I know this is a little bit strange because it’s months past due -and the toxic perfectionist that dwells in my skull really DID really hesitate to post this- but back in January I was too ill to finish this little story and then lost motivation because I was already too late. Still, since I was pretty fond of it (and the stupid hats), I recently decided to give it a “half finish” because I didn’t like leaving it incomplete.
...AKA: I discovered “seraphinite” is a real stone and lost my entire damn mind.
Anyway, sketchiness aside, I hope you like it anyway.
(Please don’t repost; reblogs are fine.)
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Leave me a tip if you like my work! It truly means the world.
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Hiiiiiii!!!!!
Welcome to my 2024 all year SPN event!!
🍀 Ok, but why? I want to be more here lol and I reached a milestone, and i didn't realize it, and I'm pretty sure I won't reach another one until the end of this year. Also, I have noticed how we all love prompts because it gives you ideas when you're out of them, or just because they are fun when you're bored or to have something to look forward to or they can challenge you sometimes. Also, I want this to be something that can connect us somehow. Anyway, so this is that.
🍀 How does it work? Well, each month, I'll make a post with a theme and some ideas for you to follow or for things you can work on during that month. It should work for art, writing, amvs, poetry, gifs, edits, or web weavings. I don't know what else could be done, but all of that. The idea is for each month to be different, but we'll see.
🍀 When? Every first. (January as an exception because of reasons). And you will have the whole month to do whatever with it. There is no special day to post.
🍀 Rules? The usual. We don't do incest or any weird shit here. Minors dni if you make it 🔞. Can't believe it needs to be said, but no AI. Tag people, I encourage you to tag some of your favorite blogs in whatever you do. Most love to be tagged in stuff. Have fun!
🍀 Tag? #spn2024event
Love, Allie 🍀🫶🏻
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Sam’s not sleeping when Dean pulls off the road. “What,” Sam says, although without a lot of interest. State highway after midnight and exactly no one to see, but Dean coasts down the gravel shoulder to the pitted asphalt-and-dirt road that turns off into—sparse woods, a sign that says NO HUNTING. Sam snorts.
“Gotta take five,” Dean says. Sam nods, arms folded over his chest. Shadow-shapes in the dark, his eyes slanted away at some terrible inward thing. Out of the car there’s moonlight peeking through the tree-tops and Dean left the headlights on, so he doesn’t trip and break his neck on his way to water a patch of weeds. He zips up and then stands there, breathing. Dirt and mulch. Kinda acrid now but not any worse than the woods usually are. Not that different from where they’d buried the vampire kid—god, less than six hours ago. Soft dirt there and they’d made a good grave, burned him right, covered the charred bones. Sam hardly looking at him then, too. Like finishing the hunt hurt as much as sitting around thinking about the other dead kid had.
Dean hasn’t got much in his back pocket, when it comes to making Sam feel better. They’ve been doing this so long they’ve got rhythms they follow and he knows that he’s—tough, sometimes, and he can be a real pain, and Sam always seems to have some way to grip Dean by the wrist and pull him up and be solid as mountain rock for Dean to brace against. He doesn’t have a roadmap for when the rock starts to slide under his feet. He can say some of the dumb crap he’d offer to civilians but Sam’s too smart for it to work; he can offer work, or duty if work itself doesn’t do the trick, but Sam’s never felt the pull of that the same way Dean has, and if Dean’s honest he’d be freaked if Sam really bought it. With how Sam’s been talking Dean’d be willing to throw on Steel Magnolias and give him a foot massage if he thought it’d help, but it wouldn’t, and he doesn’t have much left to offer, to try to make it—not fixed. Fixing it isn’t something he’s been able to do since he was five years old and everything went wrong. But maybe it could be—
He comes back to the car and opens the trunk, instead. Then to the passenger side, where he opens Sam’s door, and Sam looks up at him narrow-eyed but not frowning. Tired. Sad, which makes Dean’s throat do something weird, and he clears it before he says, rougher than he means, “You gotta piss or anything?”
“No,” Sam says, tilting it like Dean’s the weird one. Well, fair enough.
Dean nods. He twists the cap on the bottle he fetched and takes a long burning swallow. Sam shakes his head when Dean holds it out but Dean waggles it at him, and Sam’s not yet so oatmeal-hippie-health conscious that he won’t have a drink with Dean on the wrong side of dawn. His lips pull back like it stings. “Good value for fifteen bucks,” Dean says, and Sam raises his eyebrows, and Dean crouches then in the open door, puts his hand on Sam’s leg. Curling his fingers around the inside of Sam’s knee.
