he said funky town

Supernatural Vertical File

an attempt to organize a million links

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Fic Quotes #9
[ other ] lite brite
simonejester wrote in spnverticalfile
Pairings this post: Wincest, gen


The image of fucking Sam here — while nice — made him think of all the motel rooms he’d ever been in. They’d grown up in motels, and they reminded him of work and hunts and dad, and of all the times a motel room had meant whatever happens tonight will be forgotten once you leave.

He didn’t want Sam to leave.

“I want to do it right,” he whispered. “And if you ever tell anyone what a fucking pussy I sound like, I will kill you and stuff you in the trunk and make your ghost help me with the fucking hunts.”


As they pulled up to the parking lot to the cemetery, Dean threw him a wide grin. “You know, most kids grew up being told not to play in the dirt and get horribly filthy.”

“Somehow I think most kids when they play in the dirt aren’t going and digging up graves of angry spirits,” Sam pointed out, though he couldn’t work much heat into the comment in the face of his brother’s obvious happiness.

Dean frowned at him as he parked the car next to a huge old ash tree. “Don’t you ever pretend we’re digging a tunnel to China?”

Sam stared at him. “You pretend we’re digging a tunnel to China?”

“Not anymore.” Dean made a face. “But when I was little, sometimes. Yeah. Or I’d pretend I was digging an underground bunker to hide from the alien invaders.”

“Your brain scares me sometimes.”

“My brain? We’re digging up corpses, and my brain is what scares you?” Dean gave him a dubious look as he climbed out of the car. He walked around to the trunk and popped it open, then pulled up the top panel, revealing an array of weapons.

“The digging up corpses I’ve got used to,” Sam said, joining him at the trunk. “Your brain keeps surprising me.”


“Sam, do you remember when you were eleven and I told you about the Easter Bunny?” Dean was still frowning in that earnest way, like he was actually having a serious conversation.

“You told me that he was real, but was a monster that dipped children in boiling chocolate,” Sam said with a snort at the memory.

“And when did you figure out I was lying?”

“You want to break open the coffin and I’ll pour the salt?” Sam said, avoiding the question.

A delighted grin appeared on his brother’s face. “Sammy? When did you figure out I was lying?” He bent over to break open the coffin, though. The wood broke with a loud crack, and Dean reached down to pull the lid up.

Sam wrinkled his nose at the odour drifted up from the open coffin. “The next Easter, when I asked Dad when he was going to hunt it down,” he admitted grudgingly.


“Chinga tu hermano,” Dean whispered, as though it were really an insult — or an endearment.

Sam snorted. “You gonna get hard enough to be able to?”

“No, I’m telling you to fuck your brother,” Dean said. “Though…consider it a general invitation.” He reached down and felt for Sam’s cock, wondering just how hard he was — again.

Dean remembered being eighteen, vaguely. The years of being perpetually hard. It was really no wonder he’d wanted to fuck Sam back then. Hell, he’d have fucked a knothole if he’d had nothing else available.


“I’m not pissy,” Dean protested. “I’m tired of being sick and you’re gonna go blow up a building and I’m gonna miss it.”

“We won’t blow anything up without you,” Dad said, soothingly. “When you feel better, if you want, we can go down to New Mexico and clear out some of those possessed prairie dog nests.”

Demonic prairie dogs weren’t anything that ever bothered anyone, but dropping a stick of dynamite down the hole had always been fun for Dean when he’d been a kid. Dad had used them to train Dean and Sam on how to use explosives.

Dean looked hopeful. “Really?”

Sam rolled his eyes again. Trust that to be the thing that got Dean to cooperate.

“Really,” Dad said, indulgently — though there was something in his tone that said maybe Dean wasn’t the only one who liked blowing stuff up.

--Heart's Desire, James at Gila's Cave, (Sam/Dean)


“Yeah, but Phil is no Dean.” She looked at Sam. “How’d you score someone like him, anyway? Does he have a brother I could have?”

“His brother’s just as involved in his relationship,” Sam assured her with a straight face.

--Heart's Desire VII: The Way Home by James at Gila's Cave.


And right then, like a phantom hand reaching in through his skull and seizing the crown of Sam's spine, something yanks him elsewhere.

Naked, he's standing in a circle of kneeling, black-cowled figures, voices raised in unholy supplication to the Prince of Darkness. At the sight of him, their songs turn wild with triumph and adoration. Candlelight flickers off Sam's skin, turns his eyes colors they shouldn't be. He turns around slowly, muscles rippling, and he surveys the circle and the blood-streaked floor.

"Guys, seriously?" he says. "Great to see you again, but can we go a week without you summoning me? Now is not such a good time."


The Brotherhood of the Stolen Eyes was the first church to spring up in Sam's name. It's since been followed by the Cult of the Shadow King and the Order of Lost Souls, the latter being a splinter group of the Brotherhood, created to accommodate the worshipping needs of those who already had World of Warcraft on Tuesday evenings.

When Sam isn’t concentrating, it's pretty easy for them to summon him. Ruby insists that, with practice and time, he'll be able to ignore them completely, but right now, there's nothing his acolytes enjoy better than getting together for a ritual and yanking Sam, generally butt-naked and wrathful, into their circle.

