“That Stark kid follows you around like a lost puppy,” Rhodey’s friend bemusedly says, the corner of her mouth curling up as she glances at a spot over Rhodey’s shoulder.
Rhodey turns around and, sure enough, there’s Tony. He’s trying to hide himself behind a much too large textbook about linear algebra, but he’s there. This isn’t the first time that Tony has coincidentally appeared wherever Rhodey is. Hell, it’s not even the fifth. At this point, Rhodey’s concerned. Not because he finds it creepy, rather, he thinks it’s endearing in the way only someone like Tony can be, but he can’t help but think that something might be going on.
He sighs. “I’ll be right back.” He slaps the table twice as he gets up and grabs his iced tea. With every step he takes towards Tony’s table, he notices the way that Tony starts fidgeting–playing with pens, rummaging in his backpack for something that doesn’t exist. He knows Rhodey is coming over, and he’s trying to delay the inevitable conversation.
Dean is an artist.
Sometimes, after a kill, Sam silently sheds his clothes and stands up straight. He dare not move for he knows his brother needs this almost as much as he needs to feel the life force drain from another human being.
Dean’s finger tips, dripping crimson with blood touch Sam’s skin, igniting a flame inside the younger brother that has nothing to do with the screw that’s a little bit loose in both their heads. His paintings are never a solid idea, no, they’re more fluid consciousness: swirls and fairy lines over the caramel plains of Sam’s skin. It tickles and Sam’s muscles quiver with the urge to laugh. The movement makes Dean’s fingers skitter along Sam’s skin but when the elder Winchester looks up there’s a smile in his gaze.
“Sensitive,” he accuses in a quiet voice as he continues transforming his brother into his canvas. Fingers dipping into the groove where pelvis meets thigh and back up again to the dip at the base of his throat. Dean dips his fingers in the blood of their victim again, dragging lines of bright red up Sam’s arms and Sam aches to kiss him, to lick away the smudge of blood at the corner of Dean’s mouth. He doesn’t. Not yet.
Dean steps away and admires his work. “Could put you in a gallery Sammy.” He says, voice brimming with an emotion neither of them know the word for. “Wouldn’t sell you, though. Ain’t nobody in the world got enough money for you.“ And Sam shivers like he always does under the weight of how deep they’ve gotten into this; how deep in love and sick they are. Sam aches to kiss him. And Dean can feel that desire pulsing in the metallic air around them and he takes two long strides and presses himself against his naked, bloody brother, longing for skin to skin contact.
They let their breaths mingle for a few moments before meeting for the kiss. It amazes Sam how pure their love feels despite how defiled they are as human beings. As if nothing they could do would sully it, would make it unholy, would make it wrong. There’s something not right with them, he knows that. But it’s not the fact that they’re brothers that makes them the kind of men society fears.
When Dean kisses him, sometimes he can kid himself into thinking that they’re good boys and they’re going to heaven one day. When Dean kisses him, sometimes he thinks they’ve found heaven already. No matter where Dean kisses Sam: a victim’s house, an abandoned church, the Impala or a motel, Sam could swear he hears angels singing gloria, hallelujah, ad infinitum, amen and welcoming them to paradise.
Dean is an artist and Sam is his bloodied canvas. They’re going to be just fine.
(Source: taesthetique)
In Sam’s first grade class they make Valentines up for everyone so no one feels left out. Sam writes names on the generic little store-bought Valentines and tapes little pieces of candy to them cause Dean had insisted John buy them; the people who give candy with their Valentines are always everyone’s favorite and Dean think that Sam deserves to be everyone’s favorite.
Sam makes up a special valentine just for dean, cause he feels weird giving Valentines to all these people that he doesn’t even know and not giving one to his best friend in the whole world, the best big brother anyone could ask for. Dean knows it’s just Sam being sweet cause that’s how Sam is, like spun fucking sugar, so sweet he’ll make your teeth hurt but god, it hits Dean right in the chest and he doesn’t understand the crazy things it makes him feel cause Dean’s young, too young to really understand.
It becomes a thing; every year Sam makes him a Valentine and every year before Sam can give it to him Dean gives him a box of chocolates or some stupid little stuffed animal he found at a gas station and later on other stuff, books or a new flannel or just something not too big and says ‘Be my Valentine?’ like it’s a joke, but it’s not a joke, not really, not completely, and Dean thinks Sam knows it even though Dean doesn’t admit it even to himself.
