#sam and ash lore

[imwaitingin-the-sky]

You changed your user again and I was like. Who is this peasant and then I realised it was you

I WAS WAITING FOR YOU TO ASK ME ABOUT IT

you like

oh also i WILL tell u about whats happening on the gc but like not this second

[kats-fizz]

having Tumblr friends who are also your irls is so funny because I think we forget we're not on our own private group chat sometimes

cough cough @acrosstheconstellationsandmoonys @nolonger-ams @xerussquirrel cough cough

[theoryandahalf]

i'm the master of repression

[michellymy]

I decided I’ll add short backstories after each chapter (probably). So now I added one and update some tiny details in the other chapters. (Ugh, it’s so annoying to update things in three apps, cuz I use Docs, then AO3, then Wattpad 😭)

AO3 / Wattpad

9 Y - 11 M - 22 D

“Are you coming later?”

“Uh… I don’t know if my mum will let me go, especially in this weather.” He looked at the sky outside. That storm was about to collapse everything, for certain.

“Jesus, Ethie! Your mum will never let you visit us?!”

The boy smiled sheepishly and fixed the backpack straps. “She’s worried. We never stay away from each other, you know?”

“You are away now.” Sam raised his brows while pushing the door open.

“The teachers are looking,” Ethan said while dodging the loud children. “It’s not the same as going home with you.”

“My mum will be there, why would she be worried about anything?!” He glanced at his friend. “Sometimes I think she’s too protective of you; just saying.”

Ethan grimaced. “I know, but…”

It was his mum. It was normal for her to be worried, right? It meant she loved him a lot. It meant she cared. There was no reason for him to be mad.

Not when she was there at the entrance, with two umbrellas at hand. She always came to get him in time, no matter the situation.

And his mum had the prettiest smile ever.

“Hi, sweetheart.” She kissed his forehead softly before patting his head. “Did you have a good day?”

“Yeah, mum! The teacher tried to make an experiment, but he had the wrong ratio, so I taught him how he could fix it!”

“Nice job, Ethan,” she smiled. “I bet the teacher was deeply impressed by you.”

“More likely depressed…” mumbled Sam.

Ethan heard it and he knew his mother heard as well. It was that brief twitch in her ear that gave her feelings out.

At that moment, Ethan wanted to have telepathic conversations with her, so he could gently say, “MUM, YOU CAN’T ARGUE WITH MY FRIENDS! I WON’T TALK TO YOU ALL DAY IF YOU DO IT!”, but as he didn’t have this power, he just begged internally she’d understand his intentions.

She gazed at him and glared at Sam for a tense, long moment. The boy averted his eyes, retreating a step, and Ethan was ready to snoop in to help his friend.

But then her polite smile came back.

“Hi, Sammy. How is Mrs. Price doing?”

Ethan exhaled and nudged Sam to answer, who frowned and whined lowly before turning to the woman.

“She’s fine, Ms. Yaneh, thanks for asking.” He looked at Ethan and cleaned his throat. “By the way… I asked her earlier, and she said Ethan could come over after school. If you let him. She said she’d get us by car because of the storm.”

“Did she?” Ethan whispered.

“She did.”

“But didn’t you say you’d ask her when s—“

”She did,” Sam scowled at him.

Ethan finally understood and got quiet. Sam was predicting the future, as he liked to describe his lies. He was used to saying things he hoped would happen—and they mostly did—, but Ethan wasn’t in the mood to risk it with his mum. Should he meddle in?

“Oh…” She turned at the view. “Why go by car when you can walk? The weather is nice today.”

The kids looked in the same direction she was looking at. They saw no living beings out there. They heard the rain making holes in the roof. They shivered with the cold wind. It didn't seem it would stop soon.

“Nice weather?...” Ethan tried slowly.

“Yes, it's refreshing and the sun won't bother you. Truly wonderful… Don't you think so?” She sounded genuinely confused. “Ah, is it because you don't like the noise, son? At home, it’s not that loud; you will feel better when we get there. Let me carry your bag.”

Ethan didn't question. It was “mum being mum”, so he just handed her the bag.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Sam interrupted. “You are not thinking of going in that storm, are you?! Why didn't you park your car closer, Ms. Yaneh?!”

“I didn't bring the car, Sammy.” She put the bag on. “Didn't you hear? It's a nice weather to walk.”

“But you're going to get drenched!” He fiercely pointed outside. “It’s raining!”

“...yes, I have noticed, thank you.” She gave an umbrella for Ethan. “Shall we go? I have to cook lunch.”

“Ma'am!” Sam got between her and Ethan, spreading his arms open. “You can't do it! Isn't it better to talk to my mum, so she can take us home by car? I'm sure lunch will be ready!”

“Sam, don't…”

“You can't possibly be okay with it too, right, Ethie?! You will get sick!”

People were gathering around, already muttering about a fight that would start.

“It’s Ethan, again.”

“Ohh, he must be destroying that loser!”

“Is that his mother? Won't she stop them?”

Oh no, they were getting it all wrong. Ethan wasn't fighting anyone this time! And can't they see it's Sam? Why would he do such a thing to him?!

However, Ethan realized his mother wouldn't care about fighting a kid or two…

She pushed Sam out of the way a little more intensely than necessary and held Ethan’s hand to pull him close to her.

“I appreciate your concern, Sammy Price,” she replied dryly, “but I know exactly what I am doing. I'd also appreciate it if you cease your insistence, so don't try asking once again if Ethan can go to your home—he will go when he's ready for it. Meanwhile, feel free to visit us with a previous warning.”

Ethan visibly cringed as his mum pulled him away. He should say sorry to Sam, but how could he, if he couldn't even say bye?! She just kept leading him forward, creating more rumors to his scholarly life.

“You saw it?! Even Ethan’s mum is cool!”

“Of course, she is! He had to learn it from someone!”

“I’d be the happiest kid alive if I had a badass mum like her…”

Argh, for the stars! They'd keep saying it the whole week, asking Ethan a thousand questions, and importunating his studies! That was terrible! Horrible! His life ended!

When they were finally alone, Ethan stomped in place, screaming to be heard over the rain.

“MUM, why did you have to do that?!”

“Do what?” She fixed his umbrella over his shoulder. “Stating the obvious for that child?”

“Being rude to Sam! He was suggesting something good for us, not a kidnapping!”

“Is that so? Next time, tell him I only accept useful suggestions.” She held his hand and pulled him to move. “No, to be more exact, tell him not to suggest anything if I haven't asked.”

“MUM, I'M SERIOUS!”

“And so am I, Ethan! I honestly don't understand why you would befriend someone like him, but you still want it, so I’m not trying to stop you…” She sighed and glanced at him. “I just want you to be careful, sweet. You are very special to me, and I get worried about what could happen when I'm not there for you… Can you try to understand my side?”

“I understand, mum! But you also need to understand my side!” He pouted. “I’m almost ten! I'm growing! I can live without you for a few hours, you know?!”

She gripped his hand and looked away.

Ethan stepped inside a puddle.

The rain filled the silence, constant with its sound.

Why was she taking so long to answer back? She'd sometimes lose her words when the subject was her, but it didn't happen when it was his demands. She'd find a way to make him satisfied, then laugh about how stubborn they both were.

Why was she thinking so hard? Was she really scared that Ethan would get hurt by visiting Sam? If so, she must have a reason, right? She wouldn't think this just because.

“...If it's dangerous, I won't ask for it, mommy. I'm sorry.”

“It’s not dangerous, it’s just…” She could barely be heard, as she wasn't even facing him. “You're right, you're growing. I should be the one sorry for not realizing it. I'll let you go to Sammy’s house.” She swallowed and grinned at him. “But could you wait until you're ten? I wanted to stay these last days, you and me, doing our things together. Before you turn full grown-up, right?”

He smiled and lowered his head. “I was kidding, mommy, I won't be a grown-up when I'm ten!”

“You lied to me, you little menace?!” She let go of his hand to pinch his nose. “I was completely worried that I'd need to buy you L sized clothes, and you were kidding?!”

“AHH, I'M SORRY! LEMME GO, MOMMY!”

They laughed and joked all the way back home, ignoring the rain and all the cars who passed by throwing water.

Somehow, they didn't get a drop wet.

[transrevolutions]

fun story is that last night I straight up DREAMED an entire alternate magnus protocol episode 30 (the autism sometimes manifests in oddly specific hyperfixation dreams). now obviously the majority of the dream had no relation to anything that happened in actual episode 30 EXCEPT that specifically sam mysteriously disappeared. like no shit I remember dreaming that, waking up like "oh thank fuck that wasn't a real episode sam probably won't just vanish haha"

and then I read the actual ep 30 when it dropped and the. the scream I internally scrumpt

[notyouraveragegirlxx]

Old Friends and Glow Ups

Summary: Dean Winchester doesn’t recognize you when you walk into the bar—tight jeans, confidence sharp enough to cut, and a smirk that doesn’t belong to the kid he vaguely remembers trailing behind Sam all those years ago. But Sam sure does. And when Dean finds out who you are, all bets are off. One drink turns into heated glances, sharp words, and a night that’ll make up for a decade of missed chances.

Warnings: Smut (18+)

Word Count - 6.3k

You didn’t expect much from the night out. A few beers. Some long-overdue catch-up with Sam. Maybe something fried and greasy if the bar kitchen was still open. The place was two hours outside of Lebanon, tucked between a gas station and a stretch of trees that looked like they’d swallow the car whole if you parked too far into the lot. The neon sign buzzed overhead as you pushed the door open, the familiar mix of cigarette ash, sweat, and beer hitting your nose like some kind of nostalgic perfume.

You spotted Sam almost immediately—tall and broad-shouldered, hunched over the bar like he hadn’t moved in hours. You smiled, heart warming, and made your way through the low thrum of the room.

“Y/N!” Sam’s voice lifted, a grin spreading across his face as he turned. He stood quickly, arms out, and wrapped you in a warm, bone-deep hug that smelled like flannel, ink, and too many late nights in motel rooms filled with lore.

“Hey, Sammy,” you said into his chest, grinning as you pulled back. “Still smell like dusty books and bad coffee.”

“And you still call me Sammy,” he laughed, shaking his head. “God, it’s been too long.”

You nodded, still smiling. “Didn’t know I was getting both Winchesters tonight.”

At that, Sam stepped aside slightly, and your gaze landed on the man leaning against the bar beside him.

Dean Winchester.

And holy shit.

His jeans clung to thick thighs that had no business looking that good. His boots were scuffed, his henley rolled at the sleeves, exposing forearms dusted with freckles and corded with muscle. He nursed a beer in one hand, his knuckles calloused and rough—familiar in a way that made your stomach flutter. His hair was shorter than you remembered, beard a little more filled out, and his eyes—sharp, wary green—raked over you slowly.