This time, when they realize Sam is even less thrilled than usual to be making an appearance, they provide him with a fluffy yellow bathrobe – which makes a valiant effort to reach his knees – and some flip flops to wear. He scrounges the use of a cellphone from one of his faithful, and texts his location to Dean while they make him some coffee. Sam would have thought they'd have worked out by now that he's more effectively appeased by caffeine than blood sacrifices. He's made his feelings on the subject of human sacrifice pretty clear, but that doesn't mean he's not still confronted by the occasional dead chicken or slaughtered rabbit.


Since Sam began his bid for control, he's been collecting the contracts for sold souls. Although he hasn't been able to stamp out the trade entirely – there are always people who think there's something more important to them than their own soul – he's been able to improve upon the situation. When time comes due on a soul, Sam does not send in the hellhounds, he sends the reapers. So maybe he can't make any promises about what the afterlife's like, whether it's a better place or not, but he can at least guarantee it's not Hell they're going to.


If they stand there much longer, Sam suspects they'll have an audience, one that either expects Sam to go down on one knee, or Dean to go down on both.


"Knife under your pillow and a bottle under your bed," Sam says. "You're such a fucking redneck." He hauls Dean up and on top of him. There's unexpected electricity to the smooth, heated rub of Dean's skin on his.

"That's pretty funny coming from the guy who asked his brother to marry him," says Dean, and drinks some more as he wriggles onto his knees, straddling Sam's thighs, their cocks just touching.


At first, someone made an attempt to arrange them according to whether they were groom's family or bride's, but it was gently pointed out that even really devoted cultists don't count as family, and that the groom's family was the bride's family, and furthermore, it was the sole remaining members of that family that were getting married.

--The Incestuous Courtship of the Antichrist's Bride, by fleshflutter, (Sam/Dean)


So picture this, there’s this shape shifter that made itself look like Dean. I know right. I tried to track him down and see if they’d be willing to skewer me like a kabob but the fucker just tied me up and stole my identity. Wtf. Rude.


Now let me tell you, I was totally prepared to bitch slap this chick. She was trying to get boned since we showed up. I was so pissed I almost went out and rented a truck to run her ass over. But I didn’t because you have to be over twenty five to rent a car. Seriously, why is the whole world against me?

--The Diary of Sam Winchester, by bitchandjerk, (Sam/Dean)


He was going to have to do this the hard way—navigation by touch. Just like when he was ten and his dad blindfolded him, spun him around, and then told him to find the bag of peanut M&Ms hidden in the room.

--When You Are Done, by jujuberry136, (gen, Criminal Minds crossover)


Cunningham handed over the papers. Unlike most in this situation, Sam got himself comfortable and started to read. O’Neill must have been briefed on this aspect of Sam’s character, because he merely took out his own paperwork and started on it. Caleb, being a hunter, got out his knife and a whetstone and sharpened the knife.

That weirded Cunningham out, but it comforted Sam. He was so used to studying when someone else was cleaning weapons that he had a rag soaked in gun oil on his desk during finals’ week.

--Learning How to Fly, by faithburke, (gen, Stargate: SG-1 crossover)


Having emptied the pack, Dean next started dumping out the contents of his many, many pockets. A pile of spare clips and assorted knives joined a radio, a couple of stun and smoke grenades, and a flashlight. Sam sorted through the knives, looking for one with the right weight and balance when Dean, who hadn't made so much as a sarcastic comment, let out a half-curse, half-reverent exhalation.

“What? What is it?” The knives were forgotten; curiosity carried a far sharper edge.

Dean held up a half-brick of clay. No; not clay-

“C-4.” Dean swallowed. His face was impassive, but Sam knew his brother well enough to tell that he was suppressing the urge to grin like a maniac.

“These guys really take 'be prepared' to a whole new level.” Sam remarked wryly, looking askance at the unassuming-looking brick.

“They're definitely not Boy Scouts,” Dean grinned, and the smile- as quick and bright as a slice of lightning – subtly rearranged his features into something unfamiliar. “Guess it's up to us to save the day, huh?”

“Aren't you a little short for a storm-trooper?” Sam responded half a second later.

“Oh, fuck you very much,” Dean grumbled, turning his attention back to the supplies strewn on the ground, but Sam felt himself relaxing, just a little.


Even with the spaceships trying to blow everything to hell and back, he felt oddly optimistic. He frowned and gave his head a little shake. They were stuck in a TV show by an extremely capricious deity with a cruel sense of humor. They didn't know where they were, didn't know what they were going up against, and were seriously outgunned...by spaceships. There was nothing in that that implied good times. And then there was the little matter of the apocalypse waiting for them if they did manage to survive.

“Have fun storming the castle,” he muttered to himself.

--Syndicated Sci-Fi Show, by claudiapriscus, (gen, Stargate SG-1 fusion)


And that's why Dean's not going to give into those puppy dog looks that Sam thinks he hides so well. He's not going to do a damned thing to jeopardize Sam's future. Too many people have tried to steal it already -- Dean'll be damned before he joins their ranks. He's going to get Sam a home and a chance and if Dean can do that, if he can just give Sam enough, enough runway to take off with, he'll consider his life a success.

--As Through a Glass and Darkly, by lexicale (Sam/Dean)


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