dog

So Sam studies first aid. John taught him what he learned in the marines and through trial and error, but Sam wants to do it right. He practices stitching on old t-shirts and holey socks until they're perfectly neat. He steals bottles of disinfectant so the older Winchesters don't resort to vodka and whiskey. He practices wrapping bandages on himself, mummification as an expression of devotion.

Dean lets Sam take care of him after hunts and it's a ritual they both hold sacred. Under the too dim or too bright lights of motel bathrooms, Sam tenderly cleans Dean's wounds, stitches him together, sets disjointed bones, and sometimes, when Dean allows, will massage stiff muscles until Dean is half asleep and making content noises that go straight to Sam's dick.

But nothing gets him hard quite like the injuries themselves.

Something is very, very wrong with Sam. He doesn't understand how he can be so sincerely concerned about Dean and also popping a boner at the sight of Dean's pretty face covered in blood. Dean just suffers so beautifully. Sam always liked the old paintings of saints in their heavenly suffering, and Dean is like his own personal Saint Sebastian.

If Dean notices, he doesn't say anything, granting Sam a little dignity. He also doesn't try to avoid Sam's help, so that must count for something.

Sam extends the favour of a blind eye. He knows it's just residual adrenaline that pitches an impressive tent in Dean's jeans, but it's hard to fully ignore when he's kneeling before him and it would be so easy to just...

Sammy had always been overly clingy with his big brother. Despite being too old for tantrums, he nearly threw a fit anytime Dean left him alone for more than an hour. Sulking and pouting once he returned. Milking the hell out of those big brown puppy-eyes he knew his brother could never say no to.

One of Sammy’s favorite things to do was climb into his lap. Perch on one of Dean’s strong thighs while he read or watched tv, sometimes just to be close. To feel the warmth and sturdiness of Dean’s embrace. He’d bury his face in the crook of his big brother’s neck and sigh: content in knowing only Dean could make him feel like this. Soft, happy, safe and at peace.

He’d shower with Dean more often than not. Giggling innocently at his soft, gummy dick when Dean wasn’t paying attention. Only to turn around and huff anytime Dean teased him about his, complaining it wasn’t fair. De was older! He’d soon drop it though, because Dean would massage shampoo into his hair or begin gently scrubbing him clean. Using whatever scented soaps Sammy begged for this time.

Sam loved to wear his clothes. Even though 99% of his wardrobe consisted of Dean’s hand-me-downs, it was different when he wore his current clothes. Dean’s shirts and hoodies would be perfectly too big. His sweatpants like blankets around Sammy’s skinny legs. Warm and comfy and covered in his brother’s scent. He relished in how affectionate Dean got whenever he found his baby brother in his clothes. Like a little kitten purring because it was being nuzzled.

He loathed when someone else gave Dean attention. It was no secret his big brother was handsome, but he wasn’t just handsome. He was dreamy like the old movie stars they’d seen in the occasional late-night noir film on some forgotten tv channel. Most importantly? Dean was his. He’d shamelessly interrupt whatever interaction Dean was having, whether it be with a girl or another boy. He’d tug on his sleeve, sprawl on his lap, or hang off of him like a pouting lemur. Whining and huffing until he gave Sammy his undivided attention.

He just couldn’t help it. De was his! Nobody could love him or know him how Sammy did. The same way nobody else loved or knew Sam the way Dean did. Regardless of how annoyed or irritated he got because of it, Dean never pushed him away. That was always the victory Sam flaunted to whatever stranger that thought they could have his brother. See? De’s only mine.

Every night, he snuggled right up next to Dean. Buried under whatever motel blankets they shared this go around. Sammy would laugh quietly in the dark, a soft little tinkling sound, at Dean’s murmured jokes or soft tickles. They’d whisper so closely their noses touched. Talking about anything and everything. Savoring the quiet moments when the whole world was asleep, except for them.

Dean always cuddled him closely. His strong arms around Sammy like he couldn’t tolerate any space between them. He loved it, burrowing into his big brother’s hold like it was the only place he belonged. Specifically when Dean held his back to his chest and spooned his smaller body. Sam would tuck their bent legs together and hold onto one of Dean’s arms while they slept.

It didn’t matter to Sam when they both got a little bit older and they didn’t have the safety of being young boys anymore. He ignored every weak, feigned protest from Dean.

Sammy was Dean’s.

an olympo/roquesebas fic

Roque slowly backs him into the door, palms moving down to grip Sebas’s thighs.

Sebas swallows. “Roque,” he says. It sounds much less like the warning he’d intended than a plea.

In one fluid movement, Roque lifts Sebas against him. Sebas does not consider himself to be a small person by any means—average height, maybe on the leaner side compared to someone like Roque but who isn’t? Roque’s body is not of this world. And being held like this by him makes Sebas feel small in the way that small things are safe and cherished and cared for, which is a hell of a lot to feel on a random weekday afternoon.

Roque tightens his hold on him. “My hand is fine now, by the way.”

.

Sebas climbs Roque like a tree after one of them (both of them) shows off during practice. It’s okay. Both their thighs can handle it.

INNOCENCE THAT I HAVE BLED / CARVED YOUR NAME INTO MY LEG / WHITE TRASHING WITH YOU

LIVE I ENDLESS AFTERNOON / MAKING LOVE TO THE SUNDAY CARTOONS / WHITE TRASHING WITH YOU

Finally got the time to finish this. I’m feeling so so about it in the end, but eh, they have my heart in a chokehold even after all these years and deserve more content.

When Carl climbed into Negans passager seat with his pistol in hand, all he could think about was what if he was like the rest. What part of Carl would he demand in return for the drive.

But nothin’ came as they peeled out of that dark parkin’ lot in the middle of nowhere Texas, the radio quiet humming some country song. As Carl waited for it to shatter, for the rough hands to grab at him demanding access to what laid below the shorts Carl had cut out of his old jeans

But nothin’ so hands, no lips, no nothin’. Just the quiet humming of country music and the rumble of the truck’s engine as they headed down the road. No direction in either of their minds just the open road.

Prompt fill for @dadfuckerfest Fun in the son 2025 and an entry for Moodboard Madness - a challenge by Daddycest Discord Server.

guilt swelling in him and making him nauseous as he gets closer and closer, mumbling out apologies as he grips sam’s hips tighter & fucks him like he’s trying to become part of him

sobbing out, “oh, god.. no..” as he fills his little brother up, wiping sammy’s tears away from his face as if he’s trying to comfort him but he just can’t stop thrusting.

he feels so guilty but it’s too good to let go. he keeps pushing even when sam starts shifting uncomfortably, and even when sam starts trying to shove him off.