All The Supernatural Feelings

wayward-timelord221:

I shipped Megstiel so hard for like 20 minutes before the show decided to gut me

kristenmastora7:

gallium-knight:

Here’s a test:

I’m holding a baby in one hand and a petri dish holding a fetus in the other.

I’m going to drop one. You chose which.

If you really truly believe a fetus is the same thing as a baby, it should be impossible for you to decide. You should have to flip a coin, that’s how impossible the decision should be.

Shot in the dark, you saved the baby.

Because you’re aware there’s a difference.

Now admit it

woah.

He knew from the get go that making a deal with a demon was nothing but a fast track to hell. He knew without a doubt that he’d probably never see Sam again; that his brother would come back to life only to find the one he loved most dead. He would blame himself, it was the Winchester curse, but in the end that wouldn’t matter either because at least he was alive. If Dean could do anything at all it was make sure that he gave his little brother everything he had. His life was the very least he could give.

The wind that swept across the crossroads that night was unseasonably warm as he placed his box of trinkets and broken dreams into the hole he’d dug with ragged fingers. He was more than ready for this, to say yes to the bastard that came to him and offered ruined eternity for the good of someone else. But to him making sure Sammy could have his good, that was all that mattered.

She was blonde, that was what he remembered. When she stopped him from burying his box the first thing he felt was rage. But then her fingers stroked over his skin, whispered of centuries of existence with the one he loved rather than the shit end of the stick deal he’d get with the crossroads version of her kind and Dean… They say that prayer is the last hope of a desperate man, but Dean was beyond desperate.

There was nothing in him, no emotion, no hopes, no dreams, nothing but the need for his brother to be on this plane of existence again. When she whispered to him, “I can teach you, Dean. Be mine and I can show you everything.” She had paused then as her smile grew Cheshire wide and devious, “I can how to resurrect the dead.” She’d followed up by asking him what was worse – to taint himself with a demon or to taint his brother?

As he worked the spell she’d taught him, blended the ingredients and chanted the Latin that felt seared into his brain, Dean knew in his soul that he was a monster. He was someone – something – that he would hunt. That he’d hunted – killed – before. But it didn’t matter, because she was right. If someone had to be touched by the filthy, evil hand of demon kind it was better to be him than his brother. If someone was to pull Sammy’s soul from wherever it resided, his was the hand to do it.

The surge of power as it rushed through him was heady yet sickening. He knew in his gut that this would not end well for him. But it meant that Sam would never be tied to anyone, that no demon could say they brought him back to life. When it came to Sam there was nothing that he wouldn’t do; he’d never had limits before, he wouldn’t have them now. If it meant becoming a monster, so be it. He never imagined that bringing his brother back to life would leave him as anything other than that which he died as.

But the shaggy Saint Bernard suddenly standing before him had a glint in his eyes that was uncannily like Sam’s and the color of his fur was exactly as his brother’s hair had been. He remembered one of the things he’d been taught by his demon – if a witch is to have a familiar, the familiar will pick them. When witch and familiar have come together, they will be akin to soul mates. When he was able to focus again, it was to realize the one person he needed above all else was finally standing with him again. “Hey, Dean,” the voice came softly, almost shyly, as though its owner was very confused, “what… what is going on?”

The only thing Dean could do was mutter two stunned, shocked words, “S-Sammy? … Shit…”

A while ago on Tumblr there was a post about how SPN feels less intimate than it did before and that really stuck with me. Since I read that I’d been trying to figure out why we’d lost that intimacy, how the show went from being about two brothers and what they do to something that makes me feel almost disconnected from Sam, Dean, and their lives. I was watching S1 extra features today (finally got a chance to open up the DVD’s I bought on Black Friday) and it hit me. 

I think part of the lost intimacy comes from the fact that the boys aren’t saving someone any more. They’re saving everyone. Saving humanity is… removed. It’s lonely. It’s not touching a single soul even as you strive to save all of them. Used to be we’d watch Sam and Dean save a person - a Lucas, a Sarah, hell, even a Bella. Along with that, we’d get to watch them destroy someone bad - the preacher’s wife in Faith, the racist asshole in Route 666, even an Azazel. 

