~You know me, you know why~

enigma of the absolute

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Hi, it's Nina and this is my corner of all things spn related, where I can - hoperfully - be free :)

Speaking of Supernatural: I'm a bi-bro, meaning I have an unhealthy love for both Dean and Sam Winchester: for me they're two halves of a whole, I love them equally (with a strength that scares me sometimes). I'm a Jensen girl, I've been since 2002, I love the guy something fierce!:)

This means that you will never see any bashing of the Winchesters in this blog and i tend to be quite opinionated when someone talk shit about them. Just a warning, guys!

TOLERANCE, GUYS, BE TOLERANT OF EVERYONE'S OPINION, PLEASE!

my msn contact: rubinaerodiade@hotmail.com

My facebook profile: Nina Myspecialhell

What I love: music, writing, reading.

The tv shows: Supernatural, The X-Files, Law & Order: SVU, NCIS, 24, DR WHO

Movies: a shitload, I can't name them all

Music: see above.

I'm in my thirties, but I really don't feel my years. Sometimes I feel like I'm 15, other times like I'm 55...

I'm BI and single at the moment.

My OTPS: Mulder and Scully. Jack and Renee, Ziva and Gibbs, Dean and Sam, Amy/Eleven (shut up they belong together!)

J2 (pliz...no bashing!). I adore them, I ship them...deal with it!

oh...and WINCEST. Can't forget about that. I used to be on the fence, now I ship them harder than fedex with the burning intensity of a thousand suns.

I reblog a lot. I suck with photoshop, but I'm trying to learn.

Also...I comment. A lot. With tongue firmly planted in cheek. Deal with it;)

I disabled anon. I don't bite, unless asked very nicely, but if you are so sure of your opinions, you can express them just fine without hiding behind a grey face. Ask me not to publish and I won't, not even hate, but ANON? Sorry, bullying is not my thing. Grow the fuck up.

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1 month ago (17 notes)

You…
You break me, like glass, with words and touches, with breaths on my skin and your lips ghosting over mine.
You mend me, over and over, every minute, every day.
You’re everywhere: in the half formed thoughts before waking up, in the void, dark places of my soul, in the smell of leather and fire.
You’re everything: my first word, my first friend, my brother, father, lover and blood, my anchor to sanity, my oxygen when my lungs burn.
You’re my dreamless, peaceful nights and the tears that come with nightmares.
You’re my protector, my victim and savior
You end and I begin: blood, soul, heartbeats and breaths as one. I end you begin…tangled up in each other, no end in sight unless it’s with each other.

You breathe, next to me, at nights, when it’s dark and I can taste you and ashes and blood and it’s home.
You bruise my skin, marks I treasure, making me real, solid, *here* in the heartbeats gone mad, in the flowing of blood that makes everything, every color more vivid

You bring me peace, you damn me, with every thrust and pull, with every bite, when our sweat mingle, cooling off on our bodies as thin sheets scratch my back and the darkness isn’t but a comfortin weight.

You are a mark on my skin: protection and reminder, a scar on my hand, cornerstone of everything that matters.

You.

My brother. My flesh, my blood…my soul.&nbsp;

You…

You break me, like glass, with words and touches, with breaths on my skin and your lips ghosting over mine.

You mend me, over and over, every minute, every day.

You’re everywhere: in the half formed thoughts before waking up, in the void, dark places of my soul, in the smell of leather and fire.

You’re everything: my first word, my first friend, my brother, father, lover and blood, my anchor to sanity, my oxygen when my lungs burn.

You’re my dreamless, peaceful nights and the tears that come with nightmares.

You’re my protector, my victim and savior

You end and I begin: blood, soul, heartbeats and breaths as one. I end you begin…tangled up in each other, no end in sight unless it’s with each other.

You breathe, next to me, at nights, when it’s dark and I can taste you and ashes and blood and it’s home.

You bruise my skin, marks I treasure, making me real, solid, *here* in the heartbeats gone mad, in the flowing of blood that makes everything, every color more vivid

You bring me peace, you damn me, with every thrust and pull, with every bite, when our sweat mingle, cooling off on our bodies as thin sheets scratch my back and the darkness isn’t but a comfortin weight.

You are a mark on my skin: protection and reminder, a scar on my hand, cornerstone of everything that matters.

You.

My brother. My flesh, my blood…my soul. 

2 months ago (36 notes)

Real.
It was real…like the edge of panic and desperation in Dean’s voice, tearing through what he was seeing, hearing, feeling.
Real…like the million times Dean had touched him, tended his wounds, made everything better.
Real like the twisting in his gut every time they were out, on a hunt, and Dean plunged into danger, head down, reckless and ferocious, graceful and lethal…and his heart just couldn’t stop screaming his name, a lifelong mantra that never changed: Dean Dean Dean Dean.
Real, like the blood that was seeping from his wound: their blood, their lives, spent fighting monsters, living a dying for something bigger than them…and for each other.
Dean was real, Dean made him real…and the pain reminded him, suddenly, that it was nothing new…
I’m your flesh and blood brother…
His flesh, his blood, his soul, his heart, his sanity…the last thing he had seen before falling into a prison made of blood and endless pain, the only thing that had kept making sense, even down there, the only thing Lucifer hadn’t taken away from him…

Real: like a four letter word, like the moment in time he was living, lost in green eyes that spoke him of blood and pain, love and forever.
Real, like Dean and he.
Sam believed…Sam felt, Sam could breathe again.

Real.

It was real…like the edge of panic and desperation in Dean’s voice, tearing through what he was seeing, hearing, feeling.

Real…like the million times Dean had touched him, tended his wounds, made everything better.

Real like the twisting in his gut every time they were out, on a hunt, and Dean plunged into danger, head down, reckless and ferocious, graceful and lethal…and his heart just couldn’t stop screaming his name, a lifelong mantra that never changed: Dean Dean Dean Dean.

Real, like the blood that was seeping from his wound: their blood, their lives, spent fighting monsters, living a dying for something bigger than them…and for each other.

Dean was real, Dean made him real…and the pain reminded him, suddenly, that it was nothing new…

I’m your flesh and blood brother…

His flesh, his blood, his soul, his heart, his sanity…the last thing he had seen before falling into a prison made of blood and endless pain, the only thing that had kept making sense, even down there, the only thing Lucifer hadn’t taken away from him…

Real: like a four letter word, like the moment in time he was living, lost in green eyes that spoke him of blood and pain, love and forever.

Real, like Dean and he.

Sam believed…Sam felt, Sam could breathe again.

