listen i love sam so much but i'm a deangirl at heart where are my kin

looking fine

Even knowing how this all ends, this moment is heart wrenching. :(

Sam marks time. Dean doesn't know why. Their watches still tick and that weird clock in the library still traces the hours and Sam writes them out on the chalkboard in the kitchen: one day and then two and then three and then—Dean doesn't keep track, doesn't want to look. The sun rises and midnight comes and it's another day in an empty world. He's not sure what the benefit of knowing how long it's been is, other than a hair shirt. Sam's good at constructing those but Dean's never felt the need. The hair shirt rides with him, inside his skin. Never really goes away.

Two remaining humans on Earth. Jack's a question mark. He spends a lot of his time split between his bedroom and sitting out on the side of the plant above the bunker. Taking in the air, or something. Dean would ask but he doesn't know what to say. When they failed—this bad. When it's their fault and there's no excuse to offer.

Sam would say it wasn't their fault but Chuck's. At least another Sam would. He tried on that first day after they came home, Chuck's glee searing some new kind of pain over every one of Dean's bones, and Sam's supposed to be the optimistic one but even he couldn't get through it. They could have, they should have. On that first night they both get very, very drunk, and Dean does have the thought somewhere between the last moments of lucidity and blackout that—okay, so they should've played their roles—at least Earth would be alive, at least there'd still be the old lady who worked the register at the grocery store and little kids selling chiclets in Acapulco and the Denver Broncos—but really, would that have been the end? If they'd gone full Romeo and Juliet. If he'd shot Sam in the head and then cut his own wrists and waited, the blood pooling into a lake, feeling every weakening heartbeat as the punishment he deserved. Would that have been enough? Or would the writer have realized that ending wasn't satisfying, either, and there'd be—shock, surprise—another sequel, the show renewed another year, and the Winchesters would be dragged back from death to enact some new version of melodrama? Dean watched a lot of soaps, back in the day, waiting through dull lonely days until he could dig a grave under cover of darkness. He knows no one ever got free, unless they got recast, and on an empty Earth there was fat chance of that. Which he explained to Sam, but Sam might've passed out by that point.

Fourth day of an empty Earth they get in a fight. It's halfhearted at best. Dean's hungover and Sam's jittery and terrified because there's nothing he can think of to fix what's gone wrong and Jack's quiet, a kicked dog not wanting attention in case another boot comes its way. Dean drank the last cup of coffee and Sam's pissed at him and then Dean's furious. It feels pointless even as it's happening. Sam gives him that look like he expects more and Dean throws his empty mug at the wall and leaves the kitchen and every ounce of anger drains out as soon as he's in the hall. He takes a shower—by some miracle, they're still getting water and power and light—and leans his aching head against the cold tile and doesn't cry but maybe he'd feel better if he could. It keeps not coming. When he dries off he pulls on boxers and a t-shirt and goes back to the kitchen and the pieces of the mug have been swept up and left in a broken pile on the kitchen island. Visual metaphor. He hopes Chuck appreciates it.

Sam's in his bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed with a beer in hand. Ten in the morning. "Stealing my move," Dean says.

Sam doesn't look at him. Dean sits beside him on the bed and looks at the wall, too. Says, "Where's Jack?" and Sam says, all rusted edges, "Outside," and Dean doesn't know how the kid does it. When the door's closed on the bunker it feels—not good but not all that different than it used to. When they were alone down here, and the world could pass by overhead unknown. The silence down here is something Dean loved. The silence out there—

He takes the beer out of Sam's hand. Sam lets him. He takes a deep swallow. Then he sets the beer on the bedside table, and then he sets his hand on the back of Sam's neck, and then watches Sam close his eyes and his jaw flex. Dean doesn't want to ask; he doesn't have to.

They fuck. It's not good or bad. Dean's brain shuts off and when he comes to they're panting and it stinks kind of, Sam's sweat and the jizz in the air and two bodies sticking together. Sam's arm is curled under Dean's head and Dean turns his face down into Sam's bicep, hides his eyes from the light. His hangover hasn't gone away and may never. He says, "If we could've," and can't finish, but Sam knows what he means.

