Very Dirty Boys At JaxCon 2019

Very dirty boys at JaxCon 2019

MORE JARED AND SAM CONTENT. THE TIME IS NOW. PLS FRIENDS. DO THE THING. 🙏🙏🙏

New BB Event Poll

JPad - Sam Big Bang (JPSBB)

Who would be interested in an event that focuses on Sam Winchester and/or Jared Padalecki as the core character?

- Fandoms: SPN and SPN RPF

- Crossovers allowed

- Mini Bang 4k words / 1 pce of art

- Big Bang 10k words / 2 pcs of art

- No AI art or fics permitted

- All ships permitted

- Jared or Sam must be the main character in the story and part of the pairing / ship if there is one.

Let's celebrate this multi-faceted character and human being with his own event.

I have been mulling around hosting a bang like this for some time, doing interest checking.

Please help boost the signal by reblogging after giving your vote.

If your yes is conditional on certain aspects please let me know in the comments.

My Wincest head canon? Sam listens to ASMR every night to fall asleep. Dean doesn’t understand how listening to someone tap and scratch can be soothing. If anything, he finds it irritating and annoying and almost immediately after Sam falls asleep, Dean is turning off Sam’s phone to get some peace and quiet. But when the boys are working a case in the middle of nowhere with no Internet connection and Sammy just can’t seem to fall asleep, Dean takes matters into his own hands.

-

The neon sign outside the hotel flickered erratically, casting an eerie glow through the dust-covered window of their dingy room. Sam tossed and turned on the creaky bed, his eyes glued to the stained ceiling above him. The persistent buzz of a distant highway did little to dull the sound of his racing thoughts. Despite the weariness weighing down his eyelids, sleep remained an elusive guest, teasing him with brief moments of silence before retreating into the shadows once more.

Dean, ever the night owl, sat in a chair by the window, his attention divided between his phone and the dark parking lot beyond. The screen's glow illuminated his worried expression as he scrolled through various articles and forums, searching for anything that might help Sam relax. He knew his brother's insomnia was more than just a restless night; it was a window into the turmoil churning within him. With a sigh, he pocketed the device and pushed himself up from his seat. "Alright, Sammy," he announced, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. "I've got an idea."

Sam rolled over, hope flickering in his eyes. "What's up?"

"I'm gonna go out to Baby and record some ASMR," Dean said, a hint of excitement in his voice. "Some engine purrs, a little road noise, maybe some rain on the roof if it starts up again. Might do the trick."

Sam managed a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the beginnings of a laugh. "Seriously?"

Dean nodded, his grin growing. "Yeah, why not? It's all the rage these days. And it's not like we don't have the perfect setup." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the window, where the Impala sat gleaming under the intermittent neon light.

Sam's smile grew into a chuckle. "Okay, go for it." He propped himself up on an elbow, watching as Dean grabbed Baby’s keys from his duffel bag and headed for the door.

Dean stepped out into the humid night, the cool air a stark contrast to the stale hotel room. The Impala's chrome gleamed under the neon light, looking almost alive despite its age. He slid into the driver's seat and closed the door with a soft thud. The engine rumbled to life, purring like a contented cat. He leaned back, his palms resting on the wheel, and took a moment to appreciate the familiar scent of leather and gasoline that surrounded him.

He adjusted the recorder's settings, ensuring the microphone was sensitive enough to capture the subtle sounds. Raindrops had started to patter on the roof, a rhythmic symphony that grew louder as the storm approached. He leaned closer to the microphone, speaking in a hushed tone. "This is Dean Winchester, bringing you a little slice of tranquility in the one and only Baby."

With deliberate slowness, he began to tap the steering wheel with his fingertips. Each tap resonated in the cabin, echoing the rhythm of a gentle heartbeat. He varied the intensity and speed slightly, creating a calming melody. Then, with equal care, he moved to the windows, tracing the edges with the pads of his fingers. The glass was cool to the touch, and the taps against the metal frame sent a soothing vibration through his hand and into the microphone.

