I think one hot summer day after melting alone in a motel room for 3 weeks and after a million and one viewings of the lost boys (on a stolen vhs tape) dean is like sammy. sammy. you have to pierce my ear for me. I’ll get you ice cream if you do a good job sammy do you wanna pierce my ear. and sammy, 11 years old, just starting to enter the fun, feral, and bloodthirsty stage of adolescence, is like. dean I have quite literally never wanted anything more. give me a needle NOW. they sanitize the needle in listerine mouthwash and they don’t have an ice cube, but they’re vaguely aware that a lemon is sometimes involved in the process so they decide to squirt it on dean’s ear AFTER poking a hole in it. they don’t steady the ear with anything and sam overestimates his strength and jams it in so hard it also stabs into dean’s neck and they almost couldn’t pull it out. they’re both screaming. sammy starts frantically squeezing lemon juice all over the side of dean’s face which is making him scream more. john walks in in the middle of this and in a rare moment of picking his battles he’s like alright. as long as that doesn’t get infected neither of you are in trouble. clean up the blood off the sink. jesus christ do you even have an earring to put in there? no, they do not have an earring. that genuinely never occurred to dean<3 john thinks this is genuinely hilarious and finds a safety pin to use instead and reiterates that it Better not get infected. of course this piercing IMMEDIATELY gets infected. it’s very bad, but dean knows they can’t afford a doctor’s trip and neither of the boys wanna bring it up to john and ruin a good memory for him, so dean enters a beanie phase (in the middle of a heat wave) to hide it, and honestly at this point john forgot and just thought the hat was a normal weird teenage fashion fad so he didn’t question it. they had to wait until bobby’s next custody-six-weekends to get to a doctor and bobby yelled at them for an hour straight and insisted on cleaning it out with the medicine himself since they obviously can’t be trusted to take care of themselves, and also made sure to tell the boys that the actual hole was crooked and looked dumb as hell, although dean did find an anti-possession symbol earring on his bedside table the next morning

the moment dean realizes that sam is taller than him, brushing their teeth shoulder to shoulder on their way out the door. he leans over to spit, hand to his chest to keep the amulet down, and when he rises back up he sees the whole picture 

sam with bleary eyes and hair stickin up in ever direction, cheek getting poked through with the toothbrush 

and dean is having a full on dolly zoom moment because 

oh no

oh no no no 

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The car breaks down in Logansport, Indiana. “She needs some TLC,” Dean stresses, “she doesn’t break down,” and Sam rolls his eyes but, fine. The car needs a repair, in Logansport, and it’s a pretty day, rolling into autumn, and there are pretty good hoagies from the place next to the shop, and Dean is… miserable.

“You think he’s more sad about the car or the fact that you’ve got bats in the belfry?” Sam hears. He ignores it.

It’s a belt, or something. Something with a wrench. Sam knows just enough to change the oil and the spark plugs and the tires, and he can tighten things that need tightening but the car has always been Dean’s domain. Sam likes it that way. He also likes just–sitting here. The shop’s one of those co-op places where greasy dads go to spend some time and gossip, and they all whistled appreciatively when Dean babied the car into the bay, and Dean smiled and shook hands and then got a spot to himself, and tools to borrow. Sam hung back–voice in his ear saying, “Just as well, you are pretty useless,” which he ignored–and when they’d all disbanded to listen to the oldies station and Dean was hip-deep in the car, Sam sat on the cooler with their sandwiches and a six-pack and tried to just be there. To be here. It’s better than any other option.

Keep reading

In the Bunker’s library

Dean: Come on, Sammy. You need to come clean about this. It’s magic, isn’t it?

Sam: *stares at him incredulously* Magic? 

Dean: Yeah, like some sort of ritual? A spell? 

Sam: *focusing on the laptop screen again* I don’t think there are spells for that. 

Dean: Just ‘cause the spells are ancient doesn’t mean you can’t get modern shit with ‘em. Couldn’t a quarterback do some kind of ritual to make it where they always get a touchdown? Always date supermodels?

Sam: For the last time, we looked into Tom Brady and there wasn’t –

Dean: Something you had Garth set up? Charlie? 