2 months ago (18 notes)

It’s like fire. It’s rage: it blinds you, envelopes you, it throbs and burns and sings a song only you can hear. It’s like home, like nights spent talking of nothing in particular…you don’t even really remember about what, you just remember the sound of your voices, how perfect it was.
It’s like the taste of blood in your mouth: oddly comforting, familiar.
It’s the need, deep rooted, born out of fear and something simmering just beneath the surface to always touch each other, to always feel the other close, at arms’ lenght…although, sometimes, it’s not enough…sometimes you think it will never be, it could never be.
It’s a hunger, deep consuming, it beats in sync with your heart, and you know it’s the same for him.
It’s a lifelong game of pretending, ignoring, dancing around something huge and thick and real as you pretend it’s not there, as you ignore it, taste it, breathe it in, until it fills you whole, and you’re left wanting for more.
It’s release and hatred, it’s self loathing and bliss, it’s their breaths caught in their throats, as the dam breaks, and it all comes pouring down, inevitable, like gravity, like breathing to survive.
It’s simple and intoxicating, how easy it is, how natural it feels, how pretending and guilt seems redundant, useless, when they both know it would always end up like that…
Together, as one….
Body, soul, blood, heart.
Right and wrong are just words, after, all…letters that don’t mean a thing, not when they can breathe and exist, if together.
It’s like fire…like life, like the smiles you smile against each other’s skin, like the heartbeats that slow down, and it’s peaceful, for once, it makes sense.
It’s the two of you, together.

It’s like fire. It’s rage: it blinds you, envelopes you, it throbs and burns and sings a song only you can hear. It’s like home, like nights spent talking of nothing in particular…you don’t even really remember about what, you just remember the sound of your voices, how perfect it was.

It’s like the taste of blood in your mouth: oddly comforting, familiar.

It’s the need, deep rooted, born out of fear and something simmering just beneath the surface to always touch each other, to always feel the other close, at arms’ lenght…although, sometimes, it’s not enough…sometimes you think it will never be, it could never be.

It’s a hunger, deep consuming, it beats in sync with your heart, and you know it’s the same for him.

It’s a lifelong game of pretending, ignoring, dancing around something huge and thick and real as you pretend it’s not there, as you ignore it, taste it, breathe it in, until it fills you whole, and you’re left wanting for more.

It’s release and hatred, it’s self loathing and bliss, it’s their breaths caught in their throats, as the dam breaks, and it all comes pouring down, inevitable, like gravity, like breathing to survive.

It’s simple and intoxicating, how easy it is, how natural it feels, how pretending and guilt seems redundant, useless, when they both know it would always end up like that…

Together, as one….

Body, soul, blood, heart.

Right and wrong are just words, after, all…letters that don’t mean a thing, not when they can breathe and exist, if together.

It’s like fire…like life, like the smiles you smile against each other’s skin, like the heartbeats that slow down, and it’s peaceful, for once, it makes sense.

It’s the two of you, together.

3 months ago (4 notes)

▀ (4) beyondmistery whispered, "Hi! I heard you participate in the wincestweek so.. here I am :) Can I ask you to liveblog or write a drabble about what Sam and Dean felt when Dean came back from Hell and they hugged, how hard was for Sam trying to get him back and then looking for revenge? :) thank you!"
-------

What would you rather like the liveblogging or the drabble? :)

I’ll start with a drabble :

The worst thing had been the silence, the feeling of emptiness starting right at the center of his being, and then expanding…giving off silence.

He had counted the days, one for each time he opened his eyes, and Dean’s name was on his lips, until he realized, that Dean wasn’t there. That there was no more Dean…there was just that empty place and the silence.

There were things, he thought, as he hugged Dean…his Dean – his…because that was the simplest truths of all: Dean was his – and his brother held him tight, that he would never, ever tell him.

And it wasn’t just Ruby.

He would never tell Dean how he had gone and bled all over the devil’s gate, reasoning that if he had Azazel’s blood in him, if Lilith hadn’t been able to kill him he could open the fucking thing with his blood and crawl his way into the Pit and bring Dean back.

He would never tell Dean how he had kicked and screamed when the fucking door hadn’t opened and had hated him for leaving him alone.

As Dean hugged him, he recalled how his skin had felt unreal, even as he fucked Ruby or drunk her blood, because there was something missing…and it didn’t matter how much blood he drunk or before, how much he got hammered, it was still there: the silence, the emptiness, the feeling of his soul – did he still have one? Good question….because he was pretty sure he was holding his soul right then, and it smelled of Bobby’s soap and beer and clean sweat and has warm skin -

he thought he would never tell Dean how he had never been to his grave, after he had buried him, but he had driven through the place, with their car, and the silence had made his eyes water, his insides burn with rage and just plain old grief.

He had counted the days, the hours, the minutes…all the time he had spent in hell, his body buried six feet under, as he wandered upside seeking a way to bring him back: begging, pleading, threatening, bleeding, crying, fucking….and when it didn’t work, seeking revenge…because it made him breathe, it made the silence less deafening.

Dean was hugging him: real, alive, his and he didn’t need to know.

~

Sam would never know, Dean thought, decided, as his brother trembled in his arms, his body a furnace, like he remembered, his blood screaming inside of him….recognizing Sammy.

Sam didn’t need to know…the things he saw, the things he did while on the Pit. Sammy needed to stop trembling, to keep hugging him, to never let go…he didn’t need to know that his big brother had been shredded into confetti, probed and used in every possible way until there was nothing left…except himself, except…that piece of him, one that had hazel eyes, strong arms and had been the centre of his life, kept him going even there.

He could never tell him why he had taken the knife, for the first time, he had made himself forget it.

All it mattered was there, in his arms: his soul, for the first time in decades whole…as he felt almost – but not completely….because there was that thing…the one that made his heart beat too fast, his thoughts get dark with lust sometimes….but it could wait, it would, it didn’t matter – clean.

Dean closed his eyes, holding tighter his brother, hanging onto him, saving him…as Sammy tried to do the same. It was how they rolled, it was how they loved, lived and died.

Together.

