Additional Tags: Supernatural (TV) Spoilers, Season/Series 15, Season/Series 15 Spoilers, Episode: s15e04 Atomic Monsters, Visions in dreams, First Time, Sharing a Bed, Non-Graphic Violence, Schmoop, Blood Drinking, Dreams and Nightmares, Demon Dean Winchester, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, it is however mainly about their canonical versions
Summary:
It’s not Sam’s last dream. But the next time, Dean is there for him.
In the solitude of Sam’s room, the dream echo of Dean’s neck snapping is as loud as a gunshot.
He’s given up on trying to force his eyes closed a while ago and instead he just stares at the ceiling, focusing on the dull gray of it in the dark. Not red. It’s not red, the bunker is not in danger - from himself - and Dean’s just down the hall.
I don’t know if it’s the hardest thing, but the thing I’m most aware of trying to do well is characterization— especially for something like Wincest, when you’re trying to make the reader understand the context of their incestuous relationship via who they are/who they are to each other.
Sign ups for the fifth Sam Winchester Big Bang start on September 12th!
Yes, that’s right! Supernatural may be launching into its fifteenth season but here at SWBB HQ we’re turning a sprightly five. If you want to get involved with the internet’s best, shinest, Sam-centric all-ship-friendly (gen-fic-friendly) fanworks extravaGANZA then you’re in the right place and better still, at the right time. Signups for both writers and artists will open on September 12th! That’s very soon indeed!
As the name suggests, fics for this challenge should focus on Sam as the primary character. You can choose to write a mini (5k+) or a big bang (15k+). Signups will close on 4 November, rough drafts are due on 25 November and artist claims will be on 30 November. Fics will start posting on 13 January 2020.
Still hungry for more information? You can find it at our dedicated rules and timeline posts. Or hit up your mods via our askbox!
The boy with the faded red backpack walks into the musty classroom. It’s quite obvious it’s a hand me down. It’s dirty. The kind of dirty a washing machine just can’t keep clean. It’s been crudely sewed and patched up in various places, but it does the job. It’s on it’s last legs for sure, though.
The boy himself looks run down. He’s only sixteen, but inside he’s much older. His face says Sophomore but his eyes say senior. (And yeah, that kind of senior). He moves slowly, wincing when he bumps his left shoulder on the chair. There’s dark circles under his eyes and a bruise on his neck. He’s only been here a week and he’s rapidly gaining attention. The wrong kind of attention. He knows he has to be careful.
“Sam?”
The boy’s face snaps to attention (He had clearly been daydreaming. He gets this way, sometimes, lost in his head).
“Uh, what?” His voice falters. A few girls in the back giggle.
But the bell rings and the students get up in a fierce jumble. He grabs his backpack and slings it over his sore shoulder, wincing again.
The students all head to 4th period, corralled down the narrow hallways of the run down school.
“Come see me after school, Mr. Winchester.” The voice is cold, uncaring.
Sam doesn’t turn around, but pauses in the doorway.
“It’s pointless, sir. I’ll likely be gone tomorrow.” He walks out without waiting for permission.
But he doesn’t go to fourth period.
He slips his other arm through the remaining strap of the fraying red material. The comfortable, worn fabric is comforting to him. Not many things are constant int his life. The backpack is.
He walks through the glass doors and right off campus.
No one stops him.
He walks the three miles back to the hotel room his dad rented for him.
He’s been alone for a week.
So when he unlocks the door and sees his brother sitting on the edge of his neatly made bed waiting for him, a shiver runs through him.
He stands when the door opens, a beautiful smile spreads across his face.
“Dean?” The backpack falls to the floor, the strap finally ripping apart as Sam frantically pulls it from his shoulders.
“Dean!” He calls again and Dean smiles even wider.
Sam runs into his arms and Dean pulls him in close.
“I’m here baby. I’m back.“
Sam inhales deeply, relishing the scent he’d missed so much.
Leather, oil, coffee, and that faint musk that was always a layer underneath. Dean pulls him closer and kisses his brother’s forehead.
“Get me out of here, De.”
***
Sam was right.
He didn’t go back to school the next day.
The red backpack makes the cut and is shoved under Sam’s seat.
Watch Jensen spend a full minute trying to think of even one good answer that doesn’t end with the something like AND HAVE SEX WITH ERIC BRADY because that was exactly what he was implying. He was teasing Jared about his fawning over Eric at the beginning of this question and he backed himself right into a corner. lol
Hello everyone, I’m Gemma and I am quite sure that everyone is beyond tired of seeing my posts by now, but I desperately need help with my overdrawn account and my WCA appointment.
As most of you are aware, I have been struggling financially for quite some time due to my welfare benefits (U.C & Housing Benefit) being revoked, under the UK’s controversial changes to how benefits are assessed and assigned. And due to my mental health and some unfortunate DWP mess-ups, my benefits have been on and off sanctions for over a year now.
And after waiting for seven months for the DWP to send me for a medical assessment, I finally received the letter for my appointment today (above photo). The appointment is set for Tuesday, September 17th at 1.15pm in Glasgow (my local city) 13 miles away, which might not seem far away, but I have no access to transport and need help to get to my appointment. A local taxi company charges £15 each way to the city, so I need £30 by September 17th.
I am hoping that this assessment will fix my benefits and offer me more assistance as I am unable to work due to my persistent low mood and extreme fatigue. And due to immense stress and anxiety to make ends meet, my mental health has quickly declined.
At the moment, the Universal Credit benefit I do receive is currently under a “capped- sanction” and the £128.88 that I received has gone to paying off my council tax and phone bill, leaving me with nothing to help pay my utilities and other overdue bills, and due to that my bank account is now in the negative (£281.36) and I have next to nothing in my fridge/cupboard and I really need to eat.