And then Sam’s 14, 15, 16 and growing into himself, fucking cute and gorgeous and sexy all at once and it’s so tangled up and crazy and Sam looks at Dean these days, looks at him and Dean doesn’t know how it’s different but it is. They’re way too old to do the shit they do, curl up on the couch and watch movies and sometimes fall asleep all over each other in Dean’s bed and touch each other too much and spend all their time together even when they don’t have to, but Dean wouldn’t trade it for anything and Sam gets this dark look on his face when Dean comes home from a night out with a girl, gets all snappish for a little while before he laughs it off and Dean doesn’t really understand because he doesn’t want to understand, doesn’t want to let himself think like that cause if he does he’ll never stop and he really fucking shouldn’t, knows he shouldn’t.
That Valentine’s day he gets home and that very first Valentine is taped to the front door and Dean’s heart starts racing because if Sam found that one it means he found the rest, every card Sam’s ever made for him tucked away in a book in the bottom of his bag.
He swallows hard and opens the door and there’s the next one, taped up just inside the door and god, his legs feel like jelly as he pulls them down one by one, every single year laid out like bread crumbs until he gets to their bedroom door, ten valentines in his hand, from the time Sam was five years old right up until last year and on their closed door is a red heart cut out of construction paper, ‘open me’ in black sharpie.
Dean doesn’t know what he’s expecting, doesn’t know anything right now, heart hammering away in his chest and just a little shaky but he opens the door there’s Sam, sitting on the edge of the bed looking kind of terrified and maybe like he fucked up and regrets the whole thing.
‘Sam?’ he says, quiet and kind of confused and Sam just swallows really hard and says 'I-’ and then stops.
Dean steps in and shuts the door behind him and sets the Valentines down on the dresser and says ‘Sammy?’ and Sam looks up at him sort of like he’s seeing him for the first time.
'It’s always been you, Dean.’
And it’s like someone emergency ejected Dean into the vacuum of space cause there’s no air and everything is too tight and his head is spinning and he just says ‘What.’
Sam finally gets his shit together and shakes his head. ‘I don’t- I. You should know. I thought… I thought you should know. You don’t- if you don’t-’ and he blushes so hard Dean can almost feel the heat of it from across the room and Sam is so fucking sweet, so cute and perfect and amazing and Dean makes his stupid legs listen to him long enough to stumble over to the bed until he realizes he probably shouldn’t just throw himself at Sam like he wants to, should probably make sure Sam’s sure and make sure Sam knows he’s sure before he gets his hands all over him like he really really wants to all of a sudden cause Sam’s sort of looking like maybe he royally fucked up and maybe like he thought there was something and is thinking now that maybe he was wrong and he’s not wrong, he’s so right it’s kind of embarrassing actually.
Dean drops to his knees in front of Sam and tilts his face up with his fingers so they’re eye-to-eye and says ‘You gotta be absolutely fucking sure, Sammy. You can’t do this to me if you’re not sure.’
He’s got no idea how he managed to put that many words together but Sam’s eyes do this shocked-wide thing and his pretty mouth drops open a little and Dean wants to kiss him so bad his lips are tingling.
All Sam can say is ‘Dean?’ all quiet and unsure and yeah, Dean totally gets that.
'Yes or no, Sammy?’
And that gets his attention, gets this whole thing back on track and Sam’s grin is blinding and perfect and the best damn Valentine Sam’s ever given him and then he ducks forward, kisses Dean like he’s been waiting his whole life to do it and shit, maybe he has.
And dean was wrong, this is the best Valentine Sam’s ever given him, the little noises Sam makes into his mouth when Dean slides his hands up Sam’s shirt, when he pushes him back on the bed and crawls on top of him, the mark he sucks into Dean’s neck and the way he wraps his long legs around Dean’s hips and grinds up into him as Dean pins him down and they don’t even get their pants open, don’t even last five minutes before Sam’s coming in his jeans and just seeing his gorgeous little brother like that is enough to set Dean off too.
Later, when their breathing starts to slow down and they’re lazy-tangled-sated (for now, if Dean has it his way Sammy’s in for a long, long night) Dean kisses Sam’s little smile and says ‘Be my Valentine?’ and Sam just laughs.