5 months ago (20 notes)

This is a companion piece to Sammy is

Dean is…
Dean is hands that catch him, always, a hazy memory of blonde hair and an old pajamas with a button missing that, for many years, he refused to get rid of.
Dean is hands that catch his fall, maple syrup on his pancakes and an extra for him. Dean is fairy tales whispered under the covers, during storms, in motel rooms, as dad was away, and characters that sounded all the same, but always made him smile…and that was what mattered the most.
Dean is Christmas mornings spent eating candy and reading comics, hands that become calloused as he starts using weapons.
Dean is a kid who forgets how to smile, how to dream…but always remember to make him smile, doesn’t allow anyone to make him stop dreaming.
Dean doesn’t sulk, doesn’t brook, he can’t afford it; he wears his amulet, he gets cockier and Sam is the only one who sees him being a goof, being frail.
Sam sees Dean, he’s everywhere: he fills all the spaces, all the silences with his bigger than life persona…he invades his dreams, and Sam is afraid, is confused…and starts reseting the world.
Dean doesn’t care, he’s always there, for him, he buys him a book one year, an old copy of the Hobbit, but he also buys him condoms, even if Sam hasn’t even given his first kiss, yet.
“Always be prepared, Sammy…” He smirks.
Dean gets injured, he sees his blood, he learns how to patch people up, because he doesn’t trust anyone else to take care of Dean. Dean never passes out, he barely makes a sound as Sam cleans his wounds, stitches him up, but he stays longer in the bathroom and Sam would always remember that time when he heard him crying through the thin walls of the shitty room they were staying in.
Dean flirts with women, he has sex with them and it will take years for Sam to realize that the clenching in his chest he kept feeling when Dean came back, oozing post coital bliss and cheap perfumes from his pores was jealousy.
Dean plays pool and teaches him how to…
Nothing new, since Dean has taught him everything.
Dean trusts him to have his back, even when he stays home and gets stuck on research. “You’re good, Sammy…I know you don’t talk shit. You got my back”
My. Not “ours” …their dad doesn’t get into the equation…only later Sam will wonder about that.
Dean is…
Dean is beautiful and Sam falls, hard and it feels like finally having a home, one that scares him shitless and makes him feel lightheaded. He realizes he’s always looked at Dean, but he’s never really seen…and he can’t stop, it’s like having discovered a treasure, something unique…and it’s terrifying.
Dean cocks an eyebrow when, after having saved for months, gives him a ring, a silver ring, for his birthday. “Something you wanna tell me, Sammy?” he asks after a moment, and Sam’s blood is on fire, his heart hammering in his chest, especially when, for the briefest moment, he’s sure Dean is not teasing him.
Dean shakes his head, but puts the ring on and never takes it off.
He runs away…and Dean doesn’t follow him.
Dean is…the ghost that lives in his dreams, he still fills every space, every silence, he’s the first name on his lips when he wakes up. He tries to let him go, he tries to move on.
Jessica…is not Dean, he loves her…he’s faithful to her, until Dean comes back.
Dean is…
Dean is asking for his help, Dean needs him…and the walls around his heart, built for two years shatter. Dean is even more beautiful, outrageous and scarred than he used to be.
They fight, work and laugh together.
Dean…
Dean saves his life, dragging him away from the fire, strong arms pulling him away, strong heartbeat the only tether to sanity when grief overpowers him. Dean keeps vigil, when he sleeps, he’s there when he wakes up after a nightmare. Dean doens’t say a word about his tears, but he’s there.
Dean is…close: body, heart and soul…and Sam wants more. He’s always wanted more.
Dean goes to pieces, in a cabin, he bleeds, he begs…
Dean survives, a shell of a man and Sam is scared, doesn’t want to lose him.
Dean kisses him back, one night, after too much booze, too much adrenalyne in their system, the elephant in the room bigger and bigger and his lips are soft as he had imagined, his hands steady and warm on his face…and he falls in love, again.
Dean is…the last thing he sees, before dying. He dies with his brother’s name on his lips, with the feeling of strong arms catching him before he falls…and he has a fleeting thought, “like when we were kids” before blacking out.
Dean is…desperate, he sells his soul for him and hearing he gets just one year to live punches air out from his lungs. He spends the night sharing his brother’s bed, watching him sleep, making vows, bargains and prayers no one listens.
Dean wants a last Christmas…he doesn’t ask why, doesn’t want to know, doesn’t care…he just wants his brother, he wants him to live.
Dean’s lips taste of eggnog when they kiss, and colored lights sparkle all around them as they become lovers…and Sam is happy and heartbroken and wants nothing else but saving Dean.
Dean dies, over and over…for months. It’s his worst nightmare, relived again and again…it breaks him and makes his resolve stronger. When they get out of that nightmare he doesn’t let go Dean out of his sight for days; he doesn’t complain - and even if he did, Sam wouldn’t have cared.
Dean sings with him, for one last time, even if they have said their good bye, without words, hours before, with their bodies, with their eyes.
Dean dies, for real…and it’s not a nightmare or a deadly prank. He’s in hell, and Sam feels like he’s down there, in the pit with him. He loses his soul, his heart and innocence.
He counts the days, he fucks a demon - and gets fucked in return in more ways than one - he wishes, prays and curses.
Dean…comes back.
Dean is…his brother, back from hell, for him, an answer to a constant prayer, a miracle. Dean is his lover, holding him tight, strong heartbeat, salty skin, old spice and whiskey and home.
Dean feels betrayed…
They hit each other, lie to each other, break each other’s hearts…but he’s there, for him, crying his name, “Sammy” through that closed door.
Dean is…there, for him, with him…he chooses him over the world, he makes a promise, but he’s there, in that cemetery and his, is the last face he sees, the last word he says, before jumping.
Dean is…
Dean is his everything: father, brother, friend, conscience and heart. He’s the stone number one on which he builds hir reality.

Dean is his: his love, his life, his soul.

This is a companion piece to Sammy is

Dean is…

Dean is hands that catch him, always, a hazy memory of blonde hair and an old pajamas with a button missing that, for many years, he refused to get rid of.

Dean is hands that catch his fall, maple syrup on his pancakes and an extra for him. Dean is fairy tales whispered under the covers, during storms, in motel rooms, as dad was away, and characters that sounded all the same, but always made him smile…and that was what mattered the most.

Dean is Christmas mornings spent eating candy and reading comics, hands that become calloused as he starts using weapons.

Dean is a kid who forgets how to smile, how to dream…but always remember to make him smile, doesn’t allow anyone to make him stop dreaming.

Dean doesn’t sulk, doesn’t brook, he can’t afford it; he wears his amulet, he gets cockier and Sam is the only one who sees him being a goof, being frail.

Sam sees Dean, he’s everywhere: he fills all the spaces, all the silences with his bigger than life persona…he invades his dreams, and Sam is afraid, is confused…and starts reseting the world.

Dean doesn’t care, he’s always there, for him, he buys him a book one year, an old copy of the Hobbit, but he also buys him condoms, even if Sam hasn’t even given his first kiss, yet.

“Always be prepared, Sammy…” He smirks.