In the last couple seasons, that changed. You don’t get the same feeling when they’re going after Roman or trying to lock all the demons in hell. This big picture save the world thing, it’s important, but it’s not as close, not as intimate. You don’t see who they save and who they defeat, you don’t see the gratitude on people’s faces, you don’t see anything because they’re not interacting with people any more.

Hell, they’re barely interacting with each other. That’s one of the main things I think is missing, now. To me, anyway. The boys aren’t meant to exist in a little bubble, but now they do. 

I miss them out and about in America, doing the little things. Saving individuals, not always the world.That’s what the show was built on, and without it it’s lacking. I’m not saying saving the world is bad, it’s obviously crazy important, but the difference between the two is something I feel and it leaves me missing something.

Shapeshifter!Crowley/Demon!Castiel

———

1807, Fall:
It had taken too much to find out what he needed. Getting hunters involved was regrettable but it was the quickest and most reliable method of getting information. It had almost cost him his life, yet two dead bodies, one case of mistaken identity, and a fifty mile road trip in a stolen carriage later, Crowley had everything he needed. Standing in the center of the crossroads, a hole at his feet and the container of random crap grasped in steady hands, he could do nothing but smile as he contemplated the contents of that box. The hardest thing to come by, actually, had been an image of himself. To be honest, he could barely remember what his true form looked like, much less recreate it. Luckily, though it was the most difficult item for him to find, somewhere a painting existed with his likeness on it.

He murdered the family inside to get to the attic, but once there had found the most important piece of the puzzle. He had been one handsome fellow, if he did say so himself; though he was more handsome now, but truly that was neither here nor there. With a slight scoff, Crowley flipped the lid shut on the box, dropped in into the hole, and kicked dirt over it, “Come on, y’little bastard, I haven’t got all night.”

When the crossroads demon arrived, the narrow, suspicious set of his eyes said enough. “You’re worthless to me, shifter,” were the only words exchanged between them, coupled with, “no soul.” The creature was gone with no warning but the ruffle of fabric and Crowley hissed, hands clenching into fists. Nobody, human, devil, or anywhere in between was going to get away with treating him like that. This damn demon didn’t know who he was up against.

1809, Spring:
The research he’d done in the past year and a half had been meticulous. Most of it had been gleaned through the same method he used previously – lure a hunter to him and shift into the pathetic sucker to steal all his memories – but it worked perfectly. Most of the time was spent getting the idiots to realize something was up and come after him; humans were stupid, but hunters were stupider than most. But it had been worth the wait, and now he knew everything he needed to: crossroads demons were attached to the person who summoned them – no matter how many times Crowley buried that box, the same demon would have to respond. That suited him just fine.

Then there was the matter of the trap, a beautiful and devilish little thing that he could use to his great satisfaction. All he had to do was get the rat bastard to step inside of it. It might be tricky, but he’d find a way to pull it off. The biggest pain in the ass had been getting the entire thing committed to memory. It was huge and intricate and patently ridiculous but he’d gotten that done too. When he truly wanted something, nothing would stand in his way. And he wanted this, he wanted this bad.

This time, he was careful in finding the right crossroads; someplace where numerous traps could be concealed and where he could stay hidden if need be. The demon wasn’t going to dismiss him so easily again – he wasn’t going to dismiss him at all. When he buried his box for the second time, Crowley smirked as he waited and straightened his tie calmly even as the wind around him began to pick up, whirling leaves and bits of dirt around him in a fury.

When the demon appeared, he was clearly not pleased. A tense snarl crossed his face and tore from his throat as he took a step forward, his rage palpable as he spoke, “I told you once, shifter, you’re worthless to me! Summon me again and it will be the end of you. We’re done here.” As the second meeting seemed to play out just as the first had with the demon turning in a rush of fabric to vanish, Crowley’s smirk only grew wider.

