🏕️ & 💔 for the wip asks, please! (all your ideas are >>>>>>>>>>)
🏕️ - Summer Camp Slasher Ghost Weecest Case Fic
Welcome to Camp Crystal Lake, Dean whispers in Sam’s ear, pushing out hot gusts of breath across Sam’s skin, chanting the theme music—ki ki ki, ma ma ma—and making Sam’s skin erupt in goose pimples, a shiver running through his body.
Sam uses the just of his elbow to dig into Dean’s ribs until he backs off, choking out laughter as he rubbed a hand over his side. “Ow, Sammy, that bony frame of yours should come as a registered weapon, worse than a knife, I swear to god.”
“Don’t be a dick, then,” Sam says, offering his brother a grin, pulling his body up to full height just to see the shift in Dean’s gaze as he looks up at Sam to meet his eyes.
Sam wasn’t going to say it out loud, but the place did have a startling resemblance to the fictional camp where Jason Vorhees drowned, though Sam figured that was just the overall summer camp-look, copied all over the country. Camp Howling Wolf wasn’t any different than the other thousand that dotted the woods to be filled with kids when school let out. But Sam knew better, there’s no way they’d be attending if it was a normal camp.
💔 - Dean was pregnant when Sam left for Stanford AU
Sam stares at her through the rearview mirror, not wanting to look at her with direct intention, but sweep her gaze over her in glimpses, cataloging her features: he can see all the freckles across dusting her nose and the dimple in her cheek when she smiles in her sleep, her thick dark hair curling around her face. He can’t help but notice the resemblance to Dean, to himself, their features enmeshed in her little face, and it twists inside Sam, shifting his stomach towards discomfort, a creeping sourness that he can taste in the back of his throat.
He doesn’t want to ask how old she is, he doesn’t want to do that math in his head, he doesn’t want to torment himself like that.
“She’s three,” Dean answers, eyes flicking in the dark between the mirror and Sam’s gaze. “If you wanted to know.” Sam keeps his mouth shut, nodding at Dean for the sake of acknowledgement. “Don’t worry, she isn’t yours.”
Sam snorts, can’t bite it back. “You all but just admitted it, Dean. It’s simple math.” He runs a hand through his hair and presses his palm against the side of his neck, his mating scar burning like the flush building across his face and down his chest. “Unless you were fucking someone else on the side—”
“Maybe I was,” Dean says, the sharp tone of his voice settling heavy in the pit of Sam’s stomach, twisting his guts into knots. “You didn’t know everything about me, not like you thought you did.”
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