she is a princess and you are a dragon. she will be married tonight. do not keep standing outside of her room like that, go inside. go get her. that is what proper dragons do.
not that you have ever been a good or proper dragon. when you hatched out of your egg, your eggtooth was too smooth. the other dragons were rough with you, put little holes in your wings.
you were not bold. you were odd. you liked rippling water and the shine of chitin when bugs scuttle and of course the movement of the stars. those were all acceptable interests albeit maybe not traditional. perhaps you had inherited these through some great-great-uncle or something. certainly a dragon may be wise, or clever, if they are not bold.
yes, you have been a great deal of a puzzle to the other dragons. your body is smaller and rather more soft than it ought to be. so speed should have been yours, perhaps - your mother said it would be like fighting a shadow. if a dragon is not aggressive, it may instead be cruel, sly; a backstab. but alas your scales - so iridescent that they almost shine like the moon at night, a glow from within - you are not a shadow, you are a beacon like the flash of a knight's blade. your father has said at least you would make a fine egglayer, a nice mate to a good male. a dragon like you may still be a good mother perhaps; and that is a fine thing to be; although of course it would have been better if you'd been a trove-hoarder instead.
what a dragon must not be is kind.
you have watched her now for six moons. what a good and proper dragon would do is to go inside and to snatch her. a very proper dragon would have kidnapped her many times over, but you will be the delight of your brood to princess-snatch even at all. when you catch her in your jaws and bring her home, they will love you, then. they don't think you're capable of it, but you are, because you're a proper dragon. you can show them that. if you go in, now, right now.
you are rather too glossy to hide in the shadows, so instead you have learned how to appear flat and round, a puddle of light. (how your siblings would mock you! a dragon should be matte, to blend with the night). you dapple your flank with mud. you perch in odd angles atop of trees, scuttle like the bugs you love - hither, tither, frantic.
what you must not do is fly with your wings full-out. alight, you will be limned by the moon's corona. you will be a beacon. you must remember this when (not if) you snatch her.
____
you found her because of the lake. this lake in particular was your favorite - nestled deep in the woods, between two mountains. it is very quiet; there is nothing to horde there so no other dragon bothers you. a gentle waterfall spills over into a deep cove, and there are many mossy caves you've spent your afternoons napping in. while it is not proper for a dragon to prefer such things, you like to lay in rolling tenure just under the water. you have become excellent at holding your breath, can do it for hours. it is the easiest way to appear as a patch of sunlight.
she was not sunlight. she was the night's joy. the dark press of water. her face at first concealed by many diaphanous layers. her breathing quick and quiet.
she had pulled them back to drink from her water flask. and there she had been: a princess. your first very-real princess. right there, only the reach of a single talon from you. if you had simply lunged then, you would have been able to take her easily, in one single movement.
but you did not take her.
she had startled you a bit; you'd been daydreaming about music, which you'd just discovered, and rather liked. you'd heard it from a little house while you snuck in and stole their sheep.
but you knew the sound of fear, of being followed. you'd been chased too many times, you knew what it looked like. the rapid jolt of fear.
you smelled her then; cinnamon and onyx, and perhaps that was what had blinded you. perhaps your mouth was just watering. whatever the case, you waited until she had fled back into the forest; and then you waited a bit longer. in her wake, a garrison of men, their hands rough.
oh. so they were not knights. they were just men chasing a young woman through the woods. perhaps they did not even know a real princess had been running from them. well, that was a relief. you are not good at fighting with knights, who have swords instead of cudgels. these were just men, so you rose from the water in the quiet way you'd learned from the fish. they did not hear you coming.
and besides. proper dragons do violence so well.
___
once you had smelled her you could find her, although such things have always been easier for you than for the others. you spend a great deal of time studying things - it allows you to analyze them. you have tried to explain to the other dragons that sometimes it is best to slow down, but of course no dragon should be slow.
at first you did not understand the confusion of the people's umwelt. they relied so much on their communication (only words and actions!) and what they could see with their eyes. you and the other dragons did not use these as much; but you liked prying out the little sonic differences between hello that means "i like you" and hello that means "i don't like you."
so it took you a while to learn that you were responsible for what had happened to her. men had gone missing, and even bad men going missing makes a big fuss. (you know that if it had been girls missing, it would be okay. many proper dragons steal girls because it will not bring a knight to their door). for a while she had been trapped on the palace grounds. it was determined that it was no longer safe for her to be just a princess, she must undergo some human transformation and become a wife.