“Don’t be too sure of that, demon,” came the self-satisfied response, Crowley’s voice slick with pleasure, “you don’t have the juice right now.” And oh, but taking his time to find the right crossroads had paid off. The demon hadn’t even noticed the devil’s trap hidden under the leaf loam – thank the Alpha for disused horse trails. “You and me are going to have a little chat, got that?”

In an instant, the demon in question was at the very edge of the trap, straining to reach the shifter standing just two feet away and strangle the life from him. Crowley had heard that nothing was guaranteed to piss off a demon faster than to capture it in a devil’s trap and sure as shit, here this one was trying to murder him and without even a stitch of silver on him to help. He supposed that was demons for you.

“This would have been wholly unnecessary, had you not decided to be so completely uncooperative last time,” he quipped, voice laced with pleasure. He could feel the air around them practically vibrate with the other creature’s anger, but it only made him smile. He clucked his tongue then, admonishing as a mother would a small child, “But you brought it to this. It’s your own fault, for being so petulant.”

When it became clear that hisses and growls were to be the only response from his ever so captive conversational partner, Crowley carried the show on by himself. “Listen close, demon. It doesn’t matter to me that you seem to think you only trade in souls, you’re going to trade in whatever I offer you.” The snarled protestations did nothing to deter him – in fact, Crowley seemed to be spurred on by them more than anything else, “Don’t think I don’t know that you’re attached to me, now until the moment I die. You’re stuck with me and when I summon you, just like a little whore, you have to come. But that’s demonkind for you.”

A roll of his eyes came next as he counted out the time with the second hand of his watch – this demon roared at him for thirty five point six seconds exactly – a pretty impressive time, to be honest. But they weren’t getting anywhere. “Quit that, it’s unbecoming.” Flicking his hand dismissively, the shapeshifter let a smirk trail over his face, sizing the demon up and down, “We’re going to work together one way or another; you could at least be civilized about that, though I realize that’s asking quite a lot of one such as yourself.”

Still running over any argument the creature trapped in his wildly clever scheme might try to mount, Crowley nodded before he inclined his head slightly, “Let’s start with something simple. My name is Crowley, and you are?” Though he wasn’t sure the demon was going to answer him, he figured it wouldn’t be amiss to ask. They truly needed to move beyond hisses and growls.

The silence stretched on for long enough that Crowley was sure the demon was taking his time to come up with the most despicable insult he could dredge up from the pits of hell, so when he finally spoke it almost startled him, “I am Castiel.” Well, maybe the miserable little bastard finally figured out that if he ever wanted out of that trap he was going to have to play along. Good, that made things simpler. “But it makes no difference. You are still going to die.”

Crowley laughed then, eyes lighting with mirth as they regarded this Castiel, “Now we’re getting somewhere!” Still unperturbed by his threats, Crowley took his time, watching his new business partner with calculating eyes, “Now, I know the offer making is usually your thing, crossroads demon and all, but not this time. We’re going to do things a little differently. I’ve got a deal for you.”

In an instant, the entire atmosphere around them changed. Even though he could tell that the demon was trying to hide it, it was clear that he had piqued the creature’s interest. “Ah, looks like I’ve got you now,” he sounded so pleased with himself it was almost snide, but Crowley managed to make everything smooth enough to avoid ruffling feathers. Before the demon could speak again, Crowley snapped his fingers to silence the words forming in Castiel’s throat, heading him off before he could voice pointless protests, “I’m a shapeshifter, you numbskull, and you deal in desperate people. Clearly I have use to you.”

Finally, the light was dawning in the stupid demon’s eyes. “… What is your proposal?” The question made Crowley crack a smile, equal parts malevolent, eager, and cunning as he began to lay out exactly what he had in mind.

1919, Summer:
“Women have the right to vote, bah, what are they going to do next, give it to livestock and the retarded?”

