do you want to know what i confessed in there?

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester

Rating: Explicit / NC-17

Tags: Underage, John Knows, First Time, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

Summary: Dad says keep Sammy safe. Dad says take care of Sammy. Dad says make sure Sammy stays close, no matter what. So Dean does. No matter what.

Pairing: Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki

Rating: Mature / R

Tags: Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings, Abusive relationship, Stockholm Syndrome, Dark fic

Summary: Jared’s been with Jensen for seven months and thirteen days. Written for SPN Spring Fling 2019.

Pairing: Dean Wincester/Sam Winchester

Rating: Explicit / NC-17

Tags: Attempted Non-Con/Rape, Underage, Graphic Violence, Serial Killer AU, Possessive!Dean, Serial Killer Fetish, Suicide Ideation, Rape Fantasy, Necrophilia Fantasy, Bottom Sam Winchester, Sam/OMCs, Dean/OFC, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

Summary: Sam is content with daydreaming—keeping all the fucked-up shit in his head, where it belongs—because his savior big brother can't possibly want to fulfill them. But Dean has killer's hands and a keen eye, and Sam's daydreams start to slip. Written for spnj2 secret santa for @dollyluxed (who tumblr won’t let me tag, thanks tumblr)

There aren’t many people that know what it feels like riding shotgun to an archangel in their own body.

The engine hasn’t even stopped stuttering before Dean has a palm pressed flat on Sam’s thigh. High, deliberate—his thumb works at the aching muscle, and Sam tries to be gentle when he closes a hand over his brother’s wrist.

“Not tonight, Dean,” he says softly. Dean tenses. “I’m exhausted. Let’s just—”

“I got it,” Dean answers gruffly, voice tight; Sam flinches away from the creak and slam of the Impala door. 

There’s no great fanfare when they step inside the bunker. Most of the hunters live off-site; those that don’t tend to keep a strict curfew. Three in the morning just leaves a sleepy-eyed Jack mumbling tired goodnights and a world-wearied Cas. The angel gives Sam a quick squeeze of the shoulder before retiring, and Sam checks in on Mary—asleep in her bed, light still on, book spread open across her lap—before he heads down the hallway to his bedroom.

He thinks twice just outside his door and then heads over to Dean’s room.

Pairing: Gen

Rating: Mature / R

Tags: Referenced Non-Con/Rape, Self Harm, Suicide Attempt, Canonical Temporary Character Death, Psychological Trauma, Torture

Summary: Death is not always final. It is not always a choice. It cannot always be orchestrated by his weary hands—not when Lucifer can still reach him. Sam knows. Written for SPN Summergen for @interstellarstorms .

Dean rubs his back, soothing little circles that dig just a little deeper with every hitched-breath sob that heaves from his chest. Sam tries to wipe at his eyes roughly, and Dean’s hands are gentler when they take over—these are big brother comforts that sate the ache sitting in Sam’s soul.

“What’s his name?” Dean asks, and Sam’s not even sure when he let slip that he liked boys; he leans into Dean’s side and sniffles hard.

“Justin Marlowe,” Sam answers. He’d been starry-eyed and shy around the sort of all-American glow that boys like Justin exuded. Weeks of being hopeful of requited feelings ended swiftly with nasty taunts and cruel insults in front of their classmates—Sam can still hear their laughter shuddering under his skin, spreading the cold snare of humiliation through to his fingertips.

Dean says nothing more. He holds him until he’s exhausted and tucks him into bed, shushes every attempt at apologizing for tears. Before Sam falls asleep, there’s a hand over his forehead, down his cheek.

“Not gonna let you get hurt again, alright, Sammy? Never again.”

When Monday rolls around, Sam’s stomach tumbles with it.

Justin’s arm is in a cast. When Sam peers curiously as he passes two-tables-away in the cafeteria, Justin’s eyes briefly meet his own before they scatter away, face paling.

Dean says nothing when he gets back to the motel and Sam’s starry eyes turn into a pinpricked focus.

Sam's fifteen-years-old the next time he cries over a boy. He's elbow deep in blood, slipping on it when he sobs; it tastes thick in the air, tinting the roof of his mouth. Dean stares, unblinking.

His newest girlfriend stares unblinking, too. Glassy-eyed and silent, and Sam feels like tearing his own heart out of his chest with how pretty she still looks.

"She can't—" Sam tries. Steps forward and slips on guts. He feels all snotted up, but Dean catches him before he falls. Blood looks good smeared down his big brother's forearms. "She can't have you," Sam finally manages.

