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So Many of Them (fic rec)

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Helping Hand

Fic: Every First Time (wincest)

antiquers:

sam&dean | soulmates | for caryn

an army of lovers cannot fail // lovers
beginner’s luck // eels
i’m a fool to want you // billie holiday
long time // cake
love song // the cure
we are the people // empire of the sun 

(via j2-wincest)

he is mine & you cannot have him;

spn-slash:

Dean had this memory of a lazy afternoon the summer before Stanford, one he would never forget. Just him and Sam. Together. And happy. 

Once he’d figured out that they were reliving the past - back in heaven, that is - there was a part of Dean that had hoped he and Sam would stumble upon that memory. If it weren’t for  that ass-clown Zachariah on their asses, Dean might’ve had the chance. Not that it would’ve mattered, really; he’d played the memory often enough to know every last detail.

When Sam had gone off to college, Dean had missed him terribly, and not just because his brother had ditched the family business. His soulmate would be gone.Yeah, soulmate. Dean didn’t use the term lightly, never really said it out loud or even cared for the word much at all, but it was the only way to describe the thing between them. They had a shared space in heaven, after all, though Dean had known the truth of it much sooner.

On that fateful afternoon, Dean had taken Sam fishing out by the lake one last time. Like any good brother, Dean had taken he initiative and thrown worms into Sam’s hair. Sam had returned the favor, of course, by dumping a hefty bucket of water right over his head. That had been the tipping point - quite literally, in fact - because Dean couldn’t help but escalate by throwing Sam clear over the canoe before jumping in himself. 

When the two had finally tired themselves out, they’d returned to shore to dry off, stripping out of their sopping wet clothes to lay bare in the sun, spread out on the dock like an eagle in flight.

Maybe it was the summer heat or the adrenaline that was causing it, but when he’d turned to Sam, ready to make some smart remark, Dean saw more than just a dopey-eyed goofball of a brother laying there beside him. He saw… a man. And something just clicked.

His.

Dean still isn’t sure how it happened, exactly, what it was that compelled him in that moment, consequences be damned, to roll himself onto his brother and kiss him. Kiss him, of all things. But God, was he glad he did.

Sam had caught him in his arms as he dove in, rolled easy into the wave, mouth molding so perfectly with his. Dean was the one who’d been caught by surprise, struck dumb by how good Sam was. He thought he had the edge experience-wise, but maybe he’d been mistaken. Or maybe Sam was just a natural. Or, you know, the other explanation. In any case, Dean was lost in it, this, the soft and hungry little kisses with ever more adventurous teeth and tongues. 

By the time they were done, Dean was breathless, panting hard against flushed out cheeks, He remembers, so distinctly, the look of his brother’s eyes then- darkened to the edges but somehow still pure, golden, reflected light drawing Dean down into its depths, into him.

And Dean let him. Let Sam bury his head against his chest as he clutched at soft brown hair, let him trace the dip at the arch of his spine, let him lick softly at the soft expanses of his skin. Let him because he was Sam, his Sam, and nothing - not their father, not the hunt, and certainly not Stanford - would change that.

It was just them, Dean and Sam, two brothers. Together. Just how it had been, how it would always be.

And that was Dean’s best memory.

(A/N: References to 5.16, the episode where they go to heaven and they sort of hint that the brothers are ‘soulmates’ being that they share a space in heaven.)

Shotgun sinners
Wild eyed jokers
Got you in my sights
Gun it while I’m holding on

…”to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes,
not from the absence of violence,
but despite the abundance of it.”
― Richard Siken, Crush

(via halegates)

youoklittlebrother:

It’s like any normal night, at first. They’re sitting at the bar, and there’s a woman on the other end who’s making eyes at him. In the reflection of the wall behind the bartender, he can see two others trying to eat him up. He smirks and downs another shot.

“What do you say, Sammy? Get another apple-strawberry-kiwitini, and get happy.”

Sam gives him a face and leans forward, bent at the waist and crossing one ankle in front of the other as he stands. With his sweaty forehead lowered to his forearms, he almost looks like he’s drunk, but Dean can see his half-full bottle of beer.

“Or maybe some water? What’s wrong with you, kid?”

Sam groans, rolling his head back and forth and stretching his ass away from the bar. Dean lets his eyes follow the movement. Sam groans again. “I hate these places, Dean, you know that.”

“Yes, because you never do what you’re fuckin’ supposed to, Sammy. If you’d drink like I tell you to, this wouldn’t be a problem.” Glancing at the busty blonde on the opposite end of the bar, he adds, “And maybe take someone back to the room for good measure.”

Sam picks his head up and squints at Dean. His back is a long line of muscle now, straight and unyielding, curving gradually into his surprisingly perky ass. “Don’t be a dick.”

“You know I’m kidding. But maybe if you were a little buzzed I might enjoy your company more when we get home.”

Sam taps him sideways with his hip, swinging his torso slightly, and Dean notices motion at the corner of his eye. There’s a bulky chunk of meat sitting in a booth by the window, eyes narrowed and beady as they follow the motion of Sam’s jeans. Dean purses his lips even as he rearranges his own crotch.

“You know some drinks are even good for you. Purple nurples? No better cure for insomnia.”

Sam chuckles low, back shaking gently with the sound, and Dean scoots his own glass toward Sam’s face. “Try it.”

Sam shies away from the drink, and Dean thinks he’s crazy, maybe he’s just completely gone round the bend, because how can Sam put so much ass into every move he makes without knowing that he’s doing it? But there he is, face still bored and whiny, glaring daggers at the violet concoction as his ass waves in the humid, sweaty air.

The chunk of meat moves again, and when Dean sets his eyes on the booth, there’s another one sitting next to him, ten-year-old cap covering his eyes, his greasy gray hair sticking to his fat shoulders. Dean scowls. “Sam, why won’t you sit down?”

“Cause the seats carry infections. Matter of fact,” he mumbles into his arm, “since so many sexual encounters take place in this environment, you have a high chance of catching an STD if you’re a woman who likes to wear short skirts.” When Dean just stares at him incredulously, he laughs, “Or that’s what I like to think. To justify why I don’t find the short skirts sexy. Or something.” His face is red, slightly warmed by the third of a bottle of beer that Sam drank fifteen minutes ago, and Sam’s getting giggly. His hair is sticking to his head, and his long fingers are playing with the lint on his shirt.

Dean grabs the nurple suddenly and swallows it down. With another look at the two disgusting hicks behind them, he slaps a hand down on Sam’s ass and reels him in toward himself. Out of surprise, Sam can’t help being easily guided, and with a quick twist on his part, Dean’s got him standing in the vee of his legs, groins one hot inch apart. 

Sam gets as far as gasping, “Wha’s goin’ on -” before Dean slams their mouths together and spreads the coconut rum still swirling under his tongue between them. 

While it made him happy to do it, it wasn’t the smartest choice. For the next four minutes, the heated looks they receive from the other patrons are so overbearing, Dean has to drag his brother out and finish what they started in the back of the car.

(via itsbrotherfuckingwincest-archiv)

brothersfuckingunderthestars:

the poem it’s based off of can be found here

(via bootyfreyan-archive)