But it wasn’t flirtatious.

It was confused.

You smiled at the two of them, letting your fingers trail lightly across the bar top. “I’m grabbing a drink. You two want anything?”

Sam shook his head. “I’m good.”

Dean, who still hadn’t said a word, just blinked and gave a short, almost delayed shake of his head. “Yeah. Good.”

“Suit yourselves,” you said with a wink, turning away.

You turned your back to them and sauntered toward the far end of the bar, hips swaying just enough to be noticed—though not intentionally. It was just how you moved now. Confident. Comfortable in your skin. A far cry from the bookish kid who used to trail behind Sam at Bobby’s, asking a thousand questions and stealing glances at the older Winchester when you thought he wasn’t looking.

You ordered a whiskey neat and rested your elbows on the bar, catching the bartender’s eye. As he poured, you glanced around the room. Low light. Classic rock bleeding from a dusty jukebox. A couple of off-duty truckers in the corner and some guys playing pool near the back. Nothing fancy, but it felt familiar.

What you didn’t see—but could feel—was Dean’s eyes burning into your back.

At the other end of the bar, Dean frowned. His bottle hung from his fingers, untouched.

Dean's Pov

He leaned slightly toward Sam, voice low but not exactly subtle. “Uh… who the fuck is that?”

Sam looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “Seriously?”

Dean didn’t take his eyes off you, but his brow creased. “Yeah. Seriously. Who is she?”

Sam snorted. “That’s Y/N.”

Dean blinked once. Then again.

Sam turned more fully to him now, expression equal parts amused and exasperated. “You used to tease her non-stop. She stayed at Bobby’s for five summers, Dean. You don’t remember?”

Dean sat up a little straighter, expression shifting from confused to stunned. His jaw tensed, lips parting, but no sound came out at first.

“That’s not…” He squinted. “No. No fucking way that’s the same Y/N.”

“Well,” Sam said, picking up his beer with a half-smirk, “it’s been ten years. She’s not a kid anymore.”

Dean dragged a hand over his mouth, shaking his head slowly. “No. Nope. That’s illegal. That’s a trap.”

Sam chuckled under his breath. “Welcome to the modern age. People grow up.”

Dean glanced back toward you—now sipping your drink with one arm resting casually on the bar, the curve of your hips outlined in worn denim—and exhaled hard.

And as if summoned by his disbelief, you turned just then, catching Dean’s wide-eyed stare full-on.

Y/n lifted your glass slightly in salute, an amused curve lifting one brow. “Everything alright over there, boys?”

Dean cleared his throat, eyes darting to the wall, the floor, anywhere that wasn’t your neckline. “Peachy.”

Your smile spread slow and knowing.

“Didn’t think I’d have this effect on you,” you teased, sauntering back to them with your whiskey in hand. “Or maybe you’re just shocked I didn’t show up in pigtails and a Goosebumps t-shirt.”

Dean made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. Sam full-on laughed.

“Still the same smartass,” Sam said.

“But hotter,” Dean muttered, clearly not meaning to say it aloud.

You raised your brows. “Excuse me?”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, flushed now. “Nothing. Just—yeah. Welcome back.”

You leaned in just enough to make him twitch. “All grown up, Dean.”

His lips parted. His eyes dropped.

┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉

Dean’s eyes dropped, and for a second, it was like watching a glitch in real time. His lips parted like he had something to say—maybe a witty comeback, maybe just a noise—but nothing came out.

You straightened with a satisfied smile, sipping your whiskey and letting the burn settle on your tongue. Sweet, smoky, and slow. Just like this night was turning out to be.

Sam shook his head with a laugh, still clearly enjoying the show. “Man, I told you.”

Dean didn’t respond. He just blinked, like he was still rebooting.

You turned slightly, letting your side lean against the bar now, facing them both. The waistband of your jeans dipped just low enough to reveal the smallest strip of skin between your shirt and your belt. Dean noticed. You saw the way his eyes flicked, fast and involuntary.

The corner of your mouth curled.

“Well,” you said lightly, tilting your glass toward Sam, “you’ve barely changed at all.”

Sam grinned. “That’s what you say now. Wait till I drag you into a hunt again.”

You laughed softly. “God, don’t tempt me.”

Then you turned your gaze on Dean. Purposefully. Letting the silence stretch just long enough.

“And you, Winchester…”

His green eyes finally met yours, wary and locked.

“…you really didn’t recognise me?”

His throat worked around a swallow. “You didn’t look like that 10 years ago.”

You quirked a brow. “Yeah, well. Neither did you.”

It came out before you could stop it—bold, flirty, dipped in something heavier—and the moment it landed, you could feel the air shift. Dean’s jaw ticked. His fingers curled around his bottle. Something electric flashed behind his eyes, brief but unmistakable.

You could’ve cut the tension with a dull butter knife.

“I’m gonna hit the head,” Sam said suddenly, rising and clapping Dean on the shoulder as he passed. “Try not to combust while I’m gone.”

You didn’t look away from Dean.

He didn’t look away from you.

And now it was just the two of you, the thrum of the bar dimming into background noise, the distance between you heavy with a decade of unspoken everything.

Dean cleared his throat. “So… what the hell have you been doing all this time?”

You smiled slow, swirling the amber in your glass. “Growing up. Traveling. Working cases. Occasionally turning heads.”

Dean’s lips twitched, and you caught the faintest hitch of breath when you crossed one leg over the other, your knee brushing his.

You leaned in just slightly, lowering your voice.

“And apparently blowing your mind.”

He let out a dry, almost stunned chuckle. “You don’t even know.”

You raised your glass again, brushing it gently against the rim of his bottle. “Not yet.”

That got a full reaction. His eyes narrowed—interested now, focused—and his tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip.

“I think I need another drink,” he muttered, sliding off his stool.

You shrugged, finishing your whiskey. “Then buy me one while you’re up.”

Dean froze for half a second.

Then grinned.

“Oh, it’s that kind of night, huh?”

You shot him a smirk over your shoulder as he stepped past you toward the bar.

“Ten years, Dean. You’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉

Dean slid back onto the stool beside you, his leg brushing yours again, this time deliberately. The contact sent a shiver up your spine, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you let your body lean just a bit closer, testing the invisible current crackling between you.

He draped his arm over the back of your chair, the rough scrape of his skin against your bare arm causing your breath to hitch. The scent of him—leather, musk, something distinctly Dean—filled the space between you. His fingers flexed lightly, like he was keeping himself steady, or maybe just savoring the closeness.

“Are you… single?” His voice was low, a bit rough around the edges, and his green eyes locked on yours like they were burning through the dim light of the bar.

You turned toward him slowly, a slow, knowing smile tugging at your lips. The kind of smile that promised trouble and invitation all at once. Your gaze dipped briefly to the line of his jaw, the tight set of his mouth, before snapping back up to meet his.

“Yes,” you said, voice soft but clear. “I am.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, the tension visible in the taut muscles of his neck and the slight twitch of his fingers on the chair back. His gaze sharpened, eyes boring into yours like they were searching for answers, memories, something he’d lost all those years ago but was suddenly desperate to reclaim.

“You don’t give off ‘single’ vibes,” he murmured, voice thick with something like disbelief—or maybe it was hope.

“Well,” you said, shifting just a fraction closer, your knee brushing against his again, “I’m full of surprises.”

Dean’s breath hitched, his pupils dilating in the low light. The heat of his stare was almost tangible now, a slow-burning fire that settled deep in your chest. You could feel your pulse quicken, your skin prickling under his touch and gaze.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Just eyes, inches apart, legs pressed together beneath the bar. The world around you—the noisy jukebox, the clink of glasses, the murmur of conversations—faded into nothing.

Dean finally broke the silence, his voice low and rough. “Damn, Y/N. You’ve grown up into something dangerous.”

You smiled wider, that familiar spark of mischief lighting up your eyes. “You have no idea.”

The night stretched ahead—full of possibilities, secrets, and maybe a chance to rewrite everything left unsaid.

Dean’s eyes never left yours—not for a second. The green of them was darker now, shadowed by the low bar lights and something older, something deeper. His fingers tapped idly against the back of your chair—a beat that didn’t match the music. It matched you: your smile, your breath, the slow tension building between you.

“I keep staring,” he admitted finally. “Can’t help it.”

You leaned back, arm resting along the bar, body turned toward him. “Yeah? That a problem?”

His gaze dropped to your lips, then traced slowly up your neck to meet your eyes. “Feels like one. You’re Sam’s… well, you were a kid.”

“And now?”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw tightened. He swiped his tongue across his bottom lip—not nervous, but hungry.

“Now?” he repeated, like testing the word. “Now you’re sitting here in jeans that should be illegal, looking at me like you want me to say something reckless.”

You didn’t look away. “Maybe I do.”

Dean’s arm slid just a little lower behind you, fingertips brushing the bare skin at your back—just enough to make your breath catch. His eyes looked at you like you were a fever dream, and your stomach twisted in knots.

“Y/N,” he said your name like a warning.

You tilted your head, teasing. “What? Can’t handle it?”

He let out a short breath, half-laugh, half frustration. “You’re playing with fire.”

“Maybe I am.”

That broke something inside him. His hand curled at your waist, warm and grounding. His breath ghosted your temple as you turned your head, noses nearly brushing, lips just inches apart.

His voice was hoarse, barely audible over the bar’s hum. “Ten years… and I don’t think I’ve ever been this close to doing something really fucking stupid.”

You blinked slowly, breath mingling with his. “What makes you think it’s stupid?”

Dean’s eyes searched yours—raw, unfiltered.

“Because if I kiss you,” he murmured, “I’m not gonna stop there.”

The heat pooling deep inside you was undeniable. Still, you smiled softly, voice low and daring.

“Then don’t stop.”

His fingers tensed where they rested on your back, like holding himself back. His breath was uneven, his body so close you could feel the restraint humming between you.

“You sure you know what you’re asking for?” he whispered.

You nodded slowly, eyes locked on his. “Yeah, Dean. I’ve known for a long time.”

That was the spark.

Everything else in the bar faded away.

Dean didn’t kiss you—not yet.

He just looked at you like you were some impossible mirage, his thumb tracing lazy circles at your back—barely-there touches sparking your skin beneath the denim.

You leaned in, lips grazing his jawline—not quite a kiss, but a whisper of a promise. His breath hitched, eyes fluttering closed, as if trying to steady himself.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t pull away.

“I’m not some kid with a crush anymore,” you murmured, voice hot against his skin. “You don’t have to protect me from your thoughts, Dean.”

That made him look at you—really look at you.

And fuck, those eyes—green as summer pine, sharp and burning, tethered to something deep inside him he hadn’t let himself feel in years.

“You’re dangerous now,” he said, voice thick and reverent. “You know that?”