Sam: No.

Dean: Is it ghosts? 

Sam: How the hell would GHOSTS – *rubs the bridge of his nose* Why are you suddenly questioning this, after all these years? 

Dean: *reluctantly* I thought it might be like… in the cartoons, when somethin’ impossible is happening but when someone questions it, it quits workin’.

Sam: *balks in judgment before focusing on the screen again*

(Approximately 5 minutes of blissful silence)

Dean: *clears throat, then asks quietly* Did you… make a deal, like – ?

Sam: Oh my god.*slams laptop closed* No, Dean. I did NOT make a demon deal so that we would always have WiFi.

Dean: Then why won’t you just tell me?

Sam: *mumbling* It makes me happy when you need me to fix it.

Brochester Hijinks Masterlist

Sam: *goes in to wake up Dean*

Dean: *sleeping in the most ridiculous position imaginable, one leg sticking out from under the blanket, mouth hanging open, snoring loudly, a little bit of drool*

Sam: *reaches into his pocket for his phone*

Sam: *opens the camera and leans in so he can get a close-up, and snaps the picture*

Sam: *curses to himself that he forgot to turn off the shutter sound on the phone*

Dean: *startles awake and draws his gun out from under the pillow*

Sam: *pulls back* Dean! It’s me! Calm down.

Dean: *blinks, quickly lowers gun* What’re you doin’?

Sam: You asked me to wake you up, remember?

LATER

Sam: *scrolls through the photos on his phone and opens an album called “bedhead through the ages.” The one from that morning is just a blur of Dean’s outraged face, his porcupine hair, and the gun. It has an abstract, modern art sort of aesthetic.*

Sam: *makes it the lock screen on his phone*

Brochester Hijinks Masterlist

Sam: *groggily walks into kitchen*

Dean: *doesn’t look up, crunching dry cereal loudly, voice clipped* Good morning. There’s coffee.

Sam: *walks past him to get coffee*

Sam: *reaches into the fridge for the milk* Shit. I forgot to get milk yesterday.

Dean: *crunches even louder*

“What’s this?” “It’s, uh, pie? Apple pie.” “You make this? Like, by yourself?” “Yes Dean, I do know how to cook-” “Yeah man, but pies are hard. Gotta get the crust just right or it don’t taste right. Slice up all them apples. Lemme have a – hey, what’d you make this for?” “For you, stupid.” “Yeah I got that, why though? You ain’t made a pie in, well, ever. You got some bad news for me? Did you- oh god, baby’s ok right? You didn’t hurt-” “The car’s fine Dean.” “Thank god. Alright what is it? Spill.” “Nothing Dean, ok. I just wanted to- to make you something nice today. Here, uh, have a slice.“ “Look I ain’t one to look a gift pie in the mouth but I gotta know you’re not dying or leaving me or something.” “Of course not.” “Good. And I ain’t dying. Well, at least not today so-” “Dammit Dean, it’s just. I saw a thing. Online. About today. Apparently it’s, uh, nationalsiblingsdayorsomething…” “Sorry? Didn’t quite catch that.” “Right, uh. Siblings Day? National siblings day. You’re supposed to, uh, celebrate. Your- your siblings. It’s silly. But I thought, I mean, we don’t really do birthdays, or, uh, anniversaries or anything so-” “Sammy- that’s uh. Well that’s really, really corny.” “Dean-” “Don’t interrupt. It’s corny as hell you gotta admit. And real sweet. Thanks. Thank you.” “Yeah. So, ok well here, have a slice?” “Ah yeah. Let’s dig in here. Mmhmmphh mmm. Sam? This is amazing. God, so good. Thanks. For the pie. And, uh, you know, the sentiment. If I'da known I woulda, I dunno, made you a kale-ka-bob. Or something. You- you’re the greatest. Brother.” “Well, yeah. You’re welcome. I love you too. Brother.”

They’re starting to get cleaned up for the night, everybody heading off to their respective bedrooms when Sam notices Jack hasn’t moved from his spot. He’s settled deep into a cushy armchair, legs crossed under him, and he’s staring intently at the fireplace across the room. He doesn’t budge when Sam stares at him for a few seconds, so Sam decides to speak up.