They’ve been doing this so long, they’ve got rhythms. Sam’s chin tips down. “I don’t…” he starts, but he bites his lip and breathes in long and slow through his nose and Dean doesn’t know what he would say, anyway. That it was too fucked up, that he missed all the people they’d lost, that the dark was so heavy it had this velvet choking intensity, so bleak no light could ever get through. Pick a number.
But Dean’s left the headlights on. He pulls, and Sam swivels on the seat so his bootheels crunch in the gravel, and Dean settles down on his knees and reaches up and puts his hand on Sam’s face, and watches Sam close his eyes. His jaw clenching. Stubble thick and sharp and his face as hollow as it was when Jack—when—
Dean unbuckles Sam’s belt. The button, the zip, and once he smacks Sam’s hip he lifts up enough so Dean can yank everything down. He’s soft but so what. Dean’s worked with worse. He spreads his hands over Sam’s bare thighs, hair prickling in the autumn air, licks his mouth wet, and when he takes Sam in it’s—everything familiar, good. Gravel biting into his knees through his jeans. He tongues under the soft ridge of the head, breathes through his nose. The rarity of getting to go down to the base without choking, suckling soft, salt under his tongue and the bitter of a long day and Sam’s fingers sliding through his hair, holding the back of his neck so careful. Like Dean will get hurt, doing this thing he’s been doing as long as his life has been worth anything. Like Dean’s doing Sam a favor, here, when he’s split halfway between wanting Sam to stop thinking and wanting his own brain blank as a snowfield.
A weird strangled breath, above. Dean slurps back and kisses Sam’s hipbone, and drags his shirt up and kisses his belly, hair prickling his lips. “Let me,” he says, asking for—a lot, maybe—and Sam doesn’t say anything but his thumb drags up into the soft hollow at the top of Dean’s spine and his thighs tip wider. Dean presses his forehead to Sam’s stomach. Weirdly grateful, in a way he can’t ever say aloud. This one good thing. Then he pushes Sam to sprawl back across the bench seat, and holds Sam’s hips in his hands, and takes his brother into his throat.
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"I'm working on a Ph.D," Sam says.
Sam's lie about himself was so interesting in terms of how he sees himself. (I wish it had made it into the episode.)
Instead of defaulting to, "I'm working on a personal research project," or "I'm taking some classes at a local community," Sam says, PHD!
(And I get it. At my age, I wanna say that I'm working on a Masters' or a Ph.D, too. Not that I, "never made it," even though I was, "considered so low-budget genius and backwoods bright.")
From the 14x13 script
Dean draws back-- huh? He and Sam swap a confused glance.
SAM: What-- who do you think we are?
ELIOT: I-- survivalist bigfoot hitmen?
Sam and Dean trade a look.
SAM: No-- we're-- my brother is a mechanic and I-- I'm working on a PHD-- (exasperated) Just tell us what you saw.
///
I recall, very fondly, this scene with Rowena in 12x02 Mamma Mia:
INTERIOR: INSIDE A RESTAURANT. ROWENA IS SITTING AT A TABLE WITH A MAN.
ROWENA: Sent me to the grandest boarding schools, but I was a wee imp and ran away for a life in the arts. Mother didn't speak to me until I became a star.
BEN: A star? Of?
ROWENA: Uh, do you follow the Royal Ballet?
BEN SHAKES HIS HEAD.
BEN: Not a bit.
ROWENA: The Royal Ballet.
BEN: You know, it reminds me a lot of my story. I left school to work in a steel mill. I rose up through the ranks, and now I own half a dozen.
ROWENA: You're not serious?
FOOTSTEP’S APPROACH AND A WAITER COMES UP WITH A BOTTLE OF WINE.
NOTE: Ben turns out to be a cad and a fraud, but there's something so interesting about how Rowena wants to portray her class background. We know from 11x10 that Rowena, "was (before magic) nothing but Rowena, the tanner's daughter... a pale, scared little girl, who smelled of filth and death."
It's a brilliant thing about Samwena. They get each other, at least as far as this is concerned.
From 15x06 Golden Time:
SAM: Rowena got it. I mean, she didn't know all the details, but she knew the game was rigged. So this... Magic. This is how she kept control.
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