Standing in the press of the crowd in a claustrophobic little diner on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, all Crowley could do was smirk. There was genuinely nowhere else he would rather be right now than here, listening to all these over privileged, bloated turkeys run their mouths about things they didn’t understand - women had been running humanity since it began, they were just stealthy and clever enough to do it from the background. Idiot men, all of them.

But it also meant that there was opportunity here. Angry men made poor choices, and poor choices were the ante to play in his business. Over one hundred years into their deal, Crowley’s end of it was humming. He had more clients (unwitting though they were) than he could possibly shake a stick at and business, well, it was booming. People were blinded by love, struck dumb by injury, felled by misery. It was a field full of blind, lame children and the fruit was ripe for the taking.

The easiest part was left to the demon - all he had to do was soothe the wounded creature and promise them a life free from their pain and bam, another soul earmarked for hell in ten years. Every time Crowley brought someone to Castiel he would wait about half an hour, then add another tick mark to his notebook. It kept track of all the souls he had brought before the demon, kept track of how close he was to fulfilling his end of the bargain.

So, when the time came and he went to add yet another mark, he was taken aback when the scratch of his pen left the paper no different. He tried again, wondering if the infernal thing had run out of ink, but when it again failed to leave even an indent in the paper, he knew. He knew that this meant the demon failed to follow through on making the deal, failed to hold up his end of the bargain, and pushed him that much further away from getting what he needed.

Straightening, the rage in Crowley’s eyes flared bright and hot as he immediately set out to find Castiel, his hands clenched into fists so tight the veins stood out. When he threw the match onto the summoning materials Crowley kept low, crouched in the shadows, ready to pounce.

“I was busy, shifter,” the voice came almost immediately, full of scorn and impatience, “what do you want? I know you do not have another soul for me right now.” But Crowley didn’t bandy words, didn’t bother to give him the courtesy of an answer. Leaping from the shadows he hit Castiel square in the chest, cursing as they both went down in a heap. He laid into Castiel with everything he had in him, even as the demon responded in kind. He wanted to feel bones break under his fist, even if it wouldn’t truly harm the demon. The lazy son of a bitch deserved everything he got.

But as he leaned in, hand around Castiel’s throat even as the demon seemed to be trying to dig his nails through Crowley’s stomach and into his guts, something in him shifted. He could hear the wheeze of Castiel trying to breathe through his grip on his throat, feel the puff of his breath against his skin. In that moment, there was no thought in his head, no memory, no logic - all he knew was one thing, desire - desire to hurt, to harm, to maim, to punish, to kill, and for some reason, to… When Crowley crashed his lips into Castiel’s, it was not kind. It was not loving, it was not sweet, and it was not romantic. Rather, it was vicious, teeth tearing into fragile skin, tongue demanding entrance, a clashing, delirious mess that somehow managed to convey every feeling the two of them had toward one another.

Castiel’s response was just as visceral and cruel. He bit Crowley’s lower lip clean through, smirking into the kiss as his teeth met. Crowley responded by nearly gouging one of the demon’s eyes out, but Castiel managed to escape with only bloody welts running from his eye down to his jawline. As they twisted, turned, and struggled across the cobbles, the blood flowed freely as small rocks, broken glass, and who knows what else ripped through their clothes and into their tender flesh. But that was of no matter to either of them - what mattered was coming out on top.

When they found that they had somehow made it to the mouth of an alley, heading into the darkness was a no brainer. It would allow them to tear into each other with the use of their powers, humans less prevalent in the alleys and therefore that much less likely to catch on to what was actually happening. Taking another swipe at Castiel, Crowley growled in anger when the blow went wide. As he tensed and prepared to leap forward so he could tear the bastard limb from limb, out of nowhere something smashed into his chest so hard he would have sworn it was a truck. The pain colored his vision white for a moment and left him feeling delirious.

