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[thesamuletdiaries]

Knee High

Summary: It’s porn, of the Wincest variety, where Dean discovers his fetish for Sam in heels, even if he doesn’t need the extra inches. Set circa season three. Filling a square for @spnkinkbingo.

Pairing: Wincest.

Word Count: 2191

Warnings: Top!Dean, Bottom!Sam, WINCEST (I can’t warn enough), shoe kink, shoe fetish, Sam in hooker boots.

Square filled: Shoe Kink

*****

‘Sam, what are these?’

The younger Winchester looked up, raising an eyebrow before blushing bright red at the two objects dangling from his big brother’s hand. Words stuck in his throat as Dean stood straight, a smirk pulling at the corner of the elder’s lips.

‘Leather and laces, baby brother.’ Dean held the boots up a little higher, running his finger around the pointed toe. ‘How the hell did you find hooker boots big enough to fit your gigantor feet?’

Sam looked down at his hands as he stood up from the bed, not making a move to snatch the boots from Dean’s iron grip. ‘A lady in Kentucky. She, er, she does custom orders. When we were working that case, with the poltergeist, I stopped in and…’

Dean gave a low whistle, holding the boots out. ‘Gotta say, Sammy…I’ve always liked boots on a lady,’ Sam tried to ignore the thread of jealousy that burned as it ran through his gut, ‘but I never thought I’d wanna see you dressed up in some heels.’ He stretched his arm, and Sam took the boots gently, letting them hang from his fingers as he contemplated Dean’s words, not expecting what his brother would ask of him next.

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[thesamuletdiaries]

wincest short: have pride

Dean sighs to himself when Sam begins fidgeting his legs against his thighs again—the fifth time he’s noticed the tick this morning—and he sets the tray of face paints aside next to Sam’s bare knee. The boy sits atop the off-white tile bathroom counter in front of Dean so his brother-turned-lover could have “space to work” and “better lighting,” the latter of which Sam had agreed with because, well, the second motel room of the month is no better than the one before it and the ones before that when it comes to amenities that really shouldn’t have to be considered amenities. The blond has a smudge of blue paint on the tip of his nose from when Sam couldn’t resist giving him a peck on the cheek while the first layer of blue and purple were still drying (which he feigned annoyance at while internally awing at how adorable his lover is) and a paintbrush in his hand, which he sets aside to put his paint-stained hand on his little brother’s knee.

“Sammy, are you okay?” The elder Winchester asks in a concerned voice. He could never ditch the parental instinct he has adopted since he was first left in charge of his stubby-legged, doe-eyed baby brother at the young age of six, but it’s not like it really matters.

Sam nibbles at his bottom lip and nods ever so slightly, still fumbling with his hands. “Yeah. Of course I am.”

“We don’t have to do this, y’know.” Dean pushes Sam’s hair back behind his ears and admires his…well, mediocre at best…job at painting his face. “I mean, this has never really been our scene, and—“

“No, no, I wanna go. I suggested it,” the brunet smiles, his left dimple becoming more prominent than his right like a little birthmark. “I’m so fuckin’ tired of hiding, De. I know this is lame, but it’s…I don’t know…”

“Symbolic?” Dean tries to fill in the blank. His grin widens when Sam snaps his fingers and smiles with a nod while repeating the word as if Dean had read his mind. “It’s not lame. Stonewall, right? I read the shit you sent me, don’t worry. I’m well-versed in the ‘lore’ this time.”

Sam laughs wholeheartedly and runs his tongue over his bottom lip. He doesn’t lean in for a kiss, though, as he knows exactly what Dean would say: wet paint, Sammy. Wet. Paint.

“You’re cute,” he remarks for the umpteenth time, but his smile fades to a grimace of anxiety. “I guess I’m just nervous. We’ve never done anything this…public before. What if somebody sees us?”