You smiled slow and wicked. “So are you.”

Dean’s fingers brushed your thigh, where it pressed lightly against his. You hadn’t moved since sitting down—not wanting to. The contact was subtle, intimate. His heat sinking into your skin like smoke.

“I shouldn’t be looking at you like this,” he muttered almost to himself.

“But you are.”

That earned a breathless laugh from you, disbelief mingling with desire.

He tilted his head, studying you. “What happens if I don’t stop?”

You took your time, sipping your drink before setting it down with a soft clink.

“Then we finally stop pretending there’s nothing here,” you said simply. “And you take me home.”

Dean groaned—quiet, low, pained like a punch to the gut. His hand slid higher up your back, fingertips tracing bare skin beneath your shirt.

“I’m not gonna be gentle,” he said, eyes locked on yours like a vow.

“I’m not asking you to be.”

He leaned in, lips just a breath from yours, your heart pounding against your ribs. The space between you thick with tension, his eyes flicking between your lips and your eyes, hungry and raw.

“You want this?”

“Yes,” you whispered. “God, yes.”

Dean smiled—a dark, wrecked thing—and murmured, “Finish your drink. I’m driving.”

The coil snapped. The promise shifted from simmer to inevitable.

You downed the last of your whiskey in one slow swallow, wiped your mouth, and stood without breaking his gaze.

Dean stood too.

Close.

Too close.

His hand found the small of your back—firm, guiding, claiming.

When he leaned in to murmur low in your ear—voice like gravel and heat—you nearly buckled.

“Ten years, sweetheart,” he said, lips ghosting your jaw. “I’m gonna make every second count.”

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The drive back was quiet—but not the peaceful kind. It was charged, humming with the kind of tension that made every blink feel too loud, every breath feel like a dare.

Dean’s hand gripped the wheel tight, forearm flexing every time he shifted. His jaw was set, clenched like he was holding himself together by sheer will alone. You sat in the passenger seat, your body turned slightly toward him, legs crossed, one finger tracing slow circles along your bare knee just to give his peripheral vision something to fight.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

The air between you was full of everything that hadn’t been said—years of missed chances and glances that should’ve lasted longer. And now, it all hovered in the space between gear shifts and stolen glances at red lights.

At one point, at a stop sign just outside town, he glanced over. Just once.

Your eyes met.

It was brief. But it said everything.

And then the Impala rumbled forward again, tires eating up pavement like it couldn’t get to the end of this night fast enough.

When he pulled up to the motel, the engine barely idled before he threw it into park and got out. You followed without a word, your boots hitting the pavement a beat behind his. He didn’t touch you—yet. Just unlocked the door to his room with a sharp flick of the keycard and pushed it open.

Then he turned to look at you.

A beat of silence.

You stepped inside first.

He followed.

And the second the door clicked shut behind him, everything snapped.

Dean grabbed you before you could say a word—one hand fisting the back of your jacket, the other cradling your jaw as he crushed his mouth to yours like he needed it. Like he’d been starving for ten years and just found the only thing that could fix it.

His kiss was rough. Desperate. Teeth clashing and lips bruising as he walked you backward blindly until your back hit the wall with a thud. You gasped into his mouth and he groaned in response, the sound low and guttural in his chest.

“Told you,” he muttered, voice ragged against your lips. “Wasn’t gonna be gentle.”

You smirked, breathless, tugging at the collar of his jacket. “Didn’t come here for gentle.”

His hand slid down, grabbing your thigh and hiking it up around his hip—pulling you flush against him so you felt every inch of how hard he already was. His mouth moved to your neck, teeth grazing that sensitive spot below your ear that made you shiver.

“Fuck,” he growled. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You tilted your head back, letting him mark you, letting him press you to the wall like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

His lips trailed hot over your throat, open-mouthed kisses growing messier, needier. One hand slid beneath your shirt, fingers splaying across your bare waist—rough, calloused, and so warm. You arched into his touch instinctively, a soft gasp slipping past your lips when his thumb grazed just beneath the swell of your breast.

“Jesus,” Dean muttered into your skin, voice wrecked. “You’ve been driving me insane all night.”

You let your nails scrape lightly over the nape of his neck, tugging just enough to make him groan. “Yeah?” you whispered. “Thought you didn’t even recognise me.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you—eyes dark, pupils blown, chest heaving against yours. “Didn’t mean I wasn’t looking. Doesn’t mean I’m not looking now.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before his mouth was back on yours—more force this time, more hunger. He kissed like he was trying to make up for every year he hadn’t. Like he hated how badly he needed you.

Your hands found the hem of his shirt and pushed it up, knuckles skimming heated skin, the solid line of his abs tightening beneath your touch. Dean broke the kiss just long enough to yank the damn thing off, tossing it somewhere behind him without care.

You stared—only for a second, only long enough to let your eyes drink him in.

“See something you like?” he rasped, already pulling at your jacket.

“Getting there,” you teased, breathless.

His laugh was low and sharp, and then his hands were on you again—this time pulling your shirt up and over, dropping it to the floor, his gaze dragging down your body like he was memorizing every inch.

“Fuck,” he whispered, almost reverent. “You’re… Jesus, sweetheart.”

The nickname hit something low in your stomach.

You reached for his belt.

“I want you,” you said simply, honestly, no games left. “Now.”

Dean’s mouth was on yours again in an instant, hands roaming, grabbing, pressing. He walked you backward from the wall, toward the bed, lips never leaving yours, until your knees hit the mattress and he eased you down onto it, crawling over you with the weight of ten years between your bodies.

“You’re gonna get everything I’ve been holding back,” he said against your collarbone, voice like gravel and sin. “Every fuckin’ second of it.”

And then he started to give it to you.

┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉

His mouth trailed lower, lips grazing down the slope of your chest, taking his time, as if he had to relearn you—every inch, every sound, every shiver. His hands moved with purpose, cupping your breasts through your bra before slipping beneath the lace, thumbs circling your nipples until you arched off the bed, a soft moan slipping from your lips.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he muttered, pulling the bra down your arms. “Didn’t even know it… but fuck, now I can’t stop.”

He leaned in, mouth wrapping around one nipple, tongue flicking slow, then sucking hard enough to make your hips buck. One hand gripped your thigh again, the other sliding between your legs, fingertips pressing into the heat radiating through your jeans.

“Goddamn,” he growled, popping the button open, dragging the zipper down. “You’re soaked.”

You bit your lip as he peeled your jeans down, kissing every new inch of skin as it was exposed—your hips, your thighs, your knees. He tossed them aside and settled between your legs, eyes dark, wild, hungry.

Then his gaze lifted, locking with yours. “Let me taste you.”

Your breath hitched. You nodded—barely had the chance to say please before he hooked his fingers into your underwear and pulled them down, slow and deliberate. His hands gripped your thighs, pushing them open, and then his mouth was on you—hot and devastating.

You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as his tongue dragged through your folds, teasing, tasting, relentless. He groaned against you like you were his favorite sin, sucking your clit into his mouth just to feel you twitch and moan beneath him.

“Fuck, Dean—” Your voice broke, hips rolling up against his mouth. “Don’t stop—”

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it,” he said between licks. “You taste better than I ever fuckin’ dreamed.”

You gasped as he slipped a finger inside you, then another, curling them just right, syncing each stroke with his tongue. The pressure built fast and hot, your thighs trembling around his shoulders.

“Let go, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Wanna feel you come on my tongue.”

That was it. Your back arched, head thrown back, as the orgasm hit—white-hot and unrelenting, pleasure bursting behind your eyes as he worked you through it, refusing to stop until you were spent and shaking.

He kissed up your body again, mouth shiny with you, looking smug and wrecked all at once.

Then he leaned down, kissed you hard, let you taste yourself on his lips. “Not done,” he whispered. “Not even close.”

You reached between you, fingers unbuckling his belt with shaky urgency, and he hissed when your hand brushed against the bulge in his jeans.

“You’ve been hard since the damn bar,” you whispered, voice wrecked and teasing.

Dean smirked, pulling back just enough to strip the rest of the way down. When he kicked his jeans off, your mouth went dry. Thick, heavy, already leaking—perfect.

He caught your stare and groaned, running a hand down his cock. “You better stop lookin’ at me like that if you want this to last more than thirty seconds.”

You reached for him anyway, wrapping your hand around him, guiding him to you. “I want you. Now.”

Dean braced himself above you, one hand beside your head, the other guiding himself to your entrance. He paused—just long enough to meet your eyes.

“You sure?”

You nodded, pulling him closer with a leg around his waist. “Ten years, Dean. I’ve never been more sure.”

He pushed in slowly, the stretch delicious, the feeling of him filling you overwhelming in the best way. He swore under his breath, head dropping to your shoulder as he bottomed out.

“Fuck, you feel good.”

You gasped, legs tightening around him. “Move, Dean—please—”

And he did.

Hard, slow thrusts that built into something rougher, deeper—his mouth on your neck, your shoulder, your lips. He muttered your name like a curse and a prayer, hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise.

“You’re mine tonight,” he growled against your skin. “No one else gets this. No one else gets you.”

You clawed at his back, biting his shoulder, dragging him closer as he fucked you like he’d been waiting forever. Like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

Your second orgasm built quicker, hotter, pulled from you by every snap of his hips, every ragged breath he groaned into your mouth.

“I’m—Dean, I’m—”

“I got you,” he panted, driving into you harder. “Come for me, sweetheart. Want to feel you.”

You shattered with a cry, body trembling, and he followed fast—burying himself deep, pulsing inside you with a broken, hoarse moan that made your toes curl.

Then it was still. Just the sound of heavy breathing, hearts pounding, skin slick and tangled.

Dean didn’t move for a long moment, just pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder, then your cheek, then your lips.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, voice rough but soft now.

You smiled against his mouth. “Better than okay.”

Dean’s fingers lazily traced circles along your bare hip, the weight of his arm grounding and warm. His breath still came a little heavy, the faintest sheen of sweat on his chest catching the low light. You lay tangled together, your leg draped over his, bodies still humming from everything you’d just done.

He tilted his head toward you, catching your gaze. Those green eyes—still dark, still smoldering—searched your face like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

Then he leaned in and kissed you again—slow and sure, no teasing now. Just heat and promise. His hand slid up your spine, fingers tangling gently in your hair as he deepened the kiss. You sighed into it, letting yourself melt.

When he finally pulled back, his lips barely an inch from yours, he whispered it—low, gravelly, certain:

“We’re doing that again.”

You blinked up at him, breath catching. “What, right now?”

He smirked, that familiar, cocky Dean Winchester grin making a reappearance as he kissed your jaw and then your throat. “If I have it my way? Yeah. Right now. Later. Morning. Every chance I get.”

You laughed softly, heart full and still racing. “You’re insatiable.”

