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The Roadhouse Library contains collection of titles related to the supernatural, occult, and arcane. Stories told by, about, and for the community of men and women committed to saving people, and hunting things.
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CARD CATALOGUE - last update may 18, 2026
Browse our card catalogue, which lists each work by title and includes summary details so you can get specific with your research.
NEW ARRIVALS
210.1Â Â CHASE THE DRAGONÂ Â Â (2k)
   MARATHON, Mister; READER, Fem. Sexual (supe)
      you're looking for a specific type of lover, and you find him at Herogasm.
112.13Â Â MEMORIAE NOCTEMÂ Â Â (4.1k)
   WINCHESTER, Sam (soulless); READER, Fem. Romantic
      Sam pays you a late night visit, and wants to know what you remembered about him.
COMING SOON...
291.1Â Â BEST LAID PLANSÂ Â Â (forthcoming)
   THE VAMPIRE DIARIES; FORBES, Caroline; SALVATORE, Stefan
    Caroline visits Stefan during his imprisonment.
291.2Â Â EXPERIMENTS IN BEINGÂ Â Â (forthcoming)
   THE VAMPIRE DIARIES; SALVATORE, Stefan
    Stefan thinks about what Damon said, and does some self-exploratory cleaning.
291.3Â Â ALONE, INSTEADÂ Â Â (forthcoming)
   THE VAMPIRE DIARIES; MIKAELSON, Rebekah
    Eternity is a long time to spend with no one on your side.
THE DIRECTORY - coming soon
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MEMORIAE NOCTEM
âTell me what you think about, when you do this by yourself.â
   WINCHESTER, Sam (soulless); READER, Fem. Romantic (established, casual)
      Sam pays you a late night visit, and wants to know what you remembered about him.
      c. S06.e06-08 (missing scene)   wc. 4.1k
      cw. fingering. piv. sexualized grief/yearning.
Itâs late, sometime after midnight. Through the window, a thin sliver of moon watches you. Chilly, not quite cold, you pad your way to the bathroom, make your way with the lights off. No need to wake up, all the way, for this.
There's a long shadow in the corner, watching you, waiting. It canât be a simple nightmare, youâre sure that youâre awake. You stumble backwards, shaking, terrified. Someone is in your home that shouldnât be.
As your eyes adjust, you realize itâs him, spilling out of the armchair heâs reclined in. The sprawl of his limbs is unmistakable. He greets you, tells you to calm down, but his sotto voice is flat, too even. It doesnât calm you in the slightest.Â
âSam?âÂ
The look heâs wearing is intense, predatory. Itâs meant a lot of different things in the past. Most frequently, itâs made good on incredible dicking downs, but right now itâs creeping you out. Â
Whatâs between you is easy. Casual. Predictable. At least it had been, before you found out heâd died. His brother had called you, spent too long with your silence, until youâd found something to say.Â
Thanks, I guess? and Sorry, for your loss.Â
His brother called again, not long ago. Said the dead thing didnât take. Told you to be careful, that whatever happened to him changed him, that heâd been through hell.Â
âThrough Hell.â Sam laughs, looks to the ceiling, and rolls his eyes. âFuck, Dean. Thatâs almost clever.â He tells you his brother wasnât wrong. He is different, things have changed, but not everything. Not what he wants to do to you. Â
He assures you heâll go, if you want, but that he doesnât think you do, lets his legs stretch long as he leans all the way back, and the audacity of it is both enraging and arousing. When his fingers curl towards the expanse of his lap, youâre reminded of all the things theyâve done to you, will do to you, if youâll cooperate. You refuse him, at least for now, stand firm, demanding an apology before youâll consider fucking him.Â
âYouâre getting ahead of yourself.â He looms over you, arms crossed, mocking you in a mirrored stance. At his full height, Sam Winchester is big. Imposing, when he wants to be.
Your stature doesnât compare, not by a long shot, but you jut your chin up defiantly anyway. He looks down at you as you look up at him. He brings his mouth to meet yours, but you lean back just enough that he knows not to kiss you. Yet. A rough, callused thumb presses into the dip below your lip, pulling down to expose your teeth.
âIâm sorry.â His mouth ghosts over yours, and you feel the shape of his contrition, passing like a secret between your lungs. It is factual. Functional. Your want deems it sufficient.
Almost.
âWhat if I was gone?â You tease, a sultry challenge, not quite ready to forgive. His grip on you tightens, big hand palming your face. âSomewhere you couldnât find me.âÂ
âNot possible.â Youâre in his arms faster than you can think and he is arching your back, making an offering of your thinly covered tits. He presses his face against you, dragging his teeth along the angle of your jaw, an uncoordinated assault on your neck, your ear, your cheek. âThereâs nowhere you could go that I wouldnât find you.âÂ
He grabs your ass, making you whine with the strength of it. He wraps you around him, rocking your mound against his hip, and youâre too desperate now to refute his claim. Â
âNot when you want to be found.â You catch his lip with your teeth in response, nipping it lightly before letting it go. He growls, staring at you, mouth hovering just over yours, his pupils blown so wide they blot out the thin ribbon of gold that usually surrounds them.Â
He looks unravelled. Unrestrained. Unsafe.Â
You know that Sam's a dangerous guy, but youâve never really felt it, until now. Now there is a dark and wild part of him, prowling just below the surface, a thing he's never let you see before. It gives you a thrill in the hollow of your throat.Â
He kisses you. Fiercely. You canât catch your breath, canât stop the way your head swims. You feel his thumb pressing into your jaw, hinging it open so he can lick into your mouth. You let him suck and bite at your lips, leave them raw, puffy and slick from how heâs marked you with his spit, his eyes following the string of it that drops down to your heaving chest with a look that makes you whimper with need.
âYou gonna sit in my lap now?â He stands you in front of him, drops back into the chair. Heâs pulling his shirt off over his head, chest taut, forearms flexing. He spreads himself out, the bulge in his jeans shifting on its own when you lick your lips. You feel ravenous.
Your panties are being pulled down, his knuckles brushing against your slit to see how wet you are. He tugs at the hem of your shirt, expression dark, and you sweep it up over your head for him. It looks like heâs thinking of something filthy. You want to know if itâs a memory or a fantasy, maybe a mix of both.
âWhatâs that look?â He shakes his head, doesnât answer, watching you stand there, naked, rubbing your thighs together, spreading your slick around. He takes his time and soon you start to shiver. âSam. Iâm getting cold.âÂ
His eyes flick up to your face, pausing on the way to note how hard your nipples have become, and he opens his arms for you. âCâmere then.âÂ
You climb into his lap side-saddle, burrow into the warmth of him, your ass wiggling against him, needy, and he lets you stay there as long as you want. He wraps his arm around you, asks if thatâs better. You donât bother pretending that it isnât, the tenderness of his embrace is so familiar. It reminds you of a memory of him, one where heâs a little warmer, more playful.Â
The slow and deliberate way youâre kissing is trying his patience, has him crushing you against his chest. Your closed-mouth kiss is subtle, pressure and suction sweetly tugging at his lips. Itâs not long before you take your turn gnawing at him, fingers clawing at his back, tugging at his hair.Â
Gripping you firmly, turning you so your leg falls open, youâre already whimpering from how he spreads you wide. âTouch yourself for me.â He coos, kissing your temple so softly you could mistake him for that other Sam, again. âTell me what you think about, when you do this by yourself.âÂ
âYou?â You slip your hand down, over your belly to the damp patch of curls, the ones barely hiding your arousal from him. You breathe deep the scent of his sweat and your cunt and the lingering traces of aftershave he wears. Itâs cheap but that doesnât matter. On him, it smells good. âYou wanna know if I think about you.â  Â
âAnd?â He studies you, like you are data he is collecting. The focus of it furrows his brow. His eyes flick between the apex of your legs and your mouth, both wet and open, the latter smirking as he stifles a groan. Not so empirical, now. You are wetter than you expect, when you part your lips to slide your fingers through your slick. Rocking so your ass rubs along his length, you start to pet yourself in earnest.Â
You press the place between your shoulderblades into his chest, arching your back, his fingers brush the underside of your tit and you gasp again, your head lolling along the top of his shoulder. He chuckles, or maybe growls, and it vibrates low in his throat. Youâre awash in a sea of memories, where all at once you are settling in next to him, asleep, on your couch, and his hands are under your thighs making you spill cereal all over the floor, and he is waking you from behind, entering you so, so, slowly.
âNot all the time, but.â Your mouth feels like a desert no matter how you work your tongue around it, so when you speak itâs in a croak you barely recognize as your own. You lick your lips and find heâs close enough that you taste his skin by accident. âSometimes, yeah. I think about you.â
âDid you, when Dean told you I was dead?â He bites your cheek, not enough to mark, but enough to send a shock of pleasure through you, making you cry out. It mingles with the sadness that drives between your ribs, traps your breath in your lungs.
A wave of sorrow washes over you, tightens your chest to think of it again. You defy him, focus on the ache youâre feeling, the rock of your hips in the direction of pleasure. Itâs true what they say: grief makes you horny. âWhy would you ask me that?â
âI want to know.â Heâs grinding up into your ass, the rub of the fly on his jeans rough against your skin. He covers the hand between your legs with his, guiding your fingers with gentle insistence against your clit. âWere you sad?â Â
You buck into his touch, ignoring his questions. The want between your legs blooms deeper within you, making you twist in his hold, spreading your legs wider while he urges you to answer.Â
âA little, at first.â You swallow, struggle to hold his gaze, feel ashamed. You didnât rend clothing or wear black or throw yourself on the proverbial casket. If there was a real one, you didnât know about it. âI didnât really think about it, you, much after a while.âÂ
âBut you did.â You whine his name, protest compounded by pleasure, bring yourself to look up at him and he nods at you, studying your face. âYou cried for me.â
âJesus Christ, Sam.â Youâre writhing against him, your hand left to continue its work at your clit as his fingers dip lower, teasing at your slit. It feels so deeply fucked up to be getting off on this, telling him you didnât really mourn even though it felt like you did, at the time. âIs this what you came for?âÂ
But then, heâs getting off on it, too.Â
âCorrect me if Iâm wrong, but.â He slides his fingers between your lips, stuffing you full with one smooth stroke of his wrist. He uses your cunt to hold you in place, against his cock, harder. He works into you, a gentle wave, the curl of his fingertips making you quiver until his pressure inside meets yours outside and you canât keep your eyes open for the feeling of it. âNobody's come yet.â
You bark out a laugh that gets caught in your throat. It hitches from the force of it, tangling with your pleasure, stumbling over the joke that isnât funny, but it is. Your whole body shakes against him, and he works you harder as your cunt clenches around his fingers with your laughter and your lust until youâre gasping for breath, and soaking his hand.
âGod damn, thatâs tight.â His mouth curls into a shape that feels like the inside of a smile. âAlways said I liked your laugh; I like it even better now.â Affection, perhaps, familiar yet distorted, and a curiosity that borders on surprise. That heâs remembering another version of you through time, the way youâre comparing him to the memory of the man he was before, stirs in you a sense of quiet mourning. You can feel it competing with the rising tide of your climax on his fingers and yours moving faster, deeper. Youâre holding, clinging, on to his forearm but when you try to help him start fucking his fingers into you faster he drags them from you, stifling your protests by shoving them into your mouth. âYouâre getting ahead of yourself. I wanna feel you first.â Â
âThen take your clothes off and fuck me, Sam.â You pull his fingers free, thick strings of drool keeping them connected to your tongue, and twist awkwardly to climb towards his mouth. He manhandles you into his arms, telling you heâs going to ruin you. Wanna see you cry for me. He kneads your ass as he crosses the room, jerky, almost awkward, shedding his pants along the way. Legs cinched tightly around his waist, you lean in to kiss him, softly. Once. Twice. âWhatever you want. Fuck. I havenât felt you since you died.â
He bullies you onto the bed: pries your limbs open, lays you out roughly beneath him, kneels over you, naked and erect. You have to swallow because the sense memory of his cock in your mouth is so vivid it makes your mouth water. Youâre about to bow to it, take him deep and see if the rich, salty musk of him is the same as you remember, when he knocks your knees open, forcing your legs wider, making room for him to settle between them.Â
You reach down to touch him, that same velvet softness you remember wrapped around steel you could never forget. Itâs light, your fingertips revelling in the feel of his skin. You sigh and it sounds like a secret. He groans and it feels like one, too.
His hips shift, the tip of him brushing against you, and you take both hands to part your lips and use him to spread your wetness all over yourself, and him. You grip his shaft and coax him to your entrance, and the stretch of him is less familiar than you remember, though youâre sure itâs not a matter of anatomy. Time has just passed, and your bodies have forgotten. You moan, your guiding hand keeping its grip, drawing out your reacquaintance.Â
âSlow.â You manage to get out, thick, almost drunk. âPlease, go slow, Sam.â You squeeze him, suck him deeper in fractional inches. âI missed you. I.â You thought youâd never have this again. âI wanna remember.âÂ
He goes slower, his cock flexing inside you, body going rigid when you clench around him in response. The agony of it is wonderful, consuming, a dizzying hiatus of time. Youâre certain that this must be Sam, as you remember him. Patient. Deliberate. Worshipful. You moan for him, long and ragged.Â
You guide him home, but when you look at him, his face does not match the one in your memory. Where you should see ecstasy, euphoria, you find a carnal snarl, lip curled and teeth bared. You chase more, try to fill the space where his reverence for you should be with the length and girth of his cock.Â
âShit.â He grabs you, pins you, keeping you in place so you can no longer move. âYouâre really crying.â Wetness stains your cheeks, too late to hide it, and when you try to wipe it away he stops you. He has not finished cataloguing your tears.
âI.â You have nothing to say for yourself, you blink and a few more tears slip free. âI guess so. Yeah.âÂ
He withdraws, just his tip lingers, barely inside you. A string of slick trickles from his shaft down your slit, and then south to pool between your ass cheeks. Everything feels thick and fuzzy, Sam becomes a contradiction.Â
âYou wanted something else.â He kisses you, slow, tender, the way his words arenât. âSomething soft?â He dampens his lips on your cheek, gentle, while he fucks into you hard enough to steal your breath. âYou need me to be sweet, while I take you apart?â His touch is featherlight; his body weights yours like an anchor, sinking deep. âTell you youâre beautiful, that I need you.â It is a promise; it is a threat.Â
âSam.â He grinds against you, face a jarring omission of feeling. The incongruity of him betrays an existential un-knowing, the source of a slow beating pulse of madness, growing in his mind. You wonder if he notices, if he feels the void you see.Â
âI could.â It hits you, like the snap of his hips, that of course he does. He must. He is here to reconcile himself. âI remember what to say.â
He is an exacting calculus where earnestness should be, and yet beneath it all, despite it all, you just see Sam. The same, but different. Dead, then not so much. Sometimes absence is just absence, and somehow that stings a little less.Â
âYou could.â Split open on his cock, you remind yourself how empty you will feel, when he leaves. âBut you donât need to.â He is thick and hard and throbbing, buried to the hilt in you, and you decide thereâs no need to hurry along your parting. âIâll remember either way.âÂ
Immobilized by his weight, grunting, whining from the strain, you clip the corner of his mouth trying to bite him, pull his lip taut and bloody when you finally catch hold. Your limbs scrabble at him, back arching your tits into his chest, elbows knocking his wrists, trying to wriggle free. A bruising grip takes hold of the back of your thigh, presses it down into the mattress. Itâs enough, you break free.Â
His hair tangles in your fists, both of them, fingers knotting around long strands and pulling until you feel resistance. His head jerks, jaw slack, he shows you the whites of his eyes, the white of his teeth. The sound you tug from him through the roots of his hair is throttled by the tension coiled in the muscles of his neck, long and guttering, it bleeds through the confines of his ribs and into yours. âYou feel so fucking good.âÂ
Locked together, his limbs around yours and vice versa, the sheen of exertion building between you lets your bodies start to glide against each other. The smell of his sweat is tantalizing, intoxicating, and you turn your face toward his armpit, breathe deep. Low thunder rolls over as he laughs, a single raindrop of him hits your shoulder from the stormcloud of hair above you.
âThis what you want?â Twisting, stretching, he brings his body close and you bury your needy mewling against the hot, damp funk of him and the moistness of it clings to your nose and cheeks even after you pull away. You gnaw at the delicate skin there, worry at the ropes of muscle that cling to his ribs. âLittle freak.â His tone is a steady, unmodulated assessment, and you mumble that it takes one to know one around his flesh. âSure.â His teeth click together and it makes you shiver. âThatâs why this works.â He isnât wrong.Â
A frenzy builds in you as he fucks you harder, faster, a litany of want and need and filth cascading from your mouth. Your ankles hook over his shoulders, his knees bracket your hips. He leans back, stares down the length of your legs, watches, as his cock glides in and out of you. He describes it in detail: the sheen of your cunt juices coating his dick, your thighs and ass; the sound of you, thick wet squelching he says is because of how youâre trying to milk him, but heâs not ready to come yet; the hidden secret he excavates, dipping his thumb between your puffy folds to circle your clit. You writhe for him, absolutely undone.Â
âYouâre close.â You are, but you bite your lips and shake your head in dissent. âDonât lie. I can feel it.â You can too, the way his thumb slips and slides over your pleasure with the wetness that precedes your release. âYou wanna come for me?âÂ
âYou wanna make me?â His eyes darken and this, you recognize. Sam Winchester, consumed by lust, considering your challenge, and preparing to rise to it.Â
He drags your ass up onto his thighs, still petting you as he starts to fold you in half. Delirium takes over, the air evacuates your lungs as he stretches over you, the full length of his torso melting into yours. He fills you, impossibly deep, needs only the new angle and the weight of his hips to drive him deeper.Â
âHi.â You stare up at him, mouth agape, so close to him. His breath fans over your face, hot and even, makes you shudder.Â
âHi.â He waits until you nod, let him know youâre ready. When he starts to move, a thorough analysis of flesh, you see stars.Â
He takes his time, telling you how tight you are, how good it feels, how youâre taking all of him. His pelvis rocks down into yours, grinds your clit against his pubic bone, until you become his pleading supplicant, pressing your face against his wherever you can. Cheek to cheek, nose to chin, mouth to mouth, your tongue sliding over his in a petition that defies words, begging from a place beyond the confines of language.Â
You are breathing in tandem, your hearts beating in one syncopated rhythm, your fucked out, glazed over eyes hold his until they cross from being too close, revert to staring at the mole on his left cheek. Drunkenly, you kiss it. Awkward, haphazard, you miss your target and your nose slips into the corner of his eye. You snort, he grunts, and the absurdity of all of it tips your chin up, sends effervescent mirth spilling from your lips. You twitch and convulse with laughter, and it pulls him deeper, inside you.Â
âGod damn.â He curses into your shoulder, constricting around you as his climax hits. âThatâs tight. Youâre.â You canât hear him, though his lips move against you like heâs still saying something. His breathing quickens, stalls, whistles out of him in high pitched, desperate pants.
Pain blossoms at your shoulder, he bites you, as hard and deep as the rut of his hips into you as he comes, and it drops you, from the height heâs taken you, into the dizzying descent of your orgasm. Your eyes roll back, your hands claw at his back, ass, and legs to hold him closer, sweat drips from the backs of your knees, and your muscles shake, pull tight, go rigid. Every nerve ending in your body reports an incoherent ecstasy, white heat coursing through you, the blurry sight of God, and Sam, everywhere, holding you together as you come apart. Â
The gentle, rhythmic laving of his tongue over your shoulder guides you back to reality. Sam is still everywhere, heavy and molded to you, crushing the air out of you with the weight of him. You turn into him, nudge at his cheek with your nose. âSam, I canât breathe.âÂ
He grunts, pushing up and off you. The dim light from the street paints him in shades of blue-grey and yellow, a sinful nocturne of rippling muscle. He catches you staring as he walks to the bathroom, smirking at you over his shoulder. He disappears into the sound of running water.