The blond traces his fingers over the hem of Sam’s short-ish denim shorts, humming all the while at how much they’ve changed and grown. In all the time they’ve grown up with one another, they’ve never known each other so intimately. Three years has done them good, comparatively speaking, Dean supposes. Sure, this public ‘out and proud’ stuff has never been Dean’s cup of gin-spiked tea, but hey, it’s better than living in a glass closet. It’s not like there’s a flag for “hey, I’m fucking my brother!” but, as Sam so wisely explained two weeks ago, it’s about setting the precedent…or, whatever.

“Let ‘em see.” He puts the dollar store paintbrush between his teeth again and straightens Sam’s head with his fingers guiding against his jawbone. With a signature Dean Winchester smirk, he begins painting the rest of the rainbow stripes across his lover’s cheeks and steps back when he’s finished to admire his work. “Voilà.”

With a childlike look of excitement, Sam turns around to look in the mirror and gasps at the array of colors coating his skin. For someone who failed art, Dean did a pretty decent job. He turns back to his brother and takes the paintbrush from his hand while smiling like he just saw heaven.

“Okay, let me do you now,” the boy beams as he picks out the colors magenta, violet, and navy from the pallet (what? they rarely if ever splurge!).

Dean, of course, smirks and stands still for Sam so he can get to work. “Switchin’ it up, huh? Dean likey.”

“I’m sure he does,” Sam muses while painting the first stripe of ‘war paint’ across Dean’s freckled cheek. “Now stand still and let me paint your face, jerk.”

“Bitch.” Dean feigns offense. “Hey, d’you think they’ll have IPAs in rainbow bottles? Y’know, ‘cause consumerism?”

Sam rolls his eyes but laughs anyway. “I think they might. We’re an untapped industry, I guess.”

“Untapped…for now.”

“Damnit, Dean, stop being dirty and just let me paint you!”

Have a great Pride Month, everyone!

[thesamuletdiaries]

watch over sammy

When Sam was a baby, John would get pissed because he wouldn’t sleep in the bassinet he bought from a garage sale for a little more than five bucks; no, little Sammy with his cherub cheeks and big eyes would only fall asleep in his big brother’s arms. John’s were too brutish, too rough…too lacking of gentleness and that quality that could only be described as utterly Mary. So, Dean hardly ever let go of his brother and when he did, those green eyes hardly blinked because even though he was a child himself, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad would happen if his eyelids so much as fluttered closed for a second while supposed to be focused on Sammy.

Behind Dean’s boyhood glaze loomed the shadow of doubt and grownup reason ingrained in him by a father so focused on revenge he couldn’t see that his fist was beating its way through his eldest son’s skull. This voice whispered thoughts into his baby ears that Sam would be picked apart by vultures or washed away by an invisible river or mowed down by a speeding car despite being miles from the nearest busy road, and it spooked him so badly that he refused to let his eyes wander from the now-toddling, chubby-cheeked tot.

The nights were the hardest. John would try to pry his sleeping son from the child’s desperate and pleading big brother so he could sleep off the deprivation of rest that was undoubtedly causing this…paranoia. But Dean wouldn’t dare shut his eyes, too petrified of the sandman coming to drown him in the hourglass and allow some boogeyman to catch him off guard, and instead snuck back to little Sammy’s crib once the warden had tried to seal the kid’s fate to watch over him better than any damned angel figurine made of cheap porcelain could.

Eventually, Dean had to fall asleep. The first time it happened, the trio was in the car heading somewhere—even John didn’t quite know—and Dean passed out, slumped against Sam’s car seat and hand still in his lap. The dark and unhealthily purple shadows under the boy’s eyes made him look so much older than his sweet age of six, and John felt relieved when he looked into the back seat in his rear view mirror and saw that nature had done what he had failed to do: tape the torn pages back into Dean’s calendar. If only the sandy blond’s well-deserved nap didn’t end in a piercing scream four hours later that made John swerve, narrowly avoiding hitting a small shrub. The first thing the boy did was start crying followed by him desperately trying to wake up Sam to make sure his mistake didn’t cost the baby his life.