His hand slid down, fingers gripping your ass with a lazy squeeze as he pulled you half on top of him. “Ten years, sweetheart. You have no idea what you just started.”

You grinned, shifting against him purposefully—feeling him already stirring again, thick and hardening between you.

“Think I can guess.”

Dean groaned against your skin. “You keep moving like that, I won’t be able to stop.”

You bit your lip and met his eyes again, your smile softening into something warmer, more serious. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”

That did it.

He flipped you beneath him in one smooth motion, settling between your thighs again like he belonged there—because he did. His hair was mussed, his lips kiss-bitten, and he looked at you like you were holy.

“Then buckle up,” he said, voice thick and low. “Because I’m not done proving how grown up you are either.”

┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉

Your body ached in the best way.

Muscles sore, skin still tingling in places you hadn’t even known could feel that good. The room was warm with sunlight bleeding through the curtains, casting soft gold over the sheets tangled around your legs. The air smelled like sweat and skin and sex — the echoes of last night still clinging to the walls like a secret.

Four times. You’d gone at it four times.

And damn if you didn’t feel it.

Every inch of you hummed, heavy with memory — the sound of his voice wrecked and low, the rasp of stubble against your thighs, the way he’d gripped your hips like you’d disappear if he let go.

You shifted slightly, still on your side, the cotton sheet sliding across your bare chest. And that’s when you felt it.

Dean.

Pressed behind you — all of him.

His arm was slung lazily over your waist, palm splayed across your stomach like it had found its favorite place to rest. His chest was warm against your back, one leg tangled with yours under the covers. But it was the hard length of him, thick and unmistakable, nestled against the curve of your ass that really made your smile bloom.

You didn’t move. Not yet.

You just let the morning hold you in place — let the memory of last night drift in like a heatwave:

The low growl when he made you say his name.

The snap of his hips when he couldn’t hold back anymore.

The way he looked at you after the third time, like he was already ruined and didn't mind one bit.

You smiled to yourself, letting out the softest exhale.

Then you felt him shift. Just a little. His mouth brushed your shoulder, warm and lazy, then moved to your ear.

His voice, deep and still half-sleepy, sent a shiver down your spine.

“You up for round five?”

You didn’t even have to think. You grinned, eyes still closed, and arched your back just enough to press against him. “You’re insatiable.”

Dean chuckled low, his hand slipping down from your waist to your hip, then lower. “Sweetheart… you started it.”

His teeth grazed the shell of your ear, and just like that — you were wide awake, hips already shifting back to meet him.

You gasped softly as Dean’s hand gripped your hip, steadying you, anchoring you to him like he needed you tethered. His body shifted behind you, slow and deliberate, one leg pressing in between yours, coaxing them apart. The air felt thick with heat again, even in the quiet morning light.

“I mean it,” he murmured, kissing the back of your neck, letting his teeth drag lazily across your skin. “You wrecked me last night.”

You were about to say something smart, something cocky, but then you felt him—not just hard and wanting, but there, lined up and teasing, the thick head of him sliding through your slick folds with maddening patience.

You arched your back, pressing into him, and let out a slow breath.

“Dean…”

His name came out like a plea. A warning. A promise.

“I got you,” he said, voice low and rough.

And then he pushed in.

All the way.

The stretch was delicious, painfully slow, your body still sensitive and sore but greedy for more. You could feel every inch of him as he filled you from behind, thick and pulsing and deep. Your fingers gripped the sheets in front of you, knuckles going white as your breath hitched.

Dean let out a groan against your shoulder. “Fuck, you feel even better this morning…”

He gave you a moment to adjust, his hand stroking gently over your side, your stomach, your breast—before pulling his hips back and thrusting forward again, smooth and deep, the rhythm slow but unrelenting.

Your forehead dropped to the pillow, a moan escaping you as his pace built. Each thrust hit that perfect spot, making your toes curl and your thighs tremble.

He leaned over you more, chest pressed to your back, his hand snaking under you to touch where you needed him most. “That’s it, sweetheart… Let me feel you come again.”

You were close already—too close. Between the way he filled you, the slick drag of him inside, the filthy-sweet things he was murmuring against your skin—you didn’t stand a chance.

Your body clenched around him, and he hissed through his teeth, gripping your hip tighter. “Shit… just like that—come on, come for me.”

And when you did—when your body tightened, your back arched, your breath stuttered out in a cry—he followed, groaning loud into your shoulder as he spilled inside you, pulsing deep, grounding himself with a final hard thrust.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just breaths and warmth and the press of his body, skin against skin, chest to back, the room quiet but for the sounds of two people completely undone.

Dean finally eased out of you, slowly, and curled around your back again—pulling you flush against him like he had no intention of letting you go.

“Five,” he said into your hair, voice hoarse. “New record.”

You laughed softly, boneless and wrecked and thoroughly satisfied. “Don’t get cocky.”

He grinned against your skin. “Too late.”

┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉┉

You were dressed by the time the knock came at the motel door—showered, hair still damp, wrapped in Dean’s old flannel over your tank and jeans, that telltale ache still humming in your hips as you sat on the edge of the bed, slipping on your boots.

Dean, bare-chested and smug as hell, crossed the room in just his jeans to open the door.

The second it swung open, there stood Sam—fresh coffee in one hand, eyebrows immediately furrowing.

“Hey,” he started, stepping inside. “You said to come by early, I—” He froze mid-step.

His eyes landed on you.

Still damp from your shower. Your legs crossed, Dean’s flannel unmistakably hanging off your shoulders. And the moment stretched into stunned silence.

“Hi, Sammy,” you said sweetly, offering a lazy smile like this wasn’t the most awkward thing in the world.

Sam blinked. Once. Twice.

Then whipped his head toward Dean with all the energy of a man betrayed.

“You did not! That’s Y/N!”

Dean scratched the back of his head, barely hiding the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I mean… she’s really hot.”

“Oh my God,” Sam muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Dean shrugged with no shame. “And that mouth—”

“AHHHH!” Sam shouted, jamming his fingers in his ears. “Nope! Nope! Not listening! I did not need to hear that, man!”

You laughed so hard you nearly toppled off the bed, covering your mouth as Sam spun around to face the wall like it would save him from the mental images.

Dean just kept grinning like the satisfied bastard he was, grabbing a shirt from the back of a chair and tugging it over his head.

“Oh, c’mon, Sammy. You dragged her all over the country when she was a kid—you knew this would come eventually..”

Sam turned back slowly, lowering his hands, glaring at him. “Yeah, but I didn’t expect you to jump her like a werewolf in heat!”

Dean shrugged again, utterly unbothered. “Not my fault she showed up looking like a damn fever dream.”

You raised a hand, still laughing. “Okay, both of you—enough. Sam, sit down. You’re being dramatic.”

“I am not dramatic,” Sam shot back, finally moving toward a chair with a huff. “And even if I wanted to be I have a right to be! This is Dean we’re talking about. He doesn’t do this. He doesn’t smile in the morning.”

Dean dropped onto the bed beside you, reaching lazily for the coffee in Sam’s hand. “Well, I am now. Thanks, by the way.”

Sam yanked the cup away. “No. You don’t get coffee after defiling our childhood friend.”

Dean looked smug. “Too late. Defiled her four times last night. Five, if we’re counting this morning.”

Sam visibly gagged.

Dean smirked, crossed the room in two strides, and grabbed your face with both hands — tilting your chin up before crashing his mouth against yours in a kiss that left no room for confusion. It was rough, claiming, searing. All tongue and tension and leftover heat from the night before.

You gasped softly into it, gripping the front of his shirt like you couldn’t decide whether to melt into him or push him against the wall again.

When he finally pulled back, breath warm against your lips, his green eyes locked on yours — fierce and certain.

“I’m not letting her go,” he said, loud enough for Sam to hear. “She’s mine.”

You blinked up at him, a teasing glint dancing behind your lashes. “Oh really?”

Dean grinned, eyes narrowing slightly as he dipped in again, his voice a low rumble against your mouth.

“Hmm. Yep.”

Then he kissed you again — slower this time, deeper — like he had all the time in the world to prove it.

And in that moment, you believed him. Completely.

I was lazy and decided not to proof read :(

[reveryfics]

YES PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE SUPERNATURAL FICS. pleaseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

How about a pining Sam Winchester and an oblivious male reader request? Where it eventually takes for Dean to absurdly announce Sam's affection or Castiel bluntly point out Sam's care and consideration in front of the male reader.

I'm thinking Sam goes on a long winded rant, so much so that Dean leaves after a few minutes to go be anywhere else (to eat pie) and male reader just politely continues to listen, nodding along and genuinely being curious about what Sam is going to say next. Or Sam remembering some uniquely one-off fact about reader and he just shrugs it off as a best friend thing. Or male reader and Sam going on hike to relax for once - Dean thought it was stupid to take a walk in a boring forest so he didn't show - and male reader twists his angle so Sam must bridal carry him back down the trail.

This might be too much for a single fic😭 so take a pick or do whatever you want please!!! Any fic of the moose man is all I want, and if you were to create one I will worship it in a shrine.

Oblivious Pinning

Sam Winchester x Male Reader

Summary: You were a keen observer, particularly in your line of work as a hunter. That's why it was so surprising you didn't notice Sam Winchester was flirting with you.

A/N: This is great, I'm so used to oblivious Sam and not oblivious reader. Won't even lie I was multiple beers deep while writing this, so I apologize if it's ass.

TW: Fluff

The musty scent of ancient paper and the metallic tang of old blood are as familiar to you as the scent of your dad's perpetually lukewarm coffee. Another Tuesday, another demon. Dean grumbles about the lack of decent pie in rural Kansas, and Sam, bless his giant heart, is meticulously cleaning his knife, even though the last demon dissolved into a pile of ash hours ago. You consider yourself a decent judge of character. Observant, you might say. You can tell the exact moment Dean is about to launch into a lecture on classic rock, or when Bobby was about to tell you "idjits" one more time.

What you can't tell, apparently, is when a man is head-over-heels for you.

Your ankle still throbs a little, a phantom ache from that werewolf hunt last year. You'd gone down like a sack of bricks after a stray claw connected, and before you could even think about hobbling, Sam was there, scooping you up. He hadn't just offered an arm; he'd insisted on carrying you all the way back to the Impala, a good quarter-mile through uneven terrain. You'd just figured he was being his usual chivalrous self, the kind of guy who'd help an old lady cross the street and then bust a ghost with a smile. Bobby, on the other hand, had just raised an eyebrow at Dean, who’d bitten back a grin. You'd missed the memo.

Then there are the coats. Every damn time you shiver, whether it's the biting wind in some godforsaken graveyard or the artificial chill of a motel room, Sam’s coat is draped over your shoulders before you can even rub your arms. He'd just shrug and say, “You looked cold.” You always thought it was just him being the responsible older brother type, making sure you didn't catch pneumonia. Dean, meanwhile, would just snort into his beer.