even so. you had gone looking for her (only to study, of course, so you may know how to snatch her best). but that night you saw her descending from the window of a castle, quick and agile, moving like a whisper, clad almost entirely in black. you could see her quite well of course, although you were not seeing her; but instead her heat and her smell and her sound and all the other sensory noise all humans give off.
you followed her, keeping yourself in a cloud so you appeared as if mist. she stole off into the woods. you were interested in that, and watched her scuttle - although of course you could have taken her then, you wanted to study your prey as best as you could. she did not seem to do much in the woods, only run around cry into her little hands.
she appeared to be looking for something. she did not get far that first night; scurried back to her bed. over and over this happened - she would run as far as she could, only to go back again. it seemed rather boring to you, but of course you had been free your whole life.
and then one night - finally, she arrived at the lake. she sank to her knees then, her hands pressing into the water. her head tilted to the sky. her dark hair spilling in a caught breath behind her.
this is how you heard her voice for the first time. when she came again the next night, she did so more quickly, more assured. straight to the lake, as if it had called her.
she had skipped a pebble over the surface of the water. this action was dangerous, because it almost hit the sail of your wing. you had structured yourself very finely to look like a rockslide.
"three months." her voice was like her: it was deep and smooth and dark, a low violin string. "they want me to marry that bastard in three months."
and then she cried into her hands again, and the sound of it almost broke you.
you followed her maybe more than a proper dragon should, after this. more than just back to the castle and her bed. you hid along her daily walks and watched her in the throne room and saw her out riding horses. she was good with dogs and nice to her people and very much a proper princess, although you had heard it said a proper princess ought not to slip out at night and run around barefoot through the woods.
you discovered she is terrible with directions. you have often had to make a path more clear so she could get home again. she cannot hunt better than an egg; you have had to kill fish and push them subtly up to the shore.
but she appears to love the lake as much as you do. you have seen her read by candlelight (how foolish. the entire woods saw her each time). you have seen her build little paper boats to float along the surface. you have seen her strip her many layers and dive in, have seen her lay with her belly to the sky, floating like she is suspended by the hands of darkness itself.
oh. so she loves the stars, as well, then.
__
you must go in. she will be married tonight. that is a human thing, but you have since learned what it has meant. she will go to somewhere else, and you will not see her again, maybe ever. and then how will you be a proper dragon? go!
you have made yourself in the form of a gargoyle, hiding in the white stone. you can see into her room; and the tapestries that seem unlike her. everything in her room is very bright, which is bad for a proper dragon. there are many knights in the hallways and in their rooms, and their smell is itchy and repugnant to you.
her dress is white, which does not seem like her. you have only seen her wear black. she is sitting at some kind of desk, and she is crying again. she smells of cinnamon still, but moreso of grief. you can feel the heartbreak in her as if it was inside of you.
you cannot watch her cry anymore. you have watched too often without moving. that is shameful.
you nose the door open. you can move quiet, because you are not very big. she is within a cave of you, then a wingtip, and then she is standing up, looking into your eyes.
"it's you." her hand on your jaw is warm. "i thought i was imagining you, you know. i turned around that day. i saw what you did to those men. i have been looking for you since. i told everyone that i had an angel to protect me. they locked me in here anyway."
you are not an angel, you are a dragon. you have to keep your wings locked tight or you would explode the walls of this place. it makes you feel big, suddenly. you are not used to that sensation. you do not like to be locked in a tower. you believe maybe the princess does not like to be locked in a tower either.
you take her in your jaws. she is very small, and does not resist you. although you are not a strong flyer, you must take off in a single push. any other movement would be too slow. you must also hold your breath so you do not smell her, the clove and cinnamon and little bird of hope. your mouth would water and you would drop her.
against the full moon, you do the thing that is impossible. you stretch yourself out all the way, a bold and beaming arrow, and you fly. you can hear them cry about you now, loudly. a banner that would strike pride even into your father: dragon. dragon. dragon.
on the eve of her wedding, you snatch the princess from her tower.
an arrow whisks for you, and then dozens, and then hundreds. you are not afraid of pain. you have learned long ago how to fly with holes in your wings. you hold her very gently still, and you push past the smell of your blood.
in the night you are a star. someone somewhere could look up and see you and make a wish.
there will be another lake, you decide. you can find another lake. somewhere very, very far from here. however long you must fly, however long you must hold your breath: you will take her home, because you are a proper dragon.