(Source: un-buttoned)
So there was a discussion yesterday about ace!cas (and how great it is) and how I really wanted to write a long!fic of it in the future. But then last night the idea was still swimming in my head, so I’ve wrote a ficlet to wet my appetite until I have the chance to write a…
AU where John Winchester loved his boys just a little bit less and put them up for adoption and they were raised in a healthy, functional home.
They’re good boys. Mischievous, too smart for their own good, scrappy, practically attached at the hip, but good boys. Dean had a hard time adjusting at first, nonverbal and nightmare-ridden from post-traumatic stress, prone to panic attacks when alone, but their adopted parents found the best child psychiatrist they could afford and in time he began to heal, began to break out of his shell. Even when he wasn’t talking his empathy was remarkable, and as he’s grown a whip-smart analytical intellect developed to supplement it.
Dean remembers their birth parents like looming figures seen through smoke, but Sam, Sam grew up in this life, and their adoptive family is the only one he’s ever known. He has a rebellious streak a mile wide and it frustrates no one in the world more than it does Dean (still prone to hovering over or trailing behind him with a dreamlike missive ringing in his ears like the last audible echoes of a scream – Look out for Sammy), but he’s smart and strong and driven, independent and devoted all at once. He has these fits at times, though, and Dr Margaret (now the family psychiatrist) calls them rage attacks but they feel like blisters of thick oil growing and bursting inside him from gut to teeth. Over time he learns to swallow them down til he can go somewhere quiet, like the creek where the brothers chased frogs barefoot and shot BBs at old cans, to give in to the festering dark where he can’t hurt anyone else. Everyone knows sweet, sweet Sammy is the one with the temper. It gets chalked up to adolescence but he knows damned well it’s always been this way and probably always will.
They love to spar. Dean’s fondness of sports shooting tapers off in favour of wrestling and team sports (he loves the rush and competition but not so much the hurting-people part), while Sam is kind of scary good at Krav Maga once he finds a trainer for it (the discipline does him good).
At eighteen Dean is buried in scholarship offers – engineering, business, sports, he has heart and brains and beauty enough that the sky’s the limit – but passes up the Big Important Offers for the chance to stay in town close to home. Maybe he’ll do MIT later on but he just wants to stretch out his time close to family as long as he can. That’s where he’s happy. That’s where he’s safe.
(And, Sam suspects, it might also have something to do with wanting to stay near that one friend he’s been so close to since junior high. He’s been placing bets with himself on when his brother will nut up and ask the guy out for years.)
He takes a summer job as a volunteer firefighter. He has a panic attack the first time he has to go in. Even though Dean’s too old to see Dr Margaret as a patient she helps him through it, helps him overcome, but he decides discretion is the better part of valour. The family supports him in quitting as much as they did when he took the job: “You already saved me from the fire,” Sam tells him, “you don’t have to prove anything.”
Two years later Sam cashes in on his bet. Mom and Dad are a little shocked but Eric’s been like a third son for so long that when he comes over for dinner with Dean and they’re lacing fingers together instead of trading playful punches it’s just another layer of family, just another kind of love.
One year later Sam nearly hyperventilates over his acceptance letter from Stanford. It’s a full ride though their parents would have put up all they could afford and help shoulder his loans even if it wasn’t. Dean’s heart breaks a little, but Sam’s joy is like wildfire and they promise to visit each other even though Palo Alto is so far away. They make good on it, trading off driving (Dean) or flying (Sam) on breaks, keeping tabs in email and, later on, Skype. Sam brings a girl home with him for Dean’s graduation. They all love Jess, of course, instantly, and she’s instrumental in talking Dean into going after his MSE after all. Dean starts placing bets with himself on how long it’ll take til she’s wearing a ring.
They were good boys, and they become good men. Stalwart, too clever for their own good, not so attached at the hip anymore but still close, still mischievous, but good men. Dean soaks up love and radiates it back into everything he does and everyone he knows. Sam harnesses the dark inside him and turns it into a driving passion to do good and right wrongs, and doggedly ignores the nightmares that seem to come out of nowhere – Jess is there to soothe him when he wakes. Neither of them are marksmen, neither have Latin chants memorised; they don’t fear the night or the fire, nor go looking for trouble in them.