The circles under Dean’s eyes only deepened in hue and in intensity, the exhaustion crescendoing as the years dragged on. Had John cared enough to take his kid to the doctor, he’d probably have been diagnosed with an insomnia of sorts—but all the gruff widower cared about were the callouses roughening his palms and the wide, open, and dangerous road ahead of him. He tried everything: a small dose of Benadryl with their grub, some knockoff NyQuil in his 99¢ gas station apple juice, and hell, he even considered giving the kid a small whack upside the head once or twice to force him to pass out. What worked ended up causing Dean emotional agony as soon as he woke up and started screaming for his little brother, and what didn’t work almost seemed like it was for the best.

Dean’s devotion to his baby brother’s safety maimed him. It cheated him, lied to him, and almost killed him on several occasions. But no matter how much he suffered at the hands of a cruel system of checks and balances trying to steal the infant he dragged from the inferno from his scrawny arms, he can’t find it in him to care. Not when he sees just how happy the kid grew up to be on the good days and how strong he became when things could be better.

He sleeps now, whiskey being his sleep aid and the Die Hard movies his lullaby, but he wakes up every time he hears his not-so-little brother scream his name in his sleep, a desperate cry echoing from inside his nightmares. Instinct tells him to place a hand on his chiselled, heaving chest until his breathing evens out and sing some boyish variation of a Seger song to turn his bad dreams good again, so that’s what he does. For the rest of the night, his duty is to watch over Sammy and protect him from a new evil: the ones inside their minds.

And when he inevitably falls asleep next to his brother atop the comforter, hand still on his chest? Dean’s dreams are good then, because he knows that there’s strength in numbers and that with Sammy by his side, nothing is impossible. Even though he gives his big brother the best bitch face he can muster every time they wake up almost drooling on each other, Sam is grateful for Dean and his canine-like devotion to him. Though he couldn’t possibly know how many exhausted tears were shed and soaked up by the fabric of his baby onesies when he was young, he can understand that in order to make Dean happy, he has to take care of himself. That’s all Dean has ever wanted.

Sam has always had an angel watching over him, but the guardian never had wings to begin with. He wore a way-too-big, hand-me-down flannel shirt, had choppy dirty blond hair, and his under eyes were as dark as the unseen side of the moon. The boy with the demon blood’s guardian angel was, is, and always will be named Dean Winchester.

[thesamuletdiaries]

terminal

summary: flip a coin: mediocre-at-best pay-per-view or public access nonsense. that’s dean winchester’s world right now at ass-o’clock at night as he waits ‘patiently’ for his lover to return. oh, and there’s a tiny foot against his bladder—just an fyi.

rating: G

words: 1.3k

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Dean's thumb clicks against the crusted-together buttons of the motel television remote to advance the channels, all twenty two of which seem to suck ass at the very moment. Figures: he should know better than to try to find something other than public access mumbo jumbo and weather reports on TV at seven o'clock at night on a Tuesday in butt-fucking Livingston, Montana. But what else is he supposed to do? Hunt something? Save the world again? Read some lore?

[thesamuletdiaries]

tulips and bandaids

summary: sam wesson tosses menstrual supplies and 99¢ bandaids at children. dean smith makes kids run extra laps so he can check out the hot school nurse with a few extra inches of height. sam’s empathy is as drained as his acetaminophen supply and dean’s lust is as red as his booty shorts.

rating: T+

words: 0.8k (I know it’s short, but whatever lol)

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Sam whips his head around and smiles slightly when he sees the bow legged man standing in the doorway with that signature smug smirk on his freckled face. He rolls his eyes and turns back to his pint sized patient.

“You won’t die, but Mr Smith is right,” he finishes the dressing and signs the kid’s hall pass to get back to class, waving him off. “Out, you little gremlin. And please try not to have to come back!”

