#broth3r

rough, breathy laughter slides between them, triggering the angel's grip to tighten, the fabric of dean's jacket bunching beneath fingers where he keeps him. castiel looks at him ─ cerulean hues cutting through flesh as though that stare alone could keep dean nailed against the wall like some martyr awaiting judgement. the way those eyes fixes on him isn't sacred ; it’s dangerous, scraped completely raw to the bone.

castiel has already burned enough bridges in heaven for this. for him. and he would still set the rest ablaze if it meant keeping him standing.

jaw locking, one forearm pressing hard beside the man's shoulder to cage him. the words that leave him next sharp enough to slice, ' do not do that. ' a warning, because he won't allow dean to speak to him as if this is already over, after all the things he's sacrificed for him. eons in heaven, eons of following orders, defying them, and getting a price put on his head for it. ' you don't think i don't understand hopelessness ? several of my own kind have made me their prey for choosing your side. and still, i'm here ─ trying to help you and your brother stop the supposedly inevitable. this apocalypse you are apparently determined to march toward. '

he feels the shift against himself, the hunter's hands gripping at the fabric, before they still, fingers curled tight ; a drowning man holding onto the beige of his vessel's coat like a buoy. what do you want me to do ? that bitterness in dean’s voice earns him nothing but another cold stare. castiel doesn't know anymore. god is absent. and perhaps god truly doesn't care anymore. that thought sits like rot beneath him. he can't do more than to hope otherwise.

slowly, he leans in. words breathed against the thin skin of his mouth, ' i want you to stop looking for permission to surrender. ' it escapes the angel harsh, and much more desperate than intended. ' what makes you think that you, of all people, are permitted to be the one who gives up, after everything ? ' another shove follows. ' answer me, dean. '

Work in progress

22, it/he

Asks open, Anons/prompts welcome, DMs as well but don’t expect me to respond quick and don’t try and make me your sub

Don’t care what your parts or identity is, just don’t be a fucking creep, won’t be sending pictures but happy to receive (ASK FIRST!)

Dad/son is my fav but you’ll see brocon too

RACK, untagged hard kinks, this is your warning, expect assault, manipulation, blackmail, age play, etc, read at your own risk

I will not always be explicit with the genitalia or gender identity of all characters in the stories,

TRANS MEN ARE MEN! IF YOU HAVE AN ISSUE WITH THAT FUCK RIGHT OFF

Call me: Dad, Daddy, papa, dada, Mr, Sir, (you can ask to use others as long as they’re in this vein)

On the fence: big bro, uncle,

Don’t call me: any sort of “little” bro baby bro etc

Tags:

another night, another dingy motel. the same stained walls, the same nicotine-yellow curtains they'd hidden behind a hundred times before. different town, same routine. their very own, addictive ritual.

a demon in his lap, and the same, familiar sting of that glistening edge splitting her surface open just enough to unveil the crimson beneath. it's desperate, the way sam holds onto that arm, fingers ironclad around wrist as he feeds from her. mouth hot and starving against wound ; licking, sucking, swallowing. tongue dragging over that fresh slit again, and again ─ smearing dark poison across already ruined skin.

blood streaks the corners of his mouth. paints itself over lips and chin, beneath fingernails where his grip tightens every time he swallows. and when sam drags away, it's a reluctant departure. the wound in her wrist pulsating at the loss of it. chest rising hard. his eyes blown and storm-dark. mouth open. red, just about everywhere. she bites her lip.

' sam, ' ruby breathes, eyes locking. hands move to cup his face between palms. dangerously grounding ; making it feel too close to intimacy for either of them to admit. slowly, her thumb moves. sweeping steadily across his lower lip, smearing away the blood gathered there. warm and wet, red streaking across her own skin now. a sly upturn curving her mouth before lifting the thumb to her lips, tongue gliding over the stain as she tastes herself from him.

𝓣he  edge  of  the  marsh  was  thick  with reeds,  low  wetland  floors  flooded  with  murky  waters  that  sank  below  into  an  abyss  of  nothingness.  The  sun  had  not  been  seen  in  weeks,  the  wasteland  blanketed  with  dense  foliage  and  complete  darkness,  paving  the  way  for  every  creature  that  lurked  under  the  cover  of  night.  This  area  was  rich  with  its  own  folklore       …       some  of  it  true,  some  of  it  not.  Sifting  through  the  exaggerations  and  embellishments  to  find  the  truths  buried  beneath  was  an  intensive  labor,  but  one  that  had  led  Aleksandr  here.  Tipped  off  by  recent  reports  of  something  ancient  that  lingered  here,  infesting  nearby  towns  with  a  death  toll  that  was  stacking  into  double  digits.  It  reeked  of  vampirism,  reinforced  by  whispers  from  villagers  that  still  clung  to  the  innate fears  of  their  elders.  It  appeared  that  some,  however,  simply  weren’t  scared  enough.       ❛   It’s  not  safe  for  you  to  be  out  here  this  late,  haven’t  you  heard?   ❜

[ TXT: sam 💻 ] : you've made some questionable choices, and i firmly believe several of your strategies would benefit from a thorough review.

[ TXT: sam 💻 ] : and your voice has this shrill quality that can be quite dissonant.

[ TXT: sam 💻 ] : but i don't hate you, sam.

[ TXT: dean 🥧 ] : i don't understand what you mean by that. my mind is not in a gutter.

[ TXT: dean 🥧 ] : oh.

"no." punctuated by the duffle zipper. it's a snug fit, bag bulging on all sides, but the sharp shit's pointed inwards. the cut of sam's attitude could take that note. "he'll meet us there."

dean's privy to more details of the case on account of zero push back. he's got a shopping list for the library, and a timeline john can trust him to follow to a tee. sam's incessant input might earn a gold star in a classroom, but at home, he's just looking for a rise. john knows this.

it's what smarmy teenagers do. he's tolerating what he can.