“Hey, uh… Jack?” Jack doesn’t move. “You heading to bed?”

“I’m waiting for Santa.” Jack says it so factually that Sam can only continue to stare. “He’s supposed to come through the chimney,right? On Christmas. Which gives me…” He pauses only long enough to glance down at his watch before resuming his vigil. “Forty-three minutes to wait.”

Despite himself, Sam feels a smile tugging at his lips. He remembers nights of trying to stay up late enough to see Santa come through the door- Dean had told him that’s how it would work, since the motel rooms didn’t have chimneys- and even today after it’s been a little soured, the memory is a fond one. It’s strange being on the other side of this situation, but…

Well, Dean taught him something.

“He won’t come if you wait up for him,” he says, just a hint of teasing in his voice. Jack’s head whips around to look at him. “You need to be asleep. That’s when he delivers the presents, or else the surprise is ruined. Right?”

Jack watches him for a few more seconds, brow furrowed, before he suddenly nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess that makes sense.” With another glance down at his watch, he hops up from his chair and starts hurrying towards his bedroom. “That means I’ve only got forty-two minutes to be in bed.”

Sam barely stifles a laugh as Jack rushes past him, a little pleased with himself. “Don’t hurt yourself,” he calls out after Jack, and slowly starts following him down the hallway to get himself ready for bed.

It’s kind of nice, playing pretend for somebody else. It feels good. Maybe this is why Dean kept his imagination going for so long.

358/365

Smoked

Prompted by this post: Okay, but I need like a running gag where demons just leave random people whenever Sam walks into a room. - @punainenpuolukka

Keep reading

Lost Couch

Mamiya 645AF - Kodak Portra 160

@elizabethrobertajones

Sam spots it first, and pauses, doing a double take that starts like checking out and ends in a concerned frown. 

He’s still standing staring at the couch when Jack catches up to him from peering into the still waters of the pond for whatever clues he thought he’d find there. He registers Sam’s expression.

“Do you think this is the shapeshifter?” he asks excitedly, hand moving to the gun tucked into the back of his belt under his jacket. He’s still very excited about hunting a human way.

“No,” Sam says hurriedly. “Never mind, I was just…” he trails off. Jack’s looking at him with such concern that it forces him to push on and speak his mind. “Dean was saying we needed a sofa now, but I don’t think he’ll like this one.”

“Because it’s missing two cushions?” Jack asks, now giving the couch a deeply critical evaluation, determined to understand the nuances of this.

“Because it’s pink.”

Jack looks up and down at Sam. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, I suppose…”

They pick it up and haul it through the grim park and back towards the car. 

Dean is waiting there with coffees in a cardboard tray, sipping his own. He turns when Jack calls and waves to him, and almost immediately spits out his drink.

“What the hell is that?”

“Sam found a sofa!” Jack says proudly. 

“Yeah, I can see that. It’s not coming home with us.”

“Why not?” Sam huffed, setting down his end and scowling. “You’ve been bitching about wanting one for months.”

“It’s the exact same pattern as the shirt you’re wearing.”

*spittake*

I now need art of Sam sitting on this sofa in his matching plaid shirt.

Car Games

Sam has an entire playbook of alternate tactics for preserving his sanity when stuck on the more meandering cross-country drives.

(read on AO3)

And this is what it comes to, maybe what it always will come to: Sam in the Cage, standing alone before an archangel.

Rowena outside is holding the door cracked, ready to slam shut, and Jack and his mother and the other Charlie are shielding the witch from the hordes of Hell who are just discovering their invasion. Jack’s used up most of his hard-earned juice, and Charlie’s almost exhausted her repertoire of newbie spells. They don’t have much time.

That’s all right; Sam didn’t come here for any protracted negotiations. “So will you do it?”

Michael tips his head to the side, too far to look natural. In this projection of the Cage he looks like Sam’s father, but younger than when Sam knew him, and gaunt, cheeks hollowed, tendons standing out on the back of his hands. “You’re not made for me,” he says, seemingly calm, but there’s a shaky edge to his voice that makes the hair stand on end. “I won’t be as strong. Not hardly.”

