#I wrote a wincest thing

[loversofthegrave]

teenage sammy grappling with his intolerable attachment to his big brother one shot<3

1998, South Carolina

Summer hits full on like a hammer, shrivelling the last spring grass into whiskers of pale straw. John has them situated this time in South Carolina in the middle of a buttfuck nowhere trailer park. Sam huffs out a whoosh wafting a strand of his shaggy, greasy hair and scuffs his knock-off beat up converse into the dry dirt, the path leading up into their new home for the next week or two.

John recites his customary speech, Dean nods, ‘Yes sir’ as Dean always does. He’s John more often than dad these days. John gave Sam a name when he was born then left, like a background actor in a movie, cut from the film roll. The rumble of the impala and he’s gone.

Spider plants hang from pots on the wide trailer porch. Chipped ceramic ornaments of butterflies and lizards were placed outside. Inside, the shabby floral wallpaper and checkered armchair. The tattered cotton curtains blowing gently, and the cross hung on the wall, wonky. It was like a polaroid from the 70s, all orange hues and clashing patterns.

“What a dump,” he said gritting his teeth.

“It’s not so bad,” Dean shrugs “Kinda cozy,”

Dean’s eyes like hawks observing their new home, finding quick exits, salting the windows and doors. Safety first, look out for Sammy, like the good toy solider that he is.

Sam knows Dean can’t help it, the urgency, the attentiveness, to keep safe, guard his little brother. Sam would be lying if he said he wouldn’t want it any other way, he hopes it’s a two-way street.

Truth is, being in each other's pocket is all they’ve ever known. Dean is Sam’s brother as much as he is his only friend, his father, his mother, all rolled into one. Dean's hands being a caress and a fumbling worry of a mother’s. Dean who changed Sam’s diapers, who soothed teething pains with nimble fingers, tender rocking's and forgiving scoldings. It was all him, not a woman with satin blonde hair and porcelain skin nor the man with the grief-stricken furrowed brows and whiskey sighs. No, it was the kid with the goofy grin and the shoulders weighed down heavy with more liability than a kid should ever know, now turned leather jackets and calloused hands, felon fingers, summers caress dotted upon the bridge of a nose. Summer has always been extra generous to him, he thought, kind of face that weighs heavy on a teenage boys heart.

Looking at Dean is like hallucinating like looking through the lenses of kaleidoscope, soft orange and pink hues from the sun dipping into the horizon of the late summer dusk framing his head like an angel but an angel in the flames. An angel that could be Gabriel but an angel that could be Lucifer too, like he would readily delve into the deep, dark hell as he would fly up to the lofty, illuminated places. And Dean would for Sam.

Dean was Sam’s first everything, and it’s no surprise Sam would want that forevermore.

Sam can’t help it, this craving, it’s insatiable, like an itch irritating him under new stretched teenage skin. If he itches and itches, scratches with blunt anxious bitten nails until he draws blood. But the blood he revels in, the curving, cutting and slaughtering himself to fit into the groove of Dean’s heart, he would do anything, and he knows Dean would do the same but not in the ways Sam yearns for. Sam knows, he knows it’s twisted, he knew as soon as he was enrolled in school and how not everyone else feels that way about brothers. But he doesn’t care, not when Dean is the only grace he was given in his world of destruction and ruin, his pure drop in an ocean of chaos. Damn it if the lord doesn’t forgive him, heaven and hell are just words to a hopeless boy like Sam. When his brother looks at him, he decides to wage holy war.

But Dean doesn’t know, not really, he knows Sam loves him but no more, no less, too frightful Sam would scare him fiercely, that he would leave Sam here, loose his grace, and what is Sam without his grace? Just an empty vessel, an angel damned from heaven, forever. Think he’s sick, corrupt, disgusting. Only Sam can be the one to know this about himself, swallow the key if he must. He tries his best to shelter away these parts from Dean, distancing ever so slightly, it just makes the craving worst, he thinks, withdrawal.

So, he lives with Dean, in his shadow. Watches him, envies him, wants to be him, wants to be with him, under him. Watches him waltzing around the kitchen with sultry hips after this week's easy fuck. Probably some white trash bimbo Sam thinks harshly, doesn’t know what it truly means to have him, a boy, a man, like Dean. He goes for anything with legs and a mouth in a 1-mile radius, puts it out to anything, anyone but Sam.

“You stink Dean,” Sam mumbles under his breath

“That’s the smell of champions Sammy” Dean grins, easy and careless, throwing a wink over his shoulder. Sam shoots daggers into his back.

