#spnapo

Part 1 of We-time: A Sam/Dean Trio

To @samshinechester & @nisaki-chan, thanks are not enough! 💜💖

Also, please let me take this time to put over Saturday Night Specials on Livejournal. Porn for the whole J2 Expanded Universe, it's a treasure.

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send me a prompt

PWP, bottom Sam, Impala sex

Birthday hat-tip to @wetsammywinchester. Poet thanks emmatheslayer for the prompt and crowroad3 for the pep talk.

Domestic brotherhood, prose-poem

Sam found this market at Lebanon First Baptist. Mostly members, farm wives, selling surplus from their personal gardens. Corn and green beans, squash, all the herbs.

Strawberry pie—home-grown, real whipped cream—got Dean to ride out with him the next Saturday. By coincidence, Sam swore, Gurley’s Meats pulled up a cold truck.

“Sammy, you been holdin out on me!” Dean buzzed. Rubbed palms and sucked lips.

*

Sam found an app. Coming off hunts, needing to stretch leg anyway. Amish country: pickles and peppers, mason jars of maple syrup. Five flavors of hand-canned jam outside a strip mall in Kentucky. Broccoli so fresh from an Iowa urgent care, Sam found live inch worms when he cut in.

Pies. Always pies. Rhubarb, peach, pecan, and pumpkin. Ice cream, whipped cream. Sometimes not even a fork, just face and fingers.

“Want some?”

“Idiot.”

*

Dean finds hot sauce in Georgia, lot of another First Baptist. Three-piece string band—fiddle, banjo, and stand-up bass—picks old-time religion. Fresh eggs. Beef tamales and honey, garnet red.

Flirty forty-something: “One chocolate chess pie.”

Dean slips her a twenty.

“Y’put real cream on this, y’hear me? Not that crap from a can.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Licks teeth.

*

Later, “Boneless buffalo bites! Grilled, for your precious cholesterol.” Dean bundles his with bacon strips, a lettuce scrap, and a quarter-cup ranch in a wrap.

Sam’s served a salad, ranch on the side.

“You like?” Orange goo plasters his shirt.

Sam nods, mouth full.

“Good, cause you’re doin the dishes.” Greasy napkin arcs, grazes a cheek.

“Then you’re finding us a case.”

Dean collects plates.

Inspired by “time off” and “them just being people.” Much love to anniespinkhouse and onehotmama199. <333

Drabble, mostly monologue

I propose to teach you spellcraft.

Sam laughs, No.

So you sidle t’wards him, great hairy ape, lay a warnin finger against his chest.

Hear me, Sam Winchester. Your blood thrums, tainted and sanctified, and you fling it about, play at magic. No idea what you’re capable of and we’ll all be damned if you bugger up.

Shut up.

So much power, just to constrain so much power. So afraid, what will your brother say? Dean doesn’t get a say. Get control or you’ll get consumed.

Get out.

Aye, I’ll go. But y’mark me.

Vanish in a flourish.

You’ll call.

Cross-posted to spnapo No prompt, just a concept I've been kicking around. Also sorry about the title.

Sam, Hallucifer, episode 12x02, torture aftermath, delirium

Chair. Chains. Lucifer: fucked-her-and-you-LIKED-it Shiver. Pain/cold/no? Must’ve been heat. Still stinks burnt meat. poor sam wish-she’d-just-go-on-and-kill-you don’t you Blink. Glare, feet on the stairs: boots, and bow— oh no. can’t torture a guy with nothing left to Shackled smirk. Flies fast past that…

LEAVING MISSOURI are-you-sure COME AGAIN ’s too cheap even for me Flex. Fingers tingle, healing residual. Car smells right: leather, sweat, hushed blood and death. except Blonde head.

WELCOME TO KANSAS Mile marker, consecutive. so-far Sharp thumbnail, horseshoe scar. Count on.

Cross-posted to spnapo Prompt: Missouri

wincest, episode 12x02 coda, prose-poetry

A/N: Yesterday, @caffeinechesters​ challenged me to write an alternate ending for a fic. I chose Fifty-fifty, and this is Part One of that effort.

“What are you asking for?”

“Nothin.”

Bullshit squint.

“I’m offerin.” Stand up. “Brood on it awhile, figure out what you want.” Slip slow; hand falls to the bedspread. “We been a in shitstorm lately and it’s no time to be makin life choices.”

Almost a chuckle. “Aren’t we always in a shitstorm?”

Head for—

“What.” Voice break. “What are you offering.”

Slump. “My life, Sam.” Head shake. “S’like always.”

Bedsprings creak and Sam looms up behind. Fingers brand through zipper teeth. “What about this?” Get tight under his palm. “Why now?”

“Because?” Because, “Because,” because, “why not?” Reassuring pissy huff parts neck hair. Breathe into him. “M’tired, man.” Grunt. “Burnin gas, circlin this thing.” Sandwiched: Sam’s hips, Sam’s hand. Rock heavy against him once, oh, fuck. Hard sidestep. “You don’t, have to do this, dude, not now. I know that skank—”

“Please don’t.”

Nod.

Big palm, sharp-corner belt buckle, “I’m done waiting.” Sam shoves the door shut.

+++To be continued+++

Cross-posted to spnapo Prompt: Forty questions for fic writers

hurt-comfort-ish, post-episode 12x07, “Rock Never Dies”

Crooked knuckles and calluses shovel and gun, Palm Scar and, palm scars, dozens for spells: safe-circles, summonings.

Red doors, buckling not even demon blood full-on brick shithouse, Sam or no, maybe so on blood because, what man ever out-muscled Satan’s mojo?

Cas? Am I still— Forearm touch leaches heat not-quite-brown-out—

Sam.

Flinch against shards that never shatter.

Your Will exceeds my brother’s. How many times must you—

Weightlessness.

Keep your eyes closed.

Freeze-searing wingtips circle and wind knees-down numb.

This is how strong you are.

Subtle bumping footfalls Where are we going? Grace-smile shines right through tight lids.

I don’t know, Sam. You’re carrying me.

Cross-posted to spnapo Prompt: holy holy holy (glorious, slightly NSFW artwork by saintedsam: T, trueform Sastiel)

Vampires say one of theirs killed an angel.

Levis say theirs killed the angel and the vamp.

Wendigoes say, was a man who hunted the angel.

Rougarous say no, vampire hunted the man.

Werewolves say the man merged with the angel.

Shifters say neither one of them survived.

Vetalas swear there were dozens of angels.

Trickster insists, angel’s still alive.

Prompt: The brightest spot in Purgatory Cross-posted to spnapo