You assess yourself, aching and tender with the promise of bruises on your thighs where he held you down. The place where your shoulder meets your neck aches whenever you move it, and itâs tender when you touch it, makes you hiss. You keep trying to look at where he bit you but canât, your anatomy doesnât allow it. âI think you broke skin.âÂ
You donât realize heâs come back until his hand cups the base of your skull, guides you so he can examine the mark, and then confirms it. He sounds proud of himself. âLooks that way.âÂ
The sheets pool around your hips as you sit up, hold your hand out for the glass heâs drinking deeply from. He pauses, mid-sip, and hands it over. You mumble between gulps that you should make him stay and do your laundry, at least, before he leaves.
âWhat makes you think Iâm leaving?â The glass stalls at your lips. Two fingers on the bottom, he tilts it until youâve drained whatâs left, a small rivulet escaping the corner of your mouth. He catches it on his knuckle, wipes your chin and relieves you of the glass, setting it beside the coaster on your bedside, crowding you against the headboard as he climbs back into bed. âIâm not finished yet.âÂ
a/n : thanks are owed to @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth for their tireless support, and to @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery and @velvourne for the lengthy soulless Sam study sessions. i know they happened months ago, but i remember.
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CHASE THE DRAGON
   âHave a taste, Mister. I got plenty more, if you want it.â
   MARATHON, Mister; READER, Fem. Sexual (supe)
      you're looking for a specific type of lover, and you find him at Herogasm.
      c. post-seven, pre S05.e05   wc. 2k
      cw. canon-typical depravity, herogasm, drug use, smut (piv. cunnilingus.)
âI hear you're fast.âÂ
It was quiet where the room was loud, the chaotic orgy-din that surrounded you almost drowning out your words. It took him by surprise, which was surprising in and of itself. He was fast, which meant people rarely got the drop on him.Â
He almost didn't notice you, standing just beside him, kimono draped over your shoulders, open. It covered your tits, barely, but its missing sash meant nothing between your legs was left to the imagination. He bent to the tray on the marbled countertop, rolled bill at his nostril, angled just enough to appreciate what looked like dampness on your plush thighs, glistening in your tidy curls.Â
In other circumstances, he wouldn't be above a whiff of pussy, up close, he was still fast enough to get a good one without a woman noticing he'd really moved at all. But this was Herogasm, that sort of covert perversion wasn't necessary here, unless that was your thing.Â
It wasnât his. He was into something else.
âI heard you were big, too, and.â Your tongue peeked out, swept across your lower lip, drew his out like a magnet, mirroring the action.Â
He laughed, straightened as he leaned back, spreading his arms wide, spreading his legs wider, waiting for your assessment, though he didn't need it. âAnd?âÂ
He was big. And thick. And long. And hard.Â
âAnd, talk is cheap.â Your slow and sultry smile made his nose twitch, his cock too. You stepped in, somehow closer to him without seeming to move at all, your hand ghosting up the length of his thigh. âExcept when it's not.â It would be disconcerting, if it wasn't so hot. âSo, I wanna know. If youâre fast.â Your fingers brushed the base of his shaft, whispered up his length, swept across his tip to collect the bead of precum that had collected there. âAre you really a Marathon, or just a sprint?â Â
âYou wanna find out? Have a taste.â You were looking at your fingertips, lip caught between your teeth, and he jut his chin up, toward your mouth. âI got more where that came from.â
You were closer still, the outside of your hips softer than silk against his inner thighs, his vision tunneled around the wet velvet of your open mouth, your fingers slipping inside, painting the surface of your tongue before disappearing behind the purse of your glossy lips. His breathing slowed, long heady inhales gave way to slow dizzying exhales. His heart, usually a thrum in his chest, like a hummingbird's, actually slowed and, finally, he knew something about you.Â
âYou're Stillpoint.â His voice was deeper, mellow, drugged, and you nodded slowly as your fingers slid from your mouth to trail across his chest. âHeard about you. Walking tranq.â He sniffed, swallowed to dispel the chemical drip from the drugs heâd snorted at the back of his throat, the delirium from the drugs you were dosing him with making his head swim. Something gurgled behind his Adam's apple. âFuckinâ. Roofie Girl, huh? Hn. Hn.â He let out a halting, grunting laugh, blinking rapidly. âThat what you're doing to me?âÂ
âYou like it?â He leaned into your touch, wanted to wet his lips with yours. âHave a taste, Mister. I got plenty more, if you want it.âÂ
âThat's not my name.â He could feel his body adjusting to your influence already, just like any drug, his metabolism made half life merely a suggestion. Still, the push pull of your power against his made him feel thick, and sticky, and slow.Â
âI don't care.â Your hand was around him, pumping him, soft and firm and warm. He caught your face between his palms, engulfing you with his hands, and then his mouth. The kiss was wet, cold molasses, hard and hungry, but no matter how he wanted to devour you, the exertion of your will kept his voracity leashed.Â
His lip curled, half sneer, half snarl. He bent, grabbing your thighs and lifting, spreading them to wrap around his hips, using handfuls of your ass to keep you there.Â
âTaking you upstairs.â His whole body flexed, preparing for speed, and he handled you roughly until his cock was safely pinned between your bodies, your limbs locked around him. He knew better than to bolt unsecured, had no interest in making his dick part of this yearâs casualty list out of carelessness.Â
âHurry up, then.â You rocked your hips against him, finding a friction that made you moan and him grunt with a shock of euphoria as you did.Â
Now that was interesting.
âHold on.â He felt the ebb of you until you were just a body in his arms and not a substance in his veins, and then he ran.Â
It felt like hours, fucking you. Being fucked by you. Getting fucked, on you.Â
He pinned you to the wall with one arm across your chest, leaned back, looking down enough to watch himself move in and out of you. He shifted angles, snapped his hips, and felt a rush of blood to his head, both of them, and that pleasant-unpleasant wave of nausea that so often accompanies a high. He did it again, groaned as another wave of dizzying pleasure washed over him, huffing in the smell of you, not sure if the hint of solvent there was real, or imagined.Â
The third time he did it, he fumbled, nearly dropped you. He caught you almost immediately, but you felt it anyway, urged him toward the bed. He stumbled across the room with you, just uncoordinated enough for you to laugh at him, tell him you thought he had a tolerance.Â
âI do.â He growled, tossing you onto the bed face down, legs closed, zipping to the ensuite to douse his wrists and face in cold water to centre himself, and was on you again before you could even scramble up the bed. The sight of you, squirming beneath him, made him feel high all over again. Not under any influence but want. âFuck, youâre somethinâ else, though.â He slapped your ass, two sharp cracks in rapid succession, and alertness punched through him, exhilarating confidence coursing through his veins. âYou controlling that, or is that just.â It made him move fast enough that he felt himself start to blur, had to force himself to slow down, at least a little. âNgh. That just you?â
Breathing hard, cock harder, dragging your ass up to meet him at the edge of the bed. Wide stance, leg up beside you to bracket your hip, his grip was so hard it bruised. He tapped his cockhead against your slit, rough, mean, teasing you before he lined himself up again. Another hit of you slammed into him and he grit his teeth, using his dick to slather your wetness all over your lips and crack.Â
âChrist, youâre needy.â He breached your entrance, just his tip, and laughed as you grunted, tried to thrust back into him. âHow longâs it been since you been fucked, huh?â He could see your fist gripping the covers, felt you twitching as he stretched you around him. âWhat happens?â His hips met your with a soft little squelch. His vision swam. âThey all pass out on you?â He withdrew, slowly. âOr OD, before you can come?âÂ
A sharp snap of his hips rocked you forward and it made him see stars.Â
He railed you. Fast and hard. Harder and faster. Every stroke more punishing than the last, every drive home a fresh explosion of greasy, iridescent colour across his vision. Heâd definitely tripped balls while balls deep, but not like this. Nothing was like this. Like you.
You were all wet sounds and whining, you cunt hungry for his cock in a way that had you gripping him tighter than heâd felt in a long time, made him feel like he was going to pop. He grabbed your wrist, dragged it between your legs, fumbling your digits in the general proximity of your clit and telling you to Do a little work for me. He felt your fingers flex, finding your rhythm, knew it was taking you higher, because it was taking him higher. He was starting to lose his coordination, starting to feel you overwhelm his metabolism, a rare occasion where he couldnât keep pace.Â
Almost.Â
You were half-collapsed beneath him, humming into the bedding, muffling and nasal, like a bitch in heat, and he kept taunting you in stuttering, gasping barbs, goading you towards release. You turned your head just enough that he could hear you, you face red and streaked with tears and snot and, probably, drool.Â
âDonât fucking die, before Iâm done.â Your eyes went white, his vision too, as your climax took hold of you both. The high was an onslaught, like a salvia trip, but better. Orgasmic transcendentalism.Â
Fucking you made him a man, converted. Taking ayahuasca in the Amazon had him thinking heâd seen God, bleeding through the rainforest, but this. This was the only God he really wanted, of cock and pussy and every high imaginable, combined, contained within the covenant of your cunt.Â
He didnât even know if he came until he felt the evidence of it leaking out of you and down his balls, all the proof he needed dripping onto the bed. He pulled out, fast hands catching it all the sticky wetness they could, stuffing it back into you, scooping whatever wouldnât stay there onto his fingers and shoving them into your panting, open mouth.Â
You suckled and nipped and lapped up every trace of you from his knuckles, and as you recovered yourself his mind cleared. He took a deep breath, chest heaving, watching you work your mouth around his hand and realized, he wasnât going soft. Not even a little, not at all. Â
âYou do that, too?â He cradled your chin, tipped your face up to look at him, your smile that met him an act of predation. He groaned with want, renewed even faster than he was used to, squeezed your cheeks, puckering your lips, felt his cock dip and bob with how full you were making it. âYeah, you do.âÂ
âOn your back.â You let him keep hold of your face, words still pinched by his fingers. You rose to stand on your knees, he still towered over you, and you stayed there, your silent challenge and his achingly hard cock between you. âCâmon, Mister. Play nice.âÂ
âThatâs still not my name.â He liked the feeling of looming over you, the barely-there clarity of mind you were allowing.Â
âAnd I still donât care.â You grin, cruel and distorted, your face twisting around his grip. âSeriosuly. I donât wanna drop you to ride you, but I will.âÂ
He choked on a mixture of lust and pride and rage, his hand becoming a vice for a moment before letting you go roughly. He barked a laugh at the dazed and stupid look on your face when he was just gone a second later.Â
âCome on then, baby.â Stretched out behind you on the bed, his erection proud and weeping, he folded his hands behind his head, smug and self-satisfied. âLetâs see what else youâve got.âÂ
You turned, eyes dark, and started crawling up his body. Your cunt grazed the tip of his hard on, but instead of stopping, settling, sliding down on him to take him for a ride, you kept going. He smirked, figuring it out, and scooted down, making space for you as you arrived, knocking his hands out of the way as you straddled his face, hovering over him until he gripped your thighs and pulled you down.
Somewhere, he thought he could smell smoke, sweet and dank, but as your cunt descended, his world became the stink of sweat and pussy and spunk.
When he started eat, he felt the buoyant numbness of morphine spread throughout his limbs, giving way to the sweet oblivion of China White when you started to ride.Â
His last coherent thought was that he was absolutely ratfucked from there on out. Nothing, no combination of drugs or porn or hookers, would ever come close to this. To you.Â
Heâd have to be fast. If he wasnât, heâd be chasing this dragon forever.
a/n : for @ambiguous-avery, who's jonesing for a fix. thank you for inspiring this!
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Welcome to the Card Catalogue
Here you will find our complete holdings listed by call number and title, with summary details included to refine your search.
Please note : Brief content warnings are included in the card catalogue details, with more detailed warnings included within the holding entry proper.
111.1Â Â LACUNAEÂ Â Â (7.8k)
   WINCHESTER, Sam; READER, Fem. Stranger to Romantic
      what if there was an extra set of hands the night zombies overran Sioux Falls?
      c.S05.e15 (missing scene)  cw.violence/gore, angst, zombies, smut
112.11Â Â MEET CUTE (WIP)Â Â Â (forthcoming)
   WINCHESTER, Sam; READER, Fem. Romantic
      you meet Sam Winchester for the very first time.
      c.S02.E06 (missing scene)   cw.pwp, smut (see post cw)
112.12Â Â CEREAL AND COFFEEÂ Â Â (2.9k)
   WINCHESTER, Sam; READER, Fem. Romantic
      Sam comes by for morning coffee.
      c.S02-S03 (unspecified)  cw.pwp, smut (see post cw)
112.13Â Â MEMORIAE NOCTEMÂ Â Â (forthcoming)
   WINCHESTER, Sam; READER, Fem. Romantic
      Sam pay you a late night visit, and wants to know what you remembered about him.
      c.S06.e06-08 (missing scene)  cw.pwp, smut (see post cw)
112.14Â Â GORGEOUS MORNINGÂ Â Â (3.45k)
   WINCHESTER, Sam; READER, Fem. Romantic
      Sam drops by for a wake up call.
      c.post-S10 (unspecified)  cw.pwp, smut (see post cw)
121.1Â Â GRIEF, FOR THE GRIEVINGÂ Â Â (5.8k)
   WINCHESTER, Dean; READER, Fem. Platonic to Romantic
      Dean copes with the death of his father.
      c.S02.e02 (missing scene)  cw.grief, smut, drinking & driving, ref. to MCD (WINCHESTER, John)
121.2Â Â OVER THE HILLS (AND FAR AWAY)Â Â Â (2.3k / 15 poems +1)
   WINCHESTER, Dean; READER, Fem. Romantic
      15 poems +1, about loving and mourning dean winchester.
      c.series duration  cw.MCD, grief, smut
121.3Â Â EVERYTHING NICEÂ Â Â (3k)
   WINCHESTER, Dean; READER, Fem. Romantic
      Dean finds a favourite place to go for pie.
      c.bunker era  cw.none
121.4Â Â CAROUSEL (OF TIME)Â Â Â (3.2k)
   WINCHESTER, Dean (uncle); WINCHESTER, Niece; WINCHESTER, Sam (father); et al.     Â
when dean becomes an uncle, it will change his life.
c.post-series  cw.family dynamics, MCD (natural causes), grief
123.1Â Â ROOKIE LEAGUEÂ Â Â (10.3k / 4 parts)
   WINCHESTER, Dean; READER, Fem. Romantic (hunter)
      Dean is sent to back up a rookie hunter in upstate New York.
      c.pre-series, post-stanford departure  cw.canon-typical violence
1st BASEÂ (1.7k) | 2ND BASEÂ (1.9k) | 3RD BASEÂ (3.8k) | HOME PLATEÂ (2.9k)
123.2  con¡âtrac¡âture (kÉn-Ëtrak-chÉr)   (forthcoming)
   WINCHESTER, Dean; READER, Fem. Sexual (mysterious)
      Dean grapples with the Mark of Cain, spiraling into a depth of madness even he may not be able to survive.
      c.S10.e04-14 (concurrent)  cw.violence, gore, mental instability, smut (see post cw)
141.1Â Â A SHADOW AT NOONÂ Â Â (6.1k)
   WINCHESTER, Mary; MASTERS, Meg
      a mysterious rider arrives at the Cathouse in search of information...
      c.Blackbird Western AU by @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth cw.smut (wlw; see post cw), prostitution
150.1 THE PRANK : A THEOLOGICAL ANALYSISÂ Â Â (2.6k)
   WINCHESTER, Sam and Dean, et al.
      a love letter to the brotherly prank war and the power of laughter.
      c.S10.e18-21 (missing scenes)  cw.pranks, smut (inexplicit)
150.2Â Â THE DEW : A DEDICATED PRACTICEÂ Â Â (6k)
   WINCHESTER, Sam and Dean; AUTHOR, NB Nuisance; et al.
      just a li'l guy, crushin' Dews in the bunker with the Winchesters & co.
      c.S09.e01-09 (missing scenes)  cw.none
160.1  alcoholic dean winchester   (339, reblog)
   WINCHESTER, Dean
      c.general  cw.alcoholism
160.2  salvaged   (303, tag response)
   SINGER, Bobby
      c.general  cw.drunk driving
160.3  flagstaff   (382, tag response)
   WINCHESTER, Sam
      c.1996  cw.larcony, child abuse
160.4  bicycles   (183, reblogs)
   WINCHESTER, Dean; WINCHESTER, Sam
      c.pre-series  cw.none
160.5  champagne   (246)
   WINCHESTER, Sam; MOORE, Jessica
      c.2005  cw.grief, MCD
170.1  celine dion   (reblog thread, w @aniresrene)
   WINCHESTER, Sam; DION, Celine
      c.general  cw.crack HC
210.1Â Â CHASE THE DRAGONÂ Â Â (2k)
   MARATHON, Mister; READER, Fem. Sexual (supe)
      you're looking for a specific type of lover, and you find him at Herogasm.
      c.post-seven, pre S05.e05  cw.canon-typical depravity, herogasm, drug use, smut
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a/n : invoking the spirit of Scheherezade, the storyteller with one thousand and one tales, this is a series of shorts exactly one thousand and one words in length.Â
Please remember to feed you local fanfic authors by reblogging!
Big hands hold onto your inner thighs, press them up and open, present, but with pressure thatâs a little too gentle, too timid.Â
Big hands, with thick broad palms, that should grip and pin and control you but the pads of their fingers feel shy against your flesh.Â
Everything feels almost. Not quite. Just this side of what youâre craving.Â
The tongue at your slit is the same, too soft, too hesitant, lapping light little ice cream licks at the fluttering of your hole when all you want is the hot invasive plunge of penetration.Â
The dissonance between what you want and what you need and what youâre being given makes your skin crawl.Â
You spread your legs until they ache, hips burning from the effort. You grit your teeth against the urge to force the contact youâre craving.Â
âSam.â You bite his name out from low in your throat and knot his hair around your fingers. âMore.âÂ
He looks up at you, eyes as glossy as his lips and chin. You meet his stare, buck up toward his mouth, your body begging in a way your words canât.
âDonât wanna hurt you.âÂ
Youâre shaking, pushing him down, guiding him back to your folds.Â
âYou wonât.â You drag his face through your cunt before he can even open his mouth, stick his flat tongue out like a begging dog. âNeed your tongue inside me.âÂ
One hand pushes on the back of his head, the other presses his hand down on your thigh, and thatâs all he needs for encouragement.Â
Big hands grip your thighs, pin you down, immobilize you. He lets you smear your pussy over his face once more before he tenses, shifts, closes his eyes, and buries his face in you.
The familiar mixture of spit and slick coats you, paints his features in you. He flicks his tongue across your entrance and you tug on his hair so hard he grunts into your pussy.Â
âJesus Christ, I said tongue fuck me, Sam.â
The blunt edges of his teeth rake over your folds. You gurgle, grind his mouth against you until finally, finally he gives you what you want.Â
He nuzzles against your clit as he works your lips open and open again, the tip of his tongue breaching your entrance, firm muscle starting to find its time as it licks in and out of you.Â
The sounds he makes are wet and hungry. Filthy.Â
You shiver and whine at the momentary coolness of him sucking against you, slurping up his drool. Skin slaps on skin as he handles you roughly, the tip of his nose rubbing over your clit. You arch off the bed, a high pitched moan in the shape of his name echoes through the room.Â
âThis what you wanted?â He laughs against you, the heat and vibration working into your core. You nod, chasing the sensation.
His teeth scrape against you, not so blunt this time. Your hands fly from his hair, down between your legs, bracketing your mound on either side of his face, pulling yourself taut, opening yourself wider for him.Â
His tongue swirls around your asshole, coating it with spit, flicking over it a few times before licking all the way up to your clit. He isnât gentle as he starts working at you in earnest, all tongue and teeth and lips, sealed tight around your sensitive bundle of nerves, sucking hard and making you squirm.Â
He releases your leg, tip of his pinky finger brushing your asshole. He pauses his attention on your clit to spit on you, the sound of it making you flinch along with the spatter of wetness, the roll of his finger through it to help resume the slow, deliberate slip of it into your ass.Â
Mouth back on your clit, one finger working into your ass, he slides two more into your ready cunt, making you convulse at the unexpected fullness from it. Not as full as you could be, not as full as you have been, but full enough.Â
For now.