"We had our whole lives to learn how," Sam says. Very quiet. He lays his hand on Dean's belly and his forehead tips down against the back of Dean's head. Kind of hurts, bone to bone. "I never could. Could you?"

Sam's blood on his hands in exchange for seven billion lives, plus or minus a few. His gut aches. He can't respond but Sam doesn't seem to expect him to.

Refractory periods being what they are in a man's forties, Dean can't wipe his brain clean again the way he'd prefer. He leaves Sam's room and gets drunk again instead. In the morning he's hungover, and Sam's made coffee, and the chalkboard says it's day five.

So this scene is already well known, but I would like to draw attention to after.

Where Sam has been sitting out there, watching. And even with the benefit of the doubt that he focused on reading, was almost for sure aware that neither girl(s?) nor Dean had left that building.

The "ugh my eyes" front isn't fooling anyone. Probably was hoping for a flash of Dean butt, at the very least.

Happy to oblige!

Oh gee, FF8! What a potentially wonderful but also painful fandom. I have some old junky crossover fics from that era but I think under old aliases so I should be safe, wherever they still linger. Is ff.net still even alive?

Let's say #7 and #57 from the ask me list. :3

helloooo thank you for helping to postpone my day :)

7. tell us about the plot of the first fanfic you ever wrote

Aside from terrible self-insert at age 6 or something -- the first one I can actually remember was an also terrible super bad rape recovery melodrama for Final Fantasy 8. Very shitty. (Though, on reflection, probably no more shitty than a lot of FF8 fic.) Basically it was identical to every other fic in that little subgenre but with magic and whatnot. I never finished it, which is probably for the best. The world doesn't need more magical healing cock. :)

57. what is the last thing that a fic made you google when you were reading it?

uhh I don't think I've ever googled while reading a fic. Maybe if someone were going deep into the War of the Roses or something...? Last thing I googled while reading an actual book was the plot of The End of the Affair, because I could've sworn I'd seen it and yet -- no. But Ralph Fiennes is a treat so maybe I should.

Mood

The alley is maybe 20' wide, there aren't that many people around, and they're not discussing anything that suspicious out of context, especially not on a movie set. And yet they're walking closer than if they held hands, knocking elbows and poking ribs, heads leaning in.

Supernatural (2005-2020) || Bring 'em Back Alive (13.18)

Yes, Sammy, because proper terminology is the main issue in this whole conversation.

"Dean, this is stupid—" Sam starts, but he shuts right up when Dean grabs his head down and kisses him, and he also kisses back so clearly it ain't that stupid, is it. Grabs Dean's waist on automatic and his tongue's, yeah, hot and there, ready, even as he mumbles some crap against Dean's mouth about how there's no time and there's a job to do and, yeah, like Dean doesn't know that? But—

"You aren't ruining this for me," Dean says. Even if it's looking like there's a good chance of it. He drops down onto his bootheels and Sam raises his eyebrows with this face like Dean's the dumbest person he knows and even if that's maybe true a lot of the time it's not true this time. Dean's—almost positive. "C'mon, man. We're in the actual wild west, here. There's gonna be a posse. Are you kidding? This is the best day ever."

Dark as hell in the 1800s but there's enough moonlight that Dean can see Sam's expression complicating into some new, more elaborate version of the you're stupid face. "Dude, we have—like, no time. Cas is gonna come pick us up at noon, no matter what."

Dean tips his hat back, slides his hand down to cup the front of Sam's jeans. Grins at what he finds, especially when Sam's eyelids flicker. "We're experienced cowpokes, here. Give me ten minutes."

"Never say cowpoke in this context," Sam says. Not exactly soft, that big familiar bulge filling Dean's palm just like it always has. He glances toward the street, down through the muddy alley, sweeps his own hat off his head, holding it out and to the side almost like he's trying to hide how Dean's going for his belt, zip, permission not exactly stated aloud but Dean was being honest about the experience, he knows permission when he's got it.

God—yeah. Crisp hair and the thick root getting thicker. Dean smiles up with his tongue between his teeth and in the moonlight it's hard to tell but he bets Sam's cheeks are red.

"You're an idiot," Sam breathes. Oh, yeah. Red-faced. His chest heaving. "We get caught we're gonna get hanged, man."