“I know,” Sam says. “Will you do it?”

Michael tilts his head in the other direction, clamps his teeth together and pulls his lips back to bare them. His tongue flickers behind their gravestone-white. “This other—this other me. He stole my Sword. He murdered my little brother. I’ll do it.”

“Good,” Sam says. Lifts his chin and squares his shoulders, ready. “Then, yes.”

Armistice (13.19 Coda) 

Three beers in, Dean groans his way to his feet, mumbling something about needing to piss and hoping that musclebound asshole didn’t bust a kidney. 

Whatever flimsy conversation they’d been sharing wilts as Dean shuts the bathroom door behind him, whistling.

“Rowena,” Sam blurts. “You know I wouldn’t—I don’t want to, I mean—I wouldn’t kill you. I’d rather die.”

“Oh, I imagine there’s a great many things you’d rather die than do, Sam Winchester. Your life might not be the one in the balance. We both have people we’d kill for.” 

Her eyes settle on the torn buttons at his collar and then slide over to the closed bathroom door, behind which Dean is urinating loudly and whistling a very butchered rendition of “Three Blind Mice” for no reason Sam can fathom.

“If it helps, there are few people I’d trust more to be the one to end my life.” An awful smile passes over her face. “We both know there are worse ways to go.”

They’ve both experienced them. Sam has spent more time dying than he’s been alive. He nods. “I won’t. Whatever—whatever control I have over it, I promise you, I won’t try to kill you.”

She raises a brow.

Sam chuckles. He supposes she’s right. He’s not known for having control over much of anything.

She has long since gone through all the halfway passable drinks in the mini bar. She shakes her empty beer bottle at him, and Sam pops the top off another and passes it over.  “You know, this is the most wretched brew I’ve ever had the displeasure of consuming, and as a witch I think I’m an authority on wretched brews.”

Sam shrugs. He can’t defend it.

“It’s a bit of a relief, to be frank,” Rowena says, but she’s looking away while she speaks.

Sam tips his head. “How?”

“As long as you don’t kill me, I’m immortal. If every iteration of my story ends with you, it means he can’t kill me. Let’s take this fight to Lucifer, Sam. He damn well deserves a taste of his own medicine.” 

Her eyes flash with the power she’s gained, and Sam smiles. “Yes, he does.”

more fic  |  ao3 account

sam|13.15

Doctor Samuel William Winchester, circa 1880.  

–Alchemist and occultist, as well as a practicing physician, Dr. Winchester was a true polymath well known in his time in both the United States and abroad as the premier expert on the body, mind and soul of man (or humanity, as he often stated, firmly placing him as an early feminist as well as a revolutionary scientist).

His lectures attracted large numbers of the créme of society, the elite intelligentsia of Europe and Asia, both male and female, and he was a universal favorite among them.

Yet he was never known to travel without his elder brother, the tempestuous, charismatic Lothario, Dean…

Cold Shot

Dean dropped his head down on his arm. The jukebox was warm beneath him and its flashing lights pulsed through his closed eyelids while Stevie Ray sang.

Blues weren’t typically his favorite but sometimes nothing helped but to hear someone else’s pain.

“Hey, sugar, you picking a song or falling asleep?”

He looked up to see a waitress cocking an eyebrow at him, pencil behind her ear and tray in her hand.

“Why don’t you set me up with another one, sweetheart.” He dragged the empty whiskey glass off the top of the Wurlitzer.

“You sure about that, hon? You’re looking a little rough.”

“I’m celebrating tonight.” He drained the last bit from his glass and wiped his lips. “Isn’t every day you get your GED.”

“Well, that is good news.” She glanced around the dark empty bar before looking back with a crinkle between her eyebrows. “Tell you what, next one’s on the house.”

He saluted her with his whiskey glass as she walked away and Stevie Ray’s guitar solo came to an end. There was a pause before the opening chords to Zeppelin’s Fool In The Rain played and Dean reconsidered the choices he made with his last six quarters.