The knuckle of his ring finger presses into you as he pumps his fingers in and out of you. When you look down at him, you can just see the wrinkle at the bridge of his nose, like he is snarling as he devours you.Â
âOh, fuck, Sam.â Your hips rock into him, match his tempo, ride his hand desperately toward your high. âFuck, Iâm so close.âÂ
âThen come for me.â Â
You thrash, sweat clings to your skin, damp and dewy. Your chin tips to the ceiling, chest heaving as you try to suck in enough air to keep you from blacking out.Â
You are consumed by the nexus of pleasure buried between your legs, beneath your hands and Samâs. The building intensity leads only one place.Â
Pleasure pours over you, harsh and needy, your whole body constricting around him, clenching as if you could pull him deeper, make him part of you. As if you could make it last.
It doesnât.Â
The rapturous tide of your release rushes away from you, same as always. He eases you back down, gentle as he unwinds you just enough to crawl up your body and let his weight settle over you.Â
He drags a hand over his mouth, wiping some of you off his chin. You taste yourself on him when he kisses you, hard and hungry, his cock at half mast when you find him nudging against your core.
âCunt doesnât keep you hard, Sammy?â He twitches in your hand, velvet beneath your fingers starting to pull taut at your taunts.Â
âWas busy.â He tugs at you with his teeth: your lips, your jaw, your neck. His cock fills your fist as you coat him in the mess he left between your legs. âDidnât you notice?"
âSam.â You bite his name out, needier than before. You line him up, grab a handful of his ass, drawing him into you, begging with your body again. âMore.â
Thank you so much for reading. Gratitude for likes, comments, and vibes. I appreciate you!
Please remember to feed you local fanfic authors by reblogging!
What you must understand about Dean is that he is an alcoholic. While you'd think you'd maybe have seen him drunk more often, he's been this way so long, hiding it is second nature.
Dean's first drink of every day is for the tremors in his hands. It's not full on DTs because he knows how much to drink to keep himself functional. Alive.
He just needs to keep an even keel, at least until the driving or the hunting or the day is over, though that can come at any time. Then he can relax, retreat into that comfortable silence only his brother truly understands, and quietly bury a bottle, both of them pretending not to notice the 3:1 ratio of his consumption to Sam's.
Sam ignores a lot, tolerates what he can, but everything else he just looks the other way. The hidden bottles he finds, the sweat sour stench of booze that clings to his brother even fresh from a shower. It is always old and always new, and the mingling of the sweetsharp newness and the sourblunt staleness is so cloying sometimes he cannot stand too close without being overwhelmed. When the acrid stench of last night's vomit cuts through the cover of coffee breath, Sam says nothing, but takes the keys and these are now the few occasions when Dean allows Sam to drive.
He doesn't stumble, might sway or lurch or sometimes even stagger from whatever is his drinking chair to wherever his bed that night may be. He refuses assistance, never says boo about the random bruises, often hip height, from sharp corners of dressers and tables and desks that must have moved since he last crossed their paths.
He collapses, fully dressed, boots on, and if the world is spinning too much, and sometimes if it hasn't spun enough, he will fumble with the flask beneath his pillow, the one there for that first drink for his shaking hands in the morning and swallows back enough that to lose consciousness.
I was bored and just curious, what are some of your favourite personal headcanons for Supernatural?
You might not have actually written them down anywhere, but the things you just kind of know, y'know?
Sorry if this is a strange question, just a thought I had!
Also, I would greatly appreciate it if you could keep this SFW please, sorry if that's too picky!
Hello my dear! Thank you so much for this lovely ask, I LOVE thinking about headcanons, this is so fun! Super happy to keep it SFW!
I was surprised that I had to think about this for a while. I feel like my HCs are often contradictory to each other, so don't let that put you off. đ
My first one came to me randomly, and it's that Sam gets a lot of tummy aches. We know he has a â¨sensitive digestive system⨠through Dean telling us he gets gassy when he eats a burrito. And let's face it, the life on the road must be hell in that way anyway. đ Once he's in the bunker, he gets to use hot water bottles. Just curls up with them with a good book or an interesting podcast. You know what they say: hot girls have stomach issues. â¤ď¸
&
My second one is about Dean, and his love for trashy reality TV. This man just loves the cheap, indulgent stuff - be it food or movies. You can't tell me he doesn't also enjoy a dumbass show (said lovingly) about rich idiots shouting at each other - yes, I might be talking about the Housewives shows. I can just see him chuckling at the drama while throwing back some beers and munching on some salty snacks. He might be living on the road and have no steady life, but at least he's not getting any Chardonnay thrown in his face.
I would love it if someone else wants to share their SFW headcanons! These are so fun, so I'm adding some no pressure tags! â¤ď¸ @kblognar @jollyhunter @bettystonewell @ambiguous-avery @chevroletdean @aniresrene @mellowyellowdaydream @my-stories-vault
Listen to me, okay? Come in close. I heard this from a friend of a friend about that old guy who runs the salvage.
Bobby Singer is the Sioux Falls town drunk, and is a secret legend among the local youth, wild spirits teetering on freedom.
He is a scrapper, strictly speaking, but he's good enough with a wrench for minor fix ups, and many's the time he's towed a minor fender bender back to the yard, rather than over to Roy's, the local mechanic.
Some tearstreaked, tipsy teenager or a sullen, slowly sobering twentysomething sunk against the passenger seat of his tow truck, Bobby will hand them a travel packet of Kleenex or a bottle of water as he pulls out in the road.
He tows the car into the small bay he keeps for personal use, drops it down and parks the truck. He looks across the cab at whatever heap of regretfulness is staring out the window, nods to the house.
"Makin' coffee."
When he comes back, the kid is usually hovering around the bay, maybe sitting or even lying on the beat up picnic table just outside. Bobby will hand them a mug and drop a packet of sugar and a packet of coffee whitener, pats them on the back and ducks into the bay.
They pay him cash, exchange few words, a pointed look from the old scrapper enough to elicit contrition, unspoken but profound, and while they do not say it, these young'uns will never drink and drive again.
Perhaps it is a service to the child that he once was, the child he never got to have with Karen, the children he loved but weren't his own to guide. Perhaps it is much simpler, though.
Perhaps it is that, sometimes, folks just need a second chance.
I was bored and just curious, what are some of your favourite personal headcanons for Supernatural?
You might not have actually written them down anywhere, but the things you just kind of know, y'know?
Sorry if this is a strange question, just a thought I had!
Also, I would greatly appreciate it if you could keep this SFW please, sorry if that's too picky!
Hello my dear! Thank you so much for this lovely ask, I LOVE thinking about headcanons, this is so fun! Super happy to keep it SFW!
I was surprised that I had to think about this for a while. I feel like my HCs are often contradictory to each other, so don't let that put you off. đ
My first one came to me randomly, and it's that Sam gets a lot of tummy aches. We know he has a â¨sensitive digestive system⨠through Dean telling us he gets gassy when he eats a burrito. And let's face it, the life on the road must be hell in that way anyway. đ Once he's in the bunker, he gets to use hot water bottles. Just curls up with them with a good book or an interesting podcast. You know what they say: hot girls have stomach issues. â¤ď¸
&
My second one is about Dean, and his love for trashy reality TV. This man just loves the cheap, indulgent stuff - be it food or movies. You can't tell me he doesn't also enjoy a dumbass show (said lovingly) about rich idiots shouting at each other - yes, I might be talking about the Housewives shows. I can just see him chuckling at the drama while throwing back some beers and munching on some salty snacks. He might be living on the road and have no steady life, but at least he's not getting any Chardonnay thrown in his face.
I would love it if someone else wants to share their SFW headcanons! These are so fun, so I'm adding some no pressure tags! â¤ď¸ @kblognar @jollyhunter @bettystonewell @ambiguous-avery @chevroletdean @aniresrene @mellowyellowdaydream @my-stories-vault
Hey, hey you. C'mere. Yeah, come over here. Whaddya know about that freshman? No, the tall one, with the bangs in his eyes. Lives over in Branner? Got a name like a gun.
CW : flagging cursing, criminality, and mentions of abuse (I'm not a good judge of what's SFW!)
Sam Winchester is kind of a weird guy. Quiet, keeps to himself, mostly, always buried in the back stacks of the library. Hard to miss but not easy to see.
The rumour starts a few months into his freshman year, though, is something really a rumour, if it's true?
Sam Winchester boosts cars, and he's good at it.
It's not his fault, he's been a thief since he was young. Out of necessity, you understand. When I say the Winchesters were poor, I mean dirt poor. Pickpocketing, shoplifting, and the like, were all a way of life, though their Dad taught them not to steal things they didn't actually need. It was just extra crap to lug around.
His older brother was always better at petty theft, something that got under Sam's skin like nobody's business. He even took up illusion magic to get better a sleight of hand.
Didn't matter. Dean just had naturally sticky fingers.
Sam's Dad is a mechanic, or was, once upon a time. His Uncle, ish, owns a scrapyard somewhere in South Dakota. Sam learned to hotwire at the tender age of twelve, had already been driving for a year and a half.
The first car he stole, by himself anyway, was a 1991 Honda Civic, a boxy piece of shit he drove from Wyoming to Arizona. Sam drove twelve hours and change over two and a half days, finally gave up the ghost when he found an abandoned cabin off 89 near Buffalo Park.
He spent two glorious weeks in Flagstaff, and then caught a hand me down beating from his brother, Dean still black and blue from the one he caught for losing Sam in the first place.
The drive to meet their Dad in Colorado Springs was deathly silent, and Sam swore to himself he'd never let Dean get hurt like that again because of him. He'd never steal another car, and he'd never, ever run away.
All three of these things were lies, but Sam didn't know that at the time.
Me imagining 1997 Sammy starry eyed seeing/hearing this Celine song for the first time and just lighting up like the bright little star he is. Just giddy at the bravado , the way she projects her emotions and vocal strength. But OFC hiding this because John and Dean are so hard up on their classic rock obsessions he could never truly express or enjoy this song out in the open.
Fast forward MANY MANY years later. Sammy in his later years maybe retirment era, nerding out as he scrolls past this and reminesces about this song on its anniversary. Which brings him to play this song on his music streaming app for his little baby sitting all snug in his wifes belly during its second trimester. Vowing to never make them feel ashamed to listen to whatever they want no matter what genre it is and no matter if its considered cool or not.
(How I imagine him giggling and giddy when he watches this again as an adult đĽ˛)
Mother, finally giving me the sequel I asked for đĽ°đ¤Š
how do you find the most MELTWORTHY gigglesam gifs?
my heart for little 1997 Sammy, bootlegging this album in the AV club when he found it in the library :
and he never marks or labels it, it has jewel case but mostly it live in Sam's walkman (the same one he forgets when he leaves for Stanford, that Dean turns into an EMF reader)
Sam never finds out what happened to his tape and Dean never tells him where he's stashed it, all these years, but when he stumbles on it shoved into a Guns & Roses case in Dean's shoebox collection, he full body laughs something like this :
Because it means his brother kept it, listened to it, and liked it enough to hide that Sam was right.
I screamed when I read this. SCREAMED! YES! UGH MY HEART.
I'm imagining it now, that small little memento tucked away in his backpack. He pulls it out and pops it in his cassette player on those long haul drives when they have to pick up and go to the next town, to the next case. When Led Zepplin, ACDC, Ozzy have been on repeat for hours on end and he just needs a little escape, he pops that in the deck, puts his headphones on and lets it wrap him up like a nice warm blanket.
AND OFC DEAN FINDS IT AND OF FUCKING COURSE HES GONNA LISTEN TO IT AND LOVE.
And yea as they got older hes gonna tease Sammy about his "secret obsession" but thats just Dean being the big brother. its a part of the contract. But when he first found that tape and listened to it, not only did he love it because um ITS CELINE...but it reminds him of his baby brother and it makes him feel like hes still around somehow even though hes hundreds of miles away.
This is offically canon because I say so and a Canadiana dubbed it so.
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âWhatâs there to say about a shootout? One gun draws, another draws quicker.â
The Rider x The Whore [mary winchester x meg masters]
summary : a mysterious rider arrives at the Cathouse in search of information...
timeline : this is an homage to @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth's western au masterpiece, Blackbird, and takes place after the events of the main story's epilogue. **spoilers for the end of Blackbird**
a/n : this is an ode, an homage, an obsession with H's Blackbird universe. i want to curl up and live in this world. if you haven't read the main series and the b-sides, please do. they're magical.
this is also my first foray into writing sapphic smut so, please, let me know how i did!
and, as always, please remember to feed you local fanfic authors by reblogging!
The Rider comes to Blackbird like a shadow at noon, hidden in plain sight as their mustang plods up the thoroughfare. Hat low, bandanna pulled high to keep the dust at bay, they sit tall in the saddle, reins loose though they move with deliberate purpose.Â
The doors swing open, a burst of light blotted out by the Riderâs silhouette. Spurred boots clip across the floor, coming to a halt at the bar, one foot comes up under a stool as they lean against it.Â
The bartender is a young man, scruffy, hapless. Not a simpleton, but nervous. The Rider beckons him with two fingers. âWhiskey.â Coins clatter onto the bar. âLeave the bottle.âÂ
The boyâs hand shakes as he pours, spilling as he slides over the glass, fumbling to clear the coins from the bar.Â
âOwner here?â He shakes his head. Not simple, but maybe mute? âYou speak, boy?â
âY-yes.â He stammers, eyes flicking to the Whore eyeing the Rider from the end of the bar. âMiss Donnaâs gone out but sheâll be back later.âÂ
âDonna ainât the name I was given.â They tug down the scarf to free their mouth to drink. They say a name and the barkeep shakes his head.Â
âShe left.â The Whore speaks, the Rider turns, slides the bottle down the bar. The Whore takes a swig and slides it back. ââBout a year back, met a man and went respectable.â Itâs not quite sad, not quite a sneer, but almost. Almost. âI came with her from New York. Know all the same tricks. Whatever you wantedââ
âNot lookinâ for a girl.â The Rider pours another glass, rolls it between their fingers. âI need information.âÂ
âLike I said.â The Whore sidles down the bar, dark hair and round face peering into the shadow beneath the brim of the Riderâs hat. âIâve been here this whole time, got two eyes, same as anybody else. You wanna know something, like as not I can tell you, but if you want that spilled for free youâre in the wrong place, mister.â She picks up the bottle and takes another swig, giving the Rider a satisfied smirk. She nods at the girls hanging off the banister upstairs, tucked into corners with johns. The day is young and the place is still quiet, but nobody could mistake it for something it wasnât. âItâs a whorehouse, see? You gotta pay for everything. Drink, pussy, even gossip.â
âI can see it's a whorehouse.â The Rider pulls up to their full height which is modest, all things considered. âAnd I've paid for my drink, yours as well.â Itâs their demeanour thatâs imposing, straight spine, square shoulders, the glint of twin pistols holstered at their ribs. âFar be it from me to stand in the way of commerce, or the methods by which a woman makes her way in this hard world. If you have information about your former employer, or the quarry I believe that she can lead me to, I have coin enough to compensate you. Fairly, even well.âÂ
âToo good for pussy though, huh?â The Whore grabs the bottle to take another drink and the Rider stops her, hand firm on the neck, slamming the bottom back down on the bar with a thud.Â
The room goes tense, the only sound the rustle of leathers and the click of a pistol hammer from somewhere in a corner. keen eyes, watchful from their vantage. The scuffle tips back the Riderâs hat and a few golden curls spill out. Piercing blue eyes flash from under the brim, staring down the Whore. She doesnât balk, though her mouth drops open in a surprised O, and the bottle pulls easily from her hand when the Rider takes it back.
âI am not too good for pussy, though I do not pay for it.â The Rider pinches their glass against the neck of the bottle, index finger tipping their hat up further before pulling down their bandanna so it falls in a loose cowl across their chest. Features bared to the light, they are hardened but delicate, a pert nose and plush lips beneath, high arching cheekbones, a smooth and angled jawline. âBeing in possession of my own, with skill and experience therewith, most Iâve met who trade in cunt have been happy to negotiate barter agreements. Opportunity and circumstance being correct, of course.â The Riderâs lip curls, seductive, predatory, and she leans in close to the Whore. âYou come have another drink with me, you do it from a glass."
The last thing she remembers is burning to death. Heat, smoke. Her infant son, crying in tandem with her below.
Mary Winchester died, and was dead for thirty three years.Â
The first thing she remembers is burning alive, thick heat and smoke licking her flesh, searing her back into existence.Â
Mary Campbell, soot blackened, scarred, naked as the day she was born, breathed life into her lungs for the first time in thirty three years on the charred floor of the house she died in.
Coming in from a shine, the Rider has no less allure. Wisps of gold frame her face, handsome despite, perhaps because of, the smear of grime high on her cheek. The Whore leans against the bar, not at the far end now but near the door, as if sheâs waiting for someone.
The Rider smirks at her, sips from her glass, rests an elbow on the curve of the saloon door, duster and waistcoat hanging open, wide over her shoulders. Her shirt drapes loose around her, only half buttoned, whatever decency that may concern her preserved by the confines of her leather vest. Sheâs pulled her bandanna free, tying it around her, no need of it against the dust of the road for the moment. It accentuates her narrow waist and the curve of her hips, cocked to one side.Â
Thereâs a bullwhip hanging there, looped and lashed, though if she were hot on a quarryâs tail sheâd have it looped around her, not on her belt. The sheath of a huntingknife rests in the small of her back while a skinning knife is concealed in her boot. The butts of matching, holstered Peacemaker revolvers gleam in the light that glances over her shoulder, leaving her painted in a mask of light and shadow.Â
The Whore turns, her back against the rail, fingers sliding out to either side of her so her arms stretch long across the front of the bar. The Rider releases the door and takes a step inside, regarding her. The light shifts and the Whore can see the spidery white pink fingers of scars puckering kisses up her neck and over her chest.Â
She raises her glass to the Whore, raises a brow too, and then strides across the room to settle into a chair in the corner by the window, boots shining and kicked up onto the chair opposite her.Â
It doesnât take long for the Whore to join her, coyly flaunting an empty tumbler as she approaches. âFound a glass, per your requirement, if youâll have me for that drink now.âÂ
The Rider fixes a steady gaze on her, holding up the bottle to pour a drink. The Whore stands close, begins to lift her skirts to sit across the Riderâs lap but is stayed by a hand on her waist.Â
âAs Iâve said, I donât pay for pussy.â Fingers curl into the draping fabric of her dress, the slightest caress. âseeinâ as how weâve yet to negotiate a trade agreement, Iâll not have you giving for free what youâd rightly take collection for.âÂ
âSuch confidence, turning down a Whoreâs affections.â The Whore curtsies, mockingly, and taps her glass against the Riderâs. âTruly, we are blessed to see the likes of such a gentleman.âÂ
âIâm a cattle driver, hunt bounty some, too. Hardly gentle, regardless of sex.â The Riderâs smile is a slow drawl of soft lips and the hint of teeth. âMake no mistake, Iâm not jilting you. I told you I had coin if you had information and my purpose will only be delayed so long before demanding satisfaction.âÂ
âTalk may be cheaper, but I promise cunt will always keep you more thoroughly satisfied.â She looks at the chair, the Riderâs boots unmoved. âMay I sit?âÂ
The Rider leans back, tightening the stack of her legs, the leather of her boots supple and gleaming. Immaculate, despite being well worn. She grins and it is white and wide and wicked. âBy all means.â
The Whore looks at the Rider, around the room, at the man who appears to sleep in the corner but who is really watching everything around him like a hawk. She looks at the spurred boots, one atop the other, then at the Rider again.