Dean lifts a shoulder, crowding in closer. Sam's hand slides to his ass, squeezes. "Sheriff's busy," he says. He nudges his nose under Sam's jaw and grips his dick at the same time. "Anyway. Boy, they said you was hung—"

Burst of laughter that Sam muffles against Dean's shoulder—Dean grins, even if Sam knocks his hat askew—and Sam drops fully back against the rough-board siding, spreads his boots so Dean can crush in close. Dean opens up his own jeans, quick, kissing Sam's jaw and picturing it—when they're back in the world with modern plumbing and beds and whiskey that doesn't taste like the ass-end of a Ford Pinto—getting Sam into the clothes Dean bought and getting that hat back on his head and really getting his share of schnitzengruben—but god, it's fun now too, in the mud with their boots knocking together and Sam's hand plunging in to grip him whole-handed, hot. Goddamn, cowboy.

"They was right," Sam says, quiet, and only Dean could hear but he laughs too, sniggering up against Sam's throat. Okay, so this is stupid, but Sam's hand is on his dick and they've got—less than ten minutes. Dean braces his boots better in the mud and slides his hand up under Sam's shirt, feels the hair on his belly. His gut warm and knowing the world's teetering in the balance but when isn't it, damn. He gets ten minutes, goofing around with his brother.

"First one to shoot owes the other a sarsaparilla," Dean says, and Sam groans and crams his hat back on his own head, says, "Shut up," but he grips Dean by the neck and kisses him and grips Dean by the nuts and then drags his fingers up the root and tugs up the shaft and slides his thumb sweet, sweet, right there, where it counts—okay, so maybe Dean spoke too soon about the sarsaparilla.

(Later—much later—at a motel after they clear out of Bobby's house and  Cas is sent on his way and Dean's not looking forward, at all, to stripping out of his awesome sheriff's outfit, and thinking about whether he could keep it at the storage locker in Black Rock without Sam somehow finding out—Sam says, you're the worst, and Dean says why this time, hardly paying attention, and Sam says, you got any idea how awful it is to ride a horse with your shorts all caked in jizz? and then, while Dean's bent over whooping with laughter, Sam stripping miserably out of his jeans, Sam says, you still owe me that sarsaparilla, and Dean has to sit on the floor, shoulders shaking, before he says, yeah, Sammy, eyes streaming, yeah, I'll get right on that, and Sam says you better but when Dean wipes his face he sees that Sam's looking at him that way Sam sometimes does when things are good, so. Dean was right, wasn't he. Best day ever.)

51/327

S3E07, “Fresh Blood”

We get exactly 0.001 seconds of this look; this "then what is it about?", end of the line look when they think Sam is infected in Croatoan.

Not the last time this comes up, but look at this face.

So I was thinking about how Dean gets all the time travel stories and Sam gets all the possession stories and my brain went, "They like to put Dean in costumes, they like to make Sam a costume," and I made myself sad.

Three hundred miles under the big sky, Red Lodge to Miles City and then out of Montana to Bowman. Gas at a dingy co-op, half garage and half store. Sam sits on the trunk waiting for the nozzle to click and watches Dean go to the payphone by the dusty propane display, watches him dial. Give whatever performance he feels like. His shoulders hunched up under his coat. Not that cold today but he's still wearing it.

Sam stretches his sneakers out in the gravel. Another car pulls in by the store. Older lady, hair a flash of silver when the afternoon sun gleams over it, giving Dean a weird look that he returns with a broad screw you smile when he comes back from the phone. No wonder. His face is all over bruises, like someone used him as a punching bag. Not far off.

"They going to get him?" Sam says. He takes the Coke when Dean hands it over. Glass bottles, what a time warp.

Dean finishes swigging down half of his own bottle, burps contentedly. "Cops'll find Gordon sitting in his own stank," he says, ignoring Sam's wrinkled nose. He lifts a shoulder. "Or he got out, and they'll find whatever's left in that creepy house. Blood and all. We should've left him to stew longer."

Sam drags his thumb over the glass rim before he takes a sip. Sharp caramel, freezing cold. He can't imagine Gordon getting caught. Too competent, too—vicious, effective. Sam resented the comparison to Dad but it wasn't—all that far off. Except where it really mattered.