Dean gets injured, he sees his blood, he learns how to patch people up, because he doesn’t trust anyone else to take care of Dean. Dean never passes out, he barely makes a sound as Sam cleans his wounds, stitches him up, but he stays longer in the bathroom and Sam would always remember that time when he heard him crying through the thin walls of the shitty room they were staying in.

Dean flirts with women, he has sex with them and it will take years for Sam to realize that the clenching in his chest he kept feeling when Dean came back, oozing post coital bliss and cheap perfumes from his pores was jealousy.

Dean plays pool and teaches him how to…

Nothing new, since Dean has taught him everything.

Dean trusts him to have his back, even when he stays home and gets stuck on research. “You’re good, Sammy…I know you don’t talk shit. You got my back”

My. Not “ours” …their dad doesn’t get into the equation…only later Sam will wonder about that.

Dean is…

Dean is beautiful and Sam falls, hard and it feels like finally having a home, one that scares him shitless and makes him feel lightheaded. He realizes he’s always looked at Dean, but he’s never really seen…and he can’t stop, it’s like having discovered a treasure, something unique…and it’s terrifying.

Dean cocks an eyebrow when, after having saved for months, gives him a ring, a silver ring, for his birthday. “Something you wanna tell me, Sammy?” he asks after a moment, and Sam’s blood is on fire, his heart hammering in his chest, especially when, for the briefest moment, he’s sure Dean is not teasing him.

Dean shakes his head, but puts the ring on and never takes it off.

He runs away…and Dean doesn’t follow him.

Dean is…the ghost that lives in his dreams, he still fills every space, every silence, he’s the first name on his lips when he wakes up. He tries to let him go, he tries to move on.

Jessica…is not Dean, he loves her…he’s faithful to her, until Dean comes back.

Dean is…

Dean is asking for his help, Dean needs him…and the walls around his heart, built for two years shatter. Dean is even more beautiful, outrageous and scarred than he used to be.

They fight, work and laugh together.

Dean…

Dean saves his life, dragging him away from the fire, strong arms pulling him away, strong heartbeat the only tether to sanity when grief overpowers him. Dean keeps vigil, when he sleeps, he’s there when he wakes up after a nightmare. Dean doens’t say a word about his tears, but he’s there.

Dean is…close: body, heart and soul…and Sam wants more. He’s always wanted more.

Dean goes to pieces, in a cabin, he bleeds, he begs…

Dean survives, a shell of a man and Sam is scared, doesn’t want to lose him.

Dean kisses him back, one night, after too much booze, too much adrenalyne in their system, the elephant in the room bigger and bigger and his lips are soft as he had imagined, his hands steady and warm on his face…and he falls in love, again.

Dean is…the last thing he sees, before dying. He dies with his brother’s name on his lips, with the feeling of strong arms catching him before he falls…and he has a fleeting thought, “like when we were kids” before blacking out.

Dean is…desperate, he sells his soul for him and hearing he gets just one year to live punches air out from his lungs. He spends the night sharing his brother’s bed, watching him sleep, making vows, bargains and prayers no one listens.

Dean wants a last Christmas…he doesn’t ask why, doesn’t want to know, doesn’t care…he just wants his brother, he wants him to live.

Dean’s lips taste of eggnog when they kiss, and colored lights sparkle all around them as they become lovers…and Sam is happy and heartbroken and wants nothing else but saving Dean.

Dean dies, over and over…for months. It’s his worst nightmare, relived again and again…it breaks him and makes his resolve stronger. When they get out of that nightmare he doesn’t let go Dean out of his sight for days; he doesn’t complain - and even if he did, Sam wouldn’t have cared.

Dean sings with him, for one last time, even if they have said their good bye, without words, hours before, with their bodies, with their eyes.

Dean dies, for real…and it’s not a nightmare or a deadly prank. He’s in hell, and Sam feels like he’s down there, in the pit with him. He loses his soul, his heart and innocence.

He counts the days, he fucks a demon - and gets fucked in return in more ways than one - he wishes, prays and curses.

Dean…comes back.

Dean is…his brother, back from hell, for him, an answer to a constant prayer, a miracle. Dean is his lover, holding him tight, strong heartbeat, salty skin, old spice and whiskey and home.

Dean feels betrayed…

They hit each other, lie to each other, break each other’s hearts…but he’s there, for him, crying his name, “Sammy” through that closed door.

Dean is…there, for him, with him…he chooses him over the world, he makes a promise, but he’s there, in that cemetery and his, is the last face he sees, the last word he says, before jumping.

Dean is…

Dean is his everything: father, brother, friend, conscience and heart. He’s the stone number one on which he builds hir reality.

Dean is his: his love, his life, his soul.

6 months ago (15 notes)

It’s a secret smile…one he uses for Dean only, maybe because he’s the only person who’s able to make him smile like that. It’s a rainy afternoon spent in the backseat of the Impala, reading comics, debating, fighting and laughing about who’s the better super hero wheter Batman or Superman.

Dude, no way! Batman is way cooler than Superman…
It’s a smile he feel deep down his soul, sometimes, when he wonders when things got so complicated, when heartbreak and passion and shame and pride have become so closely intertwined.
It’s a smile he smiles when he feels Dean’s stare on him: warm, firm…familiar. It’s a smile borne out of frustration and fondness…when the only thing he wants is to throttle Dean or kiss him or both.
It’s miles upon miles with old mullet rock tapes playing in the background and the road around them going by, as Dean talks about the case, tries to convince him to get some freaking sleep by being his usual not so subtle self.
It’s a smile that feels strange on his lips…sometimes, at night, in the dark, when he can hear Dean’s breath in the room, when the world begins and ends, once again, with Dean.
It’s the exhilaration after a hunt, adrenalyne flowing in his veins, his life at Stanford far, so far away, like a dream, like a game of make believe. It’s knowing Dean has his back, the feeling he had missed to be able to trust someone implicitly.
It’s old and new feelings, things half forgotten that he can’t ignore any longer.
Sam smiles, even if his heart still bleeds for Jessica, even if fire burns inside of him, hungry for revenge. He smiles at Dean, sometimes without even realizing it…and for a moment everything is alright…for a moment he believes things will get better, because his big brother is there, with him…because he’s complete, again.
He believes.

It’s a secret smile…one he uses for Dean only, maybe because he’s the only person who’s able to make him smile like that. It’s a rainy afternoon spent in the backseat of the Impala, reading comics, debating, fighting and laughing about who’s the better super hero wheter Batman or Superman.

Dude, no way! Batman is way cooler than Superman…

It’s a smile he feel deep down his soul, sometimes, when he wonders when things got so complicated, when heartbreak and passion and shame and pride have become so closely intertwined.