[thesamuletdiaries]

carry on my wayward son

summary: “It is from this sadness that a feeling of gratitude emerges. I feel honored to have known them and blessed that their passing serves as a reminder to me that my time on this beautiful earth is limited and that I should seize the opportunity I have to forgive, share, explore, and love. I can think of no greater way to honor the deceased than to live this way” (Steve Maraboli).

rating: T+

words: 2.4k

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“Not a day goes by without brittle, fuzzy thoughts passing through the man’s head like vagrants, thoughts about how he’ll never get to make fun of his husband’s crows feet or hand him his reading glasses with a smug grin because his prescription from the optometrist is better than his. How he’ll never have to drag his drunk ass down off the stage at their daughters’ weddings before he embarrasses the hell out of them or apply for Medicare together. But, Sam’s not upset anymore; he knows that Dean would want him to live each day for him.”

[thesamuletdiaries]

nihilism

summary: what if Dean’s “cage” inside his own head—you know, the one Michael trapped him in—wasn’t the bar? What if Michael knew that what would make Dean truly content, truly happy, is family?

rating: T

words: 2.7k

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“The angel nods and grabs his wrist, blue eyes pulsing with light when suddenly, the abyss is gone. No more blackness, no more empty; in its place, that same blue sky he saw in Dean’s mind-cage looms over him, and he can feel the grass beneath his feet. The fresh air envelopes him in a sense of peace, hair blowing behind him with the soft wind.”

[thesamuletdiaries]

you’d better beg

summary: sometimes, you just need a little time to revel in each other’s touches and kisses. Or the opposite. Ropes aren’t just for climbing.

rating: E

words: 1.4k

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“The sound Dean makes at this swift motion is inhuman and sounds vaguely like something they would hunt—a banshee maybe, or a lady in white.”

[thesamuletdiaries]

unconditionally

summary: a short lil’ drabble in which Sam and Dean have a teenaged kid who reveals a secret to them.

rating: G

words: 1.7k

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“Sam sits in silence for a few seconds before he hears crying from beside him, the figure in his arms shaking violently. He locks eyes with his husband, who nods with a small, understanding smile, and clears his throat.”

[thesamuletdiaries]

steady beat

summary: based on a suggestion/prompt from @supernaturalwinter: "A car accident and one of the boys end up getting a CAT scan or blood test that shows there’s a uterus/hormones found in pregnancy are high"

rating: T

words: 4.6k

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“To Dean, the sky is falling. The sky is falling and he doesn’t know what to do: does he scramble, try to hide, scream, or accept it? Everything seems to be connecting in a way that makes him want to vomit.”

[thesamuletdiaries]

lebanon

summary: based on this anonymous prompt: “Hmm, how about an Mpreg!Sam while what happened in the last episode? Lebanon.”

rating: NR

words: 2.2k

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“With fresh tears streaming down his flushed cheeks, Sam closes the bedroom door behind him and paces for a few seconds as his thoughts lash out at him like wild animals. This leads him to sit in the corner nearest to the back of the room and wrap his arms around himself in a cocoon that’s not really meant to be for him.”

[thesamuletdiaries]

ultimatum

summary: sometimes when we argue, we say things we don’t mean. other times, we say things that we mean more than anything

rating: NR/T

words: 1.8k

read on ao3 (bECAUSE TUMBLR’S FORMATTING SUCKS)

[thesamuletdiaries]

when in rome ➵ wincest

prompt: this post by @otp–prompts

content: mpreg, fluff, cute wincest, lil dorks, top!dean, bottom!sam, really short oops

word count: 1,467

Read on Ao3 Now (and maybe leave a kudos or a comment please I need inspiration and validation I’m sorRY)

The symbols blur inside Dean’s head with every twitch of his eyes across the page, fusing together into one big mess of discontinuities and loose ends. Enochian hieroglyphs seem to impale themselves on Greek mythology and other unrelated concepts out of the scope of, well, his entire career.

He’s been at this for a few hours now, hoping that he’ll just imbibe the knowledge in old, probably-human-skin pages with the touch of his finger. Unfortunately, that doesn’t work, and he’s been sat at the table with endless research to be done and no light at the end of the tunnel. This isn’t even his case! He just owes Benny some help on research after he helped with a beta nest a few months ago. Either way, he’s one hundred and fifty percent out of patience for this shit.

Wanna read more? Click here!

