hair. Thirty seconds at most. He just sort of rips through it and he’s done.

But Dean… Dean spends ten minutes working his way through Sam’s tangles. Carefully unraveling the mess of Sam’s hair, never pulling too hard, just gentle tugging and an occasional “Sorry, Sam.”

And Sam revels in the feeling of it. He closes his eyes, leans back into it. He can’t remember the last time he let anyone besides himself come close to his hair—he supposes, years and years ago, it would have been Dean cutting it, grooming it. Dad would have never. But for as long as he can remember, it’s been Sam cutting and caring for his own hair, even in college. He’d forgotten how good it felt for his scalp to be gently touched by another human being.

After an eternity that definitely wasn’t long enough, Dean sets the brush on a nearby bookshelf.

“Thank you,” Sam whispers. He touches his cheeks and it surprised to find that they’re wet.

He hopes Dean didn’t notice.

“Not done yet,” Dean answers. “I haven’t even got to the hard part.”

“What?”

“Shh. Relax.” Dean’s quiet and still for a few minutes. Sam wants to check if he’s still there or not, but he doesn’t.

Dean tentatively picks up a few pieces of Sam’s hair. Sam feels gentle tugging, slowly making its way down his scalp. Occasionally the tugging will pause briefly, while Dean murmurs words to himself that Sam can’t make out, but Sam thinks he knows what’s going on and suddenly it’s all he can do to hold back tears.

The tugging stops, and Dean is quiet for a couple minutes. Sam swallows and asks, “Well?”

“Well, it’s not as good as I wanted, but not bad for a first time,” comes Dean’s reply.

“Can I see?”

“Yeah, give me a sec.” There’s some faint rustling from behind him, and then a distinct click! that tells Sam that Dean just took a photo.

“Here.” Dean hands his phone to Sam. Sam inspects the picture, smile creeping up onto his face like the dawn of a new day. It’s just a braid. Why does Sam feel like this?

Sam stands, freshly braided hair swinging over his right shoulder. Dean stands in front of him, eyes shining with pride and something else, something Sam can’t quite identify. Without saying anything, Sam wraps him in a hug. He hopes Dean understands. The way Dean holds him back makes Sam think he does.

Over the next few weeks, Sam lets Dean practice on him while researching, eating, reading, doing anything that’s not active. Dean becomes proficient at the French braid, the Dutch braid, and even experiments with a fishtail (although it didn’t turn out to Dean’s satisfaction. Sam thought it looked fine).

They take it for a spin for the first time with a werewolf hunt, and it works like a charm. Sam can see for the duration of the hunt and Dean doesn’t yell at him.

The weeks stretch into months. Before hunts, Sam sits in a chair, or on the bed, or, when the situation gets desperate, kneels, and Dean braids his hair. He can do it in a matter of seconds now. He’s tried to teach Sam on a number of occasions, but Sam’s fingers, so nimble when handling ancient books or laptop keys or guns, turn fumbling and slow. Dean doesn’t seem to mind.

Months become years. Sam finally plucks up the courage to chop off his hair late one night in Austin, Texas. It has reached down to the base of his spine, and it’s becoming too much for him to handle. He gives Dean careful instructions before getting blackout drunk and wakes with his hair cut to his shoulders. It’s a tremendous weight off his shoulders, literally and figuratively.

It’s around that same time when Sam notices something: he’s tired. He talks to Dean—they’ve learned how to talk, how to really talk—and together, they decide that it’s time for the Winchesters to take a break, a long one.

They sell some shit from the Bunker and buy a small cottage on Lake Michigan. They leave the doors to the Bunker unlocked, should any hunter in need of a respite stumble across it. They give their address and new numbers to a select few friends: Jody, Garth, Eileen. They drop off the grid.

They’re not quite happy, but watching the water shine off the waves of their lake, they are content. And as far as Sam and Dean are aware, that’s as close to happiness as they’re going to get.  

[cagetraumasam-archive]

1, 19, 25 for the spn ask game?

hello!! i answered 1 and 19 already but my computers being wonky and not letting me link to those posts, so i’ll reiterate here

1.  Favorite female character?

Eileen or maybe Rowena!

9. Favorite brothers scene?

in swan song when they’re sitting on the impala and watching the stars my heart melts!

25. What made you fall in love with Supernatural?

probably the same as your answer, honestly, i just. i really love sam. but if we’re looking at the reasons why i love sam, and how they made me fall in love with the show as a result, i think it has a lot to do with the values he represents: love and kindness and empathy but also choice and freedom and justice. those are the things, at its core, that i love about the show, and i feel like sam represents them well. <33

ty for the questions!!! <333

[sml-str]

Shoutout to @theboykingsam for creating my new Icon so that we can be iconically twin with the Bearded!Sam look

[ghostwinchesters]

21, 23

21) Tell me about another writer(s) who you admire? What is it about them that you admire?

judah !!!!! @itsaboutsam is an absolutely wonderful writer (their sam whump is 20/10 and their overall style is beautiful) and also a Fantastic human (they roll with my yelling at 4am, do their own yelling, and we rewatch a lot of classic supernatural episodes and shit) i fuckin love u,

oh and @transgendersam​ ;-; theo is an a++ person who’s writing is absolutely worth reading <3 (go ask them about their original work too just fuckin do it)

@daydreaming-scribe​ my son ry 100% deserves some recognition even tho, for all the dragging that he does, probably doesn’t write much more than me but i still love him and his writing

23) Do you prefer listening to music when you’re writing or do you need silence?

music, absolutely. tbh i listen to music almost 24 / 7 in general, so hey

fic asks