This is their dance, Dad goes on a hunt for a couple of weeks, Dean and Sam are holed up in a shack and they pretend that this is their normal, habit, but it’s not, they we’re and forever born in motion. Dean enrols Sam into the local (another) high school, Dean gets a short-term job working with his hands to hold them over until Dad gets back, this time at the garage. They make small talk with strangers when necessarily and act according to their roles, relocates the suspicious eyes on Sam’s stitched up hand me down t-shirts and Deans violet blooming bruises from training and hunts, keeps social services off their back. But they fit in OK around this truckers town so Sam holds it rigid, this vexation, lewdness, this jealousy brimming. Puberty is fucked, Sam likes to blame it on that.

~

It’s Friday, the shutters of the trailer are open and wide. Sam’s in makeshift shorts that were once jeans that he cut at the knees one town ago. The radio is static, and The Mama’s & The Papa’s is being carried through the thick-cut air, ‘you've got everything I need, and nobody can please like you, you baby and who believes that my wildest dreams and my craziest schemes will come true?’

Sam’s growth spurt mixed with food stamp fed spindly legs are propped up on the coffee table barefoot, toes wiggling, as he shovels spoonfuls of store brand cornflake knock offs in his mouth. Dean comes in wafting of oil and summer sweat after being outside tinkering with the ford pick-up truck Dad sorted out with a local hunter before he briskly left. He slaps the bottom of Sam’s foot with his greasy rag. Sam grunts.

"Up and at 'em or you're gonna be late" Dean lectures, parenting.

Sam rucks on an old 1975 Black Sabbath tour shirt that used to be Dean's that used to be Dads, now faded grey and bobbling. Pokes his feet into socks with his right toe sticking out of the hole, laces up his shoes and climbs into the passenger seat of the pick-up. Dean drops Sam off at the Pine Springs High and told him he'd pick him up, told him to ‘give ‘em hell’.

Pine Springs High was full of scraggy kids, Beavis and Butt-head boys, girls busty and leggy. Sam befriends one friend, a skinny freckled boy with thick rimmed glasses. His name is Davey. They were sat next to each other in science, dissecting a frog. Sam figures cutting open this frog is harder than the ghouls they slaughter. What did this frog ever do to anyone? Davey was informing Sam on the anatomy, pointed out the chambers of the heart, the ventricle. He seemed interested in trying to impress Sam with how smart he was. "You know a lot," stated Sam.

He smiled. He was a boy who wanted to be seen. Sam suspects with certainty he’s not in these careless halls of teenagers reeking of hormones and wariness of social status.

High school is not as gentle with kids like Sam and Davey. But Sam can tackle it, give as good as he gets. That’s what he’s been trained to do, what their dad trained him to do, those sparring sessions with Dean every other day doesn’t go to waste, as much as Sam likes to grumble and whine. The decomposition ghost of a girl in a tatty white dress with fine needlepoint lace trimmings from the 1820’s has more oomph in her thump than any of these teenagers.

Even in a Gas-mart town like this one full of greasy kids with dirty fingernails Sam still is stared at by clusters of kids. Maybe it’s the adequate collection of bruising on his body from said sparring and Victorian decomposition, or maybe it’s the fact he’s an outsider (he’s always the outsider) but Sam doesn’t mind. Cleanliness and godliness are deceptive, he’d rather wear his wounds, his ugliness. No fooling, he was torn and stitched.

~

Dean picks Sam up, sees the mop of brown hair and downcast face amongst the sea of chattering high-spirited kids. It reminds Dean of when he encouraged him to go to a classmate's birthday party in kindergarten, timid little Sammy protested but Dean encouraged his little brother to go, nervy on all he was missing out growing up. When Dean went to pick him up at McDonald's he spotted him, dejected, eyes glazed over. Other children around him screaming and sliding into pits filled with coloured balls. It splintered Dean to his core.

When Sam is in arm reach Dean tousles Sam's hair, and he gets a whack of the hand and a gruff in response.

“How’d it go Sammy?” Dean asks, hefting himself up into the driver's seat.

“Fine.” Sam replies, quick, sharp. “And it’s Sam,” he stresses.

Dean doesn’t know what it is these days but there’s a slight ache, a gnawing. Sam used to look at Dean like he hung the stars just for him. That Dean was God’s own reflection but now there’s a distance, an interspace and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. At first, he thought maybe it’s teenage hormones or pheromones or whatever the fuck, but Dean never remembers being that sulky as a teenager. Maybe he never got the chance. When he tries to touch Sam, he flinches, scurries away like he just spooked a rodent. Used to revel in it, they practically grew up in each other's arms. Was still sharing a bed in the motels until two years ago.

Dean would never admit it out loud to him, but he misses Sam. Misses that constant comfort of touch and affection.

They stop off at a local diner on their way back to the trailer park, Sam questions if they have enough money for the month to eat out, Dean tells him not to worry. All wooden panels, red and white checkered table clothes, a sign that reads, ‘lumber jack pancake special for $5.95!’ Dean eyes it up, breakfast at dinnertime, their lives never have rhythm or reason anyways. They slide into a booth of worn leather, Sam on one side, Dean on the other.