(I’m too lazy to go on desktop to add a “keep reading” redirect so sorry)

[thesamuletdiaries]

have yourself a merry little christmas ➵ wincest

content: wincest, au verse, mpreg, bottom!sam, top!dean, christmas, mills-hanscum fam, domestic bliss, fluffity fluff fluff, soft boys, drabble

summary: spending Christmas with the Mills seemed like a great idea that August, except for a few tiny details they had “forgotten” to tell Jody and company: (a) that they’re in love, and (b) that Sam has some news to break.

inspiration: a certain post by @canonicallysoulmates

(I hope this lives up to expectations aaa)

word count: 10,541 (löng boi)

AO3

Wattpad

Sam is absolutely dreading this holiday.

Of course he loves Jody, Donna, Alex, and Claire but god, at what cost? The girls are always fighting over, what, clothes? The last wine cooler in the fridge? He doesn’t know, and he sure as hell doesn’t want to find out. And Jody is beginning to go through another of her “baby fever” phases, which basically means that she wants to adopt another wayward teenager or something. Donna, however, is in her Martha Stewart stage (the fifth in a year) where she bakes sweets that look like edible obesity and fries everything. Needless to say, her gift from Sam this year is a crockpot.

Last Christmas was absolutely wonderful. The boys had nobody to appease or suck up to, and the whole holiday was essentially a food fest, both of them seeing who could gain the most over a few days. Dean has the metabolism of a lion and grew up in the subpar weight range, and so was visibly upset when the scale showed that he had actually lost weight. Sam, on the other hand, won in a landslide (aka, the measly 1.2 pounds he managed to gain over the span of a week). All in all, it was their first Christmas alone since Bobby passed away and, though sad, it gave them a chance to be lazy and buy a tree at a tree farm instead of scouring the woods in the freezing cold in search of one that “spoke to them.”

This year, they don’t get to sit snuggled up on the couch or sit on blankets in front of the furnace and watch shitty hallmark movies. They instead have to string garland and hang lights outside, which Jody is thankful for since Sam is a literal giant. He would decline for the sake of his extremities and sanity, but seeing the fear in that woman’s eyes as she stares at the ladder made him cave in years previous. He guesses that nothing has changed, and thus prepares to get frostnip…again.

Dean is tired and grumpy because he was woken up by an anxious moose at four thirty this morning despite their allotted time to leave Lawrence, which was six o'clock before Sam’s fit of panic. Dean has adopted a sense of urgency when I comes to making plans, and pointed out that it would take approximately five hours and fifty-two minutes to get there from the bunker. He nearly had a coronary when they hit a bit of traffic about halfway in, telling Sam that “this was not part of the plan,” and “if we left later we’d be there on time with a few minutes to spare.”

Sam typically just says “you know you love me,” pecks his cheek, and continues listening to his music on his phone while simultaneously researching some strange phenomena in South Dakota. The domesticity is astounding, really. They’re like an old married couple.

“I’m gonna rear end ‘em. I swear to Chuck, I’m gonna rear end 'em if they don’t speed the hell up” Dean sputters, throwing his hands up in an animated fit of passion.

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[thesamuletdiaries]

Wincest Oneshot

Title: Family Matters

Summary: There’s something missing in Sam and Dean Winchester’s lives. Finally, after a year of searching hand-in-hand for the missing piece to their puzzle, they’ve found them.

Content/themes: Adoption, Fluff, Expanding Family, Foster Care, Adoptive Parents

Warnings: (ALL LABELLED) Abuse, Drug Use, Mention of Violence

**Read on Ao3**

Sample Text:

It’s been a year since either of them have shot a gun, two years since either have been hunting.

There’s no desire, no want, no need—no craving for cocking, loading, and pulling the trigger like there used to be. No drive to slice open their palms to bleed into a spell or to machete a vamp’s head off. The weapons in the attic have no use anymore, dust coated and locked away behind three padlocks all with the same combination.

No, it’s not 11-02-83. It’s 05-21-17, the day of their wedding. Not a white wedding, Dean wouldn’t shimmy into a suit—but it was special, just them two at a courthouse in Massachusetts.