I know that I have asked this a lot these past few months and all the help I have previously received has literally helped me from spiraling into more debt and helped me to eat and stay warm and I absolutely hate to ask for more help but I have no one else to turn to.
If anyone could spare any amount to help me, even if it’s just £1/$1/€1, it would literally save my life, and sharing definitely helps just as much as donations. Nobody is obligated in any way to donate if they can’t or don’t want to, I know we’re all struggling.
Dean looks up from his book when he hears his bedroom door open. Sam’s standing there in his sleep shirt and boxers, looking oddly sheepish. “Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” Dean replies. “Couldn’t sleep?”
Sam nods, entering and sitting down on the side of Dean’s bed. “Guess you couldn’t either, huh?”
Dean puts the book aside. “Yeah,” he says. “Dunno why, though.”
“I feel cooped up,” Sam tells him after a moment. “Like, restless, I guess. I don’t know.”
“I know what you mean,” Dean says, softening. The bunker’s large enough for them to get lost in – and they have, several times – and yet, after a lifetime of the open road, it can get suffocating at times. “You wanna go for a drive or something?”
“A drive? Where would we go?”
“Nowhere,” Dean tells him. “Just… drive.”
Sam shrugs. “Uh, okay, sure. Should I pack, or…?”
“Nah,” grins Dean. “Let’s just… go. Right now.”
“I’m not wearing any pants,” Sam informs him, raising an eyebrow.
“Trust me, I noticed,” Dean retorts dryly. “Pants are overrated anyway.”
“Says the guy who’s fully dressed.”
“Don’t argue, Sammy. Let’s just go.” And before Sam can reply, Dean’s getting off the bed in one fluid movement and snatching up the car keys from his side table. “Besides, it’s the middle of the night, man. No one’s gonna be around to care about whether you’re wearing pants or not.”
Sam makes a face at him as he gets up. “It’ll take just two seconds for me to find some pants–”
“No time!” Dean tells him, grinning, and grabs his hand. “Let’s just go–” And with that, he begins literally dragging Sam along.
“I’m not wearing shoes either, Dean!”
“Fuck’s sake, Sam– we’re just gonna be in the car, you prissy bitch, no one is gonna look at your stupid shorts or your stupid socks–”
“My socks aren’t stupid, they’re comfortable–”
“They look like something a grandma would wear, first of all, and secondly, they’re about three seconds from falling apart–”
“Like I said, comfortable–”
The pointless argument ceases only when they’re in the garage. Dean lets go of Sam’s hand to unlock the car and get in, while Sam goes round to the passenger side. Dean lets Baby warm up for a few minutes, the low purr of the engine echoing in the garage, and in the meantime he watches Sam out of the corner of his eye, watches him settle into the passenger seat, long legs crammed into the footwell.
“Quit staring at my legs,” Sam tells him.
“I wasn’t,” Dean lies.
“This is why you didn’t want me putting on pants, isn’t it?”
Dean puts the car into reverse and backs out of the garage door. “No idea what you’re talking about, Sammy.”
AO3 won the 2019 Hugo Award for Best Related Work!
Here’s the speech given by Naomi Novik when the award was accepted:
All fanwork, from fanfic to vids to fanart to podfic, centers the idea that art happens not in isolation but in community. And that is true of the AO3 itself. We’re up here accepting, but only on behalf of literally thousands of volunteers and millions of users, all of whom have come together and built this thriving home for fandom, a nonprofit and non-commercial community space built entirely by volunteer labor and user donations, on the principle that we needed a place of our own that was not out to exploit its users but to serve them.
Even if I listed every founder, every builder, every tireless support staff member and translator and tag wrangler, if I named every last donor, all our hard work and contributions would mean nothing without the work of the fan creators who share their work freely with other fans, and the fans who read their stories and view their art and comment and share bookmarks and give kudos to encourage them and nourish the community in their turn.
This Hugo will be joining the traveling exhibition that goes to each Worldcon, because it belongs to all of us. I would like to ask that we raise the lights and for all of you who feel a part of our community stand up for a moment and share in this with us.
Dean drains the last of his scotch with a grimace, exhausted. He drops the glass off in the kitchen, wandering down the hallway towards Sam’s room. He can distantly hear the shower running in the locker room, and he sighs in relief, knowing his mom is occupied for the moment.
He pushes Sam’s door open, knocking on the frame as an afterthought. His baby brother is shirtless, standing in the middle of his room, his back facing Dean. Dean watches as the muscles across his shoulders bunch up in tension, then relax when Sam recognizes the presence as Dean.
“Sam,” Dean murmurs, his socked feet shuffling quietly against the wooden floor. He reaches out, running a wide palm over his brother’s strong, golden back, from the base of his spine all the way up into his hair, scratching at the base of his neck. He lets his fingers play in the clean, soft, bronze curls there, taking a deep breath to smell Sam’s body wash, and beneath that, Sam’s skin. It smells like the only home he’s ever known.
“I’m sorry,” is what Sam finally says, the words quiet like they hurt something fierce. “I would’ve– I wouldn’t’ve let her take me if I’d… I would’ve fought harder. I didn’t think I… Dean. I wanted them to kill me. I–” His words break off, and he takes a deep, shaky breath.
Dean discovers that there are hundreds of little notes - written in the notebook itself, taped to the pages, and tucked inside the notebook - and it’s years old. Many different sizes and colors of papers, too. Some crumpled, some well taken care of. Most of them are just quick notes, quick thoughts.
Sam saved these. Sam held on to these and…took it everywhere?
Many of them make him cry. Or shout. Or clench his fists. Or drink. or all of the above…
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