👻 - Gothic Ghost Case Fic Set In Pre-Series Era

The first thing Sam takes notice of is blood running down his hand, slipping in between his fingers: It’s hot, hotter than he thought it’d be—just this side of scalding, but he can’t be sure if that’s his subconscious making him see and feel things that aren’t there, like his father’s blood on his hands so hot it burns, so hot it leaves permanent damage, scarred forever reminding Sam of what he did. Sam’s breathing goes fast, hard, and heavy; he can’t seem to stop—you’re hyperventilating, he thinks, not from within, but somewhere outside his body, looking at himself from above, taking in the scene from the outside, untethered.

Dad is on the ground. His eyes are closed. Sam’s hand is still wrapped around the hilt of a knife, blade stained red, dripping the same blood that covers Sam’s hands.

“Sam,” Dean says, voice coming from behind Sam—Dean came upon the scene with quiet steps, snuck up on Sam despite his vantage point above their heads. “Hey, Sammy,” Dean says, voice steady and low, careful as his steps. Sam doesn’t feel steady until Dean comes up behind him and holds him by the shoulders, pushing Sam back into himself, shuddering back under his skin when Dean presses close and holds him in his firm grip. “Why don’t you give me the knife, okay? You don’t need to hold onto it anymore, I got it.”

Dean’s hand moves from his shoulder and slides down Sam’s arm, his palm smearing through their father’s tacky blood, already drying on Sam’s skin, until he’s holding Sam’s hand over the handle of the knife, trying to work Sam’s fingers open.

For a moment, his grip slips, and his hand wraps around his wrist instead, molding to his bare skin like they belonged together—as if he were guiding Sam while he stabbed their father, as if he were with him, as if they did it together, and it’s that thought that makes Sam jump like a startled cat.

He drops the knife with a too-loud clatter and Dean’s voice is in his ear, soothing nonsense whispers, a hand on his back—it’s okay, we’re okay.

“I should be saying that to you,” Sam says, guilt lining his voice.

This is not what he expected but then again—Sam had no plan, no preparation. No thoughts at all, except violent impulse and fury and that cold crushing guilt in his heart.

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🫃 - Post-s15 fix-it retirement AU with pregnant Dean

Dean brushes the hair off his brow and Sam moans around his nipple, suckling for a few moments while Dean whispers nonsense encouragements to him—good boy, you’re very hungry today, you’re feeding so well. Sam lets up, drawing himself back; his mouth is pink and lips are swollen, but not as swollen and puffy as he leaves Dean’s nipples, red nubs tingling as the air drives Sam’s spit from his skin. 

“You’re going to get real milk soon,” Sam says, running his fingertips around the sides of Dean’s tits, avoiding his oversensitive nipples. “That’s why these are getting bigger, why they hurt, your body is getting ready to take care of our baby.” 

Dean swallows, hating the way Sam talks makes him shudder and tremble, how our baby makes his stomach clench, some heady twist of both arousal and anxiety pooling together in an escalating combination. Dean wants to get lost in Sam’s touch and mouth, let him overwhelm his senses and his mind until he can’t think anymore, but Sam’s words won’t stop ringing in his ear—our baby, the baby we made, the baby trying to grow inside your barren and inhospitable body—hitting every nerve ending, not just the good ones. Dean nods in response, trying to keep himself grounded in the moment, forcing his mind to only exist where Sam touches him, feeling only his brother’s hands on him. He opens up his legs as Sam fits between, hovering above Dean, cradled between Dean’s thighs. 

Sam kisses down the center of his chest, between the rounded mounds of his tits and heading south toward Dean’s stomach—still flat, no evidence of anything growing inside him, but they know there is something there, tiny and microcoptic, but something they made. Sam lingers there, his hands mapping out the expanse of Dean’s waistline, stretched out over his stomach as he presses his face against the middle of it, kissing across the surface, butterfly wing light kisses circling Dean’s belly button and moving outwards. Sam is whispering things into his skin too soft for Dean’s ears to pick up, tracing symbols across his stomach with his fingertips. 

Dean thinks they might be protective, but Sam moves too fast for him to make them out. Sam then presses his face into Dean’s stomach, breathes in deep, inhaling him, sniffing past Dean as if he could smell their kid, break down their scents to that granular level and separate their kid out. 

Sam wants this baby so goddamn much, the thought eating at Dean, worming its way through his mind, leaving tunnels and empty spaces in his skull, and I’m going to fuck this up, I’m not gonna be able to do this. 

Dean sucks in a breath, his lungs burning as he tries to take in air but his chest feels tight, constricted. He tries to take smaller, shorter breaths, trying to shove aside his thoughts, stay in the moment.

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🏰 - Beauty and the Beast/Hades and Persephone-inspired Boy King Sam AU set Post-S3 where he rescues Dean from Hell, but has to keep him safe in a house that is constantly moving locations 

LOCATION: NEKOMA, NORTH DAKOTA, five months ago

Dean is on the rack again, waiting for his skin to grow back after Alistair flayed it off and wrapped himself in it like a robe. The process is excruciating and slow, but it is the only moment he is allowed a reprieve, a break from the torture—it’s not as fun to break him apart when he’s already in pieces, Dean has to be whole again. Lulled by the drip, drip, drip of his blood on stone along with the sound of his own breathing echoing off the walls, Dean falls into stasis, falling into blackness, suspended until he comes to with a hand worming into his guts. 

It slithers along the outside of his stomach and dives under his ribcage. When Dean can see again, Sam is standing above him, yellow eyes glinting down at him as his hand finds its target—his heart, pumping against his brother’s palm. Sam rips it from his chest, claws slicing through ventricles and aortas to pull it free, sliding it out from under exposed bone. Sam’s tongue is long when it licks around the shape of Dean’s heart, curling around the still beating muscle. Delicious, he breathes out, then sinks his teeth into Dean’s heart. 

Dean wakes up cold and alone, jolting up from his narrow cot, blinking around at his surroundings. It takes a moment to realize he wasn’t in Hell anymore, the room impersonal as a prison, with cement floors, walls. It was small, enough for one person, but the size made it feel more like a cell. But Alistair never put him in a room like this, too generic and nondescript, bare bones and simple, not memorable enough. The sheets under him were scratchy and cheap, too real to be conjured up. Dean comes back to himself after sucking in a few deep breaths, then swings his legs over the side of the cot and lands on the concrete floor.

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