The only desire they have is each other.

One spring morning while the air is still thick with dew, Sam is woken up by his husband kissing his jawline just for the sensation of his overgrown beard. He responds by ruffling a tuft of grey-golden hair atop his older brother’s head. The dull ache of nervousness clouds the room and suffocates their moment together, Dean nearly trembling under Sam’s arm.

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[thesamuletdiaries]

dreaming a festive little dream

summary: You always look back on the bad times when you’re standing in front of everything you’ve always wanted. Perhaps Santa brought him that astronomy book he wanted as a kid, or maybe his gift already arrived and he’ll be reminded of how lucky he truly is.

content: dadchesters, parent!wincest, family bonding, only fluff/a bit of saddening nostalgia I guess, kiddos causing trouble, domestic bants

read on Ao3

Sam would be lying if he said he’d always adored Christmas.

For the longest time, it was the complete opposite. He abhorred the holiday and those stupid ornaments, tacky trees, and annoying carolers that would come to the motel door every year without fail, even though they never spent any two Christmases in the same place. Class parties were upsetting and made seven-year-old Sam run to the bathroom with tears rolling down his pudgy little cheeks at the sight of all the parents surprising their children at school. The teachers would forget about him and continue pouring green and red Kool Aid into cheap Dixie cups while he plucked at the strings of his short-sleeve, too-thin-for-winter shirt in a dingy restroom to make the tears stop. In fact, the only reason he’d return to class at all is because those candy apples, mince pies, and dollar store chocolates would make up the only meal he’d had in two days. Dean would try to feed him at the room after school but he’d say that he had lunch there so his older brother would feed himself at last in lieu of sacrificing yet another meal for his chubby little sibling.

Sam would ignore the rumbling in his stomach when he woke up on Christmas Day to find stolen presents under the dining table and an air freshener tree taped to the side before rushing to hug and kiss Dean’s eleven-year-old cheeks and watching as he tried to hide his frost-nipped fingers from view, which happened without a doubt the night prior when he stole gifts from the neighbors. He wasn’t as oblivious as Dean had hoped, after all.

John would call them for four and a half minutes tops and tell them to clean the guns and pack their things to leave in a few hours when he’d return, but not after a trip to a dive bar decked out with tinsel and Nat King Cole playing on the radio, which would be the only thing to remind him that he missed another Christmas with his sons—not that he cared. The blood of some ghoul or monster would stain his hands when he handed over a twenty dollar bill to pay off his tab, which is twice as much money that he gave to his boys for a few days. He beat the monster and to him, that’s all that mattered.

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[thesamuletdiaries]

architect

as requested by @say-yes-to-hole

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It’s a typical day at the Winchester house. Crayons are thrown across the kitchen table and a few have rolled onto the floor, the open-floor-plan-home smells of vanilla and crisp orange from the cinnamon rolls the three of them baked this morning, and the fireplace crackles in the main room. A lazy Sunday, as Sam calls it, and Dean has never been so glad he’s not a church-goer.

The corners of Dean’s mouth are still crumbly with white icing as he runs a hand through his sleeping brother’s hair. The nerd had been reading a book about the riveting subject of cultural and religious morality before he passed out and began drooling on Dean’s lap. It’s not his fault, as he has been up since five o'clock (and he got up with him); besides, it’s not like Dean minds having the sleepy head fall asleep on his lap. It’s his favorite place to be, second only to…well, somewhere not PG enough to even think about around a kid.

He listens to Oliver hum “Fortunate Son” from the table while he colors and draws pictures like he has all afternoon. Dean’s actually scared he might not have enough room on the refrigerator to pin all these drawings up. Oh, well—he’ll just move on to the walls, then.

Sam wakes up with a start and nearly uppercuts his husband with his head when he sits upright, shaken by the sound of Dean’s phone ringing. He answers the phone while Sam fixes his hair, but sees that it’s a video call. Dean holds his phone up sideways to capture both of them as Charlie’s face appears onscreen.

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