Sam orders a panini with ham and cheese and fries, Dean the lumber jack pancakes. When they arrive by a shy petite waitress with inky dark eyes and blushing blotted cheeks, Dean swipes a fry off Sam’s plate just to receive another swat. Any touch is better than no touch, bad attention better than none.

Sam doesn’t miss the way the waitresses' eyes linger on Dean’s profile. If he shoots a frosty glare her way Dean doesn’t have to know.

~

The sun with no forgiveness, a parched sky, the hillsides with purple wilting drifts of milkweed, dotting the cracks of the gas-station and garage. It was Saturday, Sam was at the garage while Dean worked. Tucked in a corner sheltered from the suns ruthless beat with his library copy of Catcher In The Rye he couldn’t return when John dragged them out of the motel inn at dawn a town back. Sam said he felt guilty, Dean told him to stop being such a law-abiding citizen.

He gazed at Dean, could smell his sweat, sharp and strong, a man, Sam’s brain applied helpfully. He was wearing overalls, wiping workman sweat from his forehead. Sam wanted to lick him, taste the salt and summer kissed skin. He knows he’s disgusting. At this rate Sam thinks he should stab his eyes out, so he can’t look. Burn his skin off, so he can’t touch.

~

The next Sunday, Sam sleeps in late. He finds Dean slouched on the floral couch, stretched out like a housecat watching TV. It’s always a rarity to see him in a relaxed stance, undisturbed, a recess to the constant chaos of their lives. It settles something steady and peaceful within Sam with just a hint of sadness. He mumbles a drowsy good morning and trudges to the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

He pisses in the toilet, sluggish, holds himself up steady with a hand against the tiles. The splash of his piss hitting the water too loud in the quiet murmur of their trailer.

Washing his hands, he moseys around in the medicine cabinet above the sink. Inside, aimless trinkets left behind by previous owners. Tweezers with a single gemstone on them, antibiotic ointment, outdated eyedrops.

Sam finds a small capsule behind an empty bottle of aspirin. He reaches for it, revealing a lipstick, the cheap kind you pick-up at Walmart for $5.

He holds it in his hand, stares. Turns it in his palm, opens the lid with a subtle click and rotates the base.

The lipstick itself is a cherry red, obscene kind of red. The type he sees on hookers lingering around the corners at motels when he slips out at dusk to buy Dr Peppers from the vending machine with the quarters Dean made him pocket.

The garish fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, whirring like insects as he watches them showcasing their chests and unveiled legs. They always look cold, Sam thinks.

Sam looks up and scans his face in the mirror, holds the lipstick close to his nose, sniffs it. It smells like wax and chemicals, half suspected it to smell like strawberries and an angel's kiss or something, screws his nose up.

Without much reflection he smears the cherry red lipstick onto his lips, it's messy and askew not as neat as he sees on the girls in Dean's skin mags. He sets down the lipstick onto the sink and looks at himself, really looks.

The glaring red on such a boyish face like Sam's feels lewd and indecent. He feels slightly silly, embarrassed, his cheeks stain a weak scarlet. He wonders what others would think of him like this, Dean, his dad.

God, dad would probably be appalled, call him a sissy, punish him by making him do triple the training. Make him run for miles under the blazing sun.

But Dean, what would Dean think of his little brother like this? If Sam just waltzed right out of the bathroom now and stood dead in the line of Dean's vision. Would he stammer? Get all flustered and struck-dumb? Would he look at Sam and think of him as those girls he promenades to the impala, the motel room when he thinks Sam's asleep and not hanging onto every grunt and sigh coming from Dean's throat. Stores them in the hollow of his heart, imprinted on it just as sacred as the Holy Bible is to a priest.

Would he want to tenderly caress the shape of his mouth, smear the lipstick, make Sam looked wrecked? He inspects the long plains of his body, like scorched landscape, bronzed from June’s boldness.

Sam’s been trying to get used to it, his recasting body. Finally losing his baby fat, almost catching up to Dean in height much to Dean’s dismay. Just he doesn’t carry the newly stretched limbs well, feels like a puppet and someone else is yanking the strings. He hasn’t thought about it much, how others perceive him, how Dean perceives him.

Sure, Sam’s had his first kiss and fumbled under a girl's shirt in Indiana last year, let him touch her boobs. She wore lots of eyeliner, wore black bulky boots and liked Alice In Chains. Sam creamed his pants as soon as he got a soft plump handful, she didn’t seem to mind so he tried not to feel too embarrassed. He couldn’t wait to tell Dean (lied to a reasonable measure) for him to be proud of him. Dean let Sam have his first beer after he told him, “Since you’re a man now,” Dean announced, “Don’t tell Dad,” He winked. Sam never tells John their secrets.

