The Throne Of Hell~

Jensen Ackles: We spent way too much time in the trailer that year.  Jared Padalecki: Yeah, we did. We beat it over and over again. x

Finally, new art 💖 also... ✨ Matching tattoos and weecest vibes ✨

“I'll never forget you, you'll always be by my side. From the day that I met you, I knew that I would love you 'til the day I die. And I will never want much more, and in my heart I’ll always be sure”

✨Invisible Boy Vibes✨

+he doesn't have to know.

-we're brothers.

+don't u love me enough?

-you'r such a girl sammy.

friendly reminder that THIS...

...is the dean sam fell in love with <3

And Dean hasn't noticed, but Sam has.

Dad has been watching them almost warily recently. His eyes are glued to them at all times, brows furrowed when he sees them sitting close enough for their thighs to touch.

And Sam knows maybe he should go tell Dean. Tell him it might be time to stop, except he's 16. He's pissed at dad for the crappy hand they got dealt in life, and all his rebellion in the world just seems to get him crappy punishments and lecturers.

And this? This was quite literally the biggest fuck you Sam could give to him.

It's so stupid, and he knows if Dean knew he would be freaking the hell out, but he hasn't noticed and Sam's getting quite a kick out of the idea. Of showing dad that he's getting fucked by his big brother, and it's all his fault really, because he loves Dean far too much than he ought to, because of the fucked up way John dragged them up.

He links their fingers under diner tables, and Dean doesn't question it. Just grips his hand right back and continues his lunch with one hand, talking away while oblivious to the stare dad is directing at their arms as they disappear beneath the table.

They've always had some issues with personal space, but Sam really tries to up his game. He's practically sitting on Dean's lap on Bobby's couch, and when he leans across Dean's thighs to reach his book on the floor, dad straight up leaves the room. Sam smirks, and Dean is too focused on whatever is playing on the TV to notice the events that just transpired.

He keeps it up for weeks. He stumbles into Dean a few too many times to be natural, and his brother grips his waist to steady him. He wipes food from his face, and asks to try some of his pie even if he really has no interest in the stuff, because dads face is a fucking picture when Dean lifts a spoon to his mouth, and he really makes sure to groan and lick up the cream. It even has Dean squirming in his seat, and Sam's fairly certain dad picked up on that too.

It all comes to a head soon enough, and honestly? This time, Sam wasn't planning it.

He was riding Dean's lap like his life depended on it, his big brother burying his face in his neck while Sam grips at his shoulders. He doesn't hear the impala pull up, but he sees the door open.

He sees John staring through the crack, and his expression is one of pure shock, far more grim than Sam had seen him wear on any hunt.

And Sam just grabs on tighter, staring John in the eye as he moans Dean's name and slams back down onto his brothers cock.

"God, Sammy. So fucking amazing baby."

The door shuts silently, and when John returns a few hours later reaking of whiskey, Dean is asleep, all the evidence is gone, and Sam is pretending to be asleep.

Love confession or just a platonic brother declaration, I just think it would’ve been interesting to see the same concept happen

[warnings: weecest - ambiguous ages, somnophilia, non-con that veers toward dubcon, handjobs, under John’s nose]

It’s night in the Impala. Dad’s driving. Sam’s sleeping, warm all against his side as they share a blanket—the second one still bundled in the trunk with the rest of their bloody laundry awaiting a stopover at Uncle Bobby’s. Dean’s awake, breathing in and out, deliberately measured. He breathes in the smell of the leather seats and the wool of the blanket and the weirdly-sweet tinge of Sam’s sleep sweat. Dean’s threadbare shirt is just starting to soak through with his little brother’s drool, Sammy’s jaw slack where it rests against his chest. Sam’s eyelashes barely tickle against Dean’s exposed collarbone, and his hand rests in Dean’s lap.

Dean’s heart pounds. He breathes.

His palm sweats a damp print into Sam’s shirt, fingers squeezing involuntarily against Sam’s hip. He drags his fingers up slowly, carefully, and Sam’s shirt rides up with them, exposing skin. Dean lets his fingertips just barely ghost over it, tracing the sharp angle of bone down to more tender skin until his fingers reach the waist of Sam’s sweats.