#please note tho

Yankee is slang for delinquent in japan, and has an entire subculture very different from the american idea of a yankee, but man is it hilarious that they used the same word

If you indulge in anime or japanese media, you have seen these tropes before. Hell, Owada himself is this very trope. Also fun fact that I learned today: that iconic squat these characters have is called the yankee squat or "yankee zuwari"

Here I was, innocently toodling along, and then like three BDSM-style fics kind of happened all at once, and then I thought--you know what would work for Sam and would absolutely not work for Dean? Yeah. So.

Title: abandon Pairing: Sam/Dean Note: established d/s relationship, unnegotiated kink, communication fail Summary: After Dean's cured of being a demon, after they're back home in the bunker, he can't quite settle. Now that they're back on the same page, Sam decides to try something new, to help Dean center himself. 

They fucked for the first time in months when they came back from that silly play. In the garage in the bunker, Sam took the silly little prop amulet down off the rearview mirror and caught the edge of how Dean smiled, to himself, turned away a little like he didn’t want Sam to catch him—but Sam had. He’d thought about the weird world-tilting moment, watching those girls say the words they’d always said to each other, the thing that had always mattered most, through years of death and blood and betrayal. He’d tucked the little prop into his jacket pocket, and before Dean could turn the conversation to something safe, something clean, like they were something less, something they’d been choked away from by terrible circumstance for far too long—he caught Dean by the wrist and pulled him in close, and there tucked against the side of their car he’d kissed Dean, one hand on his jaw to keep him in place, and Dean had shuddered, wide open, yearning up into Sam like someone starved.

God, Sam had missed it. Missed him. Even with the fury at Dean’s duplicity closing up his throat like a sickness, he’d wanted him—and that hadn’t helped with the anger, not at all, because then it really had felt like a sickness. Dean thought of himself like poison, like someone Sam needed to be protected from, and that’s not true, not in the least. Yet—then, all Sam had wanted to do was throw Dean down onto his belly on their bed and lash his wrists to the headboard and fuck him, hard and punishing, fill him up with something awful and give him nothing in return. Like Dean had done to him, no matter his intentions. He wanted to hurt Dean, make him cry. That was the poison. It twisted this thing between them, beyond what Sam thought could be repaired—until he saw Dean die, again, and any last trace of fury was wiped away, burnt out and leaving only blackened, twisted panic in its wake.

That first time, the first time they were on the same page together in so long—Sam didn’t do anything special. Dean was blasted-open fragile, hesitant, baring his throat, and Sam wanted it sweet, that time. Nothing between them but skin. Dean had clung to him, after, tired and relieved and tucked in close against Sam’s chest, and—yeah. Everything was okay, right then.

Now, though—