And the bunker. Hours upon hours spent buried in lore, surrounded by dusty tomes that smelled of forgotten languages and spilled coffee. You often ramble, excitedly pointing out some obscure fact about a rare mythological creature, or hypothesizing about a new way to trap a demon. Sam, instead of tuning out like Dean often does, would lean in, eyes bright, hanging on your every word. He'd ask follow-up questions, his genuine interest a stark contrast to Dean's feigned attention, which usually involved checking his phone under the table. You'd just thought he was a good research partner, keen on learning. Bobby had simply shaken his head, muttering something about you being "as thick as a brick."

Even when you mentioned your latest fascination, deep-sea cryptids, to Sam one evening, his face had lit up like a Christmas tree. He’d spent the next hour pulling up articles, excitedly discussing the possibility of undiscovered species, completely ignoring Dean’s groans from the other side of the table about wanting to watch some terrible B-movie. You’d just thought, "Wow, Sam really gets me!"

Looking back, it's all so glaringly obvious. The way his gaze lingered a little too long, the soft smiles he reserved just for you, the subtle shifts in his body language that screamed "attention." Hell, even the time he'd practically skipped when you said you’d stay an extra day at the bunker to help him organize research notes. You, the observant son of Bobby Singer, had managed to be utterly, completely, beautifully blind to the fact that Sam Winchester was pining for you, and everyone else knew it.

The cheap motel room hummed with the drone of a bad monster movie, a stark contrast to the quiet, contented bickering between you and Sam. You were sprawled across one of the beds, legs tangled in the crisp, but oddly scratchy, sheets. Across from you, Sam sat cross-legged, a triumphant smirk playing on his lips as he slapped down a 'Draw 4' card.

"Seriously, Sam? Again?" you groaned, eyeing your rapidly expanding hand of Uno cards. The bed around you was a battlefield of scattered lore books, crumpled maps, and empty coffee cups – the aftermath of a particularly nasty ghoul hunt. Your own shirt, currently balled up somewhere near the overflowing trash can, was a grim casualty of the fight, splattered with what you hoped was just ghoul guts and not, you know, something worse.

You’d pulled on one of Sam’s shirts after your shower, the sleeves a little long, the fabric soft from countless washes. Dean's shirts would have fit better, but you didn't argue, a shirt was a shirt. You hadn't thought twice when Sam, after hearing your muttered complaint about your ruined clothes, had practically bounced up from his own bag to offer you a clean one. You’d just figured he was being helpful. You were completely oblivious to the way his eyes had lingered on you when you’d taken it, or how he’d cleared his throat a little too loudly.

Now, as you glared at your cards, Sam chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated through the cheap mattress. "All's fair in love and Uno, Singer."

Dean, who had been seemingly engrossed in a scene involving a rubber monster and a screaming blonde, shifted on his bed. His eyes, however, weren't on the TV. They flickered between your exasperated face and Sam's smug grin, a familiar knowing glint in their depths. He took a long swig of his beer, a faint smirk playing on his lips, before turning back to the screen with a shake of his head. You just thought he was judging your terrible Uno skills. You completely missed the way his gaze lingered, the silent communication passing between him and Sam that spoke volumes you couldn't hear.

"You're a menace," you declared, playing a card just to get rid of it. Sam just grinned, and the soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminated the playful spark in his eyes. You, as always, were just focused on not letting him win.

Sam laid down his final card, a triumphant "Uno out!" echoing in the small motel room. You groaned, throwing your hand down in defeat. "That's it, I'm done. You cheat."

He just laughed, a rich, warm sound that made the exhaustion of the hunt feel a little less heavy. "I don't cheat. I just play smarter." He stretched, his long limbs uncoiling with a soft creak of the bedsprings, and then propped himself up on an elbow, looking at you. "Ready to call it a night?"

Dean grunted from his bed, the flickering light of the TV playing across his face. He'd been quieter than usual tonight, which you put down to the rough ghoul. Sometimes a straightforward hunt could be more draining than a complicated one, just because of the sheer nastiness of it. You missed the way his eyes kept drifting over to you and Sam, a silent communication passing between them that you were, as usual, completely oblivious to.

"Yeah, definitely," you mumbled, pushing yourself up to lean against the headboard. The borrowed shirt, still smelling faintly of Sam's cologne and something uniquely him, felt comforting against your skin. You were just grateful for a clean shirt after the day's events. You didn't notice the way Sam's gaze lingered on the shirt, or the almost imperceptible flush that crept up his neck.

Sam reached over, gathering the scattered Uno cards, his fingers brushing yours for a fleeting moment. A spark, a tiny jolt, went through you, but you dismissed it as static electricity. Just tired. He stacked the cards neatly, then started to gather the books and papers, organizing them with a quiet efficiency that always impressed you.

"Think we got everything on that ghoul, then?" you asked, rubbing your eyes.

"Pretty sure," Sam said, without looking up. "Though I think we need to double-check the local lore for any follow-up on that specific breed. Just in case." He glanced at you then, a faint, tired smile on his lips. "Unless you're too exhausted to even think about it?"

You shook your head. "Nah. We can look tomorrow. Tonight, I just want sleep."

Sam nodded, a soft, understanding look in his eyes. He finished tidying the table, then moved to his own side of the bed. You both settled in, the only sounds the low hum of the air conditioner and the muffled dialogue from Dean's movie. As you drifted off, you were dimly aware of Sam shifting, adjusting his pillow. You had no idea that he was still subtly facing you, watching you breathe, a soft, almost imperceptible smile gracing his lips. You were, as always, completely oblivious.

The morning light filtered weakly through the grimy motel window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the stale air. You were hunched over the main table, a map of the county spread out, circling potential ghoul nesting sites, while Dean, still in his sleep-rumpled t-shirt, methodically wiped down his gun. The aroma of stale coffee and cheap motel cleaner hung heavy in the air.

"Alright, so that last one really was it," you confirmed, tapping your pen on a marked spot. "No more weird disappearances, no more missing livestock, no weird chills reported."

Dean nodded, snapping a clip into place. "Good. About damn time. This place was starting to get on my nerves. Too many weirdos."

Just then, Sam, ever the morning person, strode in from the bathroom, looking remarkably put together for someone who'd battled a ghoul hours earlier. "I'm heading out to grab some coffee," he announced, already reaching for his keys. "You guys want anything special, or just the usual black?"

You glanced at Dean, who just grunted. "Black's fine, Sammy."

"Same here," you added, pushing a hand through your already tangled hair. "Thanks, Sam."

Sam smiled, a genuine, easy grin that seemed to brighten the dim room. "No problem. Be back in a bit." He gave you a quick, lingering look, then headed out, the door clicking shut behind him.

As soon as the door closed, Dean tossed his cleaning rag onto the table, his eyes narrowing on you. "You know," he began, his voice low, "sometimes I seriously wonder about you."

You blinked, confused. "Wonder what?"

"How you can be so damn dense," he scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. "It's like you're actively trying to be oblivious."

You stared at him, genuinely bewildered. "What are you talking about?"

Dean leaned forward, his elbows on the table, fixing you with an exasperated glare. "Sam. Sam's pining for you. Hard. Like, head-over-heels, sappy romance novel levels of pining. How in God's name do you not see it?"

You blinked again. Then a slow, incredulous laugh bubbled up from your chest. "Sam? Pining? For me?" You stared at him like he'd just suggested ghouls communicated through interpretive dance. "Dean, what are you even talking about? That's... that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

Dean threw his hands up in exasperation. "Oh, my God. You are truly, monumentally, breathtakingly stupid." He dragged a hand down his face, groaning. "The coats, the carrying you back to the Impala, the way he lights up when you even breathe in his direction, how he hangs on your every word in the bunker... It's all right there! It's practically screaming at you!" He pointed a finger at you. "Even Bobby sees it! He just sighs and mutters about 'dumb idjits' every time Sam gets all moon-eyed around you."

You just continued to stare, your mind trying to process the idea. Sam? For you? It was such a foreign concept, so utterly outside your understanding of your relationship with him, that it felt like he was speaking a different language. "But... we're just... we're just friends. We're hunting partners." You felt a blush creep up your neck, despite your disbelief. "He's like an older brother."

Dean snorted, a sound of pure disbelief. "Yeah, an older brother who stares at you like you hung the moon. You know what? Forget it. Just... forget I said anything. You're hopeless." He stood up, shaking his head, and walked over to the mini-fridge, pulling out a soda with an audible pop.

You watched him, a strange, uncomfortable feeling stirring in your gut. Dean wouldn't just make something like that up... would he? Could you really have been that oblivious? The thought was absurd. And yet... the way Dean had looked at you, the sheer frustration in his voice, it felt real.

The sudden roar of an Impala engine pulling into the parking lot signaled Sam's return, pulling you from your swirling thoughts.

The sound of Sam's familiar footsteps approaching the door, followed by the click of the lock, jolted you from your bewildered state. You were still grappling with Dean's accusations, the idea of Sam pining for you echoing ridiculously in your mind.

The door swung open, and Sam stepped in, a carrier of coffee cups in one hand, a small paper bag in the other. He smiled, that easy, genuine smile of his, and for the first time, you actually looked at it. Really looked at it. Not just as Sam being Sam, but as... something more.

"Got the usual," he announced, setting the carrier on the table. Dean grunted from his spot by the fridge, already reaching for his black coffee.

Sam pulled out a cup and handed it to you. "Here you go."

You took it, your fingers brushing his. The warmth of the cup seeped into your palm, and then the scent hit you. It wasn't the bitter aroma of black coffee. It was rich, sweet, and distinctly familiar. Caramel. Vanilla.

Your favorite.

You stared at the cup, then slowly, your eyes drifted up to Sam's face. He was watching you, a slight tilt to his head, that same soft, expectant look in his eyes. He knew. He knew exactly what he'd given you.

"But... I said black," you murmured, the words barely a whisper.

Sam just shrugged, a small, almost shy smile playing on his lips. "Yeah, but I figured you could use a treat after last night. Besides, you always look like you're about to fall asleep when you drink black."

Your gaze flickered to Dean, who was now openly smirking at you over the rim of his own cup. He raised an eyebrow, a silent, "See? I told you so," in his eyes.

A slow, burning heat crept up your neck, flushing your cheeks. It wasn't just the coffee. It was everything. The way he always offered his coat, the insistent carrying, the way he listened, really listened, when you talked. The casual touches, the knowing glances. And now, the exact, precise coffee order you never even told him you liked, because you never thought he'd remember, let alone care enough to get it.