The leather isnât entirely smooth, the boots are worn enough that there are ridges across the front of the ankles, the seaming and etched details all give it a remarkably textured look.Â
âSit.â The Rider holds up a coin, shows the Whore, and places it on the table. âTell me about the shootout here in 1881.â
The Whore shrugs, lifts her skirts, and straddles the Rider's legs, settling her pussy along the front of her boot, carefully draping her skirts so they cover the seat enough to maintain the illusion of decorum. The contact is warm, the leather holds the heat of the sun and the Riderâs body. The curve of the boot nestles perfectly along her slit, all the way up the crack of her ass, a toe taps gently, just once, on her lower back. She hides the lick of her lips behind her glass, and the Rider sees it anyway.
âComfortable?âÂ
âItâll do.â She shifts her hips, the pressure and friction causing more of a rise than she expects. Maybe itâs just this cowpoke and her occupancy in both realms of the harsh masculine and delicious feminine. âWhatâs there to say about a shootout? One gun draws, another draws quicker.â Something sad crosses her face, turns angry. âNeither much concerned for the cause of good, over their own.â
âIâm concerned with the course of one gun in particular, loaded with a single unique bullet, followed that day.â The Rider stretches, casual though it moves her whole body, rocks gently up against the Whore. She feels it, but buries the wave of titillation better this time. âDo you know the gun I mean?âÂ
âI stole one to shoot a man for taking a life he had no right to take.â She leans back, dragging her cunt along the leather, feeling the press of a spur against her thigh. The sting is delicious. âThat was the gun, and the bullet within, that focused my concern that day.âÂ
âDid that man you killed have eyes different from yours or mine?â The Riderâs knees bend, bringing her legs, the chair, the Whore all closer to her. Flirtation all but forgotten in favour of something else. âPitch black? Or yellow, perhaps?âÂ
The change in pressure and the angle of it against her cunt, rocking her forward against the Riderâs shins, pressing into her slit as the toe of her boot drags up to graze her asshole, makes her mouth drop open into a soft round shape, puckering in surprise. A flare of white heat sparks up from her core through her sternum, spreading low and wide through her belly. Surely itâs just that, and not that this stranger knows about the demons. Demon.
âWorse.â Her lip curls in a snarl, rage and arousal simmering together in her. âA traitor, in the pay of those you describe.â
âIâm sorry for your loss, and that betrayal.â The touch on her knee was soft, gentler than the Rider or the Whore or the whorehouse perhaps deserved. The Rider turns, revealing what now the Whore can see are burn scars adorning the Riderâs flesh. âI know full well the insult that sort can deliver, and the need for retribution.âÂ
The Whore looks over her shoulder to the man in the corner, he looks somehow more asleep than he did before, as if heâs trying to escape even her knowing eye. He knows, probably more than either the Rider or the Whore, about what happened in Blackbird that day.Â
The Whore looks down, the Riderâs fingers still brushing at her knee, then regards the Riderâs face, her scars. Her hips rock, softly, so that they can feel it but most wonât notice beneath the layers of her skirts. The pressure, the friction, is delicious, and she brushes her fingers down the trail of latticework scarring from the Riderâs neck until her hand disappears beneath the shirt.Â
âYou got these everywhere, mister?â The Whore asks, and the Rider nods, tucks an arm behind her head, dragging the Whore closer still with the bend in her leg. One foot drops to the floor, the one saddled with the Whoreâs cunt stays right where it is, heel gently rising and falling, softly bouncing on the edge of the seat.Â
There is a slight roll to the Whoreâs hips now, the control on both of their faces focused. There is a light, deep burning and dangerous, in each of their eyes, if you knew to look for it.Â
A slickness starts to smear across the leather, seeping from her lips unencumbered by modesty or the garments that attend it, adding glide to the rock and roll of her hips against the Riderâs boot. Something about the intensity between them, the vice grip on what they are allowing their bodies to betray to each other, heightens the way itâs building. Immersive, nonlinear, a flood drowning out the room and the bar and the town, but not them.Â
The pace is barely a trot, but the slip and glide of her soaked nethers against leather feels frantic between the Whoreâs legs. She blinks, holding fiercely to her composure, says nothing, but grins, widely, and palms the stacked coins and slips them somewhere hidden in her skirts.Â
Everything stops. The rock of the boot, the glide over leather, the building promise of pleasure, all ground to a halt. The Whoreâs fingers curl, digging into scarred flesh, while the Riderâs grip on her knee turned to steel. The Whore grins, leaning down, soft belly pressing into the firmness of the Riderâs knee. âIf youâre plannin' on staying, Iâd recommend we withdraw to my rooms and begin our trade negotiations.âÂ
The Rider is examining her fingernails closely, carving out grime from underneath the close cropped tips with her skinning knife. Sheâs washed her hands in the basin, is drying them slowly as she watches the Whore kick the door closed behind her, a fresh bottle in hand. She sets it down on the low sideboard, taking in the deliberate act of cleanliness.Â
At surface, it seems uncharacteristic, those so covered in the filth of travel rarely afford a moment for such fastidiousness. A hidden oasis collects between her lips, renewed from what had been smeared across the Riderâs boot already. She is reminded that sheâs here to fuck a woman, and not for pay. She plans to take her fee out in pleasure, and those clean hands are a promise that the Rider intends to pay her well. âYou really are a gentleman, arenât you, Cowboy?âÂ
âA gentleman wouldnât know the half of what I got in store for you.â Theyâre standing close together, the Rider looking down at the Whore, knuckles raised to graze across the softness of her cheek.Â
âYou look about to kiss me.â The caress is so light, it almost tickles, barely ruffling the fine hair there.Â
âI am.â The Rider smiles. Itâs the first truly feminine thing the Whore has seen in her. âOnly question is, dâyou want it like a lady, or something more fitting the frontier?â Her knuckles linger at the corner of The Whoreâs jaw, thumb tracing behind her ear, slow and rhythmic. Her mouth goes dry a moment, the piercing blue intensity of the Riderâs eyes at once a challenge and a promise.Â
âYou know how to kiss a lady?â Her hand is at the Riderâs lips, a rough kiss feathering across her knuckles. "Rough trade as you are, Iâve got my doubts.â
Callused fingers cup the angle of the Whoreâs jaw, draw her in close. Blue eyes scan her face, the soft roundness of it, the plush bow of her lips. They darken, the colour of a stormy sea, and the Rider kisses her.Â
Itâs soft, the fingers holding her face, the pressure against her mouth, the feeling of warmth against her cheek from the Riderâs exhales. She relaxes, leans in, allows herself to be guided, up, up, up. She removes the Riderâs hat, tossing it over onto the chair in the corner. A few sunny yellow curls shake loose and when the Whore pulls at the pins and fasteners, the rest of that golden mane tumbles free. She buries her fingers in it, winding them around and through the Riderâs locks, pulling her closer.Â
Their tongues dance, communing in the moist heat of each otherâs mouths, and when they pull away spit clings to their lips and the skin beyond, evidence of their desire. Faces close, breath mingling, they embrace, hands halfway under garments, grasping at each otherâs back and sides and faces.Â
The Whoreâs chemise and shift comes off her quickly. The Rider steps back to take her in, fingers reaching to trace the curve of her breast, then her hand widens to cover it, fingers toying with the hardening nipple. The way it pebbles and contracts as the coarse pad of her thumb brushes over it seems to amuse her, and the Rider grins as she bends to lick a wet kiss over it. Tongue swirling, lips providing delicious suction, the Whore arches into her mouth, back bending over where the Riderâs hand holds steady at her back. She moans.Â
One hand on her back, the other on her ass, the Rider lifts the Whore, tucks one knee against her side, and carries her to the sideboard, rests her on the edge. âReckon you believe I know how to fuck you like a lady, or do you doubt that, too?â
âOne way to find out, Cowboy.â The Whoreâs smile is slow and sultry. Seduction is an art she is well practiced in, and it shows. She spreads her legs, inviting the Rider between them, finding the lapels of her jacket to slide it off her shoulders along with her waistcoat, leaving her in just her tunic shirt and vest.Â
âFair enough.â She shrugs, expression sly and perhaps a little smug. She steps into the space that was made for her, leaned back to look at where the front of her trousers almost brushes up against the dark promise of her curls.Â
The Riderâs touch is soft, incredibly so, ghosting across the Whoreâs outer lips. Above, she looks down into cherubic softness, kisses her again, just as soft, just as slow. Until it isnât.Â
Fingertips slide through wanton heat, spreading her arousal over her, teasing around her budding pleasure, but never quite giving in to the satisfaction the Whore craves. She rocks closer, leaning back on her hands, arching her back and offering her tits up, her neck becoming a long, curvaceous line for the Riderâs mouth to follow.Â
She does.Â
Open mouthed, lips dragging down the roped column of the Whoreâs neck, tongue leaving a rapidly cooling trail of spit in its wake. She nips at her collarbone, at the hollow of her throat, traces down the armour of her sternum before heading west, to her breast.Â
âYour snatch feels like velvet.â The Rider whispers it against the delicate skin of her tit before taking her nipple in her mouth. Her fingers press, part, and penetrate the Whoreâs entrance, her hips rocking softly with their movement, as if it were more than just her hand easing between the Whoreâs slick folds. The Rider presses forward until their hips are flush together and her fingers are buried up to the knuckle, hand pinned between them.Â
âFuck, Cowboy.â The Whoreâs cunt twitches, squeezes, sucks the Riderâs fingers deeper. She can feel them stroking the soft, undulating ridges of her channel, directing pressure along the front wall of her. She lets out a soft cry, bucking into the Riderâs hand, its heel right there, a ready, firm pressure for her to grind her sex against. âI donât think ladies get fucked like this. We didnât in New York.âÂ
âBetter than a gentleman?â Hips and fingers thrust in concert still, the wave of the Riderâs body rutting into the Whore, adding extra sweetness to the drag of her fingertips over the place that keeps making the Whore contract around her. Another finger slides in, three digits folding around each other to make them feel almost like a singular appendage, thick and firm and offering fullness. The Whore begins to moan. âNever count on a man to invest in anyoneâs pleasure but his own.âÂ
Her hand fists tight into blonde hair and forces her mouth back to her chest, encouraging her roughness with a tug at the root. It sounds wet. Her cunt, the mouth on her tits, everything in between. She can feel herself getting close, soles of her feet digging into the Riderâs waist, using her hip bones for leverage. Her knees fall wide, backs of her thighs working to draw the Rider in closer. One hand still holds the Rider to her chest while she lifts herself up with the strength of her other arm and starts to fuck herself into the Riderâs hand.Â
The Rider grunts and the Whore pants and the sideboard rattles and shakes from their efforts. The Rider angles her wrist up, awkward, painful, and grinds the heel of her hand into the Whoreâs pistoning hips. Sheâs strong, holds the rider steady while her arm becomes a girder to support herself. The Rider snakes her free arm around her back, folds over her, bicep flexing to take on some of her weight.Â
The press of body to body, the rough friction from the leather of her vest, the roll and thrust of her hips meeting the Whoreâs is enough. She starts to tremble, thighs quaking, struggling to maintain coordination, control. The Rider holds her. Her wrist and hips still offer the stimulation she needs to keep going, letting her ride out her pleasure. The Whoreâs hand drops from her hair to her shoulder and the Rider lets her nipple fall free, a gossamer web of saliva connecting them as she pulls away. She wants to watch her face, the ugly beautiful twist of feature that is the herald of pain and pleasure twining together that men so rarely understand.   Â
The Whoreâs legs stop shaking, drop away from the Riderâs waist, still framing it but no longer gripping tight. Dark hair clings to her forehead which she pushes back, shaking out the tension in her neck and shoulders. She settles her weight firmly on the sideboard once again, fingers the buttons on the Riderâs vest, tilts her head to offer a wry smile.Â
âI donât think we need this.â Her fingers slip the buttons free one by one until the Rider sheds the vest and tosses it aside, the Whore already tugging at the hem of her tunic to pull it up and over her head. Sheâs about to say something else, witty and alluring, but her eyes land on the Riderâs body and the words go quiet on her tongue.Â
Sheâs lean, frame taut with muscle, shoulders and arms solid and defined. The curve of her hips and breasts and belly still belie her femininity and the contrast of the two together makes the Whore catch her lip between her teeth.Â
That isnât what stills her tongue.
The delicate latticework of scars is woven like lace all over her body. Thin white threads matted down to the pink and tender skin beneath. It looks raw. New. Relatively speaking. It coils around her, licking from her back to her front, as if sheâd been embraced from behind by something violent. It creeps up her neck to its nape, fingers threading through her hairline, cresting over the angle of her jaw. Seeing these scars before, peeking from under her clothing, doesnât prepare her for this, and the Whore is mesmerized by their ruinous beauty.
The Rider is silent as she allows herself to be observed, slowly shedding the rest of her clothing until her body is bared for the witnessing. She has no shame, and seems to take the opportunity to regard her scars herself.Â
âMarked.â She says at last, taking the Whoreâs hand and pressing it against her marred flesh. âBy flame. By death, too, however temporarily.â
âBy death, huh?â The Whore traces the fine webbing along the line of the Riderâs ribs to the underside of her breast. Very little surprises the Whore, at this point, her purview is that of the strange, sordid and deranged. Still, she lifts a brow, lets her hand wander, steps in closer so the front of her naked body moulds itself to the Riderâs bare back. âAnd howâs that work?âÂ
âIâll let you know when I do.â The Rider laughs, bitterly, and turns to look down into the soft round face of the Whore. âThatâs why Iâm dogginâ him; the man who killed me.âÂ
âThe Demon with the Yellow Eyes.â The Whore speaks softly, arm curling up the Riderâs chest, soft skin dragging over her nipple, fingers following the ghosts of long extinguished flames all the way up to where they kiss the riderâs face and neck. âWeâve seen others here after vengeance for his crimes.âÂ
âTell me.â The Rider inhales, slow and shuddering, leaning into the touch, gripping the whores elbow against her, chasing more. The Whore kisses her shoulder, wraps her fingers lightly around the Riderâs throat, squeezes lightly, making her gasp. âWho were they? Did they claim their retribution?âÂ
The Whore just shakes her head slowly, a sly smile spreading across her lips. âI think that counts as commerce, Cowboy, and weâre not finished with trade yet.âÂ
The Rider is about to protest, persistence clings to the tip of her tongue, but the Whore stretches up on her tiptoes, her hold at the riderâs throat helping her balance just slightly, and slides her tongue over that persistence to silence it.Â
The riderâs arm snakes around the Whoreâs waist, drags her in close, bodies pressed together, thighs barely slipping between thighs. The whore presses her back, slowly walking them toward the bed, carefully, limbs and tongues still entangled when they bump up against the frame. They grapple, playfully, the Whore nipping at the Riderâs lips, her fingertips curling more firmly under the Riderâs jaw. The Rider in turn grabs at the Whoreâs hips, hands making their way down her thighs, lifting her just enough to bully her back onto the mattress, earning light scratches overtop of the scars that wreath her neck.
The soft slapping of skin on skin mingles with the Riderâs throaty chuckle as she crawls over the Whore. Lithe fingers caress her scarred breast, soft lips wrap around her nipple and she arches, grabs the back of the Whoreâs head, fingers lost in dark curls as she encourages the Whoreâs lips to give way to her teeth.
Wet suction, soft lapping, barely audible breath huffs against the Riderâs chest, all serve to soften her enough that the Whore can flip her onto her back. She pins the Rider to the mattress, palm firmly planted on her sternum while the Whore attends to her other tit. The Rider arches, the back of her ribs rising from the bed, thighs parting to reveal a sheen of desire, musky, slightly sticky, and clinging to the curls at their apex.Â
The Whore pulls away, kneeling to take in the Rider. She looks more feminine now than she has since she strode into the Cathouse, soft and supple and curvaceous, blonde hair a tempest of spun gold against the pillow. Her scars flush a little pinker, close to the colour that blooms in her cheeks, her nipples a duskier hue on the same spectrum.Â
The rose backed intricacies of how her scars wind around her form invoke the image of a woman engulfed in flames. Her hands explore the muscular contours earned from a life on horseback under the open sky and the Whore wonders briefly if this Rider was like this, before she died.Â
âYour body is incredible.â She is rarely this earnest, isnât sure whatâs brought it out in her. Perhaps itâs the altered nature of their engagement, perhaps it's simply because itâs true. She bows, follows the path of the scars with her mouth down, to the sanctum of her snatch, and offers supplication to this temple that could not be burned. âFucking incredible.âÂ
The heat of her cunt is radiating, a natural hot spring of readiness that the Whore settles in to consume. Her tongue delves deep between fat, swollen folds, hungry and then hungrier with each gush of wetness that baptizes her tongue. In and up. In and up. In and up. She can feel the Rider beneath her winding with tense pleasure, her mouthâs ministrations getting louder, more enthusiastic as the Rider writhes to meet them.Â
âYour body is incredible.â She says again, barely muttering the words before strong thighs close in around her and draw her back into musky oblivion as she ushers the Rider toward climax. The Whore doesnât see the way the Riderâs face changes when she comes, doesnât need to see her lip curl into a moan, one she only half-hears around the muffling strength cinched tight around her ears. Instead, the Whore holds the Riderâs hips as tight as she can, letting her drag her twitching pussy over the contour of the Whoreâs chin and mouth and nose.Â
The Whore is hauled up suddenly, the Rider sitting up to hold her roughly against her chest, the feel of it making them both moan. She sucks the taste of herself off the Whoreâs face, lifting her easily with one arm while the other arranges their legs so the heat of their sexes can mingle into a slick convergence of wantonness.Â
It takes a moment to find the angle, the cunt-on-cunt delight that pulls not so soft cries from each of them as they rut into each other. Rhythm found, the rest of their bodies meld together, mouths and hands roaming anywhere they can reach, pulling and tugging with fingers and teeth as their desperation builds. One pinches at the otherâs nipple, teeth sink into a shoulder, and they each come again with both sets of lips locked together in heated ecstasy.Â
Breathing slowed, fucking concluded, at least for now, the Rider holds the Whore against her, their legs sticky where theyâre still entwined.Â
âWho came for the Demon?â Any formality or coarse bravado has seeped out of the Riderâs voice, now low and thick and lazy after their exchange. âDid they kill it? Is it dead?â She reaches for the pouch of rolling tobacco on the nightstand and begins to prepare two cigarettes. âI have gold.âÂ
âThey didnât kill it, but it is dead.â The Whore bites the side of the Riderâs breast and sits up, accepting the first smoke and lighting it as itâs handed to her. âMy friend did. Shot it, killed it, with that gun.â She takes a long drag and lets a thick white plume curl out of her mouth halfway before sucking it all back into her lungs. âPromptly rode off into the sunset to go tend some wasted farmland in Kansas, with the one the Demon came for.âÂ
âKansas?â The Rider strikes a match against the table, motions for the whore to fetch the whiskey from the sideboard. âWere they the same?â She asks, taking a pull from the bottle. âWho it came for, and the ones who came for it?âÂ
âDemon only wanted one man, didnât give a two-bit fuck about anything else.â She spits, curses, venom in both. âWesson, he said his name was. Showed up alone, but his gang rode in later with his brother, Smith.âÂ
âAnd their real names?â The Rider snorts and pulls again from the bottle, mumbling at the absurd monikers. âThis Smith, and Wesson. What was the gang they rode with?â
âThe Winchester Gang.â The Whore takes the bottle and swirls whiskey on her tongue. âNamed for them, of course.â
âNaturally.â She clears her throat, feigning nonchalance, and takes a drag. âWinchester? Youâre sure.â
âMhm. Samuel, and Dean.â Ash clings to the end of the Riderâs smoke and the Whore moves her hand for her to tap it off onto the floor before it does so on its own, in the bed.Â
âSam and Dean.â She speaks to herself more than the Whore, looks stunned, as if sheâd been struck.Â
âYouâve heard of them, then.â She tuts, shakes her head, laughs bitterly. âIâd say moreâs the fool, retiring to Kansas, but then Blackbird is hardly cosmopolitan.âÂ
âMhm.â The Rider is drifting, thoughts like tumbleweeds. âIâm inclined to agree, having doneso myself once.â She takes a drink, long enough for the Whoreâs brow to lift.Â
âThat bad.â The Whore mirrors the drink, long and deep.Â
âHard to know which is worse.â The Rider muses, smiling wryly at the curious look that spreads across the Whoreâs face. âDeath, or Kansas.â
âFuckinâ Kansas.â She chuckles around a drag. âI do love being right.â
âIt's a womanâs purview.â The Rider leans in, kisses her temple, moves southwest to the Whoreâs mouth, crooking a finger beneath her chin. They share a languid kiss, open mouthed and tasting of ash and alcohol. âAnd you are quite a woman.â Â
âIâd say the same, but thatâs not quite true.â The Whore grins, bringing a hand to the Riderâs tit and squeezing. âIs it, Cowboy?âÂ
The Rider just smirks, nips at the Whoreâs lips, and tugs both of them back down into the tangle of sheets.Â
Later, dressed, road ready and assuming the trappings of a man once again, the Rider lingers by the saloon door, swinging lightly with it as she drags a knuckle over the Whoreâs cheek. She produces a not so small chunk of ore, a thick gold vein in it catches the dim light, and folds it into the Whoreâs hand, callused fingers wrapping around more delicate ones.Â
âFor the gossip.â She says and kisses the Whore a final time. âAnd thatâs for the cunt.âÂ
âSo, where to now, Cowboy?â She holds up the chunk of gold, inspects it, then slips it into one of the folds of her dress. She cradles the bottle to her chest and takes a drag of her smoke.Â
âHm.â The Whoreâs hand brushes the Riderâs mouth for a haul off the cigarette. âIt was my purpose to hunt and kill that Demon, but if that task and satisfactionâs been claimed as you say, well.â She takes the bottle and drinks from it. âI reckon Iâll have to make my way back to Kansas, try to find my boys.â
A glass fumbles behind the bar, the hapless young man still tending it blushes deeply, trying to busy himself with something below the bartop.