___
sometimes they come for her, your treasure. you have built her a little castle here, deep in the forests off the map. and of course for you: a silver round lake like the shift of her iris. you bring her books and she brings you bugs to study. you let her saddle you, and together you ride through the clouds and fog banks. she is a shadow on your back; a warm and velvet thing. she makes you music and lives the way she should; free in the night like a promise.
but they do come. you have stolen a real princess, and they do not want her to be a princess. they want to make her into a brood mother, or into bait, or into prey. they always look into the caves first; into the places proper dragons stay. they are real knights, not just men with sticks. they are loud and their smell still makes you itch.
but she has made you brave now, and cunning. if a dragon is not big, it should be cunning. and since you are a proper dragon, and since your treasure is your most precious thing, you lay in wait.
let them come. you will let the light drip off of you, and then you will pour through them.
afterwards, your princess will tell you a story around the fire. she will patch your wounds as she did that first time. she will sing to you.
and in that moment, neither of you will be a title nor a story. she will just be herself, and you will just be you.
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June is Alzheimer's and Brain Awareness month in the US although Australia, where I currently live, it's in September and in Canada, my home country, it's January. Nevertheless, the purpose of the month is to raise awareness of Alzheimer's dementia and brain health. There is so much you can do now, regardless of your age, that will lower your risk of dementia like Alzheimer's so I encourage you to check out your country's Alzheimer's organisation for more information. My Mom has Alzheimers, still mild at this point, but dementia has become a necessary interest of mine.
Anyway, I decided to rec fics for Wincest Wednesday this week with one or both of the brothers suffering from amnesia. I don't mean lost memories or hidden memories when they still recognise each other. These fics are ones in which Sam and/or Dean don't know who they are, who their brother is or what they do. I only managed to read fics up to about 45k words so anything longer than that I just ran out of time. Most of the fics are about amnesia that is supernaturally caused - a spell, a curse, the power of god/goddess etc., however, the first 3 on the list are actually fics about one of the brothers developing a dementia; they haunt me for how heart wrenching they are and just thinking about them brings me to tears, within seconds. I have tried to "narrow" down the number of fics but there are some bloody good fics out there and the wincest fandom is blessed with some incredible writers which does not make it easy! Here are some of my favourite Sam/Dean amnesia fics. Enjoy!
The Flowers Are Much Older by writers_exchange
Today's the Day by Lochinvar (yes it's part of the Talismen series but I haven't read it yet and this fic works well as a stand-alone i think)
What You're Looking For by ani_coolgirl
I have to live here by applecrumbledore (bottom Dean)
What Remains by merrin (both bottom) (part 1 of a 2 part series)
In the Garden(of memory) by roxymissrose
(We've Got to Get Ourselves) Back to the Garden by AmyPond45 (both bottom)
Stranger That I Used to Know by cherie_morte (bottom Sam)
Give the Lie by dreamlittleyo (bottom Dean)
Leaving Las Vegas by fictionallemons (bottom Dean)
Where Do We Begin (The Rubble or Our Sins?) by dimeliora (both bottom)
I Can't Forget the Time or Place Where We Just Met by alwaysthrowsscissors (bottom Dean)
We Came From the Breeze by lazy_daze
I Fear No Fate, For You Are My Fate by intrepidheart
Three Days on the Rack by keerawa, reena_jenkins
of lovers & nightmares by urchinesque (bottom Sam)
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I’m not sure how many people realize that there’s a way in which hurt/comfort is actually very kinky, because at its core you’ve got this emotional power exchange fantasy where one character is vulnerable and helpless and the other takes care of them. In the case of stories involving grievous injuries, where someone is bedridden for a long time, you often end up with two characters in a 24/7 total power exchange relationship without a safeword. It just doesn’t involve as many whips and dog collars.
This reminds me of a blogger who covered femdom romance and erotica novels, who once remarked on a non-femdom series where "the portrayal of sex has an emotional intensity and purpose which is reminiscent of BDSM. The sex is vanilla, but the feelings are rather sadomasochism."
Hurt/comfort may be vanilla or entirely nonsexual, but the feelings can get very sadomasochism! Or D/s. Or other elements of kink.
The canonical feminisation of Dean is so fascinating. I don't know a single other piece of media that's ever done anything like it. Sometimes it's subtle and subtextual, but often it's the polar opposite.
There's the parentification of Dean into the role of wife and mother.
Dean being literally forcefemmed sexually by Rhonda when she makes him wear pink panties.
The way people talk about his looks, like Gwen saying he 'has delicate features for a hunter'.
Azazel calling Sam 'son' but calling Dean 'daddy's little girl'.
