Your writing is so good! đ
I havenât posted in forever, but thanks, love!
I'd rather be in outer space đ¸
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
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@weswriteswhatever
Your writing is so good! đ
I havenât posted in forever, but thanks, love!

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There was a vamp nest in Iowa, in some shithole about three towns over from Beaconsfield.
John was out hunting, and Dean took this opportunity, as he had with many previous, to take Sam out.
They stole a car from the motel parking lot and they drive for what felt like hours, even though it was only about 20 minutes.
Sam clung to Deanâs jacket as they snuck through the cornfield. He was 15, and he knew he shouldnât be so scared, but unlike most people his age, he knew what could be lurking in the shadows.
Dean led him through the field until they reached a clearing. It was small, but it was secluded and dark. It was perfect.
They went slow and took their time. Knowing how John obsessed over cases, they knew theyâd have all night.
With Deanâs jacket laid out under Sam, they kissed. It wasnât sloppy and hurried like most teenagers were. It was slow, and loving, and perfect.
Sam stared up at the sky when Deanâs hands started roaming and his lips dropped to Samâs neck. He knew it would never last forever. He knew that at some point theyâd have to stop. But for that moment, right there in that Iowa cornfield, Sam felt loved.
âRichie?â
Richie stared at the figure in front of him. Eddie stared back with those glowing yellow eyes. It wasnât Eddie. He knew it wasnât Eddie, but he couldnât bring himself to run.
âYouâre a freak, Trashmouth! Bev told me what you said. Youâre a fucking freak!â
Richie stood still, mind still reeling from the rejection.
âIâm gonna tell everyone that you- youâre queer! Youâre a- a fag! Iâm telling everyone!â
Eddieâs bright yellow eyes glowed even brighter as Richieâs chest tightened. Eddieâs face distorted to show a clownish grin.
âTheyâre all gonna hate you, Richie. Theyâre all gonna hate you.â
âBeep beep, asshole!â
âWhat are you afraid of?â
Itâs a simple question, really.
What are you afraid of?
Clowns? Spiders? The dark?
Blood? Violence? War?
Your mother?
The world?
The soul-crushing reality that you can never be with the one you love?
âWhat are you afraid of, Eddie?â
John sat in the counselorâs office at the elementary school. Sam was 8, in second grade.
âYour son started a fight with a classmate.â
The woman sitting across from him was a short, blonde, well-dressed woman. John thought she was quite the looker. If heâd met her in a bar, he might have hit on her. But he did not meet her in a bar. He met her here, as she accused his 8 year-old son of viciously attacking a classmate. Dean, he expected this from, but Sam?
John sat in the psychologists office. Sam was 13, in seventh grade.
âYour son displays violent tendencies. I believe he might have psychopathic tendencies. John, I recommend that you have your son committed.â
The man sitting across from him was old, maybe 60, 65, balding, with glasses. If John had met him on the street, he would have thought him a kindly old man, wise with old age. But this man was evil, telling John to throw his son in some kind of insane asylum. John wanted to rip this guyâs head off.
John sat in the police station. Sam was 15, in tenth grade.
âYour son was found at the scene of a double homicide, covered in blood.â
The man sitting across from him was young. A detective. Dark hair, bright eyes, but he looked weathered by knowledge. If John had met him on the road, he would have thought him to be a hunter. But this man was telling John his son, his sweet, innocent Sammy, had been arrested and named a suspect in a double homicide. John just cried.
John sat in an empty pew. Sam was 17.
âYour son is cursed. Itâs as if the devil himself has a hold on him. Demons plague him, John. Someone has to end his suffering.â
As John walked out of the church, the priest was stabbed in the back. As Sam twisted the knife, a smile grew on his evil little face. The devil spoke loudly in his mind.
âKill him, and you will be king.â

