So Many of Them (fic rec)

Fic: Every First Time (wincest)

(via scottysamplenacelles)

Antifreeze (wincest) ›

(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.)

brothersfuckingunderthestars:

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

(via bootyfreyan-archive)

whatever it is,
don’t rely on it too much. 

youoklittlebrother:

When Dean was little, he would crawl into Sam’s crib at night. I’d wake up every morning and he’d be sitting there, stubby arms wrapped around Sam’s body just the way they were on the night Mary died, and I felt sometimes as though, if I had made a sudden noise, he would jump out of the crib and sprint from the room with his brother still clutched to his chest.

This didn’t change much as the boys grew up. I’d roll over to check the clock in the early hours of the morning, and he’d be sitting up, legs crossed, one hand set lightly on Sam’s chest, and his eyes slightly unfocused where they seemed to be directed at Sam’s mouth. He couldn’t sleep when Sam was quiet; he slept like a baby when Sam tossed and turned or snored at night.

Now, it’s the first time I’ve seen them together in over four years, and when we get a single room for the night I don’t even blink, unused to the fact that my boys are grown. Dean, graciously, claimed the couch as Sam and I spread our things over the queens earlier in the evening, and I passed out on my bed before we had much chance for catching up.

It’s three in the morning now, if Red Roof Inn keeps their clocks in check, and I’m suddenly awake. In the blinding darkness, I blink and try to see what’s happening, when my eyes fall on the strip of moonlight that cups Dean’s cheek. He’s not on the pull-out, and has instead pulled a chair up to the top of Sam’s bed. His legs are crossed beneath him, like they always used to be, and one of his hands is resting over Sam’s heart.

It’s cold in my windpipe, and I’m both disgusted by and morbidly curious about what’s going on. It sends chills through me that Dean is still so dependent, so weak, but he’s kept to what I taught him: keep your secrets in the dark. It’s comforting, but my heart still hurts.

Sam snuffles suddenly, long fingers of one hand rising to bat at the weight on his chest, but when they come into contact with Dean’s skin, he seems to calm, and his palm lies flat over Dean’s as he slips into sleep again. Dean closes his eyes, breathes in, and goes back to the pull-out.

[x]

(via itsbrotherfuckingwincest-archiv)

wordsinhaled:

I was the light, I was the quiet heart / I was the place we used to dwell / and when the cold would tear your life apart / I was the warmth that you had felt / I was the blood inside your broken heart / I was the stone that you had held / I close my eyes / search for you / retracing every step 

demon hunter | driving nails (string mix)

when it costs too much to love.