Next, he shifted his attention to the leather seats. Running his palms along the smooth, worn material, he felt the years of use and countless battles won and lost within the car's confines. He knew every groove and indent, every memory stitched into the very fabric of the upholstery. He focused on the steady beat of rain droplets striking the car's roof, letting it guide his movements as he gently massaged the leather, the sound of his touch melding with the percussion of the storm.

The glove box clicked open with a familiar sound, revealing an assortment of travel essentials: a map, a pack of beef jerky, and several glass bottles filled with holy water. He picked one up, the weight comforting in his hand. The clear liquid sloshed gently against the sides as he held it up to the microphone, the faint smell of incense wafting from the cap. He tapped the bottle softly, the glass resonating with a clear, bell-like tone. The sound was soothing, almost mesmerizing, and he could see in his mind's eye the ripples spreading out in perfect circles across the water's surface.

Setting the bottle aside, Dean reached into the back seat, his hand brushing against the cold metal of the shotgun. He chuckled to himself, knowing that Sam would never forgive him if he turned their peaceful ASMR session into an impromptu firearm showcase. Instead, he found what he was looking for: a well-worn flannel shirt.

He held it up, the fabric feeling coarse and familiar. The scent of dirt and smoke clung to it, a testament to the countless salt and burns it had been on. He brought it closer to the microphone, his fingernails running along the soft threads.

The sound was surprisingly comforting. A gentle, rustling whisper, reminiscent of leaves in a breeze or a quiet campfire crackling in the night. The scratch of blunt nails against fabric sent a shiver down Dean's spine. He continued, varying the pressure and speed of his nails, creating a soothing symphony of textures. The shirt's collar, the tight weave of the sleeve, the worn elbow patches – each section of fabric offering a unique sound.

Unable to resist, Dean put the shirt down and grabbed the shotgun in the back. It was a sawed off ithaca 37, a relic from a time when their battles were simpler and their hearts less scarred. He held the cold, metal barrel to the microphone, the rain's patter a backdrop to his actions. He began to tap the metal gently, letting the sound resonate through Baby’s quiet cabin.

The taps grew rhythmic, a pattern of comfort he'd found in countless moments of danger. Each strike echoed in the confined space, the vibrations traveling through his palm and up his arm. The sound was soothing, a metronome of protection that had seen them through so much. He moved to the wooden stock, running his thumb along the grain, feeling the smoothness of it from years of use. The taps grew more complex, mimicking the steady beat of their never-ending hunt.

As he tapped, he couldn't help but think of all the times the shotgun had saved their lives. The battles they'd won, the monsters they'd sent back to hell. It was a part of their story, a silent companion in the fight against the dark. He paused, his hand hovering over the recorder, contemplating if this was the right sound to send Sam off to sleep. Then, with a shake of his head, he decided it was. It was as much a part of their lives as Baby herself.

The rain had intensified in the time Dean had been recording, the droplets now drumming an insistent tattoo on the metal roof. The wind picked up, whipping around the car, sending leaves scurrying across the pavement. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a deep bass that resonated through his chest.

He glanced at the dashboard clock, realizing he'd been out there for over an hour. He hit the stop button on the recorder, the cabin falling into a sudden quiet. The rain was a cacophony outside, a stark contrast to the soothing sounds he'd been trying to create.

Dean knew it was time to get back to Sam before the storm reached its peak. He killed the engine, letting the rain wash over the car as he stepped out into the downpour. Water soaked through his shirt almost immediately, the cold bite of the rain made him shiver. He pocketed the recorder to protect it from the rain as he sprinted to the hotel room.

Inside the room, the air was dry and warm, a welcomed change after the cool embrace of the storm. Sam was still awake, his eyes glued to the TV, though the volume was turned down so low that only the flicker of the screen gave it away. "How'd it go?" Sam asked, not taking his eyes from the flickering images.