Dean's hand soothes over his forehead, down his cheek. When Sam hitches out another sob, Dean has a thumb sweeping over the peak of his pout.

"You did such a good job, baby," Dean murmurs, and Sam takes in a sharp breath. It cuts his heart up to shredded bits. "You gonna show me how you did it?"

Sam feels lighter than air, giddy in his gore-touched soul. He nods and smiles sweet, lets Dean edge in his thumb between his teeth. Dean grins back—dark and feral and his, all his.

(fic in question)

!! thank you so much!! i’ve never really produced Content for a rarepair before (can i call sam/john a rarepair??) and it hasn’t gotten much attention but i feel like all the people who Do read it have just been super sweet and super encouraging and it’s been really wonderful

i’ve been Slammed with school so i haven’t been able to continue it but spoiler alert the next chapter will end with a lot of Good Shit

It makes his knee bounce, leg jostling up and down as he rests an elbow on the table, his chin cradled in his upturned palm. He stabs his eggs on his fork and stares blankly at the tines when he brings it close enough to eat.

Dean's not even sure why he grabbed it. Flash of silver, a contemplative staredown, and he'd slipped it into his pocket while he dropped condoms and rolls of medical bandages into the cart. It was impulsive—most of his five-finger discounts in the past have been food-based, the necessities of life. Luxuries like comic books and DVDs are hard-earned cash purchases.

He doesn't know where this lies: delicate chain, silver cross. It's plain, but it'd be hard-pressed to say it ain't feminine. Thinking about it makes his palms sweat.

Sam's been on the road with him for over six months, now. They're both still a little shaken up from running into The Hills Have Eyes, and maybe that's why it's a little easier to notice—Sam walks different, speaks with a higher-pitched, soft lilt. Dean's had suspicions for years, back when they were still teens, but his brother—sister? Dean's not sure, and he's too nervous to ask—has been pretty insistent on acting every part the type of son that Dad would be proud to see since their reunion.

It worries the hell out of Dean.

"Dude, I don't think your eggs are gonna hurt you," Sam says. Dean's eyes snap up to him. Sam motions to Dean's forkful with his own utensil. "Why're you giving it the staredown?"

"Uh," Dean answers eloquently. He settles for stuffing his face, even though he's not hungry. "Sorry."

Sam gives him a concerned look but stays silent. Dean wants Sam to go back to normal, to be every bit the same kid he grew up with, but he thinks that's probably a shitty thing to say.

His leg jostles. Dean digs his fingers into his pocket suddenly, slams his hand down onto the table probably more forcefully than he should. Sam jumps a little. "Dean, what the hell is up with you—"

"Here," Dean cuts off gruffly. He slides the necklace over; he forgot to take off the price tag, but he can't keep it in his pocket anymore. "Got this for you. If you want. M'gonna go piss."

By the time he gets back from the bathroom—hands still shaking, heartbeat still jumping, but at least he can think a little clearer—Sam's got the necklace on, head bowed and fingertips touching the thin chain. Dean slides into the booth opposite and clears his throat.

It looks pretty on Sam. Sam looks pretty—Sam is pretty. In a wholly feminine way, Sam is pretty, shoulders relaxed and smile soft like it's the first time Dean's seeing her be herself.

"Thanks," Sam says, and Dean shrugs, takes a drink of his coffee. A hand reaches out and touches the wrist of the one resting on the table. "I mean it, Dean. Thank you."

"Yeah," Dean answers. He can't look at Sam without feeling like his chest will overflow, but he does anyway. Maybe he's a masochist. Sam's smile drags his heart into his throat. "You got it, Sammy."

They pile into Baby and set down on the road. Dean blasts Black Sabbath and screeches down empty highways, and Sam settles in beside him, fingers never leaving the necklace.

"Jesus, Dean!" Sam yelps out, hands pushing the guy away as he scrambles to put distance between them—it doesn't matter. The sight of Sam pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, knee neatly hooked over a jean-clad thigh, will forever be burned into Dean's retinas. "Knock first!"

Whatever voice Dean was born with dies out now, and he's soundless when he answers with closing the door in his hasty retreat. He thinks he hears Sam shift and shuffle, but he's mechanical in his burst back to his own room, shutting the door behind him just as he hears Sam's door get yanked open.

Dean shoves his knuckles into his eyelids and tries to erase what he'll never be able to unsee. Don't kiss anyone else, he thinks, and his fingernails dig pink crescent moons into the meat of his palms, don't fucking look at anyone but me ever again, little brother.

