Codependency is real

I’m Coda

samgirl | she/her

I post and reblog strictly bottom!sam and top!dean

wincest, weecest, gencest, weirdcest (everything with brothers)

I like sam/lucifer, sam/brady, sam/john, sam/azazel, sam/jake [basically sam x everyone]

love J2 too [but i don’t post them]

proship — this blog is safe for fiction and exploring dark/complex themes

nsfw | deaddove +18

dislikes: fem!sam; fem!dean - just not my jam

warning: I don’t put tw, so be careful

Over time, John stopped pretending it was purely about discipline. He craved it. He loved the easy way he could overpower the boy, flipping Sam face-down across his lap so that his belly pressed against his strong thighs. He’d hook his fingers into Sam’s waistband and yank his jeans and underwear down in one rough motion. The sight of Sam squirming and kicking uselessly always sent a thrill through him.

John loved the sharp sound of his broad palm cracking against soft skin, the way Sam’s ass cheeks gradually deepened from pink to red, then covered with bruises. He savored the heat radiating off the tender flesh, the way the soft cheeks jiggled and burned under his rough hand.

sam core

But tonight, it’s was different. He told himself he was just checking, just making sure his dad hadn’t choked on his own vomit. The living room was ugly and dim, lit only by the cold blue flicker of the muted TV.

John was on the floor. He was curled on his side in the small space between the couch and the coffee table, one arm tucked awkwardly beneath him, the other splayed out on the cold hardwood. He looked less like a man and more like an abandoned child, a miserable and devastatingly alone.

Sam’s fear evaporated, replaced by a weary, familiar sigh.

"Alright, c’mon," Sam muttered, more to himself. He bent down, hooking his hands under John’s arms. "Let me get you back on the couch."

He grunted, trying to haul the dead weight upward. John was a solid mass of muscle and bone, impossible to move. "Ugh, if you could just help me out here…"

Then John moved. His hand shot out. Sam expected to be pushed away, but instead John pulled him closer. His grip was strong and not the clumsy fumble of a drunk.

Sam froze.

John shifted, pushing himself up onto his knees in one fluid motion that seemed impossible for someone who had moments ago been dead weight. He looked up at Sam. His eyes, which should have been glassy and unfocused, were clear. Piercingly clear.

And then John’s arms went around Sam’s waist. It was an embrace. He pulled Sam closer, resting his forehead against Sam’s soft belly.

In the dim light, Sam couldn’t see clear, but he was sure dad’s expression wasn’t angry or strange.

The old man looked up and met Sam’s gaze. John knew that look, it’s the same one his wife used to give him. Disappointment, the heartbreak of someone who had expected better and was slowly realizing they would never get it from you.

John’s lips moved, forming words that were barely a whisper in the silent room. Sam leaned closer to hear, his heart pounding a frantic, confused rhythm.

“Sammy…” John breathed, his voice cracking on the name. “Why… why do you want to leave me too?”​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

He pressed his hips down, rubbing his leaking cock against the sheets. Slow at the beginning, then more desperate, he ground into the fabric, imagining it was her warm skin, her thighs parting for him. He saw himself sinking into mommy’s pussy just like his dad did.

No fucking shit. That’s what happens when you grow up under a manipulative, abusive, controlling patriarch who never lets you breathe. They act like it’s Sam’s fault, but that’s the consequences of Dean’s actions.

Stop blaming the victim and dressing it up as 'valid criticism.' Later-seasons Sam is one of the most realistic portrayals of trauma and survival in a toxic, abusive relationship.