"Got some good stuff," Dean said, a grin playing on his lips as he held up the recorder. He could feel the chill of the rainwater seeping into his skin, but he was too excited to care. "Some engine purrs, taps on the steering wheel, and even a little shotgun ASMR."

Sam raised an eyebrow, amusement lighting up his eyes. "Shotgun ASMR?"

"Yeah," Dean said with a smirk, "thought it might help you drift off, given all the good memories we've got with it." He took a step towards the bed, the water dripping from his hair and clothes, forming a small puddle on the stained carpet.

Sam couldn't help but laugh. "You're something else, Dean." He said, tossing Dean a towel and dry clothing. After hearing the rain against the hotel window, he decided to prepare for Dean’s return, knowing his older brother would be soaked on his walk back to the hotel.

Dean caught the items that were thrown at him. "You're one to talk, Mr. 'I need ASMR to sleep.'" He peeled off his wet clothes, revealing a well-defined torso that gleamed with moisture. Sam didn’t even have time to marvel at the sight before Dean was scrubbing himself down with the thread bare towel.

He stepped into the dry pajama bottoms and pulled the oversized shirt over his head. It was one of Sam's, the fabric smelling faintly of laundry detergent and something else that was uniquely Sammy. It was a comforting scent, one that filled the car when they drove for hours on end, one that was as much a part of this life as the smell of leather and gunpowder.

Dean climbed into the bed with Sam, the mattress groaning in protest beneath his weight.

He handed Sam the recorder, his eyes shining with excitement. "Give it a listen," he urged. "I think it'll do the trick."

Sam took the device, his curiosity piqued despite his skepticism. He shifted around in the bed until he was comfortable and hit play, closing his eyes as the sound of the engine's purr filled his ears. The gentle tapping grew louder, the rhythm of the rain on the roof soon joining in. He felt his muscles start to relax, the tension of the day slowly unwinding. The sound of the fabric was surprisingly soothing, and he couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Dean, his tough exterior giving way to such a tender act of care.

The taps grew more complex, and he could almost feel the weight of the shotgun in his own hand, the familiar grip bringing a sense of comfort that was hard to explain. The thunder in the background added an unexpected layer of serenity, a reminder that even in the harshest of storms, they had each other. He felt his breathing deepen, the steady sounds of the car and the rain lulling him into a state of peace.

Dean's voice, low and reassuring, filled the space between the sounds. "Sammy, you're safe," he murmured. "I got you." And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Sam believed it. He let the rhythmic taps and the soothing whispers of Dean’s voice carry him away from his fears and into the quiet sanctuary of sleep.

Outside, the storm raged on, but inside the hotel room, the only sounds were the faint noises of Dean's recording and Sam's even breathing. The thunder rumbled closer, and the rain grew more insistent as it pounded against the window.

Dean couldn't help but smile to himself as he pulled Sam closer, nestling his face between Sam's shoulder blades. He took a deep breath, sighing contently against the soft fabric of Sam’s sleep shirt.

The rain grew louder, the thunder closer, but the sounds of the engine and the tapping remained steady, a metronome of comfort that seemed to sync with Sam's breathing. The storm outside was a stark contrast to the calmness that had settled over Sam. He was finally getting some rest and that was all that mattered to Dean.

As the recording went on, Dean found himself drifting off as well. The rain's rhythm grew softer, the taps on the steering wheel more distant, but the feeling of peace remained. He didn't bother to turn the ASMR off, letting the soothing sounds wash over them both. He figured if it was helping Sam, it couldn't hurt him either. And truth be told, he enjoyed the quiet moments of tenderness between the two of them, even if they were wrapped in the guise of something as peculiar as ASMR.

-

I've been following you around my entire life.

Supernatural S3E07 Fresh Blood

enjoy this simplistic line drawing of Sam & Dean ◡̈