It’s a smile he smiles when he feels Dean’s stare on him: warm, firm…familiar. It’s a smile borne out of frustration and fondness…when the only thing he wants is to throttle Dean or kiss him or both.

It’s miles upon miles with old mullet rock tapes playing in the background and the road around them going by, as Dean talks about the case, tries to convince him to get some freaking sleep by being his usual not so subtle self.

It’s a smile that feels strange on his lips…sometimes, at night, in the dark, when he can hear Dean’s breath in the room, when the world begins and ends, once again, with Dean.

It’s the exhilaration after a hunt, adrenalyne flowing in his veins, his life at Stanford far, so far away, like a dream, like a game of make believe. It’s knowing Dean has his back, the feeling he had missed to be able to trust someone implicitly.

It’s old and new feelings, things half forgotten that he can’t ignore any longer.

Sam smiles, even if his heart still bleeds for Jessica, even if fire burns inside of him, hungry for revenge. He smiles at Dean, sometimes without even realizing it…and for a moment everything is alright…for a moment he believes things will get better, because his big brother is there, with him…because he’s complete, again.

He believes.

6 months ago (10 notes)

fan-fiction: Make you believe ~ Make it Real (Dean/Sam, wincest, oneshot)

A/N: this is a missing scene from 7x02, it kinda ignores the big scene in the warehouse. Sue me…I think something definitely happened after Bobby left Dean and Sam alone.

7 months ago (169 notes)

Sammy is…
Sammy is the baby mom and dad brought home, who opened his eyes and studied him, for a second before producing a toothless smile, for him, Dean.
Sammy is the crying baby dad thrusts into his arms, as he feels sweat running down on his back and he takes the stairs and he isn’t even afraid to trip. It’s the first time dad lets him hold Sammy while walking.
Sammy is the toddler who takes his first steps toward him, hazel eyes bright and innocent, his little, chubby hands open, toward him…and Dean is there to catch him, before he falls.
Sammy is his baby brother.
Sammy is a brat, who obsesses over cartoons, who can’t color inside the lines to save his life, who wants fairytales, but he has never heard mom singing “Hey Jude”.
Sammy likes to read and he lits up with joy when one year, for his birthday, Dean gives him an used copy of “The Hobbit” and Dean smiles when Sam keeps reading it, everywhere, and then tells him all about it.
Sammy eats too much candy and sulks about dad and becomes shy, even after nightmares, refusing to tell him what’s wrong. Dean knows, though: he looks after him, he knows he is afraid, so he tells him to shut up and crawls into bed with him and doesn’t leave, not even after Sam falls asleep.
Sammy is growing up, sulks, broods, hates to be called Sammy - not that he cares -, mopes about their job, but he researches.
Sammy…is beautiful and Dean shouldn’t think that.
Sammy looks at him sometimes, and Dean can feel the weight of his brother’s stare on him, and it sends jolts of something he refuses to dwell on in his belly.
Sammy fights with dad, with him, but the look in his eyes is too warm sometimes, it scares Dean, because he can feel that warmth inside of him and it’s supposed to make him feel guilty, dirty, bad and wrong…but the only word that almost caress his tongue is: yes and want.
Sammy is packing his bag, as dad is furious and it’s like being square in the middle of a hurricane and Dean is going to pieces.
Sammy is gone…he’s in California and Dean feels like he’s missing a limb, but maybe it’s even worse: one can breathe without a limb, Dean feels breathless most of the time.
Sammy doesn’t call, he’s living his life in California and if Dean happens to stop by, from time to time, it’s only natural…or so he says to himself, as he fucks some girl in the backseat of the Impala, and draws blood biting his tongue, stopping himself from calling a name as he climaxes.
Sammy…in the same room, with him, darkness all around them - and God how freaking tall that kid has become? and his body is too warm against his, and it shocks Dean how little resistance, that warm tingle encounters, this time.
Sammy…in the fire, and Dean pulls him out, drags him out of the building, kicking and screaming and he doesn’t want to let go. Ever. Sammy doesn’t sleep, eat…Sammy has nightmares.
Sammy saves his life, every day…and Dean wonders whether he knows.
Sammy is his brother, his best friend…and it’s driving Dean crazy how more he wants from him…and how fucked up it is.
Sammy kisses him one night, while they’re both drunk and it rains outside and it tastes like salt and beer and Dean doesn’t remember ever being so happy and terrified at the same time.
Sammy dies in his arms, on a dark night, their knees in the mud, blood on his hands and the memory of a single kiss, never talked about, never mentioned again, seared into his brain.
He brings Sammy back…and the only price is his soul. A fair trade.
Sammy is his brother, his best friend, his tether to life…and his lover, they make love for the first time while their lips still taste of eggnog and there are colored lights in the room and pine smell. It’s perfect. It’s numbing. It gives him hope and breaks his heart.
Sammy tries to save him but Dean can’t. He dies, proud of his brother, head over heels in love with him and scared. But he doesn’t regret it.
He doesn’t scream Sammy’s name in Hell. Alistair broke him, but he didn’t take that away from him.
Sammy hugs him, lies to him, hits him…loves him and Dean loves him back.
“It’s okay Sammy…I’m here” He keeps his promises: he’s there when Sammy jumps into the cage, scared, beautiful and looking at him, right to the last second.
Sammy…Sammy his is brother, is best friend, his moral compass, the reason he keeps breathing.
Sammy is…
Sammy is his: heaven, hell, sin and redemption haven’t changed that simple fact.
Nothing can.

Sammy is…

Sammy is the baby mom and dad brought home, who opened his eyes and studied him, for a second before producing a toothless smile, for him, Dean.

Sammy is the crying baby dad thrusts into his arms, as he feels sweat running down on his back and he takes the stairs and he isn’t even afraid to trip. It’s the first time dad lets him hold Sammy while walking.

Sammy is the toddler who takes his first steps toward him, hazel eyes bright and innocent, his little, chubby hands open, toward him…and Dean is there to catch him, before he falls.

Sammy is his baby brother.

Sammy is a brat, who obsesses over cartoons, who can’t color inside the lines to save his life, who wants fairytales, but he has never heard mom singing “Hey Jude”.

Sammy likes to read and he lits up with joy when one year, for his birthday, Dean gives him an used copy of “The Hobbit” and Dean smiles when Sam keeps reading it, everywhere, and then tells him all about it.

Sammy eats too much candy and sulks about dad and becomes shy, even after nightmares, refusing to tell him what’s wrong. Dean knows, though: he looks after him, he knows he is afraid, so he tells him to shut up and crawls into bed with him and doesn’t leave, not even after Sam falls asleep.