By the time she sauntered back over with his drink, Dean was slouched down at a table, muscles loose and tired like he’d run five miles. But whiskey didn’t cover the hole that was scraped raw in his chest that showed no signs of healing despite the months that passed. Getting his GED was just another thing to do, to keep his mind off the quiet moments between hunts.

He was surprised when the waitress dropped into the chair across from him. She scooted the chair closer to Dean and leaned in, biting at the lipstick on his bottom lip. “How long you in town for?”

His shrug was small inside his big leather coat. “I’ve stayed too long already. Probably head out in the morning.”

“Huh. Where ya heading?”

He sat up in the chair, spinning the whiskey glass between his thumbs, as a soft smile stole across his face. “I’m thinking about heading out to California.”

The corners of her mouth turned down. Maybe it was mention of the state itself or the idea of someone else getting the hell out of this small town before she did. “What’s in California?”

His mouth opened and shut, and he swallowed down his first answer, licking his lips instead. “My brother. He– He goes to Stanford.”

“Smart kid. You must be proud.”

“He is smart. Got a few things I want to tell him.” Dean’s smile cracked open wide before he downed the last of the whiskey. “Besides who wouldn’t want to go hang out in the sun? Maybe sit on the beach.”

A buzz sounded and Dean pulled his cell phone out, blearily checking the screen but it was the wrong three letters. DAD.

“Gotta go.”

The waitress looked like she was going to protest as he got up, alert as if a cold shot hit him. Dean threaded through the empty chairs toward the entrance as he flipped open the phone.

“Yes, sir. I’m here.”

13.11: Coda

They don’t talk for the rest of the drive. Sam keeps his eyes fixed on the road outside, barely illuminated by the sliver of the moon that peeks out from behind the clouds overhead. Dean hasn’t even turned the radio on to fill the silence, and it speaks volumes about where his head’s at.

“It ends bad.”

It’s the story of their lives; an endless cycle of loss that hits a little harder every time, even though he feels like he should’ve long become numbed to its ache. It never gets easier, and every new hurt piles onto the others, layers upon layers of scar tissue built up on his heart until it starts pressing on his lungs and making every breath he takes a little bit harder to justify.

This, though- Mom and Jack being gone, and even Castiel, who’s been off the radar for weeks- this might be the hurt that finally breaks him.

Keep reading

The cabin isn’t very large, or very well-maintained. The floor creaks loudly unfoot, and the sparse furniture shows obvious signs of age. The bedsheets smell like mothballs, there’s a nasty draft that cuts right through to the sleeping area, and the indoor plumping is questionable, at best.

Past it all, though, Dean can’t help but get a little swept up in the homey, comforting scent of wood.

He still doesn’t know how long they’re going to be here- Dad says it’ll be a few days, at least, maybe a couple weeks if they’re unlucky- but he sees it as an adventure. They’ve never stayed in a place like this before, tucked away deep in a forest on the border between North and South Dakota, and it’s exciting. Like real hunters, the ones who go after bears instead of monsters.

“Keep the fire going,” Dad instructs him as he’s on his way out for a supply run. “We don’t have electricity, so that’s how we’re gonna keep warm. Got it?”

Dean just nods along, his brother already investigating every inch of the place, and Dad smiles before heading off with a promise to return with something edible.

In no time, Dean’s got a nice blaze going in the stone fireplace, Sam huddled up at his side while they watch and listen. It’s easy to ignore the cold air that sneaks inside, and the weird smells that cling to every fabric in the room, and even the way that everything seems to creak when they move. They’ve got a fire to keep warm, and a whole new adventure ahead of them once the sun comes up tomorrow- a whole forest to explore, as long as they bundle up all proper and stay close enough to hear Dad calling for them.

“Maybe we could make snowshoes,” Sam whispers, awestruck as he curls closer, and Dean smiles to himself, resting his chin on his knees as the logs in front of them shift of their own accord. “Then we could go forever!”

“Yeah, Sammy.” Dean nods and lets out a little sigh. It’s kind of like they’re camping, almost. “Forever and ever.”

2/365