WIPFriday?

WIP…Friday?

@paranoidxbastard tagged me for WIP Wednesday but I’m slow so here we are on Friday instead.

This is a bit of something that is inspired by things @future-dregs implanted in my mind, resulting in instant brain rot and one full breakdown in his DMs. Next day I went…well. Maybe that can be a fic.

Basic idea is that Sam and Dean cut their initials into the same spot on each other’s bodies over and over throughout their lives as a means of bonding and claiming and everything else that is twisted up and weird between them. Fic to span the series but this bit is from S4, immediately after Sam’s activities with Ruby are discovered and things are Real Bad™️ between them.

Excuse the roughness, it is a very preliminary draft at this point. 🙃😅

__________

By the time they get back to the motel room, Sam can already feel the oncoming change. Like something has broken right at their foundation and he’s afraid to see what rises up from beneath. All the things they’ve buried, all the feelings locked away, finally breathing free air.

Dean’s name is a half aborted plea when his brother shoves him hard up against the wall, the syllables rising from softness to anger in an instant. So many of their conversations seem to go that way now, laced in resentment that neither can quite put away.

A flash of silver draws Sam’s attention further down and he watches as Dean flips his favorite switchblade open. The same one that marked him all those years ago. It’s twisted but for a moment, the sight of it comforts Sam. Dean hasn’t held a knife, not for this, since he got back and some part of Sam’s brain had trembled at the thought that maybe he never would again.

“Dean.” This time when he says his brother’s name, it’s soft all the way through. “Let me just -“

But Dean is quicker, reaching between them to yank the waistband of Sam’s jeans down. The denim scratches rough over his skin and he grunts, pushing up into Dean’s space only to be shoved back again, hard. Held in place by the steel band of Dean’s arm across his chest, Sam looks down at the exposed skin of his hip.

DW. Etched into his skin on a thousand different nights, in a thousand different moments. It’s paler than it has ever been, having gone uncut, left to heal for so long. He’s put his mark back on Dean more than once since his brother crawled back out of the grave but it never felt right to do his own, not with Dean right there beside him. Not if Dean hadn’t yet done it himself. Still, the sight of those thin white lines fill him with such warmth that Sam feels his knees bend slightly under the weight.

Dean scoffs and the disgust in that single sound snap Sam’s eyes back up to his brother’s face. There is only anger there, fury like he has never seen and it’s all the warning Sam gets before Dean is finally slashing out with his knife, opening a clear line through the letters on Sam’s hip. The strike comes so hard and fast that beads of blood wick off the blade and form tiny spots of crimson on the dirty wallpaper beside them. DW like a firebrand on Sam’s skin.

“There.” Dean spits the word, finally stepping away from Sam. He drops the knife between them and his voice, when he spoke again, sounds like crushed glass. Like he has been screaming for forty years and might never stop.

“That’s one less lie between us.”

First Sleepover- 🐥&🐣

Guess who got back into spn…

ANYWAYS!!

Hc that sam had his first sleepover at 12 (after john rented out an actual home for 6+ months). 17 yr old dean got him ready and everything and walked him to the house. Sam called first thing the next morning to get picked up. He wont admit it but he had a nightmare and hated sleeping so far away from his brother :(

if you're struggling with your writing right now, I just want to say, now more than ever, it's needed, and I mean it.

It doesn't have to be a big think piece novel, an elaborate examination of a certain subject or opinion, your poetry doesn't have to have an obvious political angle, but yes, it also absolutely can.

It doesn't have to be light hearted escapism to heal our collective wounds for a while, but it can.

It doesn't have to be anything other than authentic to you.

We're nearing, or already in, an era where everything feels like it is becoming less and less authentic, further and further detached from people's true experiences, genuine voices, algorithms feeding us the most shallow, trend-following, manufactured by big-bucks, AI spouted, sterile material and no matter what you're writing, be it a mind-blowing, life-shattering profound novel, or a casual piece of fun entertainment (maybe both!) so long as you're writing and creating from the heart, out of passion for writing it, it's needed out here right now 💗

 It has NEVER been like that, EVER!

#SPNWEEK | Day 2 | Fav’ Sam & Dean moment(s)

"When the clothing starts to get in the way of the chewing, they'll take it off to get at more skin." — @jinkieswouldyoulookatthis

Wincest writer truths to live by.

And @walkininawincestwonderland, I know the feeling of getting hung up on a moment in a scene, but holy shit that moment is so dang good. 😩🤌 I hope you're able to get over the hump, though, because I am now breathing heavily in anticipation outside the window where this fic lives.

I’m trying to get these boys to actually fuck each other but in order to do that they have to stop chewing on each other long enough to get their clothes off

I’ve been trying to move on from this for two paragraphs now the foreplay will not fucking stop

Their lips slide wet and slick against each other, trading the tooth-aching iron of their father’s blood between them. The sharp, twisted-sick flavor dilutes in their saliva until there’s nothing left except Sam’s hands framing Dean’s jaw and Dean’s fingers clutched tight in the hair at the crown of Sam’s scalp. Sam bites at his brother’s lip just to hear the moan punch out of Dean’s throat. Dean shakes against him, no finesse in his kiss, just the desperate need to be close, close, close, to slide into one skin so no one can take his baby brother away from him. Sam knows. Sam feels it too.

He lets Dean kiss him like a drowning man, their connection itself a form of violence as much as it is a comfort. Sam lets his mouth fall open, lets Dean butt their noses up against each other, ignores the way his own teeth cut into his lower lip from the pressure. He tastes new blood in the kiss and groans low in his chest when Dean’s tongue pushes in just to lick the coppery tang right back out. His brother laves over the wound, the sting soothed by repetition.