Sammy is growing up, sulks, broods, hates to be called Sammy - not that he cares -, mopes about their job, but he researches.

Sammy…is beautiful and Dean shouldn’t think that.

Sammy looks at him sometimes, and Dean can feel the weight of his brother’s stare on him, and it sends jolts of something he refuses to dwell on in his belly.

Sammy fights with dad, with him, but the look in his eyes is too warm sometimes, it scares Dean, because he can feel that warmth inside of him and it’s supposed to make him feel guilty, dirty, bad and wrong…but the only word that almost caress his tongue is: yes and want.

Sammy is packing his bag, as dad is furious and it’s like being square in the middle of a hurricane and Dean is going to pieces.

Sammy is gone…he’s in California and Dean feels like he’s missing a limb, but maybe it’s even worse: one can breathe without a limb, Dean feels breathless most of the time.

Sammy doesn’t call, he’s living his life in California and if Dean happens to stop by, from time to time, it’s only natural…or so he says to himself, as he fucks some girl in the backseat of the Impala, and draws blood biting his tongue, stopping himself from calling a name as he climaxes.

Sammy…in the same room, with him, darkness all around them - and God how freaking tall that kid has become? and his body is too warm against his, and it shocks Dean how little resistance, that warm tingle encounters, this time.

Sammy…in the fire, and Dean pulls him out, drags him out of the building, kicking and screaming and he doesn’t want to let go. Ever. Sammy doesn’t sleep, eat…Sammy has nightmares.

Sammy saves his life, every day…and Dean wonders whether he knows.

Sammy is his brother, his best friend…and it’s driving Dean crazy how more he wants from him…and how fucked up it is.

Sammy kisses him one night, while they’re both drunk and it rains outside and it tastes like salt and beer and Dean doesn’t remember ever being so happy and terrified at the same time.

Sammy dies in his arms, on a dark night, their knees in the mud, blood on his hands and the memory of a single kiss, never talked about, never mentioned again, seared into his brain.

He brings Sammy back…and the only price is his soul. A fair trade.

Sammy is his brother, his best friend, his tether to life…and his lover, they make love for the first time while their lips still taste of eggnog and there are colored lights in the room and pine smell. It’s perfect. It’s numbing. It gives him hope and breaks his heart.

Sammy tries to save him but Dean can’t. He dies, proud of his brother, head over heels in love with him and scared. But he doesn’t regret it.

He doesn’t scream Sammy’s name in Hell. Alistair broke him, but he didn’t take that away from him.

Sammy hugs him, lies to him, hits him…loves him and Dean loves him back.

“It’s okay Sammy…I’m here” He keeps his promises: he’s there when Sammy jumps into the cage, scared, beautiful and looking at him, right to the last second.

Sammy…Sammy his is brother, is best friend, his moral compass, the reason he keeps breathing.

Sammy is…

Sammy is his: heaven, hell, sin and redemption haven’t changed that simple fact.

Nothing can.

7 months ago (36 notes)

She comes to him at night. Not every night, not when he needs release or punishment or a mixture of the above. She comes to him, a warm breeze, making him tingle, making him burn.
She comes to him when they both need it. With her he doesn’t have to pretend, he doesn’t have to hold back…he doesn’t need to be scared. Something is broken inside of him and she doesn’t care: she doesn’t try to fix him, she doesn’t make him feel guilty for the things he cannot give her, because she only wants his body: the tingle of pleasure, toes curling, breath catching.
She doesn’t care that it makes him feel dirty, like he has sunken to a new low, it probably adds on her pleasure, and Dean can’t muster enough strength to care.
She is there: a drop a blood, a few whispered words, and it’s just them: skin against skin, her nails digging into his back, drawing blood, her breath hot against his ear as she hisses to give her more, to make her feel.
Of all the fucked up things in his life, of all the mistakes, unappropriate feelings and shit he has done, fucking a demon, Meg of all people, almost gets the cake.
If only he cared.
He loses himself in her, in her wet heat, in the way she seems to know exactly what he wants and how he wants it. It’s never gentle, it’s never lovemaking…it’s fucking and biting and sinking.
He feels like in the Pit, sometimes, when he’s alone…and when she comes to him, tasting of peanut butter and blood, smelling like raspberry and ashes, delicate skin and strong muscles underneath.
She knows his secrets, his darkest ones: the things he wants, the things he has, those he wishes he had forgotten. She never talks about them, though. She doesn’t play mind games…she wants what he wants: to be unbroken, to be filled, to sink.
Meg comes to him, in moonless nights, when the silence is deafening, when he isn’t there. She sucks and moves and pushes down, meeting each thrust, chuckling and panting.
She leaves…when they both feel less deafened by the silence, when they have both sunk lower but feel less empty. She doesn’t talk, she never does. They don’t need to, besides…what could he tell her? What could she say to him that he doesn’t already know?
He is broken. He is lost. He’s split in million pieces: part of him in the pit, part of him wandering upside, another, bigger chunk of himself, withering more and more with every day Sam spends in the cage and the asshole taking his place stains everything he’s been.
Fucking Meg is not a big deal.
Even when sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps him alive.

She comes to him at night. Not every night, not when he needs release or punishment or a mixture of the above. She comes to him, a warm breeze, making him tingle, making him burn.

She comes to him when they both need it. With her he doesn’t have to pretend, he doesn’t have to hold back…he doesn’t need to be scared. Something is broken inside of him and she doesn’t care: she doesn’t try to fix him, she doesn’t make him feel guilty for the things he cannot give her, because she only wants his body: the tingle of pleasure, toes curling, breath catching.

She doesn’t care that it makes him feel dirty, like he has sunken to a new low, it probably adds on her pleasure, and Dean can’t muster enough strength to care.

She is there: a drop a blood, a few whispered words, and it’s just them: skin against skin, her nails digging into his back, drawing blood, her breath hot against his ear as she hisses to give her more, to make her feel.

Of all the fucked up things in his life, of all the mistakes, unappropriate feelings and shit he has done, fucking a demon, Meg of all people, almost gets the cake.

If only he cared.

He loses himself in her, in her wet heat, in the way she seems to know exactly what he wants and how he wants it. It’s never gentle, it’s never lovemaking…it’s fucking and biting and sinking.

He feels like in the Pit, sometimes, when he’s alone…and when she comes to him, tasting of peanut butter and blood, smelling like raspberry and ashes, delicate skin and strong muscles underneath.

She knows his secrets, his darkest ones: the things he wants, the things he has, those he wishes he had forgotten. She never talks about them, though. She doesn’t play mind games…she wants what he wants: to be unbroken, to be filled, to sink.