"Son of a bitch," you murmured under your breath, the realization hitting you like a ton of bricks. It wasn't a curse; it was pure, unadulterated shock. You had been so incredibly, monumentally oblivious. Every single instance Dean had mentioned, every subtle gesture, every kind word—it all clicked into place with the taste of caramel and vanilla on your tongue.

Sam, oblivious to your internal meltdown, just chuckled softly. "Something wrong? Not sweet enough?"

You just stared at him, the coffee cup warm in your hand, feeling like the biggest dumbass in the entire world.

You just stared at Sam, the weight of the caramel-vanilla coffee cup heavy in your hand, and the even heavier weight of Dean's smug, knowing smirk on your face. The air in the motel room crackled with an unspoken tension, at least for you. Sam, of course, just looked…patient. Expectant, maybe.

You took a deep breath, the sweet scent of your coffee filling your lungs. No going back now.

"Sam," you started, your voice a little shaky, "are you… are you actually in love with me?"

Sam's eyes widened, just a fraction, before a soft flush crept up his neck. He looked from you to Dean, who was now openly grinning, and then back to you, a small, almost shy smile touching his lips.

"Yeah," he admitted softly, his voice a low rumble. "I am. I thought… I thought it was pretty obvious."

The words were barely out of Sam's mouth before a loud, booming laugh erupted from Dean. He practically doubled over on his bed, slapping his knee, tears of mirth streaming down his face. "Oh, my God! He actually asked! And he actually said it!" Dean gasped between fits of laughter. "You two are the most clueless idiots on the planet!"

Without thinking, you crumpled the empty coffee cup in your hand and launched it at Dean's head. It bounced off his forehead with a pathetic thud, but he barely registered it, still caught in his fit of hysterics.

You turned back to Sam, a fresh wave of mortification washing over you. How in the hell had you missed this? How had you, the supposedly observant hunter, been so spectacularly blind? It wasn't just Sam's little gestures; it was everything. Every long look, every shared laugh, every late-night conversation. It all clicked into place, painting a picture you'd been too dense to see. And the worst part? You liked Sam. Had liked him, in fact, for as long as you could remember. Not just as a friend, or a hunting partner, or even the brother you never had. You liked him, liked him, in the way that made your stomach flutter and your palms sweat, a secret you'd buried so deep you'd convinced yourself it wasn't there.

Sam, his laughter now subsiding as he watched your internal turmoil, reached out a hand, his fingers hovering hesitantly near your arm. "Uh," he hummed, his voice soft, a hint of concern in his tone. "Did you… you really didn't know?"

You finally met his gaze, the overwhelming rush of emotions making your eyes sting. "Are you kidding me?" you blurted out, a mix of disbelief, embarrassment, and a sudden surge of exhilarating hope swirling within you. "Sam Winchester, if I had known, if I'd had even the slightest clue, I'd have kissed your stupid, giant face a million times over by this point!"

The words hung in the air, raw and honest. Sam's eyes widened again, this time with something akin to shock, and a slow, beautiful smile spread across his face, brighter than any motel room light. Dean, bless his heart, had actually gone quiet.

The words hung in the air, a confession and a revelation, leaving Dean in stunned silence for once. Sam's face, usually so composed, broke into a wide, disbelieving smile.

"You... you would?" he whispered, his voice thick with a mixture of hope and astonishment.

You launched yourself off the bed, stumbling a little over the scattered lore books. In two strides, you were in front of him, reaching up to cup his face in your hands. His cheeks were warm beneath your palms, and his eyes, those big, expressive hazel eyes, were sparkling.

"Are you kidding me?" you breathed, your voice rough with emotion. "Sam, I've been half in love with you for years. I just thought it was the 'found family' thing. The 'I look up to my tall, ridiculously smart hunting partner' thing. Never once did it cross my pea-brained mind that you might actually..." You trailed off, lost in his gaze.

Dean cleared his throat loudly from the other bed. "Well, don't let me stop you two lovebirds," he grumbled, though the edge of a smile played on his lips. "Just... try not to make out on my clean sheets, alright?"

You ignored him, your focus entirely on Sam. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone, a feather-light touch that sent shivers down your spine. "So, all those times..." he began, a soft laugh escaping him, "you really had no idea?"

"None!" you practically yelled, a fresh wave of mortification and relief washing over you. "Not when you carried me back to the Impala after I sprained my ankle, not when you constantly offered your jacket, not when you lit up like a Christmas tree whenever I talked about some obscure historical fact! I just thought you were a really, really good friend!"

Sam chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated through your chest. "I guess I was being too subtle," he murmured, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Subtle?" you scoffed playfully. "Sam, you were about as subtle as a brick through a window, and I still missed it! I blame Dad. He raised me to be observant, but apparently only for demons and faulty wiring, not for giant, pining Winchesters!"

Sam's smile softened, turning into something tender and incredibly vulnerable. His gaze dropped to your lips, and the air between you thickened with unspoken desire. You felt your breath hitch. This was it. This was the moment you'd unknowingly wanted for so long.

He leaned in slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away, but you didn't. You met him halfway, closing the small distance between your faces. His lips were soft, hesitant at first, then firming as you kissed him back with all the pent-up longing of years of obliviousness. It was a kiss that tasted of cheap motel coffee, lingering fear from the hunt, and the overwhelming, undeniable truth of finally seeing what had been right in front of you all along.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, Sam's forehead rested against yours. His eyes were shining, a depth of emotion in them that made your heart ache in the best possible way.

"So," he whispered, a happy grin spreading across his face, "does this mean I don't have to be subtle anymore?"

You laughed, a joyous, relieved sound. "No, Sam," you said, reaching up to thread your fingers through his soft hair. "Absolutely not."

The quiet promise of a new beginning hung in the air, a silent understanding passing between you and Sam. Dean, bless his exasperated heart, had actually pulled out his phone, pretending to be engrossed in it, giving you both a moment of privacy.

[imwaitingin-the-sky]

@nolonger-ams i made another sideblog

[taskiiboi]

~ Redactedverse Headcannons ~

Shaw Pack

David -

Personally I think David would be the first of the pack to figure out his sexuality mainly because of how he yearns.

That man will wait at the door for Angel to get home. I don’t care if he was on the couch when he did, that man has an alarm for when Angel gets onto the driveway and sits down on the couch acting all aloof.

That man FOLDS at one touch from Angel and that isn’t even a head cannon I just like reminding people about that.

Gets tattoos and has weirdly beautiful or cute meanings to them

Sam -

I love Sam with all my heart and soul first off <3. For sure listens to classic rock but also modern pop bcz why not.

Never succeeds at avoiding Darlin’s puppy dog eyes. That man is love sick!!!

Has in fact showed up in his truck to pick Darlin up for dates after jobs because that’s cute and silly and I love them

Kisses Darlin’s top surgery scars

Has gauges, small ones but I can see it

Ash -

Asher is definitely bi imo but for sure prefers men. Thats all I really have to say I don’t listen to his audios much.

Milo -

I also don’t listen to his audios much but from what I’ve picked up on is that the man is gay. There’s like no doubt about it. That man is hopeless.

Damn Crew

Gavin -

The man is gay. We only see him interact with men and refer to men when it comes to past moments.

Gavin has read history books for fun. The man is smart and curious to a fault.

Would absolutely vague about Damien and Huxley to Freelancer and he has in fact picked up on it and proceeded to play dumb.

Lasko -

Pan, I say this because if someone is attractive to him, he folds. The man is a mess.

He also kisses Dear’s top surgery scars because I said so. It’s the law <3

Has written Kirk x Spock fanfic

Damien -

Angry, angry bisexual. I cannot see him any other way.

Plays cozy games. The man will only watch others play violent or lore heavy games.

Huxley -

Not a morning person at all. He enjoys the morning don’t get me wrong but the man is sleepy for most of the day

I do infact think he is gay and has been hurt by many a twink.

Others ~

Avior -

Aroflux, but falls hard

has probably written fucking sonnets about Starlight during their separation and will again

Would really enjoy Doctor Who idkw

Kisses Starlights freckles and top surgery scars

Porter -

Thinks of Treasure A LOT, like he is down bad whether he likes it or not.

Enjoys the Bill and Ted movies

Vincent -

Surprisingly has the most piercings and usually wears more gold

Kisses Lovely’s top surgery scars (which have lightning bolts tattoos around them)

[spitefulsatanfics]

= ° ᛫ ᛫ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒 ᛫ ᛫ ° =

CHAPTER FIVE: Echoes in the Veil

Written by: little devil ☾

Word Count: ~3,750

Rating: T (Teen)

Warnings: Canon-typical horror, dream/mind invasion, mild language, implied possession, emotional intimacy, slow burn

Pairing: Castiel x Female Reader (slow burn, protector!Cas)

Based on: Supernatural Season 5, loosely tied to episodes 4–6

Themes: Celestial horror, emotional intimacy, connection through ritual, fear of loss, protection through presence

SUMMARY:

As the wards flicker and something ancient presses closer, the bond between Castiel and the reader begins to deepen—anchored by blood, Grace, and a tether they never meant to forge. But dreams speak in warnings, and some echoes are older than Heaven.

The house had gone too quiet.

Not peaceful, but waiting—like it knew the story wasn’t over.

The air buzzed with tension even when no one was speaking. Lore books lay cracked open across the table like wounds that refused to close. The sigils burned lower now, their once-bright glow faded to candle-smoke blue.

“Something’s wrong,” Sam said.

Bobby didn’t look up. “Define wrong.”

Sam tapped a page from an old hunter’s journal, yellowed and scrawled with cramped, panicked script. “This. It’s not just about warding. This guy—Moorehouse—he wrote about a celestial faction, pre-Fall. Angels that got erased from the books.”

Dean leaned over his shoulder. “The Hollow Choir?”

“Yeah.”

“Catchy,” Dean muttered. “Real garage band vibes.”

Bobby finally looked up. “I’ve heard the name. In whispers. Not in anything official.”

“Because they were wiped out. Or supposed to be,” Sam said. “They believed free will was a flaw. Tried to rewrite souls.”

Y/N stiffened near the doorway. “Rewrite?”

Sam nodded. “Turn people into... conduits. No identity. Just harmony. One voice. One song.”

Her fingers tightened on the mug in her hands.

Dean glanced toward the glowing sigils. “And you think that’s what sniffed around last night?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said. “But if something’s pressing through the Veil like Cas said... it fits.”

Across the room, Castiel’s head turned sharply.

One of the sigils—above the doorframe—shuddered. Then flickered.

Not out. But off. Wrong.

Y/N felt it in her spine. A tug behind her heart.

Castiel moved fast, stepping between her and the door without a word. His body language wasn’t panicked—but every inch of him said no further. Hands loose at his sides. Eyes on fire.

“It’s inside the perimeter,” he said.

Bobby stood up. “Inside?”