As he came to, Crowley found himself pinned against the nearest wall by an invisible force and realized he was staring into the eyes of a very, very pissed off demon. Not that it scared him, but still, Castiel looked livid. When he grabbed the shapeshifter by the collar, Crowley flashed him his best snarky smirk, though the effect was lost slightly considering that he was unable to move anything else. “I have had enough of you, shifter,” when Castiel spoke, his tone was laced with rage and his hands near shaking in anger, “you are going to get a handle on yourself or I am going to kill you.” True, it was an empty threat - they made and sealed a deal when they agreed to this scheme, but in this moment Crowley thought the demon might seriously try to end him anyway.
“Bring it on, y’scrawny little bastard,” pinned against the wall by demonic forces or not, Crowley was still Crowley and he was still going to be snarky. Fire in his eyes and coals heating the pit of his stomach, Crowley struggled against the bonds holding him down even though his effort didn’t show, “I’d love to see what your boss does to you when you break one of your damn deals. I’ll build a radio in purgatory just to listen to the beautiful music as he rips you smoke limb from smoke limb.” Cocky and confident in himself and his knowledge of demon hierarchy, Crowley just gave him another smirk, “Savvy, Castiel?”

He was so unprepared for Castiel to release his bonds that he almost suffered the ignominy of collapsing into a heap on the ground when the wall was no longer in possession of its own weird sense of gravity. Luckily his reflexes were better than that and he caught himself with a hand against the wall, knees bent to absorb the impact. “That’s what I thought,” he snarked, making sure that he was loud enough for his companion to hear, “idiot demon.” As he dusted himself off and straightened his suit cuffs, Crowley licked absently at the puncture wound gouged through his lip. “Stings a bit…” he mused, the taste of blood heavy on his tongue, a mix of his own and Castiel’s both, “but it rather turns me on.”

The heat in Castiel’s eyes had always been there, but where it had been rage it morphed now, into something darker and somehow more sinister. The last thought Crowley could spare was for wondering what the demon was up to before a hand pressed him back against a wall and another reached between his legs. “You’ll finally be good for something, then,” were the last words that Castiel spoke before crashing their lips together again.

2012, Winter
Checking his notebook again, Crowley allowed himself a small smile. It had taken over two hundred years, far longer than he had planned, but the end was finally here. At least he’d had an interesting companion along for the ride. If one were to attempt counting, the scars and bruises on his body would amount into the hundreds, but luckily the same number could be found on Castiel. While a handful of them were from brute physical encounters, the demon and the shapeshifter had managed to find a more pleasurable way of making up their differences. Every encounter was a struggle for dominance, every encounter ended with wounds, but that was the way they both wanted it. It actually managed to make their working relationship even better, somehow. The magic of sex, as it were.

But all that fell away in the face of where he stood now. He had just delivered soul number ten thousand (And one. Crowley was still sour about the one Castiel had lost in the early nineteen hundreds.) to Castiel and now it was just a matter of waiting until the deal was made. He’d returned home for this, treading back onto his family’s ancestral land for the first time since he’d realized his penchant for shedding skin. The hills rolled as gently as he remembered, dusted with snow as the wind howled through his coat. It was cold but he welcomed the bracing chill of it, liked how it put iron in his spine. If he was being honest with himself, truth was he wasn’t sure he was ready for this.

Two hundred years ago this had been a pipe dream, something so crazy he never thought he’d actually attain it. One hundred years ago he remembered thinking back on what he’d managed to get done and wondering how in the world he’d manage to do it again. Now, here he stood and all he could think about was how patently ridiculous this whole thing was. This was actually going to happen… it had taken two hundred years but his wildest, most ridiculous dream was finally going to come true. He was amazed, honestly. It would happen any moment now, Castiel never took long to close his deals.

As he stood there, alone and far from civilization, Crowley suddenly felt his skin begin to shift of its own volition. A smile crossed his face as bits and pieces began to bubble off of his body, clothes leaving him as well. Letting his eyes close, Crowley held his hands away from his body and just laughed as he shed his skin for the last time. A mirror, he would have to find a mirror. He’d forgotten what his original human form had looked like almost a millennia ago.