So when Azazel comes for Sam six months after his twenty-third birthday none of them are prepared to put up a fight.
He makes a good king.
It’s a Wonderful Life canonverse (sort of) au
Cas is Clarence, Dean is George Bailey.Castiel has waited more than 200 years to get his wings.
But now, now might be his time. As he watches snippets of Dean Winchester’s life, he gets more hopeful that this is his big break.
Dean Winchester’s had a hard life, but he’s a good man.
When he was 4 years old, he pulled his brother out of their burning house. Their mother died in the fire.
When he was 12, a ghost tried to drop his brother from the 10-story balcony of their motel, and Dean caught him just in time and pulled him back up to safety. Then he killed the ghost.
“He has saved his brother’s life 24 and a half times,” Joseph says to Castiel while they watch Dean fight off a vampire.
The scene changes to a 15-year-old Dean stopping his father from shooting a crying mother in the middle of a busy street. Dean takes his father to safety and hides him from the police and tells him he was wrong about the mother, she wasn’t a monster, he needs to be more careful or else he’ll end up in jail. His father clings to him and cries.
The clips continue almost endlessly, Dean always saving somebody or killing something evil until finally time jumps and there’s a clip of a man in his late 20s.
“I want you to take a good look at that face,” Joseph says as he pauses the clip.
“Is that Dean Winchester? Grown up?”
“Yes, it is.”
“It’s a good face. I like it. I like Dean Winchester.”
This fanfic is a Hunger Games AU and its an everlark. I’m only in chapter 10 so far (it’s complete) and it’s so damn sad! I just get so angry at Mrs. Mellark (and I want her dead). Either way, it’s very good and I recommend it if you’re looking for hurt/comfort and romance.
******TW: Abuse (physical, mental, emotional)
+2
TWIST AND SHOUT [A TRIBUTE]
He held the letter loosely in his hand. The scratchy sound of the record still playing on the turntable was floating into the bedroom. See you then. He could hear the words, as if Cas was right there beside him, whispering them into his ear.
Dean bit his lip. His hand dropped heavily from this thigh into the shoe box on the floor in front of him. Nestled among the polaroids was another piece of paper, worn thin and yellowed with age. He looked down as his fingers came in contact with the page. His breathing hitched as he pulled it from the box.
Nearly fifteen years ago, he’d walked into the kitchen to find Cas hunched over the table, a pen in hand, photographs and tape haphazardly cluttering the space.
“Aren’t you supposed to be studying?”
Cas jumped in surprise and turned, smiling, to face Dean as he stood in the doorway.
“I’m busy. Collecting memories.”
“Oh, yeah?” Dean smiled and walked forward to stand behind Cas’s chair and rested his hands on Cas’s shoulders, trying to get a better look.
“No! Don’t look yet, it’s not done,” Cas said, halfheartedly attempting to shield the page with his hand.
Dean batted his hand out of the way, and looked down at picture of himself next to Cas’s careful writing.
“Lucky number 54, huh?” Dean grinned and leaned down to Cas’s upturned face, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. He felt Cas smile against his mouth. Dean straightened and picked up one of the pictures by the edge. “I like this one,” he whispered as he placed it on the page.
Dean remembered the weight of the clunky Polaroid camera in his hands. He had taken the picture himself, telling Cas just where to stand, much to Cas’s general annoyance. Cas had just looked so damn good in that tie…
Dean turned to leave, but before he could walk away Cas caught his wrist. Eyes bright, he breathed, “You have to write something.”
Dean looked from Cas’s face back to the page. He picked up the pen and scrawled a caption in his own heavy-handed writing, signing underneath, just as Cas had done.
Dean carefully put the delicate sheet of paper back in the shoe box.
“My boy.”
Summary: What if Sherlock was never real? What if he has always been a figurement of John Watson’s traumatized mind? A cure to ease John’s loneliness after the war.
I promised you I’d do a trailer to this amazing story/concept/idea and BAM! here it is…
Greg Lestrade to Sherlock on the subject of John Watson
“(Tues 9:25pm)
You don’t even know if either of us are gay. John has a girlfriend, remember.
(Tues 9:27pm)
You don’t need to be gay to like someone of the same sex as you.
(Tues 9:28pm)
What do you need to be then?
(Tues 9:30pm)
In love.”
: 13 Reasons Why, MCU
: MCU fanfiction