Everyone is welcome.

To make it short:

Basic etiquette applies!

Do not harass or bully others over ships, takes, headcanons. 

If you're working on a fill for another seasonal event and it happens to sync with one of our prompts, we'd be happy to have it!

UPDATED!! If you have the maximum sized card of 5x5 squares, you can maximum combine three fills. The 3x3 and 4x4 cards have a different rule - please only combine up to two squares! 

Goal of the bingo is to produce as much witchy Sam content as possible, it’s not a competetion against each other to fill as many squares as possible in ONE fic. There’s no trophy to win except the love, appreciation and mindless keysmashing of your fellow fans. :)

Your fic should have a minimum length of 300 words -> a drabble-ish length. There’s no maximum!

Please only request one bingo card at a time. When you’re done with the first, you can apply for a second one.

If there’s something on your Bingo Card you feel uncomfortable about to write for whatever reason, get in touch with me. (jackandthesoulmates[at]gmail.com or here)

Please tag with common sense; AO3 warnings should be used. 

Reblogging your fellow Bingo player’s creations is encouraged!

Use the tags #witchsambingo or #witchsamisforeveryone to be seen.

If needed, join our discord server. -> please get in touch for the invite!

Template

please use the following format for your works: click here for the google doc!

Happy Creating Everyone. 

Love,

Castle Lachlan bore a curse, ancient and angry, down unto its very foundations. Or so the legend went and so far the lore held true. Sam had descended at least two stories underground and still had yet to reach the epicenter. He searched halls and corridors, slowly feeling his way towards the magical nexus that fueled the suffering of the spirits trapped within the castle walls and the horrors visited upon the living who dared trespass. Even the surrounding grounds were treacherous for the unwary.

But now underground, nearing the foundations of the castle, the stronger the sting prickling his fingertips. He kept on, slow and steady, his left hand still held in the Prana Mudra position. Above his two extended fingers floated a singular beam of light that lit his way. He reached the bottom of another flight of stairs and his light suddenly began to dim. The curse upon the castle trying to drain him of his vitality as it had so many others. 

This final corridor narrowed and straightened, leaving only one direction to go. Sam pulled his right hand away from the wall and shook out the burning ache in his fingers. Then with a series of single handed motions Sam silently cast a spell. He didn’t want to risk the stones hearing his intentions. He cycled through the ritual gestures the spell required, his dexterous fingers flowing quickly into the seven components of protection, ending with his right hand in the Karana Mudra position. 

His left hand light flared as the energy of his protection spell surrounded him in a web of shimmering lines like tree roots. The curse immediately reacted to his sudden brightness and his reinvigorated defenses. A wailing shriek echoed along the corridor, a growl from deep within the earth. Hungry and furious at being denied. 

Sam braced himself as an abrupt gust of wind pushed at him, threatening to yank him off his feet. The stench of grave dirt filled his nostrils. This was a place of death. Sam held his ground and pushed forward, fighting for each and every step he took. 

Eventually, he entered a small chamber, the original ritual space, and just like that the unnatural wind vanished, replaced with ghostly voices. Some he recognized from his earlier encounters upstairs, others he didn’t, but he refused to pay them any mind. They were but a distraction, a ploy to confuse and frighten him into lowering his guard.

The curse, however, had more in store for him. After all these centuries the curse was nearly sentient in itself. A wild animal fighting to the bitterest end. Out of the blue, pain erupted flashing from the soles of his feet up into his legs like claws tearing through him. Sam panted, sweat beading at his temples. He clenched his jaw and focused on his task while he burned, weaving a complex spell of gestures, the pain of the malignant magic gnawing at his gut. 

At last, Sam uttered but a single word and everything happened at once. Suddenly his perceptions expanded, his consciousness now coursing through the walls of the castle, the floors, the door and the battlements.

Souls of the castle’s victims caught the spark of his magic and joined in the scene, blazing like newborn stars until every corner was illuminated in the magic of the Light. Sam, his soul embedded in the frame of the castle and the foundations, uttered a spell without speaking, his magic working through the stones and the wood and his intention. His soul buoyed by his spell and the souls of the former victims, pushed the curse beyond its limits. With the power of his spirit and the strength of his spellwork he severed the dark magic that served as the curse’s lifeline, evicting the evil from the grounds.

The last thread snapped. 

With the final remnant of the curse purified, Sam freed the souls of the dead from the clutches of the castle. Souls like fireworks shot into the sky in all directions, ascending to Heaven in a great conflagration. Sam smiled, his joy seeping into the wood grains and rebounding off the walls like a voice. Slowly, his light diminished, his soul returning to his mortal form. No longer wood and stone and glass but flesh and blood and bone. 

Candlelight flickers in the motel room, the only light source except for the open bathroom door. Sam leans his elbows on the back of the couch and stretches up as far as he can to see the sigil Dean is carefully copying from the book onto the table cloth.

“Sam.”

Dad’s voice is firm even though he hasn’t looked up from where he’s carefully measuring ingredients with his back to the couch, let alone turned his head to see his youngest son. Sam sinks back onto his heels.

“I just wanna see,” he says. He’s definitely not pouting.

“And I told you to stay there.”

Okay. Maybe he’s pouting just a little. He can’t help it. There’s something so enticing about the big leatherbound book Dad borrowed from Uncle Bobby, the smell of the herbs he’s pouring into smaller bowls in preparation, the glow of the candles in the center of the circles Dean’s drawing. Sam wants to know more. He needs to know more.

“What is that?” he asks as Dad scoops dried purple flowers from a jar.

“Lavender. Now be quiet.”

Sam scrunches his nose up and rests his chin on his folded arms with a huff but he obeys. He wants so badly to climb over the couch and get a better look at the steady lines Dean is drawing, maybe try his own hand at them, but he knows better. Maybe later Dad will let him see the book again. He can already feel the silky-smooth leather under his fingers, the old pages worn soft with so many years of use, the power etched into every word. Dad and Dean don’t seem to be able to feel it but Sam could. It sings and resonates with every fiber of his being.