"Andy." The Whore rolls her eyes, calls over her shoulder. âTell Donna to ready a letter, let Jo know to expect company.â Â
âYou can tell âem Maryâs cominâ home.â The Rider backs out into the late sun that glows across the thoroughfare.Â
âMary?â The Whore steps out into the partial shade beneath the Cathouse awning.Â
âMary.â She swings up into the saddle, draws her hat farther down over her eyes. âCampbell, but theyâll know me by my married name.â All thatâs left to see is the knife of a smile that flashes from the shadow of her face. âWinchester.âÂ
The sun dips toward the horizon, the shadow of the Rider stretches long across the thoroughfare. They are tall in the saddle, glance back once to touch the brim of her hat in parting and the Whore nods in return, watching the dust kick up as they break into a trot and then a gallop.Â
Strands of gold catch the amber light of late afternoon, the Riderâs unbound hair fluttering behind them on the wind, and then, the Rider is gone. Â
a/n (supplemental) : @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth a millions thank yous again for this wonderful western world, and for letting me muck about in your thoroughfare. i hope this passes muster <3
thank you for reading! gratitude for likes, comments, and vibes.
and, as always, please remember to feed you local fanfic authors by reblogging!
they call the birthday your turn the same age as your birth date your champagne birthday.
sam was two when his happened, and so it went unmarked. a moot point. in college, jess decreed may 2, 2005 his double champagne birthday and threw him a party where nobody was allowed to drink anything but that. she baked him a crooked little cake and that was when he knew he was going to marry her, if sheâd have him.
dean, being twenty-four for his, partied so hard he forgot his own name. he didnât know where his dad was, hadnât spoken to his brother in months. he was alone, and miserable, but he drank enough to not remember, so it didnât really count.
they donât talk about a champagne deathday, itâs probably too morbid for most people to stomach.
the day samâs life went up in flames, again, was his mom's double champagne deathday. the fire was the same, like fucked up candles on a cake that you can't blow out. they just keep burning. he knows because dean remembers. he told him so, entranced, as they stared at the smoke billowing out the windows of what was his and jess's bedroom.
sam will think about it, the warm drip-drop of jessâs blood on his cheek, and wonder if it happened the exact same way with mary, twenty-two years before.
he thinks about asking dean, or his dad, and then doesnât.
Iâm so glad youâre here! You can find a list of my collected fanfic work here. Supernatural is the name, angst with a healthy side of smut is usually the game.
I like to write about deeply flawed people doing highly questionable things. Guaranteed Iâve overthought how to sneak critical theory into hobby writing.
Currently working on updating this collection to include ratings/SFW/CW information, both in this compendium and in each fic itself. Until then, all works can be assumed 18+ with adult themes, explicit content and an implied biohazard warning unless otherwise specified.
JUST THE FICS MA'M.
WRITING BY KBOGS : @vellumandvice
CURATED BY KBOGS : @vellumandvice-vault
SUPERNATURAL : DEAN WINCHESTER
ROOKIE LEAGUE ⢠1st base | 2nd base | 3rd base | Home Plate ⢠10.1K WRD ⢠smut, pre-series
GRIEF, FOR THE GRIEVING ⢠5.8K WRD ⢠angst with a dash of smut, set after 2x02
OVER THE HILLS (AND FAR AWAY) ⢠2.3K WRD ⢠poetry experiment, angst (grief) with a dash of smut
EVERYTHING NICE ⢠3K WRD ⢠fluff, post series/unspecified timeline
CAROUSEL (OF TIME) ⢠3.2K WRD ⢠tearjerker, post series (15x20 canon divergent), winchester family dynamics
SUPERNATURAL : SAM WINCHESTER
LACUNAE ⢠7.8K WRD ⢠missing scene, takes place during the events of 5x15
GORGEOUS MORNING ⢠3.45K WRD ⢠pwp, unspecified timeline
CEREAL AND COFFEE ⢠2.9K WRD ⢠fluff with a dash of smut, s2/s3 era
SUPERNATURAL : GENERAL / OTHER CHARACTERS
ADVANCED PLACEMENT ⢠KEVIN TRAN ⢠575 WRD ⢠post-series, drabble
THE PRANK : A THEOLOGICAL ANALYSIS
OR : THE ECUMENICAL IMPACT OF LAUGHTER ON THE HUMAN SOUL ⢠SAM & DEAN, ET AL. ⢠2.6K WRD ⢠missing scene (if you squint) takes place in the ballpark of 10x18-21
THE DEW : A DEDICATED PRACTICE
OR : THE MOLECULAR THAUMATURGIC EFFECT OF YELLOW 5 AND OTHER DYES ON THE HUMAN TEMPERAMENT ⢠SAM & DEAN, ET AL. ⢠6K WRD ⢠missing scene takes place between 9x01-09
Remember to feed your local fanfic author by reblogging!
Thank you so much for reading! Gratitude for likes, comments, and vibes.
OR : THE MOLECULAR THAUMATURGIC EFFECT OF YELLOW 5 AND OTHER DYES ON THE HUMAN TEMPERAMENT
âMountain Dew pie from the future is what his soul wants and needs?â Sam scoffs. He looks disgusted by the violently teal slice of pie. âYouâre not actually going to eat that, are you? It looks radioactive.â
no ship : dean winchester, sam winchester, kevin tran, crowley, author insert
summary : just a li'l guy, crushin' Dews in the bunker with the Winchesters & co. missing scene, takes place between 09x01-09
a/n : this is pure, unadulterated crack, yet again inspired by the icon known as @aniresrene and this thread. i can't write a reader insert that's a bad bitch queen enough to be her, so instead, you get to do the Dew with yours truly.
Please remember to feed you local fanfic authors by reblogging!
âI need to borrow your morgue.âÂ
I know, I know. Itâs not exactly the best way to start a conversation, or ask for a favour. Iâve been told I lack the kind of social grace that lends itself to popularity. Which just means, Iâve always been kind of a loser.Â
âWho is this? Howâd you get this number?âÂ
âItâs RC.â Clearly, Sam Winchesterâs history of repeated head trauma has affected his memory banks. âLike the cola?â This doesnât usually work, only true connoisseurs remember any colas outside of the big Red and Blue. âYou gave it to me, after I took that Niagara thing off your hands?â Still nothing, but boy does this guy breathe irritation. âThe Maid of the Mist?âÂ
âI thought Garth passed it off to some Canadian.â His brother sounds just as bothered. Probably because his memory banks are fritoâd as well.
âYâknow itâs polite to tell someone theyâre on speakerphone.â Thatâs always how it is, with these yanks. Miss Manners could never. âIâm the Canadian. And I need to borrow your morgue.âÂ
âWhy?âÂ
It takes some convincing, but eventually they agree to let me drive my sorry ass across five states and one province down to Kansas so I can collect a meat truck carrying five monster carcasses down from Emerson, Manitoba. Itâs rare you catch five of one species in a night, and nobody in the Rolodex knows anyone else whoâs monster-fluent with a fully fitted facility theyâre not using, like, at all.Â
I show up in my RAV three days later. Turns out, winter sucks across the American Midwest about as much as it does the Canadian one, lake effect snow not withstanding.Â
âThereâs a cat on your car.â He means my tire cover, but Dean doesnât sound impressed.Â
âYou like? Itâs custom.â I grab my pack and my case of Dew and follow him into their secret lair. âHer nameâs Miss Mildred.âÂ
âI hope you mean the cat and not the car.â Dean pops open the door to a stark room and I toss my bag in. I hang on to the Dew, that needs to be kept cold.Â
âI do.â I have to hustle to keep up, these long-legged motherfuckers never think of the little guys. âYou wanna know what the carâs called?âÂ
âNo.â He leaves me in the kitchen, points down the hall. âSamâs in the library, heâll set you up in the morgue.âÂ
ââKay, dude. Thanks for the dime tour!â I yell after him, but heâs already gone. âJeez. Grumpy.â
I throw the case in the icebox, have to move a few things around, but I make it happen. I crack a can on my way out the kitchen and throw one in my fanny pack for the road, or for Sam, if he wants it. Itâs always good to come bearing gifts.Â
Now, here, youâll probably remind me that Dean pointed me to the library, which is true. But it was not very clear direction, and he didnât explicitly tell me not to look around on my way there. So, I do.
What a weird place.Â
All the halls echo in this creepy haunted way, and there are at least ten bedrooms, maybe more, but only Sam and Dean live here. There are no windows which, woof, can you spell vitamin D deficiency? Seasonal depression? And if you want to take a liâl bubbly tub, you have to do it in the middle of a giant locker room that echoes, creepily, because of all that tile.
Like I said, weird.Â
Anyway, Iâm wandering around, doing my Dew, thoroughly lost at this point because everywhere you go looks the same, and I find what looks like it might be a library. Maybe. Okay, so it looks closer to the forgotten part of a museumâs back catalogue storage. I guess thatâs kind of what it is.Â
âHello?â I call out, wandering in, peeking inside boxes and reading the labels that seem to mark everything in little typewritten print. âSam Winchester?â I wander down another shelf lined with forgotten and arcane paraphernalia. Thereâs some anatomical references I pull off the shelves: Comparative Anatomy of Supernatural Zoology; Auric Fields and the Creatura: The Neuromagical Study of Myths and Monsters; Demonic Dissection for Dummies; titles like that. I carry them with me, but mostly this stuff goes over my head.Â
Iâm just a little dude who loves their Dew, after all.Â
âWell.â I hear someone in the back, but I donât remember Sam having a British accent. American, yes, honestly more Texan than midwestern, but what do I know. âWhat do we have here?âÂ
I wander back and find a guy, surprisingly well dressed and even more surprisingly well composed, considering heâs chained to a chair in the centre of an iron devilâs trap, inlaid in the concrete of the floor. I look behind me, then point at myself. This guy canât possibly be interested in me. I couldnât pick a lock to save my life and Iâm not quite stupid enough to fuck around with the Winchesterâs feng shui like that.
âYes, you. Youâre new.â I take a swig of my soda at him. âHave they sent you to torture me with that incessant slurping?âÂ
âNobody sent me.â I slurp extra loud this time and swish that gulp around my teeth before swallowing with an Ahhyeah. âIâm probably not even supposed to be down here. Why are you in chains?âÂ
âMoose and Squirrel are just playing a prank.â He sounds like a snake oil salesman, all slippery and too smooth. âIf you let me out, we can get them back with something twice as clever.âÂ
âThose guys donât really seem like the elaborate prank type. Toothbrush in the toilet bowl, saran wrap on the seat, sure.â I drag the heavy metal chair farther away from him and sit down. âThis looks like day-job stuff, and lemme tellya, I know not to change the formulas in someone elseâs spreadsheet. If you know what I mean.âÂ
âShockingly, I think I do.â He muses to himself, looks down his nose at me. âI happen to be alpha testing a new Excel suite that I expect will skyrocket our Q4 profit margin quite impressively.â He looks very proud of himself and, yeah, with that outfit, it makes sense that heâs some sort of business dude. âWell, weâre complicating the circular references, and prioritizing #REF and #NAME errors for formula returns. My team is really quite excellent.âÂ
âYouâre making error returns worse?â Truly, itâs diabolical to think of. âThat sounds kinda messed up. You must be a Bad Guy.â I slurp my Dew again, because once I know it gets a rise out of him, I just canât help myself. âWhere do you work, anyway? Is Microsoft actually, like, Evil-evil?â Not that corporate evil isnât Evil-evil, but you know what I mean.Â
âCrowley.â He tells me, like thatâs supposed to mean something. I shrug, shake my head. âKing of Hell?âÂ
âRC, like the cola.â I introduce myself, about to offer my hand to shake his but think better of it. âSo youâre not with Microsoft.â I frown, something not sitting quite right. Usually open source developers are agents of good, not evil. âThen who are you with?â
âHell.â Heâs adamant, but Iâm still ninety percent sure heâs not being literal. âPerdition? The Abyss? Realm of Eternal Suffering, of which I am King?âÂ
I balk. Maybe he is being literal. âLike H-E-Double Hockey Sticks?âÂ
We get into it. The political structure of the Pit, methodology and ethos of damnation, I hit him rapid fire, even though I know the gist as well as you do. How often do you get to grill a primary source like this? Itâs good fun, too, riling this guy up.Â
âI am King, not a regent.â Heâs shouting at me, getting a bit red in the face. âAll of Hell is my dominion and domain.âÂ
âExcept for that cage, though, right? Where the One True King or whatever is locked up?â I cackle when he starts to splutter and I hold my hands up in truce. âIâm just joshing ya, bud. Look, peace offering.â I unzip my pack and hold up a can of Dew, looking at it curiously, the black can with purple embellishment is one I havenât seen in a while. âPitch Black. Fitting.âÂ
He flips his restrained hands with a look that says he thinks Iâm an absolute idiot. I hold up one finger, setting the can on the heavy metal table, it screeches horribly as I position the table so the can is in front of him. I pop the top and produce a straw, long, also purple, with three or four curly loops on the way from the can to the sipping end. I drop it in with a flourish so itâs poised and ready.Â
âCrushinâ Dews with the King of Hell.â I raise my can in cheers and he rolls his eyes but still takes a long sip through the curly straw.Â
âBeggars, choosers.â He smacks his lips and takes another sip. He frowns, nods, as if to say Not bad. âWhat is that horrible accent?â
âUh. Canadian, I guess. Sort of a rude way to ask where Iâm from, though, eh?â I kick my feet up in the corner of the table.Â
âOh, Canada.â He takes another sip and is visibly mellowing out. âWe annexed you from Dick Roman a few years ago.âÂ
âNot a great deal for you, eh?â He nodded, shaking his head. âEveryone knows thereâs not much Demon action in Canada, at least in winter.âÂ
âWell, I know now.â He simpers. âToo much bloody road salt.â
I hang around until he finishes his Dew, set things back the way I found them once he is. Heâs proudly run down the long and short of his six-phase corporate restructure of Hell, plus a couple key schemes he probably wouldnât want to tell anyone on this side of the Styx.Â
I flick a salute to him with my fingers as I head out, promptly running into someone else as I try to find the library for real.Â
âHey man!â I call out to the little guy, heâs Asian, and looks like hammered shit. âYou know where the library is?âÂ
âHuh?â Man he is out of it, almost reeling as he turns around to see me on his six. âAw, crap, Iâm hallucinating again.â
âYeah, no. Not hallucinating there, bud.â I hold out my hand so he can shake it. âRC, I just got in.âÂ
âLike the cola?â I like this kid immediately. âKevin Tran.â
âKevin. No offence man, but you look like crap. When was the last time you slept?âÂ
âI stopped keeping track.â He starts walking and I fall in with him. âMost of the time I pass out face first in the word of God, but Iâm not sure if that counts.â
âNo, yeah. Pretty sure that doesnât count.â I have no clue what heâs talking about, but I know thatâs not quality Zâs. âWord of God? Like, Charelton Heston?â
âClose enough.â He laughs, albeit deliriously. âTheyâre stone tablets, at least.âÂ
We get into it, and this one kinda bowls me over. The sheer magnitude of solving the riddles of the great beyond. Itâs way above my pay grade.Â
âYeah, no, for sure.â He tells me about trying to unlock the gates of Heaven, which were so recently slammed shut. âThat sounds like pretty important stuff. Just saying, when I donât sleep for a few days, you better believe Iâm not making heads or tails of the cereal box, let alone using cosmic decoder rings.â
âDonât really have much choice.â He looks so goddamned tired. âFate of the universe, you know.âÂ
âI canât even imagine.â We take the steps down into the kitchen to find the coffee pot empty, and like that my opportunity presents itself. âLemme hook you up. I got just the thing.âÂ
I go to the fridge and grab a fresh Dew, considering the bottle of white soda with the swirling Reaper art on the purple and orange label before handing it over. âVooDew. Nice.âÂ
âMountain Dew?â He looks puzzled. âI dunno, dude. Sam stopped buying me RedBull âcause he was worried about my kidneys.âÂ
âListen. Listen.â He looks at me with that face, Listen to what? I forget myself pretty easily, get carried away. It happens all the time. âCaffeine wonât sort you like this. Remember, your brain runs on glucose. The sugar is brain fuel. Plus, thereâs just enough magic in it to set you right. Trust.â He turns it over in his hands. âVery apropos, too. Mystery flavour, for contemplating the Mysteries.â
âKinda on the nose, but.â He cracks the bottle and takes a swig, nodding with a surprised frown. âNot bad.âÂ
âEh? Ehhhhh?â I hold my hands out, that universal câmoooon, give my fingers a wiggle, which gets another laugh. A saner one, this time, too. I reload myself, a bottle of Spark in my hand, another can back in my fanny pack.Â
Keep one in the gun, just in case.Â
Kevinâs about to show me where the library is when we hear them. The mountain comes to Muhammad, or whatever, so Kev is off the hook. I slap him five as he makes his way, nodding and raising the VooDew as he disappears down the hall. Â
I can hear Dean talking to Sam just around the corner.Â
âI mean they dress like a cross between a reject from a â90s punk band and a trading post clothing section.â I look down, guilty as charged: soggy Chucks, denim cutoffs and leggings that are too thin for winter, white waffle shirt under a t-shirt with seven wolves in front of a full moon lightning storm. âAnd then thereâs the hair, Sammy. Is it a mullet? A mohawk?â
âItâs both, bud.â They walk in as I flop into a chair, my Dew hisses as I open it. Sweet raspberry lemonade, pink and fizzy and perfect. âWhy settle, amirite? Excellence has no limitations.âÂ
âUh. Yeah. Right.â He looks so busted it makes me laugh. âSorry?âÂ
âItâs a curated aesthetic.â I wave at them, the plaid, the denim, the layers. âI mean, it takes one to know one, eh?âÂ
âWhereâd all my beer go?â Dean scowls as he opens the icebox and while I donât love the tone, itâs not exactly misplaced. âWhy is there nothing but Mountain Dew in here?âÂ
âMy bad.â I go over to take a look. Itâs not right, too many cans line the shelf now. It wasnât like this a minute ago. âThis happens sometimes, like a Strega Nonna thing.â
âYou mean a Shtriga?â Sam asks, leaning against the counter. âYou remember, that thing in Fitchburg?âÂ
Dean nods, sombrely.Â
âUnrelated.â I shove a couple of cans in the door, and pull the case out to take a closer look. âStrega Nonna is that kids story, you know, the never ending pot of spaghetti?âÂ
âSo this is magic soda?â I nod, setting the case down next to my Spark. âDoes it ward off diabetes?âÂ
âNever heard that one before.â I give him a wink and slide the case into the middle of the table and they both come to look at it while I explain. âSay I offer you a can, and you accept it. Like, in your heart.â
âAccept a Mountain Dew.â Dean rolls his eyes, his beer still unopened beside him. âIn your heart.â
âYeah.â I feel sincerity swell in my chest and my hand finds my heart. âMost people say no at first, but she can tell. She can see what you want, what you need, and then she gives it to you. Any Dew, from any time or place in history. Magically selected, based on the temperament of your heart or soul or whatever at the time. Cures what ails ya, guaranteed.â