Meg comes to him, in moonless nights, when the silence is deafening, when he isn’t there. She sucks and moves and pushes down, meeting each thrust, chuckling and panting.

She leaves…when they both feel less deafened by the silence, when they have both sunk lower but feel less empty. She doesn’t talk, she never does. They don’t need to, besides…what could he tell her? What could she say to him that he doesn’t already know?

He is broken. He is lost. He’s split in million pieces: part of him in the pit, part of him wandering upside, another, bigger chunk of himself, withering more and more with every day Sam spends in the cage and the asshole taking his place stains everything he’s been.

Fucking Meg is not a big deal.

Even when sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps him alive.

8 months ago (19 notes)

fan-fiction: In the shadows (wincest, oneshot, established relationship)

Inspired by this tag: ambra wins at life btw:)

#one thing I need from S7 is a very heterosexual emotional scene between Sam and Dean playthings style

(Ambra this is all your fault, damn you, you amazing, perfect creature you!:P)

AN: I started writing this ficlet last week, before the episode aired, before the pictures from episode 2 came out. Also, I’m in dire need of some wincesty love.

So be warned: angst and schmoop ahead of you

8 months ago (8 notes)

I can’t believe I’m doing this…

***
In another world, another life…they would have been happy.
There were things Castiel wanted to say, tho show…and there wasn’t any time left.
He had seen things…he had seen a world with no monsters, where Dean was happy, where they were happy, together. He had seen a world where Dean held a small, beautiful living creature in his arms and there was joy in his eyes, as his family gathered around him. He had been blessed, they both had been.
He had seen a world where Sam and Dean’s heart weren’t burdened with destiny and still they were a united front and he was with them, sharing a life with them. With Dean.
Dean…Dean…Dean…
His soul had been a beacon in hell, a force he had been pulled toward and he had never been able to let go ever since that day, a sunless day in hell, when he had whispered, “You are saved, Dean Winchester”
“Not me” Dean had said.
There were things he had heard, things he regretted, things he would never say, could never. In that universe, this Dean couldn’t forgive him…even as his heart was breaking. He couldn’t love him, not like…
Not like Castiel loved him.
In another life, another universe, another path, things were different: he had seen them all, lived them all at once, let them consume him. He wished he could tell Dean.
“There is hope. There is still hope. I’ve seen joy and happiness in your eyes. I’ve seen you…”
He had seen Dean complete, he had seen Dean whole.
He had seen the past: the child Dean had been, the decisions that had formed the man who was behind him now…and he hadn’t changed them.
He had seen other Deans, other Sams…he had seen love and despair…
But he had come back to that universe, that world, that life, that path…because it was the only one that really mattered.
He wanted to say things…
He wanted to tell Dean that his soul was still the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
He wanted to tell Dean that he understood now. He understood what love was, what loss was…thanks to him.
“I’m sorry, Dean…” He said.

And in another world, another universe, another life…Dean loved him back.

I can’t believe I’m doing this…

***

In another world, another life…they would have been happy.

There were things Castiel wanted to say, tho show…and there wasn’t any time left.

He had seen things…he had seen a world with no monsters, where Dean was happy, where they were happy, together. He had seen a world where Dean held a small, beautiful living creature in his arms and there was joy in his eyes, as his family gathered around him. He had been blessed, they both had been.

He had seen a world where Sam and Dean’s heart weren’t burdened with destiny and still they were a united front and he was with them, sharing a life with them. With Dean.

Dean…Dean…Dean…

His soul had been a beacon in hell, a force he had been pulled toward and he had never been able to let go ever since that day, a sunless day in hell, when he had whispered, “You are saved, Dean Winchester”

“Not me” Dean had said.

There were things he had heard, things he regretted, things he would never say, could never. In that universe, this Dean couldn’t forgive him…even as his heart was breaking. He couldn’t love him, not like…

Not like Castiel loved him.

In another life, another universe, another path, things were different: he had seen them all, lived them all at once, let them consume him. He wished he could tell Dean.

“There is hope. There is still hope. I’ve seen joy and happiness in your eyes. I’ve seen you…”

He had seen Dean complete, he had seen Dean whole.

He had seen the past: the child Dean had been, the decisions that had formed the man who was behind him now…and he hadn’t changed them.

He had seen other Deans, other Sams…he had seen love and despair…

But he had come back to that universe, that world, that life, that path…because it was the only one that really mattered.

He wanted to say things…

He wanted to tell Dean that his soul was still the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

He wanted to tell Dean that he understood now. He understood what love was, what loss was…thanks to him.

“I’m sorry, Dean…” He said.

And in another world, another universe, another life…Dean loved him back.

8 months ago (35 notes)

The night Sam left for Stanford John Winchester cried. Last time he had really cried had been at Mary’s funeral. He hadn’t thought he had it in him to cry any more.

In one moment his family fell apart.
In one moment everything became cristal clear and the magnitude of his failures slammed him hard. He had failed his sons, he hadn’t protected them. They could kill with one hand tied behind their backs, sure, but still…he had let things happen.
The night Sam left for Stanford John Winchester saw; he saw the hurt in Dean’s eyes, the hatred, for a moment, directed at him - and coming from Dean…whose eyes were like Mary’s had cracked his heart open. - the self loathing.
He saw anger in Sam’s eyes, that throbbing thing he recognized and feared, and yet he had pushed him away. Words had slipped out from his mouth, harsh and definitive, because he didn’t know how to love any more. He didn’t know how to beg his son not to go away, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.
Truth was he lost both of his sons that night.
The night Sam left for Stanford John saw love…in three steps taken by Dean to follow Sam outside and a fist slammed against the doorframe when he stopped on his tracks. He saw, from the window of his bedroom, Sam, with his head tilted up, inhaling, crying, smiling and running away.
He had seen things, heard things…he had pretended they weren’t there, he had talked himself into believing that too much darkness had tainted his view of the world, that his younger son could never, would never look at his older brother like that.
Like desire was a fever and he couldn’t get rid of it, like Dean was the only thing that made Sam breathe sometimes.
And if, at times, the intensity of Dean’s quiet stare scared him even more, if his bigger than life presence shrinked when he was sitting in a corner of their motel rooms, cleaning their weapons as his eyes were fixed on Sam, he had pretended that it didn’t exist.
Until that night.
The night Sam left for Stanford, he lost both his sons: one to California, one to the things he hadn’t said, to the feelings he hadn’t allowed himself to feel.
The night Sam left for Stanford, was the night he was most proud of his children…and more scared.
It was the night of truths and tears…and John knew he’d live the rest of his life regretting it.