I’m in the midst of reading it, only about 10% of the way through, but already… to anyone who hasn’t read it, I would suggest it. I’ve been on the verge of tears through most of it, and while part of that is definately sorrow for John, the little glimpses in certain lines as to his views on Dean…

Dean never, ever stood a chance. From the moment Mary died, John irrevocably changed and he took Dean with him. Yeah, you see glimpses of it in the show, but to read about it like this… it didn’t hit me this hard until you literally see the things John wrote about him.

The kid… poor, helpless, defenseless Dean… He had absolutely no chance. His father shaped him into this from the time he was four. I… can’t even really put into words how much it hurts inside with each new line I find. And John had no remorse. No belief that what he was doing is wrong. Dean never had a chance.

It breaks my heart.

Alright, last night’s episode, look… I’ve been ragging on the series for most of the season, but that’s not to say I don’t love it. I do. I’m enjoying the hell out of it. And last night was actually really, really good for me up until the scene at the end with Sam and Dean once they’d gotten rid of the penny.

I remember a time in this series that when Dean revealed exactly how hurt or broken he was, Sam actually cared. When Dean told him about hell, Sam had empathy. When Sam Winchester gave a fuck about his brother. But now… yeah, sure, it was a tense situation, gun pointed at him and all, but they’ve faced situations like that before.

The fact that Sam didn’t look for him clearly broke Dean. The betrayal in that is completely and totally obvious and it came out. And Dean is right to feel betrayed, I think. And it comes out, and he tells Sam about it, and this time… Sam doesn’t care? At no point did Sam express even a mote of regret or sadness or even understanding over the fact that Dean was hurt by the fact his brother left him to rot.

I don’t understand that. I don’t understand how suddenly Sam doesn’t seem to give a single fuck about the way Dean is feeling because I remember that he used to. I remember when this series made it clear that Sam loved and cared for Dean and even when they fought, in the end they really just wanted what was best for the other. But now, this season… Sam honestly has just seemed to throw his brother out the window.

Yeah, Sam betrayed him. Sam’s betrayed him numerous times before, Dean clearly laid all those out too. Dean has a right to be angry. Has a right to feel like the family he laid himself down for time and time again never seemed to think he was worth the same effort. Sam betrayed him and the clincher is, Sam doesn’t care. I don’t understand it. I really don’t get how Sam can have taken what happened in that hotel room and not have gotten more from it than just, “I do what I want Dean, I don’t answer to you.”

I don’t understand what has happened to Sam. I don’t understand when he went from loving his brother to basically acting soulless again. Because soulless!Sam didn’t much care what happened to Dean and now, apparently, neither does regular Sam. Dean’s sanity and Dean’s saftey and Dean’s happiness now seems to have as much worth to him as the burnt out stub of a cigarrette on the ground.

Can Sam be mad at Dean for what happened? Sure. Can he yell and call him out and be upset? Yes. It’s just that normally, there’s  yelling and anger and pain, but usually it ends with compassion, understanding, and yes, even a little love. But not this time. Not now. Dean tells Sam just how fucking hurt and betrayed he is and Sam feels no remorse. Sam doesn’t care. Sam doesn’t… Sam doesn’t act like his brother. I just cannot reconcile that with the character he’s been through the rest of the series.

—

On another note, Garth. Garth made me fucking cry last night. Tears running down the face, just wanted to hug him and tell him it’s okay, you can miss Bobby too. I have a real soft spot in my heart for that goofball and it seems to get bigger every scene he’s in.

It had been hot and dry, the night they first kissed. The windows had been down all day, wind whipping through the car and chapping lips as it did its best to tangle hair. It had left Sam feeling boneless and Dean annoyed, both dealing with the overwhelming oppression of it all the best they could.

The constant hum of wheels on asphalt was the only sound, the radio abandoned as just one more thing that might set another headache to pounding through their skulls. Sam was barely twenty two, only a few months out from the murder of his girlfriend, and he was just itching for something, anything, anyone to punish for it.