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Whiskey kisses on cherry lips
Leather jacket draped over too-small shoulders
Stubbled chin rubbing against pale neck
Hot breath on flat chest
Big rough hands on tiny waist
Sturdy hips between thin legs
Desperate man pushing into little boy body
Dear Diary
This isnât a diary. Itâs a journal. Dad told me I should keep a journal. Itâs not a diary. None of that girly stuff. So letâs get this straight: in case anyone finds this, my name is Dean Winchester. My father is John Winchester. My brother is Sam Winchester. We hunt monsters.
Michigan: Dad and I salted and burned a body. It was this boy. He kind of looked like Sam. He didnât know he was dead though. I felt bad for him.
Kentucky: Dad and Sam got into an argument again. Sam called Dad an asshole and Dad got out the belt. I wish they wouldnât fight so much. It breaks my heart to see Sam cry, and I know Dad drinks more after they fight.
Illinois: Dad got pretty spooked on the hunt tonight. Weâve been hunting that demon since mom died. Turns out, we just stumbled upon a whole bunch of them. Theyâre gone now; they left before Dad could exorcise them. But one of them said something weird. Dad got drunk as soon as we got back to the motel. Samâs doing his homework now. I wonder if he knows what he is. I wonder if itâs true.
Montana: I think Samâs getting into fights at school. He keeps coming back with bloody noses and bruises. I asked him about it, but all he ever says is âThey deserved it.â Iâm really worried about him.
Washington: Sam and Dad got into a fight. Sam stormed out. I donât know
Oregon: Sam Winchester is a fucking psychopath. If anyone finds this journal, stay far away from
Headline: The Oregonian:
Three Teens Found Dead, Killer Leaves Message: âThey Deserved itâ in Blood
Sam was called a lot of things.
John called him âboy.â
Kids at school called him âfreak.â
Hunters called him âmonster.â
Demons called him âthe boy who will be king.â
But Sam didnât care about all that. The only thing that mattered to Sam was the soft murmur of âSammyâ in his ear when Dean hugged him. Somehow, Dean took all the pain away.
The first time Sammy got high, he was in Deanâs lap on a dirty motel room bed. He was 14, just starting to lose the baby fat that had plagued him for years. Dean was 18, all sleazy smirks and cheesy pick-up lines. The first hit had his head spinning. He inhaled. His mind buzzed. He exhaled. Dean fell in love.
The second time Sam got high, he was 18, all long legs and shaggy hair. He sat cross-legged on the floor of a new, somehow dirtier motel room. Dean sat across from him. John was gone on a hunt; they had all night. Sam inhaled. Deanâs anticipation grew. He exhaled. Sam dreamt of freedom.
The third time Sam got high was at Stanford. He inhaled. He thought of Dean. His exhale became a choked sob.
John didnât want Sam to leave.
No, he wanted Sam to stay.
He wanted that sinful, spear-tongued boy to stay right there with him in that â67 Chevy Impala they had called home for nearly 18 years.
But he knew if Sam stayed, the line would be crossed.
And God only knows what would have happened then.

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I wonder what kind of filthy things Tony was waiting to do to Peter. No, no I donât. I already know. The way he calls him âMr Starkâ and âsir.â You already fucking know baby boy just wants to get fucking manhandled, tied up, and used. Over and over again.
âYou gonna be good?â
âY-yes sir Mr Stark sir.â
It wasnât Sam.
The tall, lanky, shaggy-haired twenty-something Dean had picked up at the bar.
It wasnât Sam.
Sam was gone. Sam had left.
But Dean had this guy. This sweet-talking little twink whose hips swayed when he walked.
âCan I uh... Can I call you Sam?â
âCall me whatever you, want, baby. Iâm just here for the ride.â
It wasnât Sam. But it was good enough.
âDe-â
âLemme see.â
âNo! Itâs weird.â
âWhatâs so weird about it?â
âTheyâre womenâs underwear, Dean.â
âCome on, Sammy. Lemme see.â
âFine. You promise you wonât laugh?â
âPromise.â
âSee? Itâs w- De, what are y- fuck.â
Dear Diary,
Whatâs wrong with me? Boys arenât supposed to like boys. Theyâre definitely not supposed to like their brothers. Itâs not my fault. It canât be my fault. God, I didnât ask to love him.
Dear Diary,
He hugged me today. He smelled like cigarettes and Dadâs whiskey. I canât stop smelling my jacket. I just wish he would hold me and never let go.
Dear Diary,
I kissed him. God, I kissed him. He pushed me away. He told me Iâm just horny. He told me weâre not supposed to do this. He told me Iâm crazy. I canât stay here. Not now. Itâs my fault.
Dear Diary,
I had to talk to someone. I talked to Dad. He told me to leave. He told me Iâm sick. I got accepted to Stanford, and Iâm leaving. Iâm never coming back. I canât do that to Dean.
And at that, Deanâs heart shattered.
Whenever school counselors asked John about the bruises on his eldest son, his response was always, âBoys will be boys,â but he couldnât explain the bruises on Samâs wrists and neck. He didnât want to ask. He didnât want to acknowledge the way Dean looked at his little brother.
Sitting in the motel parking lot, in the car that would forever be Sam and Deanâs home, John drank his suspicions away. Heâd never admit it, and heâd certainly never write it down in his journal, but on some level, he always knew.
Sam and Dean were brothers. They werenât supposed to love each other. Not like that. Never like that. And John would blame himself. Forever. After all, nothing about their lives had ever been normal.

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Play more Zeppelin.