The night Sam left for Stanford John Winchester cried. Last time he had really cried had been at Mary’s funeral. He hadn’t thought he had it in him to cry any more.

In one moment his family fell apart.

In one moment everything became cristal clear and the magnitude of his failures slammed him hard. He had failed his sons, he hadn’t protected them. They could kill with one hand tied behind their backs, sure, but still…he had let things happen.

The night Sam left for Stanford John Winchester saw; he saw the hurt in Dean’s eyes, the hatred, for a moment, directed at him - and coming from Dean…whose eyes were like Mary’s had cracked his heart open. - the self loathing.

He saw anger in Sam’s eyes, that throbbing thing he recognized and feared, and yet he had pushed him away. Words had slipped out from his mouth, harsh and definitive, because he didn’t know how to love any more. He didn’t know how to beg his son not to go away, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.

Truth was he lost both of his sons that night.

The night Sam left for Stanford John saw love…in three steps taken by Dean to follow Sam outside and a fist slammed against the doorframe when he stopped on his tracks. He saw, from the window of his bedroom, Sam, with his head tilted up, inhaling, crying, smiling and running away.

He had seen things, heard things…he had pretended they weren’t there, he had talked himself into believing that too much darkness had tainted his view of the world, that his younger son could never, would never look at his older brother like that.

Like desire was a fever and he couldn’t get rid of it, like Dean was the only thing that made Sam breathe sometimes.

And if, at times, the intensity of Dean’s quiet stare scared him even more, if his bigger than life presence shrinked when he was sitting in a corner of their motel rooms, cleaning their weapons as his eyes were fixed on Sam, he had pretended that it didn’t exist.

Until that night.

The night Sam left for Stanford, he lost both his sons: one to California, one to the things he hadn’t said, to the feelings he hadn’t allowed himself to feel.

The night Sam left for Stanford, was the night he was most proud of his children…and more scared.

It was the night of truths and tears…and John knew he’d live the rest of his life regretting it.

8 months ago (11 notes)

My fanfiction: It’s like I can’t breath (oneshot, wincest,)

It’s like I can’t breathe
It’s like I can’t see anything
Nothing but you
I’m addicted to you
It’s like I can’t think
Without you interrupting me
In my thoughts
In my dreams
You’ve taken over me
It’s like I’m not me
It’s like I’m not me

- Addicted (Kelly Clarkson)

A/N: Things written in italics are flashbacks, it’s Sam’s mind.

Those pictures made me do it. (yeah and my angsty mind)

8 months ago (672 notes)

I couldn’t help it (me and my tags)

(via winchestersis)

8 months ago (20 notes)

In the end there was always that thick silence, there were crazed heartbeats and abandoned houses that smelled all the same, like decay and fear.
In the end, he counted Sam’s heartbeats, glad that he could, this time.
In the silence surrounding him, he felt like the oldest man on earth and a little kid.
Sam’s heart was strong, he knew that. He knew that heart like his own…but it was a muscle, contracting and expanding as hell was taking Sammy away from him, again.
In the end, part of him prayed. He didn’t really know who: God? Castiel? Buddha? He didn’t care. He just prayed: please, not now. Please, not again. Don’t take him away from me.
Sam’s body was warm, like it had been the night before, when he had crawled on his bed, draped himself over him and kissed the doubts, his stubborn willingness to scratch the wall away, for a few hours at least. Sam had kissed him back, mumbling about him playing dirty, yelping when he had tickled his sides with his cold hands.
His hands were still cold, even if he felt his head on fire, his heart bursting. Fear, he had discovered, burned…it was hot, in the pit of his stomach, scraping at his heart and making him grit his teeth.
In the end, the silence always meant he had failed…like his dad did, like in Cold Oak, like in the Impala, after he had finally ganked Ruby and they had gotten off from miracle plane.
He called Sam’s name, pleading, invoking him…because it was their lives, how it had always been.
And Sam came back to him. Again.
A breath, heatbeat slowing down, the silence filling with sounds, with life…with Sam.
His presence, solid, real, because sometimes Dean Winchester doubted about reality, about everything…but not about Sam.
In the end, it was a rush, fresh air hitting their faces as they left the house, relief making him deflate, tremble, shiver.
In the end it was Sam, it would always be him: his body warm, against his, in the car, his voice muffled against Sam’s neck, fear making each word thick, painful and real: “Don’t…ever…don’t”
Sam nodded, Sam understood. He hugged him back, his nose pressed against his hair, breathing him in, needing him, making sure they were both real.
And the silence wasn’t deafening, for once. It was them and it tasted of coffee and tears and miracles.

In the end there was always that thick silence, there were crazed heartbeats and abandoned houses that smelled all the same, like decay and fear.

In the end, he counted Sam’s heartbeats, glad that he could, this time.

In the silence surrounding him, he felt like the oldest man on earth and a little kid.

Sam’s heart was strong, he knew that. He knew that heart like his own…but it was a muscle, contracting and expanding as hell was taking Sammy away from him, again.

In the end, part of him prayed. He didn’t really know who: God? Castiel? Buddha? He didn’t care. He just prayed: please, not now. Please, not again. Don’t take him away from me.

Sam’s body was warm, like it had been the night before, when he had crawled on his bed, draped himself over him and kissed the doubts, his stubborn willingness to scratch the wall away, for a few hours at least. Sam had kissed him back, mumbling about him playing dirty, yelping when he had tickled his sides with his cold hands.

His hands were still cold, even if he felt his head on fire, his heart bursting. Fear, he had discovered, burned…it was hot, in the pit of his stomach, scraping at his heart and making him grit his teeth.

In the end, the silence always meant he had failed…like his dad did, like in Cold Oak, like in the Impala, after he had finally ganked Ruby and they had gotten off from miracle plane.

He called Sam’s name, pleading, invoking him…because it was their lives, how it had always been.

And Sam came back to him. Again.

A breath, heatbeat slowing down, the silence filling with sounds, with life…with Sam.

His presence, solid, real, because sometimes Dean Winchester doubted about reality, about everything…but not about Sam.

In the end, it was a rush, fresh air hitting their faces as they left the house, relief making him deflate, tremble, shiver.

In the end it was Sam, it would always be him: his body warm, against his, in the car, his voice muffled against Sam’s neck, fear making each word thick, painful and real: “Don’t…ever…don’t”

Sam nodded, Sam understood. He hugged him back, his nose pressed against his hair, breathing him in, needing him, making sure they were both real.

And the silence wasn’t deafening, for once. It was them and it tasted of coffee and tears and miracles.