“Not it. The pressure. Something... tugged.”

“Tugged?” Dean echoed. “What the hell does that mean?”

Y/N didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her ears rang. The scar in her palm flared hot, like it remembered a pain her body hadn’t earned.

---

That night, the dream came like thunder wrapped in velvet.

Y/N stood in a field scorched black by fire. No trees. No wind. Just ash and silence, broken only by the slow exhale of unseen breath across the skin of the world.

Above her, the sky was sickly violet, bruised and rotting at the edges. Lightning flickered through low-hanging clouds like veins in a corpse. It never struck. It pulsed.

Beneath her bare feet, the earth cracked—veins of glowing white light bleeding through the crust, moving like something alive and trying to claw free.

And then—the song.

It didn’t rise from the sky. It rose from within her. From the bones of the field. From the light beneath the earth. A thousand voices—off-key and aching—layered in harmony that felt like it had never known love, only order.

Not broken. Not beautiful. Just... wrong.

She turned, and a mirror stood among the ruin. Old. Wooden frame, warped by heat. A long, clean crack ran down the center like a wound refusing to heal.

Her reflection blinked.

Then blinked out.

And something else looked back.

It didn’t have a face—just a suggestion of features, shifting like smoke in water. But the eyes were there. Piercing. Glowing. Vast.

They stared through her.

It said her name.

Not like a threat. Like a claim.

Y/N woke up gasping.

Her skin was cold and clammy, a sheen of sweat sticking her shirt to her back. The room was dark, but the edges of the sigils glowed faintly from the hallway—dim as dying stars.

She rose, barefoot and silent, and cracked the door open.

Castiel was there.

Sitting on the floor just outside her door, trench coat wrapped around his knees. Hands folded loosely in his lap. Eyes fixed on the wall across from him—but unfocused. Listening for something that hadn’t arrived yet.

Y/N blinked. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

He looked up and stood in one fluid motion. “I felt... a shift. In the Veil. Like something opened, then shut.”

She leaned against the doorframe. “It’s happening when I dream.”

His brow creased. “What did you see?”

So she told him. The field. The earth. The voices. The mirror.

And the thing that said her name.

He said nothing at first—but the pause stretched into something leaden.

She hesitated. “I’m scared, Cas.”

That’s what broke his silence.

He looked at her—really looked at her—and something in his expression softened. The usual frost in his tone melted, just a hair.

Without asking, he stepped closer and gently took her hand—the one marked by the ritual. His thumb passed over the scar like it was something sacred.

It glowed. Faintly. Soft gold. Warm.

Alive.

He didn’t let go.

“There’s a resonance,” he said quietly. “A tether between us.”

She blinked. “You mean like... magical walkie-talkies?”

He didn’t smile, but the corners of his mouth twitched, like he wanted to. “Something like that. Because your blood was offered freely. And my Grace answered. We’re connected.”

Her breath caught.

“And now,” he added, softer still, “others can feel it.”

“You mean... they can find me.”

His eyes darkened. “I’ll make sure they don’t.”

He said it like a vow.

And his fingers lingered on her palm long after the glow faded—like he was trying to remember how it felt.

---

The breach came at dawn.

Just a whisper. A shimmer. Like the edge of reality peeled back and changed its mind.

The sigils didn’t fail—but they strained.

Outside, the forest breathed wrong.

Y/N stepped toward the window.

On the porch was a single object.

A feather.

Black. Brittle. Not of this world.

Castiel appeared beside her. The second he saw it, his whole body went still.

“That’s not a bird feather,” Dean said, stepping up behind them.

“No,” Cas said. “It’s Grace. Fallen. Twisted.”

“Demonic?” Sam asked.

Cas shook his head. “Worse.”

He picked it up. It hissed in his fingers.

“We have to leave.”

“Wait, what?” Dean said. “We just got here.”

“We’re not safe. The house isn’t warded against this.”

Lights flickered.

Time stuttered.

A crack split open near the tree line.

Something stepped halfway through—and sang.

Y/N felt herself pulled.

She moved without thinking, feet drawn like tide to moon.

Then Castiel was there.

He grabbed her. Held her.

And in that instant, a shimmer—wings—flashed around him, vast and terrible and beautiful.

The pull broke.

Y/N gasped.

“What—what would’ve happened if you hadn’t—?”

Cas looked at her. Voice low, shaking once.

“You would’ve been taken. Not your body—your voice. Your soul. They would’ve sung you hollow.”

She stared at him, stunned.

And he held her like the whole world was breaking.

---

They packed in silence.

Plans shifted. Bobby cursed the gas mileage. Sam folded maps with surgical precision. Dean paced and cursed and didn’t stop.

Y/N found Castiel in the hallway.

“You’re taking me somewhere Heaven can still touch,” she said.

He nodded.

“Why?”

He didn’t answer.

She stepped closer. “You’ve never offered that to Sam. Or Dean.”

Still, silence.

“Cas.”

His voice cracked, quiet as frost:

“Because I wasn’t made to feel. But I do. And it’s because of you.”

He walked away before she could say anything.

Far beyond the house, at the edge of the veil, something stirred.

It wore no shape. Needed none.

But it remembered her.

It hummed her name through ten thousand mouths.

And smiled.

---

TO BE CONTINUED... SOME ECHOES NEVER FADE.

---

Author's Note:

Thank you for joining me on this journey through the veil. Crafting this chapter was a labor of love, delving deep into the celestial and the intimate. I hope the enhanced scenes brought you closer to the characters and the unfolding mystery. Stay tuned for the next chapter, where the echoes grow louder and the bonds are tested further.

—little devil ☾

---

Tags: #SupernaturalFanFic #CastielxReader #SlowBurn #CelestialHorror #EmotionalIntimacy #Season5AU #ProtectiveCas #DreamSequence #TheHollowChoir #EchoesInTheVeil

[horror-hobbits]

The Fellowship and their favorite horror movies (with little to no context)

Donnie Darko (2001) for Frodo — Main characters doomed by the narrative in order to save the world, need I say more? Would like the psychological horror. Wrote an entire essay about the themes of fate, religion, sacrifice, and existentialism.

Poltergeist (1982) for Sam — Believe he would enjoy the family-oriented story. Rooted in nostalgia because it’s a movie he would’ve grown up watching with his family. Can relate deeply to the characters’ unwavering need to save their loved ones.

Scream 4 (2011) for Merry — Scream purist and proud. Would argue with a wall about how it’s the best movie out of the entire franchise. Loves a final girl.

Killer Klowns from Outer Space (1988) for Pippin — Watched as a joke, ended up loving it. Shorty is his favorite klown.

Nosferatu (1922) for Gandalf — Lover of old movies, especially silent films. Will tell the lore behind the near-extinction of the movie for any and all to hear.

Evil Dead II (1987) for Aragorn — Can’t explain this one other than just vibes. I think Aragorn and Ash Williams are sort of the same character in different fonts.

Little Shop of Horrors (1986) for Legolas — A musical with a sentient plant, what is there more for him to love? Not to mention tall blonde and short man dynamic.

Ghostbusters (1984) for Gimli — The safest choice because we all know how he acted when going through the Paths of the Dead. Who are you gonna call, Gimli?

American Psycho (2000) for Boromir — Not in the toxic masculinity way, he genuinely understands the satire. In fact, he hates film bros that idolize Patrick Bateman. Can quote the entire card scene.

| Part I | Part II |

[l7nns31deb109]

Any hcs about what kinds of humor/memes/jokes would lotr characters like in modern au?

AHHH OMG I LOVE THIS REQUEST!!!!

OKAY!! SO!!! Did the hobbits but if you’d like the rest of the fellowship just lmk! Ps. Sorry it took so long to answer!

Pippin

•LOVES brain rot memes

•unironically watched skidbi toilet once

•half of what comes out of his mouth is a TikTok reference

•^everyone gets so sick of him smh

•(this is niche but) loves judyhopslover69 on tiktok

•^will quote “AHH IM SHIFTING!”

•calls people ‘sigma’ and ‘alpha’

•owns a wolf shirt

•loves ironic tee shirts

^’I’m with stupid’ with an arrow pointing at his head

•loved the cursive singing trend

•talks about the rizzler and big aj

•”THAT GETS FIVE BIG BOOMS!”

Frodo

•dabbles in brain rot memes

•keeps up with TikTok lore

•^knows all the ash trevino and santos drama

•^will tell Sam about it

•weird sense of humor lowkey

•^ will laugh at a picture of cheese??

•used to be a dan and Phil stan

•has a secret account where he trolls people

•^ will send slightly ominous messages to people on it for shits and giggles, “he still loves you…” or “DONT trust her🐍”

•prank calls people with pip and merry, will steal bilbos flip phone to get the numbers

•^not meme related but, these three would choreograph dances/ performances to get sleepovers

•”mamma a girl behind YOU 💚”

•participated in brat summer

•^introduced the group the charli and yes okay they all love her

•stan twitter warrior

Sam

•doesn’t have tiktok and refuses to download it

•has a big Pinterest board with memes on it

•misses vine like a mofo

•^ favorite vine was the potato flew around my room one

•”what does this mean im employed”

•^ learnt this from scrolling on tiktok on Frodos phone

•LOVES emojis

•^often communicates solely by emojis

•ex: Frodo will text him a question and Sam will reply this, “🚫👎😓🫶🍄”, “why the mushroom??”, “It’s pretty. :) 🍄🍄🍄🍄”

•likes podcasts, listens to them while

gardening

•^him and merry def wanted to start one together

•likes niche memes

Merry

•tried to get a meme account popular on instagram

•had a minecraft YouTuber phase in 2020

•has a soundboard app downloaded and will use it

•loved icarly and Fred when he was younger

•quotes really cringy Stuff

•^”um he’s right behind me… isn’t he?”🤓

•loves commenting on tiktoks

•^gets into arguments with people on there

•him and Frodo (sometimes sam and pip) watch drag race together and send eachother memes abt it

•whenever one of them leave a room the other will definitely say “sashay away”

•^they put pippin in drag one time

•reposts cringey stoner memes

•him and pippin played FNAF when it first came out (pippin cried)

•him and pippin were literally at the tiktok rizz party so….

[wendichester]

𓂃˖ ࣪ 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔭𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔟𝔦𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔶 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔦𝔫𝔤

˚₊‧꒰ა @velvetparkerx ☆ dean winchester ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ ⋆˙⟡ where sagittarius, unknown, sagittarius meets aquarius, leo*, saggitarius. ⟡˙⋆

𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐

ꔛ. meeting each other,

✧ who you are in the supernatural world .ᐟ

you are a hunter—but not a cliché one. you're that rare breed: disciplined, collected, strategic. the type who catalogs lore better than the men of letters, but still kicks a vampire's teeth in without smudging your eyeliner. with all that capricorn, you’re grounded, practical, and precise. but the sagittarius stellium? oh baby, that’s where the fire crackles. you’re a seeker, a truth-bloody explorer. your jupiter + uranus in aquarius makes you a little future-brained. maybe you invent your own gadgets. maybe you decipher sigils that others dismiss. you are 100% human—but terrifyingly competent. like, too competent. even the monsters say your name with a bit of fear.