âNo way that works.â Sam looks so deeply displeased and itâs hard to tell if itâs because of the high sugar content or because heâs out of the loop on the lore.Â
âHand to God.â I turn to Dean, clearly the less skeptical of the two. âTry it. Let me hook you up, my man.âÂ
âWhat the hell. Hit me with your best shot.â I see a clear plastic clamshell in the case in my hands, right on top. A slice of pie. Even Iâm taken aback. âThis is pie.â
âYeah, no, yeah.â I look at it, turn my head to glance at the label. âOh this is cool, a gift from the future!âÂ
âMountain Dew pie from the future is what his soul wants and needs?â Sam scoffs. He looks disgusted by the violently teal slice of pie. âYouâre not actually going to eat that, are you? It looks radioactive.âÂ
âBaja Blast pie, to be specific.â Iâm actually pretty wowed. Iâve never seen this before. I slap Dean hard on the arm, too excited to stop myself, and he slaps me back with a fraction of the strength he could. âNo, yeah, this is awesome. You gotta try it.â
To my delight and Samâs disgust, Dean does. He thinks about it, takes another bite, frowns and nods approvingly. âNot bad.âÂ
âThat doesnât prove anything, heâll eat any kind of pie and be happier.â
âThat is true.â Dean points his fork at Sam, then takes another bite. âHow do I know this is curing me anything besides wanting a snack.âÂ
âSometimes thatâs all it is.â I tug at the back of my hair. âMellowed your man Crowley out pretty quick.âÂ
âCrowley?â Sam looks close to a conniption.Â
âYeah.â I grab my Spark and take a sip, trying to hide my sheepish confession between gulps. âYou know, British, cranky, tied up in your basement? Which. Weird, by the way.âÂ
âYou gave Crowley a magic soda?â Dean laughs and crumbles more graham crust onto his fork. âHeâs a Demon, he doesnât even have a soul.âÂ
âSure he does, it just looks like black smoke instead of white light.â Iâm still puzzled by my caseâs odd behaviour. âAnyway, it worked on him. He chilled right out, and here.â I fish out my notepad and hand it to Sam. âMinutes from my meeting with the King of Hell.â
âThis is a strategy outline. For Hell.â Sam flicks through the pages, furrowing his brow. âThis is super detailed.âÂ
âYeah, it sounded like something you guys might find useful.â
âHowâd you get all this out of him?â Sam hands my pad to Dean, who puts down his fork and starts nodding, impressed.Â
âCan of Pitch Black and a curly straw.â I spin my case around slowly, checking to see if anything on her exterior has changed. âGet âem monologuing, then all you gotta do is listen.â
âWow.â Dean says, shovelling another forkful of pie into his mouth as he scans my notes. Part of me wants to tell him to slow down, savour this rare and wonderful gift, but itâs not my place. âGotta hand it to Boris, he really knows whatâll make people suffer.â He looks at me, gives me the same nod, the same frown of reluctant approval. âThis is good work.âÂ
âThanks, bud.â Grumpy giants or not, the Winchesters are legends in the field and Iâm not above taking pride in impressing them. I grin and it feels like beaming. âI Dew my best.âÂ
They groan and roll their eyes, but Dean starts to laugh in earnest, sides splitting, even tearing up a little.Â
âDude. Seriously?â Sam is looking at his brother as if heâs unwell. âItâs not that funny.âÂ
âThatâs the pie.â I can tell when laughter is the result of this particular magic. Itâs sweet and bubbly, fizzy carbonation lifting spirits above their burdens, at least for a little while. I grin at Dean, bust out those spirit fingers again. âPretty good, right?âÂ
He reins himself in. âI gotta give it to ya, I havenât laughed like that in a while.âÂ
âSam?â I look inside the case, try to hide my puzzlement, though it borders on concern. Itâs just regular old cans, the way she looks when sheâs dormant. âWhaddya say, big guy? Wanna see what sheâs got in store for you?âÂ
âGod, no.â He wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. âIâm not getting anywhere near that.âÂ
I spin my fanny pack around and unzip it halfway, the can inside flickering between Code Red and Reef Break Punch before settling into a shifting blur of indeterminate mystery. Either Sam Winchester is the first person health conscious enough to truly deny this effervescent mysticism, or something else is going on here. I look at him, too intensely, he leans back, looking uncomfortable.Â
âWell, then.â I take the case back to the icebox and get her chillinâ again, swing the door shut and spin on my heel. âGuess you better take me to the morgue, eh?âÂ
Thatâs the vibe for the first couple of days Iâm there. Sam and Dean dip on a milk run on day three and I notice that my girl stops her Sorcererâs Apprentice act completely once Sam is out of the Bunker, which is both interesting and concerning. Â
Itâs unclear, when they leave, if they want me to avoid their captive Infernal Regent or engage him for more information on the finer points of hierarchical demonic management, so I pop by with a Flaminâ Hot for good measure, but we mostly just chirp each other this time.Â
Kevin usually finds me once a day, having decided to try and share a daily Dew. The first time we try it, the can I pull swirls with bursts of colour, almost psychedelic in their vibrancy, against the barely violet iridescence of the blankness underneath.Â
I stare at it for some time, thinking about the can Iâd intended to give to Sam that first day in the kitchen. It looks exactly the same, confused, torn between the needs of two souls. I get it, when it comes to me and Kev, but why Sam? Heâs just one dude, though heâs built big enough for two. It haunts me, lingering in the back of my mind for days.Â
We figure it out, though, me and Kevin. How to share the blessing.Â
We try both pulling a can at the same time; we wind up with a flavour each.Â
We try just sharing sips, I pass my Spark to Kevin but when it hits his lips, he says it tastes like the jugs of Gatorade at a kids soccer tournament, which I know beyond doubt is Kickstart Orange Citrus.
We try having Kevin serve me some of his Voltage, but as it fizzes out of the bottle it foams and settles into the glass the distinct pink of Major Melon.Â
We puzzle over it, together, my fondness for him growing exponentially. His scientific mind paired with his understanding of realms beyond explanation are put to delighted use trying to make the pieces fit together.Â
âWhat if itâs not about the Dew?â He turns a can of Livewire over in his hands and it baffles me how he can drink it because, to me, it tastes like industrial orange cleaner. âWhat if sharing is about the other person?âÂ
âWell, fuck.â I blink at him, blink at the can in his hands. Iâll bet dollars to donuts heâs cracked it. âYouâre gonna make me drink that horrible shit, arenât you?â Â
He shrugs, laughs at me and opens the can. It fizzes and I can smell the bite of artificial orange, almost tasting the bitter finish of the citrus oil used to flavour it.Â
He takes a sip and while he does, I look at him: I see the bags under his eyes; I see the drawn look of him, almost gaunt from eating boiled hot dogs for months on end; I see the weight he carries, the terrible burden of great purpose. He is barely eighteen years old.Â
I see the glimmer of something sweeter in his eyes, too. Iâm sure itâs the effect of almost a full week of our daily caffeinated, carbonated confection. I feel a little pull, somewhere in my chest. On my heartstrings, maybe, because somehow I can see that itâs not just the soda, but the ritual of sharing time together, the blossoming of friendship. He has been alone for such a long time now.Â
He hands me the can and I inspect it closely as it transfers from his hand to mine, unchanged. I lift it to my lips and can still smell the acrid imitation orange, feel it tickle my nose as I take a sip. I make a face, swallow, and take another sip.Â
âThatâs it, bud.â I wince, cough, take one more sip for good measure. It remains Livewire both inside and outside the can. I raise my hand so he can hit me up top, and the snap of his high five rings crisp and true. âHow do you feel?âÂ
âI feel.â He thinks on it as we pass the soda back and forth. Eventually, he takes a big, final gulp and shakes the can, confirming itâs empty. âGood?â He sets down and he sounds so surprised I donât know whether to be happy or sad for him. âBetter than I have in a long time, actually.âÂ
I can see it on his face, a sort of relief. A levity that wasnât there before. We alternate, from then on, seeing and being seen. We share our daily ritual in the 3pm quiet of the Men of Letters kitchen until itâs time for me to leave.Â
I get a call from Manitoba, letting me know the promised reefer van of monster carcasses couldnât make it across the border. It shouldnât surprise anyone, but still sort of does. Disappointed, I seek out Sam in the library, since I finally know where it is.Â
âI guess I shouldâve known.â I tell him, flipping through the pages of a book heâs left open, marking his page so I donât lose it.
âCustoms.â Dean nods, sagely, feet up on the table. âWhat a bitch.âÂ
I point at him, silently confirming, You get it.Â
âWhatâs your plan now?â Sam sets the book in his hands down and leans back in his seat. âBack home?âÂ
âGonna head up to Emerson and see if we canât MacGuyver something up there.â They almost look disappointed, which warms me up behind my ribs. Theyâd been so irritated my first few days here. âThen home to Miss Mildred.âÂ
âI think I might be sorry to see you go.â Dean shakes his head in disbelief.Â
âYeah.â Sam agrees and the warmth spreads through my chest and up into a smile. Nobody can deny how good it feels to be appreciated. âKevin says heâs made more progress since youâve been here than he has in weeks.âÂ
âWell, Iâm not gone yet.â I produce three Dews, one for each of us. âOne more for the road?âÂ
Dean takes his happily popping the top on a tallboy of Summer Freeze. I hold one out to Sam, that flickering, shifting pearlescence shimmering over the surface of the can. It may still be that heâs rejecting it, but I donât think it is.Â
Everyone does the Dew, eventually.Â
âCâmon, Sam.â I set the can down in front of him, seating myself farther down the table and cracking my own Laguna Lemonade. âHumour me.âÂ
He sighs, picks up the can. For a moment it turns a bright cherry colour in his hand, and I wonder if it will finally land on a flavour for him. Dean sits up a little himself, though he wouldnât admit that heâs invested. The Code Red label doesnât last, though, and it shifts to the hot pink of Reef Break Punch before returning to the swirling nothingness of indecision.Â
âGuess it just doesnât work for me.â He slides the can back, but I leave it on the table. I donât know him well enough to tell if heâs disappointed, but I canât imagine anyone wouldnât be.
âTry it again, Sammy.â Dean looks unsettled, like thereâs something heâs not saying, but I donât know him well enough to tell that, either. âRemember, you gotta accept it in your heart.â He looks at me with trepidation. âRight?âÂ
âRight.â I remain perplexed, plan to leave the can here for him, even if his second shot doesnât work. âSurrender to destiny, my guy.âÂ
Sam sighs, heavier than before. He furrows his brow, like heâs thinking very hard about something. I think I see a brilliant flicker in his eyes, accompanied by a shocking moment of pink, here and then gone again. Dean stiffens but tries to be cool about it.Â
âNope.â He watches the can for a little while longer before putting it back down. âMy heart just doesnât want Mountain Dew.âÂ
âYouâre the first, bud.â I click my tongue, tipping my head side to side, trying to hide how strange I think it all is from my face, the tone of my voice. âJust means youâre one of a kind, eh!âÂ
I say goodbye to Sam, leave the can of Dew on the table and encourage him to try again. Dean walks me to the garage where my RAV is already packed and ready to go. He refills my wiper fluid and gives her a quick once-over under the hood, closing the hood with an affectionate pat.Â
âThat thing with Sam is weird.â I tell him, hand on the handle of my driverâs side door. âI donât think Iâd even be able to pull a Dew for him if he really didnât want one.â He looks at his boots, then around the garage, anywhere but directly at me. âYou know something. Donât you?âÂ
âItâs.â He swishes a mouthful of Freeze around, swallows and then sighs. He tells me about Samâs Angelic subtenant, the circumstance and necessity of which he narrates heavily with conflicting emotion. âI know it sounds bad.âÂ
It does sound bad, but I also canât imagine how it is for either of them, both of them, grieving each other over and over again. Losing someone once is hard enough. I hold out my hand for his Dew, wiggling my fingers when he hesitates.Â
âTrust me.â He still hesitates, so I grab his wrist and trace: circle circle, dot dot. âCooties shot, okay? Gimmie your pop.âÂ
He does, and I do my best to see past any judgements I might have. I look for the sacrifice, the loneliness, the fear. I see how consumingly important Sam is to him, how Deanâs sense of worth teeters on the state of Samâs wellbeing. I try to see all of him, just like I saw all of Kevin Tran, and take a sip. The flavour of tricolour popsicle bursts across my tongue and I watch him for any sign that itâs working the way it did with their resident Prophet of the LordTM.Â
âIt does sound bad.â I take another sip, think I might see a sliver of relief cracking through the pall of guilt draped over him. âBut you canât UnMountain Dew whatâs already been Mountain Done.â He snorts, rolls his eyes, and I can tell heâs resisting a grin. âYou just gotta focus on what you Dew now.â
âYou're obsessed. You know that, right?â He clears his throat, takes pause. âDid you just draw boobs on my arm?â
âOh for sure.â I flash my teeth at him, this must be what impish feels like. âMade you feel better, didnât it?âÂ
He laughs, another one of those deeply genuine thunders, summoned from the depths of soul. I wink at him and he gives me a hug, quick, tight, my face smushed into his chest and then released. He packs me into the car and sends me on my way, saying heâll keep in touch and itâs not so much a lie as a promise destined to go unfulfilled.
I feel a resounding relief, returning to the Great White North, the Winchesters and their cosmic soap opera leave my mind until weeks later, when Sam calls me.Â
His tone tells me immediately that bad business has gone down, and I am filled with sorrow when he tells me about the fate of Kevin Tran. I lament all the things he missed out on, because of a destiny could not control. It feels like a travesty.Â
I can hear the vastness of Samâs guilt across the 1900 kilometres that separates us. I wish there was something I could say, hope my disembodied company does something to ease his suffering. Then, it occurs to me.
âYou still got that Dew I left you?â He says he does and takes me with him as he retraces his steps to find it. Iâm in my kitchen, back home in Ontario. I listen, and wait.Â
âFound it!â He sounds surprised and maybe a little disappointed. âBut Iâm not sure it worked?â
âIs she still not choosing for you?â I think for the millionth time how wise these selections are, how rarely theyâre misplaced.
âY-yeah. Itâs just.â He pauses. I hear him tut, huff an irritated sigh. âRegular.â Â
âNot just regular.â It almost feels like scolding him, even though I donât mean to. I think of Sam, his loss of agency, the responsibility he shoulders for acts that werenât his own. I feel his grief, imagine his guilt, and when I pull Dew for myself from the fridge, itâs nothing but classic green. âOriginal.â
âOriginal.â He sounds bitter. Defeated. âIs that supposed to mean something?âÂ
âLet it percolate for a little and see what you think.â I want to test my theory. â Share with me, in the meantime.âÂ
âOkay, but I donât see how thisâll help.â I can hear the âPopâtsss of a can opening and can almost see the derisive sniff he makes, all the way in Kansas.Â
âHumour me.â My own can mirrors the sound of his and I hope he can hear it on his end like I can hear his. It feels like camaraderie. I focus my mind on Sam, hope it works the same at great distance as it does when you can pass a bottle hand to hand. âDown the hatch, eh?âÂ
I hear us take a first sip in tandem, 1200 miles of distance reduced to feel like weâre in the same room. I imagine Sam nodding his begrudging approval, frowning as if to say, Not bad. Then he actually says it.
We do the Dew over the phone, and soon enough he starts talking. About Dean and Kevin and Gadreel, about the trials before that. He tells me he wishes he had died, so none of it could have happened in the first place. I hum in agreement, hum in disagreement, hum in understanding.Â
I hear the crinkle of his can, a huff that might be a laugh, if you squint. âYou got me monologuing, didnât you?âÂ
âWorks every time.â I laugh for real, in encouragement. I donât bother asking if he feels better, itâs a tall order for such a grim moment. âYou figure out what it means yet?âÂ
Words from The Prophet** pop into my head, and it makes me think of sitting in their kitchen in Lebanon, Kansas with a different Prophet, unravelling a mystery that has no consequence.  Â
      âAnd in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and the sharing of pleasures.Â
      For in the Dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.â Â
Itâs a little on the nose, perhaps but, then, sometimes thatâs whatâs called for.Â
âI think itâs a reminder that youâre you, again.â I can feel the moment drawing to a close as I empty my can. âSam Winchester: Classic. Accept no substitutes.â
âOriginal.â He says it again, and that feels like the third-time charm. His tone is lighter, an honest to god chuckle escapes him. I can feel that bubbly kind of spell at work. Simple, but good.Â
Refreshing.Â
** Gibran, Kahlil. The Prophet.
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It feels like a miracle that there are three of them now, when there have only been two for so long and, sometimes, only one.
no ship : uncle!dean winchester, dad!sam winchester, various
summary : when dean becomes an uncle, it will change his life.
timeline : post-series, canon divergent for 15x20. dj and blurry wife (nee blurry woman) not included
rating : PG genre/vibe : family bonding. tearjerker.
CW : family dynamics. non-lossless audio. main character death (natural causes). grief.
word count : 3.2k
suggested listening : Circle Game by Joni Mitchell
a/n : hello, i have returned to you bearing more devastating lovegrief for dean winchester. i firmly would not call this angst, but i absolutely cried a lot writing it.
big thanks to @kayydenrhys for saving me from full on brain scramble proofing for future tense.
He doesnât expect to feel as much as he does, when he holds her for the first time.Â
She is so small. Warm. Wiggly. It makes his heart feel the same way. A little goofy, too, but more than anything, he feels calm. He looks down at her, tiny head nestled in the crook of his elbow, the rest of her balanced on his forearm, and he cannot stop smiling. It isnât some big dopey grin, itâs soft, not shy but still secret.Â
Itâs just for her.Â
He hums to himself, to her, a mashup of the Zeppelin songs he thinks are the softer, sweeter ones, mixing the instrumentals and the melody together. He canât let her miss the best parts just because they rip on guitar.Â
âHey, Unc.â Claire flops down across from him on the couch. âGonna let the rest of us have a turn?âÂ
âHell no.âÂ
She is gumming on his finger, and he nods for Claire to hand him one of the flannel burp cloths. She does, crossing her arms to watch him, like heâs some curiosity, as he cleans up baby drool and continues to let his niece use his ring finger as a pacifier.