'Daddy' is more utilised by female characters than male, often to signify youth, innocence, and naivety, but it crops up often for Dean. The above from Azazel. Dean's own subconscious calling him 'Daddy's blunt little instrument'. Most strikingly, Henrickson saying 'Daddy brainwashed you with all that devil talk and no doubt touched you in a bad place'.
And that last one, the little remarks and plot points that time and again suggest Dean is a victim of CSA. The 'nobody's a virgin' line. The way he is paralleled with Bela. It's rare that male characters ever get this treatment.
It's just such fascinating characterisation. On the surface, Dean is all tough-guy machismo: he drives a cool car, wears a leather jacket and work wear, listens to metal, drinks whiskey, and is chillingly comfortable with violence. But this is so often framed as compensation for the fact that underneath it all, he's just a traumatised, damaged kid who grew up too fast and has suffered through countless horrors.
in an au where soulmates are an accepted phenomenon, and you only see in black & white until you meet your soulmate, sam winchester was born seeing in color.
he thinks it's just because he's not built for a soulmate, that the weird, ugly, broken thing inside of him exempts him from ever being connected to another human being like that.
he keeps books underneath his mattress, stolen from school libraries and left whenever they leave, of big dramatic soulmate revelations. of people who aren't soulmates but make it work anyway, of two widowed soulmates falling in love. a million soulmates-by-choice stories, where people carve out their own happiness.
he resents the fact that the sky is blue on the day of jessica's funeral, that he's allowed to know it.
in "faith," it's raining and dark and sam is so strung out he doesn't even notice the color leeching out of the world, a slow dial lowering the volume tick-by-tick.
it's not until dean gets dragged to hell, sam screaming no-no-no-no, that the world clicks off color like a light switch. sam crawls over to dean, and hauls him into his arms, and can barely see the blood anymore--soaked into the already-dark wood of the floor.
and sam sobs and sobs and sobs because not only does he have a soulmate--did, past tense--the entire time, but he's alone in it, because sam was hauled back into life and dean didn't mention it once.
in an au where soulmates are an accepted phenomenon, and you only see in black & white until you meet your soulmate, dean winchester can't remember a time when he didn't see in color.
life for him started when he saw baby sammy in his blue, blue, blue blanket in mommy's arms at the hospital. he remembers the fire was red. he remembers mommy's blood was almost black on daddy's ruddy face.
he figures it's probably for the best that he doesn't have a soulmate, since the life is so dangerous and he's seen what losing colors has done to his dad. he loves short flings and sleeping around and pretty girls, and lets them know he's not looking to get attached. it's the best someone like him could hope for, anyway.
until sammy dies in his arms knee-deep in a mud-pit in cold oak. dean thinks the world's ended, because he lifts his hand to see if sammy's bleeding, but it's just black smeared on grey and he doesn't know what's happening.
it's like peering through a veil, staring at his dead soulmate on a bed. for days. when he brings sam back, he almost sobs in relief to see the demon's red eyes. he doesn't tell sam--of course he doesn't--who fucking wants to hear that your evil, fucked up bastard of an older brother has a one-way tie to you? especially 364 days from his ultimate demise? no. dean's not cruel, just selfish.
((the worst thing of it all, though, is when sam jumps into the pit, and dean stares down at the green grass underneath his hands, clenched in his fists until they come away to show rich, brown dirt, where sam lies thousands of miles below. alive. alive. alive. until, presumably, he hits the pit, and dean feels sam die in real time, feels that string snap, and tear ragged, and sam and all of his color is taken from him.))
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on the flipside of the genre aware Dean coin I've always had this idea that sam is genre-resistant, he is oblivious or disdainful or both. I mean obviously with moments like 'you peed yourself!' or 'there aren't even words in this newspaper dean!' the joke is that he's not participating in Dean's self-conscious vaudeville act. first scene of him as an adult is him telling Jess he doesn't want to dress up for Halloween, he resists being costumed, he doesn't pick the music and all the music he is shown genuinely enjoying the joke is that it's out-of-place, too whiny or modern. his pop culture touchstones don't mesh with the show's very strict aesthetic sensibilities. also in comparison to Dean who is such a chameleon Sam is kind of allergic to pretense. like thinking abt in it's a terrible life where Dean immediately adapts to the contours of his new role vs Sam who is thrashing around like a trapped animal.
another wip… I’m kinda proud of this one too, but it’s something that I’m probably never going to finish, I’m way too busy 😠but y’all get to see it anyways :3
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