✧ what he's like .ᐣ

he’s a leo rising with an aquarius sun and sagittarius moon/venus—the golden boy burned to ash and rebuilt in sarcasm. charming and impossible. his heart is huge. but guarded. so guarded. he loves hard, fast, and catastrophically. you’re a mirror he’s not sure he wants to look into: same stubborn streak, same desperate need to protect people until it kills you. he flirts like it’s breathing, but when it comes to real connection? he stumbles. and you? you don’t do messy emotions unless they’re earned. which makes him obsessed.

✧ first meeting + first impression

you meet on a wendigo case in the woods of montana. both tracking the same creature. both pissed someone else beat them to it. your first conversation is mostly insults and comparing EMF readings. you get the kill. he gets your number. his first impression? "damn, she's good." your first impression? "he’s hot. loud. too impulsive. and i hate how much i want him to ruin me."

ꔛ. friendship compatibility,

✧ how it'd begin ...

begrudging mutual respect turns into cooperation, then into routine check-ins. you’re both used to working alone, but keep finding reasons to call the other. then one day, he shows up outside your motel room with coffee and no excuse. and that’s it. you’re in his circle now. which means you’re in his life.

✧ the friendship dynamic

quiet loyalty meets chaotic teasing. he makes you laugh when you’re spiraling. you pull him back from the edge without ever making it a big deal. you both pretend not to notice how close you’re sitting. how often your knees touch. sam’s watching you two like a nature documentary.

✧ quirks + fun things

☆ you have silent arguments across the war room table. they last hours. no words. just raised eyebrows and exaggerated sighs. ☆ you keep beating him at poker. he keeps trying to win back his money with dumb dares. ☆ he pretends he’s not impressed when you fix the impala’s wiring in ten minutes. he is. it kills him.

ꔛ. romantic compatibility,

✧ are you compatible .ᐣ first steps .ᐣ

wildly. stupidly. almost too compatible. your shared sagittarius moons mean you get each other’s need for space, freedom, and adventure. your capricorn placements ground his chaos. his leo rising challenges your control. it’s electric. he makes the first move—surprisingly gentle. maybe a hand on your waist after a hunt. maybe a “stay tonight” when you’re halfway out the door. and for once, you say yes.

✧ the relationship dynamic

intense. structured chaos. you don’t argue often, but when you do? it’s war. because you’re normally calm, rational, composed—but if he really pushes you? oh honey, you snap. and dean? he lives to push buttons. especially when he’s spiraling. especially as mark-of-cain dean. he picks fights to bleed. you push back to win. he’s not used to someone who doesn’t break under pressure—he's used to people folding. but you? you walk away mid-fight with a smirk. that wrecks him. then comes the apology. the storm. the making up? it’s biblical. he touches you like he’s afraid it’s the last time. you kiss him like he’s already forgiven.

✧ love languages ♡

him acts of service (making your coffee just how you like it, cleaning your weapons) physical touch (back touches in passing, full-body clings after nightmares) quality time (driving in silence, fixing things side by side)

you words of affirmation (but only when they’re earned) acts of service (patching him up, covering for him on a hunt) physical touch (when you let yourself be soft—it’s rare, and he aches for it)

ꔛ. scenario ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ bunker-era!dean + you as partners

you live in the bunker now. your room is across the hall from his. he knocks on your door at midnight. not for sex. not even for comfort. just to see you. to know you’re there. you’re partners now—in the field, in life. you spar in the gym and end up tangled. you fall asleep in the war room over lore books. he carries you to bed and never admits it. you argue when he shuts down. you see through his rage. he hates that. and he loves that. sometimes he storms off. sometimes you let him. other times, you stand there, arms crossed, and say, “you done yet?” he never is. not with you.

ꔛ. overall ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ 9.7 / 10

you are his mirror, his tether, his undoing. you challenge him without humiliating him. you protect yourself without pushing him away. you understand how to stay, even when it’s hard. he teaches you to be soft. you teach him to be strong without armor.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

* since the birth time of dean hasn't ever been mentioned, I've placed him as a leo rising, since it's the sign that makes more sense to me.

[astrylx]

Supernatural Liveblog - S.5 Ep.09 - The Real Ghostbusters

If you couldn't tell by now, I am a nerd invested in nerd culture. I haven't been to a convention since pre-covid times though, so this episode is going to make me jealous I fear.

I'm feeling this episode won't be super lore heavy. We may get a Chuck appearance though. We will also probably see Becky (that was her name, right?) and other Wincest fans which I do not look forward to seeing.

Dean looking at the line of Impalas, his facial expression is so funny

CHUCK! I like Chuck a lot! Don't fully trust him, I think he's more than just a prophet (especially because why would a prophet show up now of all times) but I still quite enjoy him.

Oh fuck, it's her. I hate her. I hate the way she treats Sam.

I love when Sam does that little silent sigh. I have a feeling this episode will be full of it.

I do like this episode giving love to fan culture.

THE HOMOEROTIC SUBTEXT OF SUPERNATURAL??

I like that there's an Ash cosplayer, I loved Ash. I miss you buddy.

Chuck being all nervous-

Sam and Dean are p i s s e d at this announcement. Sam genuinely looks close to tears, but that could be from the Ruby question.

I love how the actress playing the ghost seems so tired of this.

Also I KNEW THERE WOULD BE REAL GHOSTS HERE, LET'S GO!

You would think the convention organizers, Chuck at least, knowing this shit is real, would know better than to do this at a real place where there is REAL DANGER-

WHY DID SHE LICK HER HAND AND BLOW IT TO HIM?

Chuck is jealous~

Dean is willing to shoot someone over them being annoying?

Dean sounds like a real nerd talking like he is.

In fact

He sounds like some of you on tumblr-

Okay, piecing the story together. Gore didn't let the children pick on her son. They ignore her and attack the boy, scalping him and killing him. Gore killed them in rage in response, before killing herself, guilty over her actions and what had happened. Gore was also likely protecting the property from the boys.

THEY'RE GONNA USE THE ACTRESS, LET'S GO!!!

Actually that's not really a good thing.

The two nerds wanting to help, aw!

THEY'RE GONNA SAVE THE DAY!!!

CHUCK SAVING THE DAY!!!

Ew, Becky is into it...

THEY DID IT! THE NERDS SAVED THE DAY!! That makes me very happy!

Dean being honest and they don't take him seriously, I love that.

I like how their words are changing Dean's perspective.

Aww they're boyfriends!

Wait...

They better not... Um...

Becky dating Chuck, I don't know how to feel about this...

"No, not really. We have guns and we'll find you." I love this line. I love Jared's delivery of it.

BECKY TELLING THEM WHERE THE COLT IS.

CROWLEY??

LET'S GO!!

BLOOPER REAL OF CHUCK ANSWERS!!

This episode was great. I thoroughly enjoyed it. It also had a lot more plot than I expected.

[captonite]

“The Lure” Here's your “Chubs sings on a hunt to lure a spirit” fic — with all the tension, protective big brother energy, and that eerie stillness that only a supernatural hunt can bring… until your girl opens her mouth and sings like an angel in the middle of a haunted forest.(a supernatural hunt, a haunted melody, and one girl with a voice the dead can’t resist)

“You sure about this?” Dean’s voice was low, gruff, and barely hiding the hundred shades of panic under his breath.

They were standing at the edge of an abandoned campground in Missouri, moonlight cutting through the broken canopy. Something haunted this place — a spirit, maybe a banshee — that only responded to music. People heard singing before they vanished. And the lore? It said a voice could lure it out. But only a human one. A live one.

Chubs nodded, adjusting the little mic Cas had tucked to her collar. “We’ve tried everything else. It’s this or wait until someone else gets taken.”

Sam rubbed his temple. “You realize you’re singing to draw a killer to you.”

“I know,” she said gently, “but I’ve got you guys.”

Dean swore under his breath. “You better.”

She walked into the clearing slowly. Alone. Cas stood just behind the treeline, angel blade in hand. Sam and Dean had guns loaded with iron rounds and salt. No one was smiling.

Chubs stood in the middle of the moonlight, arms loosely at her side, and she began to hum.

At first it was nothing. Just a simple, haunting tune — an old lullaby. Something she used to hum when she was afraid, years ago, in motels and backseats and bunkers when nightmares came knocking.

And then… She started to sing.

🎵 “Hush now, don’t you cry… The stars are watching from the sky…”

The air changed. Cold. Still. Wrong.

Branches creaked. Shadows moved. The EMF in Dean’s hand spiked. And yet… Chubs kept singing.

🎵 “Dreams will keep the dark at bay… I’ll be here, I’ll always stay…”

That’s when the spirit showed itself.

A twisted, flickering silhouette with hollow eyes and a mouth sewn shut. The banshee shrieked through the seams, soundless and horrifying.

Dean moved first. Sam flanked left. Cas dropped in from behind.

But the spirit — it stared at her. Entranced. Caught in her voice like a fish on a line.

Dean shouted, “NOW, CAS!”

With a flash of light and one well-aimed swing, the banshee turned to ash.

And Chubs — Chubs had never stopped singing.

---

Afterward, she was pale and shaking. Sam got to her first, arms around her shoulders like a human weighted blanket.

“You did good,” he whispered, voice tight. “So, so good.”

Dean didn’t speak right away. He just stared at her — at the girl who sang to something that wanted her dead — and then pulled her into the most aggressive, crushing hug he’d ever given.

“You ever scare me like that again,” he muttered into her hair, “I swear I’ll chain you to the bunker.”

She laughed, breathless. “You’re proud of me though.”

“Damn right I am.”

That night, back at the motel, Dean kept replaying the bodycam footage.

“You’ve watched that five times,” Sam pointed out.

Dean didn’t even look up. “I like her voice, shut up.”

Cas sat across the room, confused. “Why did the spirit react that way to her singing?”

Dean smirked. “Because she’s got a voice even the dead can’t ignore.”

Chubs, wrapped in Sam’s hoodie and half-asleep on Dean’s bed, mumbled, “Told you I could be bait.”

“You’re never being bait again,” Dean growled.

“Not unless she sings a duet with me next time,” Cas added, perfectly serious.

---

The next morning, Dean added “haunted bait vocals” to Chubs’ unofficial résumé. Sam crossed it out and wrote “angelic banshee-slaying songstress.” Cas drew a music note.

She kept the mic. Just in case.

[imwaitingin-the-sky]

@nolonger-ams guess what.