He has a recurring dream, fueled by filthy fantasies that Dean can't stop turning over in his fingers. Sam's in the passenger seat of Baby and they're driving seventy miles per hour down two-lane roads, and Dean's filled with the complete certainty that Sam belongs to him. Sam opens up like a fucking flowerbud, wanton and low-lidded, hands and lips hot where they meet Dean's skin.

"I love you," dreamboy says, and Dean always comes when he does, "I love you, Dean."

The Sam that enters his bedroom is sheepish, fully clothed. His kiss-ruined lips weren't created by Dean—they never will be. Dean stares at his hands and sits on the edge of his shitty mattress.

"Dean," Sam starts, and that's as much as Dean's love-fucked heart can take.

"It's okay," he croaks out. It's so unconvincing it's fucking pathetic. He clears his throat and drags a hand down his jaw, raising his eyes and attempting a smile. It fails, if the downcrested and desperate look on Sam's face is anything to go by. "Just warn a guy next time, alright?"

Sam's voice is quiet and wavering. "I know you—I know you're not really on board with the whole—guys liking guys thing," he says, and Dean wants to take him by the shoulders and shake him until his head lolls right off his pretty little throat. He's so fucking wrong it's frustrating, but when has Dean ever pretended to be anything but pussy-whipped and big brother attentive? "I just—don't tell Dad? Please, Dean? I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I just—I was scared."

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean repeats. He feels like a skipping record. "I won't tell Dad, kiddo. Your secret is safe with me."

The smile that blooms on Sam's face makes Dean want to slit his own throat. He loves Sammy so much it makes him go fucking crazy. "Thanks, Dean," Sam breathes out.

Dean wants to punch every guy that Sam has ever wanted to kiss. "Just experimenting, or do you, uh, like that kid?" He has to know. He has to know how badly his fingers will itch to dig into his own guts.

Sam's eyes go dreamy, distant, shy, starry—Dean hates it. Wants it all for himself. Sam's too pretty for fifteen-years-old. "Yeah," he says quietly, sweetly, breathily. Dean's gonna replay it in his mind when he jerks off tonight. "I like him."

I have this dream, Sammy, Dean wants to say. He opens his mouth and nothing comes out. Sam offers up another smile, the kind Dean's gonna take to an early grave. I have this dream.

Whatever scowl he has on his face drops the second he sees Sam’s on the verge of tears, his hair sticking to his forehead and his cheeks flushed. “Dean,” is all his brother manages, his voice a mere rasp; it sounds like it grates against his throat.

“Shit, Sammy,” Dean mumbles, exhaustion sloughing off in favor of wide-awake concern. He pushes back the blanket and Sam heaves in a hitched breath that bursts out ugly coughs—it sounds like he’s hacking up a lung. Dean takes Sam’s wrist as gently as he can manage and tugs him into the bed. His little brother looks miserable as he crawls in; Dean’s palm presses flat against Sam’s forehead and it’s burning up, so hot that Dean’s not sure how Sam managed to stay standing. “Jesus, kiddo, how long have you been sick?”

Sam mumbles in a closed mouth, and Dean waits patiently, hand stroking down the side of his brother’s cheek. It’s been years since Sam’s looked so vulnerable; it twists something hard in his chest. “Few days,” little brother finally says.

“Sam,” Dean frowns, brows knitting—a few days of this, and Sam could’ve been fried, left to be dragged to the hospital whenever Dean finally woke on his own accord. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Gone,” Sam whispers. You were gone. You left with Dad. Dean swallows hard and Sam drops his gaze, coughs into the pillow when he turns his head. He lets out a low whine that borders on a cry, and Dean pulls the blanket up to Sammy’s chin and soothes his hand down the front of his brother’s chest.

“You need to take some medicine, alright? I gotta go get you some medicine,” he says, and Sam’s breath hitches again; the gasping noises are accompanied by tears this time, Sam’s hand reaching out to weakly grasp onto Dean’s shirt.

“Don’t go,” Sam rasps. Coughs hard again, past mucus and saliva and tears. “Don’t leave.”

Sammy needs cold medicine—needs something for his throat, needs to get his temperature down. But he needs to be comforted more right now, so Dean settles onto his side, pushed up on his forearm so he can keep an eye on his brother. His palm runs over Sam’s cheek, thumb swipes under Sam’s nose. Sam lets out a half-wrecked hum and closes his eyes.