âDidnât think youâd be so good at that.âÂ
âYeah, well. Not my first rodeo.â Claire is quiet, thinking, and her mouth drops open into a silent oh. She glances over her shoulder at Sam, leaning against the sink in the kitchen, and understands. âI might be rusty, but this is actually the easy part. Once they get legs under âem.â He whistles. âThen youâre in trouble.âÂ
âSure,â Claire says, curling up in the corner of the couch. She just sits and hangs out quietly, sometimes humming along with Dean in poor harmony when she knows the tune. âI like the Zeppelin. Thatâs not a surprise.â
âGotta teach âem young, or theyâll never learn.â
Dean will make a mix tape for her second birthday, and will have one with him every birthday thereafter. Heâll have already started collecting tape decks and walkmans and boom boxes from thrift stores to make sure sheâll be able to listen to them for a long time, long after people will say theyâre obsolete. Theyâve been saying that for years.Â
By the time sheâs twelve, her collection will be too big for the original box she keeps it in. Dean will buy her a pair of floral Doc Martens for no other reason than because she wants them, and because they come in a big sturdy box that her tapes can grow into.Â
When sheâs fifteen, sheâll start making her own. For herself, sometimes, but mostly for her Uncle, daisy chaining audio inputs from her walkman and her laptop to the aux on her shoebox tape recorder.Â
âYou donât have to do that, you know. Heâs not a total luddite.âÂ
âI know, but he likes cassettes, Dad. It means something to him, doing it this way.â She will shake her head sombrely. âBesides, heâs gotta be able to listen when heâs driving, thatâs sorta the whole point.âÂ
Dean will long ago have softened his rule of the radio, without her even knowing what it means that he lets her pick the music. He will never complain when she chooses contemporary stations, the kind of stuff she will listen to with her friends. Stuff released after 1983. She will listen intently to him talk about this drum beat or that melody, and how it came from disco or blues or something else. She will be constantly amazed at how much he knows, just casually, and he will be happy to share all of it with her.Â
âYou know I used to bug him about updating his collection.â Sam will laugh, flipping one of her cassettes between his fingers, marvelling at just how well she knows her Uncle. He will sit down on the floor next to his daughter and hug her from the side. âThis wasnât exactly what I imagined.â
âItâs cool that heâs vintage.â She will shrug, turning her laptop so her Dad can see the list sheâs put together. A side, B side. âWhaddya think?âÂ
âMhm.â Sam will look at the list, classics from all genres, not just rock and metal like the tapes in his car, because she will be one of the few people who understand the full scope of Deanâs taste, his musicality. Sam will nod, drag her in so he can kiss her hair and hug her again. âHeâs gonna love it, kiddo.â
Itâs nice, just sitting around with her in his arms. He shifts a little to adjust her neck every once in a while, and Jody comes over with a coffee for him. She sits on the footstool beside him and leans in close to coo at his niece. He looks up and notices a glimmer of sadness on her face and leans his shoulder into hers, pretending itâs to bring the baby closer so Jody can tickle her tummy.Â
âThe thing about adopting them is that you donât get to see them this small.â Her voice is soft and itâs got a wistful tone that isnât unfamiliar. He understands it for what it is. Grief. âYouâre so exhausted at the time, you donât realize how much youâll miss it.â
âYeah.â When Sam was still a baby, John was always too busy to hold him, so Dean would. âYou know, I remember when Sammy was little, Iâd have to use both arms to carry him.â He mimics it around his niece and both he and Jody snort with laughter.
âHard to imagine.â Jody looks at Sam as well, then back at Dean. âBoth of you being that small.â
âWe were.â Dean would curl up next to his little brother when his nightmares kept him from falling asleep. He never had a teddy bear, after the fire, but he had Sam. Has Sam. Has her now, too. âEveryone was, once.â
âYeah.â
He doesnât want to be a Dad, himself. Not anymore. The thought of it makes him feel weird and empty. His two sort-of shots at it had been such abject failures, it makes him feel too ashamed to think of trying a third time, even if it might be the charm.Â
Heâd been worried heâd feel the same way about her, hollow and distant or, worse, indifferent, when she was born. Now that sheâs burbling in his arms, he sees thereâs nothing to worry about. Sheâs the charm. She grabs hold of his finger tightly and gives it a tug.Â
Jody rests her head on his shoulder and he shifts so she can lean into him a little more. He feels something warm and damp seep through the fabric of his shirt and he turns to press his mouth against her hair.Â
âItâs okay, Jodâ.â He murmurs softly, and she turns her face into him a little more, letting out a shaky sigh. He gives her another rough kiss to her crown and chuckles. âCry all you want, you wonât make a sucker outta me.â Jody laughs, punches his shoulder, chuckling herself. âHer Momâs the only one who gets to hold her tonight, besides me.â
âI donât know if Iâve ever seen you like this.â She rests her hand on his shoulder, half-trying to rub away the evidence of her tears. âYou look. Content.â
âYeah. I guess I am.â
âIt suits you.â She sniffles once as she wipes her eyes, and gets up to find her girls.
He will save a week of every year for her and Sam. When sheâs little, heâll stay in the guest room and help with what he can around the house. Take her on his shoulders to the park and run the energy out of her to give her Mom a break. He will enjoy a taste of the domesticated life that he will never quite settle into on his own.
Once she starts going to school, he and Sam will take her somewhere different every day during the week before class starts. Amusement parks and mini-putt and go karts and petting zoos. Dean will learn what a capybara is, and Sam will take a photo of his brother and his daughter petting the largest living rodent for the first time, together.Â
It will be one of the things she takes with her every time she moves. Dean will keep it in his wallet no matter how creased and faded it becomes.Â
They will take her camping. Real camping, not the miserable version they did as kids. They will go fishing. They will swim at quarries and both Sam and Dean will climb big trees with rope swings and fling themselves out over the water before letting go, arguing over who will make the bigger splash, so she wonât be afraid to try.Â
She wonât be. Whenever sheâs with her Dad and her Uncle, she will be fearless.
They will go to county fairs to watch tractor pulls and 4H exhibitions and demolition derbies. She will whoop and holler as loud as Dean at every event, and laugh at him when she outrides him on the Screaming Eagle, but will still rub his shoulder and get him a ginger ale while he sits with his head between his knees to keep from blowing chunks all over the grass. Sam will win giant stuffed toys at the shooting gallery games because heâs still a crack shot, even with a pellet gun. They will buy the blue ribbon pie every year and eat it together in the parking lot.
They will keep this tradition sacred, just the three of them. They will make time for her, the way they never did for themselves.
They will get to have a childhood, finally, even though they are already grown.Â
People keep offering to relieve him of her, but he is more than happy to keep her with him all night. She hardly fusses in his arms at all. He hums to her and plays with her feet and switches her from arm to arm and he tries to hold on to every second of this so tightly, because he knows how memories can fade.
He remembers being small, curled up beside his Mom, holding his ear to her belly like his little brother was already there. He remembers her explaining that Sammy will be delicate, so he will have to be extra gentle with him, to make sure he doesnât get hurt. He remembers thinking he will be the best big brother in the world.
Sam drops onto the couch and motions to Dean to pass him his daughter. Dean goes to sit next to him, itâs the first time heâs gotten up since she was put in his arms, but he refuses to hand her over. She stays snuggled in his arms.Â
âDean, you have to give her back, eventually.â Sam tells him as they both look down at her little face, wide eyes blinking up at them.Â
âIâm not done yet.âÂ
âThink youâll ever be?â Sam asks, truly curious, maybe rhetorical. He means more than just tonight.
Dean takes a deep breath in, looks up at Sam. âProbably not.â
 âI keep worrying that there isnât enough time. You know?âÂ
âMhm.â Dean nods, hugs her tiny body against him a little more. Thereâs never enough time, he thinks, for the good stuff. âYouâll make time. We will.â
âItâs nice to all be together.â Sam looks up, looks around his living room, so warm and inviting and full of people they have collected to be part of their family. âItâs nice to be able to love someone this much.â He clears his throat, doesnât look at Dean as he speaks. âLike the feeling isnât too big, for once.â
âYeah.âÂ
Dean nods, thinks of all the feelings heâs had that have been too big to contain. This feels so different, even though itâs still big. Enormous. Itâs better. Good.Â
It feels like a miracle that there are three of them now, when there have only been two for so long and, sometimes, only one.
Theyâre quiet, watching her watching them. Someone takes a picture when theyâre not looking, because itâs a rare and wonderful thing to see the Winchesters look so peaceful.Â
The year will come when they celebrate Deanâs birthday, and nobody will know itâs the last one.
She will host, like she often does. She will move to Nebraska some time after college, somehow right in the middle of where everyone else will end up.Â
Dean will grill, even in January, and will let Donna assist. Sam will keep them company for a while, but Dean will not let him touch the tongs. Her Mom and Jody will make sure thereâs something to eat besides meat. Claire and Alex will clean up after. As host, she will make sure thereâs beer and whiskey and soda, and that rooms are made up for her folks and her Uncle. She will always take the couch when they visit.
âYou know, when anyone else does this, they donât make their guests do everything.â Claire will smirk, lean against the sink, and Alex will hand her dishes to dry.Â
âYeah, âcept you guys arenât guests. Youâre family.â She will pop the top on another beer and bounce the cap off the counter. She will wince and Claire will laugh when it splashes Alex when it drops into the sink with a plop. âBesides, I donât cook.âÂ
âYouâre a great cook.â Alex will say, flicking suds off her forearm. Claire will add, âThat year you did Thanksgiving was unreal.â
âI didnât say I canât cook, aunties. I said I donât cook.âÂ
They will look at each other, and smile knowingly. They will remember Mary, what little they knew of her.Â
She will realize she forgot dessert while dinner is being cleared. She will look in the fridge, then in the freezer. There will be no cake, no ice cream. There will be no pie.Â
She will try to sneak out without being noticed, but she will get caught halfway out the door.Â
âYou forgot the pie.â He will have his keys in his hand, bullet still dangling from the ring, ready to go.
âShe forgot the pie.â Her Dad will be right behind him, pulling his jacket on.
âI forgot the pie.â It will be the sixth year she will have âforgottenâ, just for this.Â
She will lead them out onto the porch, and they will all three pile into the front seat of the Impala. Even when sheâs grown, they will never make her sit in the back, because sheâs one of them. She will rifle through Deanâs tapes, finding one she made for him many years ago. Sam will stretch his arm out behind her on the back of the bench seat and sheâll snuggle up beside her Dad, like she did when she was small.Â
They will walk around the grocery store, arguing too loudly that cake is not the same, and it doesnât matter if itâs a birthday, theyâre still getting pie. She will recognize that shit-eating grin her Dad gets, when he knows heâs getting under his brotherâs skin on purpose.Â
âWinchesters!â She will hold up her hands between them, somewhere west of the pie and east of the powdered donuts, arbiter of their eternal debate. âDessertâs on me, and I say we can have cake and pie.â She will spin her Dad and point him at the cakes. She will turn her Uncle and point him at the pies.Â
She will link arms with them after, their selections stacked in the basket, which she will carry with two hands. They will walk three across the aisles toward the freezer section. She will grab two pints of ice cream and add them to the basket.Â
âCake and pie, huh?â Dean will look at her, carefully depositing their haul on the floor of the back seat.Â
âWeâre Winchesters. Who says we canât have everything we want?â
She will slap both of their knees, holding up the newest tape she will make for her Uncleâs birthday. It will be Zeppelin. It will be all the songs she remembered him singing to her when she was a kid. She will punch it in and twist the knob.Â
âHappy birthday, Uncle Dean.â
He will smile, soft in a way his younger self would never believe he was capable of, but that she will have known her entire life. Dean will stretch his arm out behind her on the back of the bench seat and sheâll snuggle up beside her Uncle, like she did when she was small.Â
Dean finally surrenders her when Eileen comes to put her to bed. She doesnât leave right away, standing shoulder to shoulder with Dean, holding the baby close against her chest.Â
He remembers reading once that Beethoven was deaf, and that he composed all his music on pianos with the legs cut off, just from the vibrations. He wonders if thatâs what itâs like for Eileen, holding her little girl close, and he is overwhelmed with a sense of respect and pride and gratitude for her.Â
It strikes him at that moment that both her Mom and her Dad were barely older than she is right now when their lives, maybe their souls, were changed forever. When they were marked by tragedy, indelible in a way he knows, now, he will never quite understand. Not the way they understand each other. He grabs her gently as she turns to take her daughter to bed, pulls her into a hug.Â
He sometimes says things over her shoulder that he feels too awkward or sissy to say with her watching, so she canât read his lips. This time, he might try to maneuver more of his ribcage against hers than normal. Thinking about all the things he feels too awkward or sissy to even say aloud.Â
âThank you.â He is thinking about legless pianos and music, vibrating through the floor. âThank you so much.âÂ
When he lets her go, she smiles at him, rubs his arm, squeezes his bicep. âYou can hold her again tomorrow.âÂ
He canât tell if sheâs heard him, trying to speak to her through vibration. Heart, to heart.Â
He hopes she did.Â
By the time it comes to host Samâs birthday in May, Dean will be gone.Â
She will still forget dessert, will still sneak out with her Dad while dinner is being cleared, will still get cake and pie and ice cream. It will sit between them on the bench in the front, because she will be driving now.Â
The car will be hers. So will the tapes. The bullet on the keychain. She will sob, sitting behind the wheel, because everything will be there, right down to the Zeppelin, except for him. Her Dad will hold her and he will cry, too.Â
They will comfort each other.Â
They will remind themselves that they are Winchesters, and that they know the truth about what happens, to the people that have gone before.Â
There will be two of them for a while yet, then, only one.
They will be waiting for her, whenever she arrives, so they can be together again.Â
Thank you so much for reading! Gratitude for likes, comments, reblogs and vibes.
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âYou know, some people would think it's kinda weird to hit up a ghost town for this.â
dead winchester x fem!reader
summary : Dean finds a favourite place to go for pie.
CW : gluten. dairy.
Word Count : 3k
Prompt : Comfort food, I wish it was tomorrow already.
a/n : written for @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearthâs fall fluff-fest challenge. festive banner and dividers kindly provided by them as well. thank you, sorry!
Thereâs a place called Wandaâs tucked away in Concordia that Dean hasnât told anyone about. He mostly goes on Sundays, not every week, but often enough that they know him there. More often, lately, because they know him there.Â
The drive is about an hour at cruising speed, Cloud County being two over from Smith. If he times it right he can have a quiet coffee, maybe chat with the waitress but maybe not, while the church crowd is busy with the Lord. Thatâs their business, and if it means he can enjoy coffee and breakfast in relative peace, well. Who is he to argue?
He brings coffee for the drive, carries his mug with him into the car to drink while he rips down Highway 36, tucking it under the passenger seat with a rag in it when itâs empty so it doesnât drip anything on the floor.Â
Itâs still fall, but itâs getting colder, and the leaves on the trees lining the road are still kissed with the colour of flames. Still, the sun bursts through the branches brighter and brighter every week which means they have shed more of their foliage, and winter is readying itself to roar.Â
Nothing changes, he just drives with the window up.Â
He pulls into the angled stall out front, takes a quick minute to check himself out. He pretends heâs making sure he has his wallet and his phone and not that his collar is straight enough and his breath doesnât stink like day old whiskey and thereâs nothing in his teeth.Â
The little bell jingles when the door swings open and thereâs a steaming cup of coffee on the counter waiting for him. He slides onto the stool and wraps his hands around it, enjoying the almost too-hot warmth of the ceramic against his skin.Â
There are a couple of waitresses that work at Wandaâs, none of whom are Wanda herself, and he knows their names and remembers whoâs there when. Sunday morning shifts are yours, which is part of why he comes when he does.Â
He holds the mug to his lips, enjoying the warmth and the smell and the ritual of a cup of coffee. This is better than church, he thinks, and not just because he knows what he knows about the nature of God and, well, whatever. He closes his eyes and feels a reverence for this everyday sort of sacrament that he canât, no, wonât spare for the supernatural, let alone the divine.Â
âYou feelinâ sweet or savoury today?âÂ
His eyes snap open and you're leaning on the counter in front of him, arms spread wide to span maybe half the length of the small counter. The sun catches in your eyes and you scrunch up your nose as you squint until it passes. He smiles into his coffee, takes a sip and sets it down to straighten up and look at you.
âDepends whatâs on offer.âÂ
He winks at you and, while it makes you blush the same every time, it doesnât fluster you the way it did a few months ago when he started doing it. You grin and wink right back at him today. He thinks he might feel a little warmth spread behind his ears, but it could just be that heâs still wearing his jacket. He isnât staying long today.Â
Youâre looking at him expectantly, almost excitedly. You drum your hands on the counter and he glances down to look at them, then back up at you.
âSurprise me.âÂ
Saturday afternoon wasnât his usual time to drop in, but he was on his way back from Wichita, craving something sweet. The bell jingled like it always did, but the place was dead and nobody was behind the counter.Â
Warrant blasted from the boom box, Wanda only played CDs or the radio or once in a while a worn out and kinda wonky cassette, and as it was playing out a mechanical âwhrrâtkâtkâtsskt came from the the disc and the next, no, the same song started up.
Cherry Pie on repeat at a pie shop. Cheesy, and cute as hell. He hoped you were the DJ behind it.Â
He leaned over to check the community bookshelf and grabbed the Ghost Towns of Kansas guide heâd been working his way through every time he came in. Perched on a stool, back against the counter, he started flipping through it while he waited.
âSorry buddy, I'm just about to close, shoulda flipped the sign.â The volume on the boom box drops but doesnât turn off. âI got a slice or two left. Looks like chocolate pecan, buttermilk, and peach melba?âÂ
He twisted, leaning his elbow on the counter to look over his shoulder at you, about to say he'd take the peach. When he saw you, Cherry Pie starting on the boom box again, his mouth just hung open, heavy with forgotten purpose. You were dishevelled, distracted in a way that made him feel like heâd interrupted some impassioned task, where the world had fallen away to let you focus, and heâd pulled you back just to box him up a couple pieces of pie.
You weren't wearing the cute, kind of whimsical, button front uniform all the waitresses wore. No, the faded Zeppelin shirt you had on instead, the How the West Was Won print peeling slightly, sleeves cut off and a rip at the collar, made you look casual. Comfortable. The black apron tied around your waist was covered in flour and flecks of drying dough, the general mess of baking made plain as it clung to your person. Something had left a smudge that looked sticky and sweet smeared across your cheekbone.Â
âDean?âÂ
That was the real doozy, and hot damn, did it throw him for a loop. Glossy, translucent pink whatever that mesmerized him so the only thought in his head was how badly he wanted to lick it off. His arm moved before he realized what he was doing, stopping halfway between you to hover over the counter.Â
âYou have, uh.â He pointed at you, then motioned to his own cheek and let his hand drop. âSomethinâ.âÂ
âHuh? Oh.â You sort of dabbed at it with the back of your hand, smeared it around but didn't clean it off. âYeah, workplace hazard.â You nodded to the kitchen, spreading your arms out across the counter the way you always did. âYou know Sunday's tomorrow, right? Youâre early.âÂ
âReally, Sundayâs tomorrow?âÂ
He spun all the way around to face you, hoped his face told you he was joking in case his tone missed the mark. Your face split into a grin, your tongue curling up over your front teeth, and you shook your head reaching under the counter for two mugs and a canister of coffee.Â
 âCoffee? It's instant, but it's not half bad.âÂ
âArenât you closed?âÂ
âNah.â You batted the question away, making up the coffee and tapping the spoon and popping it in your mouth. âItâs just coffee, and I need a break anyway.â You disappeared back into the kitchen. âHang on, I got somethinâ for ya.â Â
His first sip was suspicious, but he was pleasantly surprised to find you were right about the coffee. He leaned across the counter to try and peek into the back, where the magic happened, but you were already back. You set a copper bottomed pot on a folded tea towel and grabbed a clean spoon. Â
âDon't touch, it's hot.â You swirled the spoon around a couple times before you were satisfied with the scoop you'd gotten for him, one hand cupped underneath it so it wouldn't drip as you blew lightly on it. âIt's not pie yet, but tell me what you think.âÂ
You turned the spoon toward him for a taste of cherry pie filling. Your fingers brushed his chin, tipping his face up slightly, and then the spoon slipped between his lips and disappeared inside his mouth. He closed his eyes, sweeping his tongue around as you slowly pulled it back.Â
He groaned which, honestly, he usually did when you gave him food, but this was the first time youâd literally fed him. It was incredible. The cherries were sour, not sweet, just enough sugar to take the edge off the pucker, keeping it from being too tart. There was a softness to it, too, with a bit of bite on the finish. He groaned again.