For his part, Dean did’t know what he felt. Sam was back, but he wasn’t. Not really. His Sammy was not here in this car with him. Maybe he never would be again. His Sam was the kid that left for Stanford four years ago, was not the man that sat with him now. All because he hadn’t been there to protect him and his when it really mattered. Looking out his window, Dean did his best to hide the scoff he uttered under his breath, the heat seeming to increase his sense of self loathing with every degree.

But it was too damn quiet, the hum of wheels not enough to disguise the sound that Sam had grown up knowing. That he’d grown up responding to, in his own way. Normally it was something unassuming, a little shake of his head, a small smile, a heartfelt glance - anything to remind Dean of his worth. But tonight he couldn’t manage it. Tonight those things weren’t enough.

Perhaps they never would be again. Because Jessica was dead and he was here, back in this car, trapped in the heat, nothing to do but watch the road slither by and wish the pavement would crumble under them until travel wasn’t possible any more. Sam would scream with it, if he thought the sound would stop the tension from crawling under his skin. But it wouldn’t and he knew that so he kept quiet, hands clenched in the fabric of his jeans as Dean took them closer and closer toward the hell of hunting.

When they finally pulled over - mostly because Dean was going to piss himself if he didn’t find a toilet soon - Sam couldn’t handle it anymore. Waiting until his brother had vanished around the back corner of the gas station, Sam stepped out of the car and stalked after him. He didn’t know what he planned on doing, he only knew that he had to do something.

When Dean finally came out of the room, dingy key key hanging on its filthy wooden block from his index finger, Sam just gave in and let his mind go blank.  When he moved, he didn’t think about it. When he grabbed his brother and shoved him up against the wall, the sound of the key clanging off the pavement was the only thing echoing through the air other than the sound of them both panting.

Sam watched as Dean’s eyes went wide and his lips, cracked and chapped and ruined from the wind,  opened. Though he wasn’t sure if it was to protest, question, or encourage, Sam found he didn’t care. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to hear his brother’s voice. He didn’t want anything but what his body wanted, right here, right now. So as his hands fisted tighter in Dean’s jacket, Sam pressed the long, lanky weight of his body up against his brother and leaned in, capturing his lips just before he could speak.

They were as rough as they looked, as wind burned as Sam’s own. But he found he liked it - it suited Dean, who he was, what he did. They tasted like beer, the weight of the alcohol heavy on his breath as Sam drew Dean’s lower lip between his own and sucked on it. When the copper tang of blood suddenly coated his tongue - apparently Dean’s lips couldn’t take the additional abuse - Sam found the only thing it did was make him moan.

Low, deep in his throat, Sam licked the blood from his big brother’s lips as he kept him pressed against the dirty wall of a seedy station in a sad, rundown town. Sam seemed to punish Dean with the kiss just as he worshipped him, the heat still warping the world around them into some kind of pseudo-reality as he shoved a knee between his brother’s thighs, pinning him against the rough concrete harder.

There was something about the contrast - slick red blood, rough red lips, that spoke to something within Sam. Something he couldn’t pinpoint, something he couldn’t explain, but something he needed nonetheless. Dean was here, Dean was real in this nightmare of a life, and maybe, just maybe Dean could lead him through this darkness and help him find a better place.

The first time Sam and Dean kissed, Dean didn’t know it, but it was Sam’s desperate plea. Sam’s desperate plea to the only man in the world who was ever able to make things okay for him. Sam’s desperate plea to the one person left in his life that he absolutely, unequivocally needed. Sam’s desperate plea to Dean for help, because he didn’t know how else to ask or even what to ask for.

—

It wasn’t what he had planned for when he had told his father all those years ago and every year since that he’d take care of Sammy, but in an instant Dean knew that whatever it was Sam needed - even if it was this, this crazy, wrong, maybe even sick thing - well… whatever Sam needed, he’d give it to him.

So as his little brother ground him into the cement and split his  lip, as his little brother dragged his hands across overheated flesh and dug his thigh into the junction of Dean’s legs, as his little brother made it clear he wasn’t so little anymore… Dean just closed his eyes and let it happen.

Whatever Sammy needed, Sammy got.