"Just glad we don't have to deal with it," Sam says. Dean half-nods. Looking off into nothing, rubbing the edge of his cut lip. Somewhere else. "What?"

The nozzle clicks. Dean blinks. Hands his bottle to Sam and deals with the pump while Sam spins the gas cap back into place. He expects Dean to come back around to the driver side but he sits on the trunk next to Sam, instead, stretches his boots out to match Sam, his face pointed vaguely at the store but his eyes—three hundred miles in the rearview? Or further?

"Wasn't—a replacement," Dean says. Sam has no idea what he means, until he does. He bites the inside of his cheek. Dean glances at him to make sure he follows and then dips his chin, looks at the tips of his boots instead. "That wasn't it. Don't wanna get in a fight. But you—?"

"I get it," Sam says. Which is true, kinda. He half-wishes he hadn't said anything except that at least that fight had gotten Dean to crack, at least a little, from this awful manic fakery he's been dealing with, ever since they left the hospital with a body they had to burn and the weight of the world no lighter.

Dean nods, still staring at his boots. He shoves his hands into his coat pockets. Sam isn't sure Dean got it, particularly. How something could be a substitute not for the physical fact but for the feeling. There was no replacing Dad, not at all, but what Dad meant, that fog of expectations and received wisdom and a way of looking at the world, black and white, right and wrong—but then, Gordon wasn't that, quite, either. No matter how much Sam had strained against and fought with and sometimes hated their dad, he never, ever suspected him of—

"I don't know how he could do that," Dean says. Like it's pushing past some thickness, shoved out of his throat. "His sister. How could he."

"I mean, I messed up your Stones tape back in Milwaukee and you said you were going to kill me," Sam tries, but Dean just closes his eyes, a muscle in his jaw flexing. He licks his lips, drags his heels in. "I don't know. Drove him crazy, I guess. Couldn't see past the monster stuff to what mattered, you know?"

Dean shakes his head, drags a hand over his face. Flinches because he caught his bruises, the idiot. Sam transfers both Coke bottles to one hand and catches Dean's wrist, pulls it down, and Dean huffs and then looks at him sideways. God, he's tired. Sam looks at the store, through the grimed glass windows—the old lady's with the clerk at the counter, and no one else is around—and he takes the opportunity he wishes he'd had earlier and pulls Dean closer and kisses him. Very careful, closed-lipped against the hurt mouth. Dean's lips part anyway and there's the smell of Coke and the smell of blood and Sam breathes deep and then pulls back. Dean's eyes wide like that was the last thing he expected. Where has he been, Sam thinks, but he thinks it very fondly, and then he thinks that, god, he needs sleep, too. Ten straight hours preferably, in a motel room with blackout shades, his body plastered against Dean's and the two of them waking together. Knowing what matters.

Dean licks his lower lip. Looking like maybe he wants the same thing, or at least something close enough they can compromise. "Give me my Coke back," he says. Pink-eared. Sam smiles at him and carries both over to the passenger seat, with Dean bitching about, hey, who bought what for who, squatters rights ain't it. And so on. The day's bright, and brighter. The sky huge. Dean reaches over and steals Sam's bottle while they're pulling back out onto the highway and almost crashes the car, sets Sam laughing enough that he snorts Coke out his nose. "Can't take you anywhere," Dean says, affecting dignity. No, Sam thinks. He's nothing at all like Gordon.

They accepted their father's death. They killed him a second time, in a way.

They accepted their friends' deaths (in Castiel's case, multiple times).

They accepted their mom's second death, and this time they had a choice about it.

For each other, they took the phrase "I would do anything" literally and salted the earth.

48/327

S3E04, “Sin City”

A thing my mom's told us, and I believe applies to Dean, is that my parents could never really, fully sleep until we were back home, when we were old enough to go out.

And I really think it'd be the same for Dean about Sam, but even worse, because for practically all his life they have slept in the same room and their lives are so much more dangerous.

Between Stanford and the bunker Dean would only be able to sleep very lightly, on that edge of awareness where you kinda know you're sleeping, until Sam came back to the motel and then he'd become aware just enough to process Sam-back-and-safe and promptly fall back into a proper deep sleep. And he'd never really realize that happens or think much about it, because it's just part of the standard care-for-Sammy package.