âGod damn, Wanda.â He said every time you give him something new, the idea of Wanda as an eccentric and mysterious piemaker held in his mind. Youâd laughed pretty hard the first time he did it, and Dean thought that was as delicious, if not more, than anything else youâd served him. âThat's the best damn cherry pie I've ever had.âÂ
âPretty good, right? I mean, it's still just filling.â You stuck the spoon in your mouth, grinned around it. âBut itâs not all Wanda, yâknow. The sour cherry's hers, but the vanilla and ginger's all me.â He licked his lips, looking at the spoon in your hand, the one that had just been in your mouth. The one that had just been in his mouth. âI think she woulda liked this one.âÂ
âWait. What?â
He blinked, confused. He took mental stock of you again, the evidence of baking, the after hours casualness, every time you tell him you've got something for him to try, how you always seemed so happy when he liked it.Â
âYou make the pies.âÂ
âYeah?â You leaned against the bar behind you, looking at him, amused, as you upended the sugar shaker into your mug. âYou know this is my place right?âÂ
âItâs not like your nameâs out front.â You started to laugh, shaking so hard you had spilled coffee on yourself, which made you laugh even harder. âThen whoâs Wanda?â
âShe taught me everything I know.â You wiped your eyes and pointed to a picture heâd never noticed before of a much younger you and an older woman. âShe left it to me a few years ago.â
âOh.â He frowned a little, then felt a little embarrassed when he caught what you were saying. âOh.âÂ
You looked so damn cute in the photo. You were missing your front teeth, wearing that same grin as before, your tongue tucked up to hide the gap. You both stared at it for a while without saying anything and he thought, from the look on your face, you must be remembering something good.  Â
âSo, why the food lab?âÂ
âWell.â You shrugged, looking back at him. âThis guy started coming in a while ago.â His cup stilled and his eyes flicked up to meet yours. âBit of an expert, turns out.âÂ
âOh yeah?â The âtk of his mug on the counter felt loaded, like racking the slide on a gun.
âHe knows from pie.â You stacked your forearms on the counter and leaned in, like you're about to tell him a secret. âHasnât led me wrong yet.âÂ
âSounds like a catch.âÂ
âMhm.â Nodding, you dragged the Ghost Towns of Kansas guide across the counter, almost shy as you tapped the cover. âYou know, Macyville is like twenty minutes away.âÂ
âYeah?âÂ
âIf you come back tomorrow, I could pack us a traveller and you can take me for a ride in that car of yours.â Your face was very close to his, that smudge of cherry pie filling still high on your cheek, tempting him.
This time when he reached across the counter, he didn't hesitate, letting his knuckles drag along the tender underside of your jaw, tilting your face up like you'd done to him. He almost forgot that you were probably waiting for him to say something, distracted by the study of your features.
âYou asking me to take you on a date to a ghost town?â
You nodded and so did he, leaning in to sweep his mouth over your cheek, cleaning off the sweet-sour stickiness with his lips and then, before he could stop himself, a drag of his tongue that was much more sensual than heâd intended. He lingered there, tasting you on his tongue, feeling your warmth. You turned into him, became his mirror image for a moment, your kiss soft and moist against his cheek.Â
âSo, whaddya say?âÂ
âWish it was tomorrow already.âÂ
He's finishing his coffee, rereading the pages of the Macyville entry in the guide. You come back with an honest to god picnic basket, and Dean thinks he might already be half in love.Â
âYou know, some people would think it's kinda weird to hit up a ghost town for this.âÂ
âSome people are boring.â You look down at the book. âYou think thereâll be real ghosts there?âÂ
âI think it's mostly failed infrastructure.â He chuckles, flipping the pages until the cover closes. He tucks it in next to a thermos of what he imagined must be more coffee. âBesides, even if there were real ghosts.âÂ
He cuts himself off, knows a throwaway comment like whatâs caught on his tongue wouldnât spill any beans, wouldnât ruin anything about the day youâre about to have together. Except, it feels contrary to the point of all of this, the pie and the coffee and the date with a cute girl who doesnât just smell like food, but like sugar, and like spice. It stuck in his chest, spreading its warmth around but wasn't ready to come out yet.Â
âEven if there were real ghosts, what?âÂ
Youâre giving him a funny look thatâs curious and, he thinks again, excited. Like going for a drive to do the exact same thing youâd do sitting at the counter here is making your heart beat a little faster, the way his is starting to. You shrug on your jacket, an oversized, thick wool button up, plaid in a colour that looks really good against your skin. A lanyard with a bunch of keys on it jingles as you reach your hand out to him to pull him towards the door.Â
âUh. Nothing. Don't worry about it.âÂ
You donât just press your palm against his. You lace your fingers together and squeeze. Your skin is soft and a little cool, and it occurs to him that itâs from handling pastry all the time. Now that he knows you make all those pies yourself, with him in mind at least a little, he likes the idea that it also makes your hand feel so good, holding his. He lets you lead him outside and stands waiting as you hold on to him while you lock the door. Â
âYouâre not just closing up just 'cause of.â He clears his throat, feels silly that he needs to. âThis?â
âIâm the boss. I get to do whatever I want.â Your keys jingle again, into your pocket this time and you stand very close to him in the doorway, giving him a sly grin. âBesides, we donât open until noon.âÂ
âYou donât. What?âÂ
He must have the stupidest look on his face, processing what youâre saying. Is it that, all this time, youâve been opening early, waiting for him to share coffee and feed him pie? Â
"The girls don't come in 'til after church."
The way youâre looking at him tells him, yes. Thatâs exactly what youâve been doing. He swallows, runs his thumb over your knuckle and you tighten the lacing of your fingers with his.
âEven if there were real ghosts, what, Dean?âÂ
He licks his lips and comes in to kiss you, heads for your mouth but tacks East at the last minute, catching your cheek right where it dimples when you smile. His hands are full so he canât grab your waist and pull you into him, but he's not sure he wants to do that anyway.
He thinks maybe taking it easy, with the long drives and the mornings like slow molasses and the Sundays of it all, is sort of the point, too.
He keeps it short, itâs kind of weird to make a kiss on the cheek last too long, but stays close to you for a second, his forehead almost touching yours.Â
âIf ghosts were real, Iâd keep you safe.âÂ
You make a funny little noise to go along with that funny little grin, the one you must have grown into while hiding a gap that isnât there anymore. He thinks maybe youâre going to close the distance between you, but you donât. You donât even move. The two of you stand there, just holding hands and grinning, close enough to be a lot of things, but nothing in particular quite yet.Â
âCâmon.â You clear your throat and nod your head toward his car. âTake me for a ride.âÂ
âNgh.â He canât help himself, he actually grunts, lets his forehead close the distance with yours, rocking against you side to side. He wants to say something to let you know what that does to him, how it feels like he needs to adjust his jeans around it, but he doesnât. He just rubs his nose against yours twice, then leads you to the car and opens the door for you.Â
You study him as he slides behind the wheel and guns the engine before he throws his arm behind the seat as he reverses out of the stall. He shifts gears and suddenly you're pulling his arm around your shoulders, your hip and thigh pressing lightly into his. You've threaded your fingers together again, letting them hang together in front of your shoulder so it stays wrapped around you.
As if he'd dream of letting you go.
Youâre looking up at him, smiling, happily tucked against his side, and if he werenât driving he would kiss you for real, with tongue so it would be wet and deep. So you would kiss him back. So you would never want to stop.
You smell like sugar and spice, and goddamn.Â
You feel like everything nice.
Thank you so much for reading! Gratitude for likes, comments, reblogs and vibes.
That was it, The Memory. That one long afternoon when he was warm and soft and so painfully human. The day you and Dean made love, maybe.
dean winchester x fem!reader (friends to lovers)
summary : 15 poems +1, about loving and mourning dean winchester.
CW : major. character. death. y-e-a-r-n-i-n-g. grief, grief, and more grief. bit'o'smut. piv (but it's in poem form?). happy ending.
Word Count : 2.3k
a/n : a bit of an experiment, this was something i found in my fic graveyard i just couldn't make work. converting from prose to poetry started as an exercise but honestly, this was some of the most fun writing i've had in a while. it spans a bunch of different styles/techniques i wanted to practice, some of the formatting had to bow to the will of tumblr, but we persevere.
i really hope you enjoy.
title is taken from Led Zeppelin's song "Over The Hills and Far Away"
(
You : âWhat do you think happens when we die?â
Dean : âI dunno. Nothing? Weâre just dead, I guess.â
You : âWhat do you think happens when we die?â
Dean : âIâll burn your body so you donât come back wrong.â
You : âWhat do you think happens when we die?â
Dean : âDonât know about you, but this time next year Iâll be downstairs.â
Dean : âWhat do you think happens when we die?â
You : âThe ones who love us will miss us.â
)
1.
Passing by a
Town. AÂ
Motel. AÂ
Dive Bar.
It feels likeÂ
Loss. And
Longing. And
Him.Â
You think of Dean,
remember him to life.
He doesnât stop
Dying. And
Rising. FromÂ
the Grave.
You are leftÂ
Grieving. For
Him. ForÂ
You.
You didnât mind it,Â
when he was still alive.
2.
You and Dean were never really lovers, but you were friends.Â
He would cross state lines to grab a beer with you, and you would drive all night for a bottomless cup of shitty diner coffee and a short stack. Sometimes there was some small town terror youâd team up on, but a lot of times there wasnât. You never needed a job to work damn well together.
Whenever you laughed, he smiled so wide it would touch the corners of his eyes. It was the kind of thing that would have etched lines into your faces over time, transforming your topography, if either of you were allowed to live that long.
You made love once, maybe, one lazy summer day in Sioux Falls. It seemed so sappy to think of it that way, but you always felt it was different from just fucking, if the distinction even mattered. You donât know if it made it better or worse, that you just loved each other rather than being in love. Whether losing him would have hurt more or less, one way or the other.
You always told him it wasnât fair, having to mourn him in pieces. You did it anyway, fairness be damned, but one time you told him you couldnât anymore even though it was a lie.Â
âIf you come back this time, Dean, donâtâŚplease donât come back to me. I canâtââ
You hadnât been able to finish, that word hanging, loaded, in the silence between you long enough that he asked if you were still there on the other end.Â
3.
He is twenty-eight.
He is thirty-three.
Thirty-six.
Forty-one.
He is dead.
He is shoving past you in a diner to take a leak.Â
He is bleeding into your upholstery.Â
He is telling you youâre awesome.
He is nowhere and everywhere.
He is stretching through time.Â
You are twenty-five.Â
You are thirty.Â
Thirty-three.
Thirty-eight.Â
You are living?
You are ordering him pie and coffee.
You are stitching up his wounds.
You are thinking that you love him.
You are everywhere and nowhere.
You are trapped inside one moment for the rest of your life.
4.
The sun through grime caked windows made the diner feel brighter than it should have. The coffee, if you could call it that, was hot but terrible and you both just held the cups of thin brown water for the warmth of it.Â
The world felt colder, now, without him in it.
You ordered pie, because he would have, but when the waitress brought it over you just stared at it until you couldnât anymore, shoving it as far from you as possible without throwing it across the room. The fork clattered to the floor and you hid your face in your hands, suddenly too sick to even think about food.Â
âSo, thatâs it.â It wasnât the first time you had had this conversation, but it was the first time heâd asked to meet in person for it. âHeâs gone, and youâre hanging up your spurs.â
âThatâs what he wanted, so. Yeah.â You could see his hand curl in and out of a fist on the table. âJerk.âÂ
âBitch.â Call and response. It was a reflex, but not yours. He flinched when you said it. âIâm sorry. Iââ
âItâs okay. Itâs.â His shoulders shook once with laughter. It was sad, but not hopeless. You smiled when you heard it. âGood. Iâve missed him saying it.â
Sam waved the waitress over and asked for a slice of every other type of pie they had, sharing the remaining clean fork with you to work your way through all of them, together.
In the parking lot, he pulled you into the back seat of the Impala and you held each other there for a very long time.
5.
gas stationÂ
donuts andÂ
cherry pieÂ
and appleÂ
pie andÂ
pecan pieÂ
and anyÂ
pie atÂ
all butÂ
never ever
cake
plaid andÂ
denim and
steel toesÂ
and oversized
leather and
off-the-
rack suitsÂ
and cheapÂ
wingtips andÂ
ugly fuckingÂ
ties
filling yourÂ
tank tooÂ
late theÂ
light onÂ
your dashÂ
reminding youÂ
because nowÂ
he isnâtÂ
around to
do it
anymore
6.
You never stopped thinking about that sunny day in South Dakota, when Sam and Bobby had gone on a milk run and Dean had stuck around to wait for you.Â
That was it, The Memory. That one long afternoon when he was warm and soft and so painfully human. The day you and Dean made love, maybe.
You were the only person in the whole world who remembered it now, and you were so afraid you couldnât hold on to everything it meant all on your own.Â
Maybe it was how he had held you down and pressed you open and lost himself in the mystery between your thighs in a way that was different from the heat and the urgency and anonymity of how either of you were used to having sex.Â
Sex, but not with each other.
Maybe it was how heâd cradled your cheek to his chest and whispered into your hair how afraid he was and didnât want to go to hell and almost wished he hadnât made that crossroads deal to save his brotherâs life.Â
Almost, but not really.Â
The truth was, that morning was the most intimate youâd ever been with anyone, before or after.Â
Youâd never told him that, and now youâd never get to.
7.
He wonders: do you feel it
the way he does? How it curlsÂ
in his belly. A shot of whiskey, or
arousal. When he thinks of you.
8.
You drive. The asphalt, a shimmering oil slick stretching out and filling the night for miles. The air is humid, thick, steeped in the rain drenched richness of ozone and petrichor. It tastes like lightning. It puts you ill at ease, gathering into a bottomlessness in your gut that makes you feel like youâre falling upwards, out of time.
You drive. The radio, crackling with a soft buzzing static but you donât remember turning it on. You canât remember where youâre coming from and donât know where it is youâre going. It sounds like voices whispering to you, but when you try to turn the volume up, the hissing white noise drowns out whatever you thought you heard.Â
You drive. The glove box, overflowing with crap and you cannot find anything useful. Your phone, a map, something to orient yourself. Itâs like the morning after a bender, retracing your steps to find out what the fuck happened after you blacked out. Dawn flickers between the long shadows of the trees, boreal ghosts lining the road, and you wait to recognize where you are in the daylight but it just doesnât happen.
You drive. Thereâs someone riding shotgun beside you, you can see them but only from the corner of your eye and when you look over, no one is there. Youâre hearing things again, not whispers this time, but a burner phone, buried in the back of your cab. It stops ringing before you find it, one notification waiting when you do.
Dean W
Missed Call
9.
Dean Winchesterâs Greatest Hits
(studio release)
no crusts, store bought pie
holding his Mother,Â
holding his Brother,
a field, and fireworks.Â
Dean Winchesterâs Greatest Hits
(bootleg sessions)
no alarms, soft fur
tucked in bed with Miracle,
tucked in bed with You,
your body, and fireworks.
10.
Gravel crunches under your tires as you pull into the junkyard, squinting as the sun glints off the immaculate Chevy already parked there.Â
Heâs been waiting for you a long time.
The screen door rattles open and you stop breathing when it slams shut again, listening to the sound of his boots coming across the yard.Â
âHeard your old junker coming from a mile away.âÂ
His hair is longer and he wears it swept to the side now, his smile crinkling even more around his eyes than you remember it.Â
âSo, this is Heaven."
His arms wrap around you tight, the spaces between his ribs and yours pouring warmth into the place in your heart you kept for him that has been visited by only grief for so, so long.Â
âYeah. We made it.â
You are a double exposed photograph, the ghost of one reality stamped across another, caught between them until the fact that youâre dead has finished sinking in.Â
âWhat happens now?â
11.
âHey, Dean?âÂ
âYeah?â
âDid I pick this day, or did you?âÂ
Humming. âItâs the right day, isnât it?âÂ
âYeah, I meanâŚsure. I just...âÂ
âIt is the right day, isnât it?â
Gravel scuffing the rubber of your shoe.Â
âYes. I just didnât think it was, for you.â
âI used to think about it, you know, when I couldnât sleep.âÂ
âPerv.â The back of your hand slapping his chest.Â
âNot like that. I mean, yeah, definitely like that, but.âÂ
Silence. You and him and whispering fabric.Â
Laughing.
And laughing.
And laughing again.Â
âBut only sometimes. OthersâŚâÂ
His thought, trailing away. His lips,Â
the crown of your head, kissing so softly it has no sound.Â
âWell, you know. Donât you?â
But youâre not sure you do.
12.
âCâmon.â
You walk across the yard side by side, fingers brushing, then lacing together. When you reach the house he holds the door open for you. You hesitate, looking out at the yard, past it to the road.
âHey. Um. Dean?â
You worry that, with how you clung so tightly to this day with him, you have built this Heaven for yourself, brick by stricken brick. You wonder if you still want it, if this Dean isnât really Dean, if all you get is a copy.Â
âAre weâŚus, now?â
You are so afraid, want to stay on the porch, sure youâll see it isn't him once you get inside. You want to leave this perfect memory, of you and him about to make love, maybe, intact and untouched.Â
You donât have the courage to ask:Â
Were we ever?
13.
Of all things, it's the dog that convinces you because the canine miracle bounding out of the house was never yours
But his, then his brotherâs, then gone and youâre not the type of person whoâd remember all dogs get to come here, too
14.
Dean takes you upstairs and you take each otherâsÂ
      clothes off and it is both the same as and
      different from the last time you were here.Â
He kicks the door closed, saying sorry to Miracle,Â
     but he wants you for himself, right now.Â
You start to cry when he slides into you, because theÂ
     place in your heart you made for him no longer needs to be left empty.Â
He holds you while you shake with quiet little sobs, untilÂ
     you start to rock your hips against him and youâre no longer sobbing because of what you lost.Â
First: He loves you fiercely, like you have a lifetime toÂ
     make up for and you love him the same way, because you do.Â
He flips you over and holds you against him and drivesÂ
     into you again and again while you meet him thrustÂ
          for thrust and he grips your hip and bites your shoulderÂ
          and almost comes when you reach behindÂ
     you to pull his hair and moan his name as if itâs the only one youâve ever known.
He almost comes, but he doesnât because neither of you are ready for that. Yet.
Next: He loves you slowly, like you have all the time inÂ
     the world and you love him the same way, because you do.Â
He cages you in between his forearms and youÂ
     lock him in the circle of your legs and you archÂ
          your back and dig your nails into his assÂ
          and almost say you love him when he holdsÂ
     your face and looks into your eyes as if youâre the only person heâs ever known.
You almost say it, but you donât because neither of you are ready for that. Yet.
Last (for now): He fucks you, or maybe youÂ
     fuck him, because you want to and he wants to, too, so you do.
You hook your ankles over his shoulders and heÂ
     drags your ass high off the bed and he foldsÂ
          you in half and drives himself so deep into youÂ
          that Heaven itself almost dissolves around you andÂ
     his cock in your cunt is the only thing either of you ever want to know again.Â
He starts to weep when he comes, because he must have his ownÂ
     places in him that are empty, that you hope someday you can help him fill.Â
You hold him while he shakes with a lifetime worth of sobs, untilÂ
     his open mouth against your breast is no longer mourning everything he never got to have.Â
Dean cradles your cheek to his chest and whispers intoÂ
     your hair how happy he is and it is both the same as andÂ
     different from the first time you were here.Â
You throw open the door, he calls to Miracle,Â
     who curls up at your feet, fur tickling your toes.Â
15.
Heaven
is a scrapyard in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.
is a roadhouse just outside of Central City, Nebraska.
is a â67 Chevy with the windows downÂ
     and a tank that never runs out of gas.
is him kissing you for the first time since the last time.
is him telling you youâre making love.
is him saying the distinction matters
     because you missed out on so much.
when you were alive.
bonus a/n : special thanks to @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth for planting the seed that got me thinking about "grief that is everywhere all the time it colours everything", your brain is the gift that keeps on giving, bud. thank you đ
Thank you so much for reading! Gratitude for likes, comments, reblogs and vibes.
I appreciate you!
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