But other than that, he’s a bit clueless, still bashful when girls look his way. Isn’t fabricated like Dean, heavied bottom lip into effortless grin that make’s girls drop and fractures their porcelain hearts, little unconsciously brutal but never intentional to be so. Sam would let Dean smash him into smithereens, shards of broken ceramic all over the tiles, if he’d wanted.

He thinks about the woman who supposedly left the lipstick here, he decides it’s an older woman, barefoot in a simple dress in the tail end of summer, her feet and the palms of her hands showed pale pink against her sunburnt skin, looked ornamental. He decided she had many lovers, wore it for them, wonders if Dean would be one. Wonders what she would think finding out a gawky teenage boy was trying on her bygone lipstick.

Wonders what it would be like to wear this for Dean, his lover.

Dean compulsive, gluttonous with the want of Sam, gushing his hands over the sides of his body, the pull of his rutting teenage hips. The neediness he sometimes gets in that platonic brotherly way bordering on hysteria whenever Sam’s hurt. All his senses submerged entirely by Dean Dean Dean, his touch, his smell, his hot breath.

Sam shoves a frantic hand down his pyjama pants and briefs, wrenches his dick with crazed tugs. Comes that exact same time there’s rough banging on the door, Dean shouting, “Come on Sam, you’ve been in there forever!” rattling the door with his presence.

Sam leaps, grimacing at the mess he made in his pants, swiping a towel and cleaning himself up in rapid motions. Rubs off the lipstick with the back of his hand, scouring his mouth.

“You jerking off in their little brother?” Dean calls out, muffled slightly through the thick wood of the bathroom door, amusement laced in his tone.

When Sam is sure he’s cleansed himself of any misdemeanours and removed all crucial evidence he swings the door open and shoulders past Dean muttering, “No Dean, I wasn’t jerking off.” How much of that Dean believes is out of his control. He pockets the lipstick.

#I wrote a wincest thing #teenchesters #should i write more #i did write a whole story to this like 13k words but I didnt like it much in the end but #here is a snippet #sammy pov figuring his feelings for his brother out #wincest #wincest one shot #weecest #weecest one shot #wincest fanfic #supernatural #spn #sam/dean #sam winchester #dean winchester #pre series sam/dean

[balladofthevisibleboy]

#wincest #hey i wrote a thing #poetry #original poem #sam winchester pov #stanford angst #samdean #deansam #weecest #poem #poets on tumblr

[hellhoundlair]

hiiiii happy wincest wednesday!! what episode do you think has the most canonical wincest?

NEVER FORGET!!!

"canonical wincest" will always be hard to point to, because of course in canon their relationship is platonic (the sheer intensity of their love nonwithstanding.) HOWEVER... the way sex and violence plays with the boundary of familial love and desire is fucking ..... idk Its fucking!

#feel stupid for adding the ''there is no canonical wincest'' disclaimer bc yeah u know. u watched the show. #but i just hate the feeling that im undermining sam and deans platonic relationship AS platonic #bc i feel like its huge! theyre platonic! theyre soulmates! partners! theyre crazy for each other ready to kill and die for each other! #the LENGTHS they go to for that love! they love harder than any 2 people ever have! and its not even bc they wanna bone! WHAT!!!! #like wincest is fun u guys know i like it ofc i do but in CANON theyre already so in love just in a no sex way. and thats beautiful #the part where theyre fucking and sucking in the fandom is good for my incest kink tho 👍 #btw did u know that if u press ctrl z while typing a paragraph on tumblr desktop it just deletes the whole thing images included #and when u press ctrl y to get it back the images go back. but the text. everything u wrote. doesnt. hahahahahhahahaha. #ww

[tongjingnian]

After Sam had a child, he went to Dean's cenotaph to drink with him (although he had been reluctant to give his brother a hunter's funeral for a long time, in the end, he gave in and let him go).

He got drunk at some point and started crying, regretting that he hadn't preserved Dean's body. He wanted to tear up his brother's grave, dig his brother's corpse out, and resurrect it, even though there was nothing in it. He thought about it and then actually started digging but eventually fell asleep because he was so tired and couldn't sleep well the whole time without Dean.

He started dreaming. They were back in their twenties, hunting demons - "just you and me against the world." There were no angels or demons, only the two of them driving the Impala down the street on an endless road trip on the burning asphalt road in the summer.

Then Dean died. Sam couldn't revive him. He woke up in a panic in the bunker and ran to his brother's room to check if he was still in one piece. Dean woke up to the sound of the door opening and asked Sammy what was wrong. Sam said that he dreamed that Dean was dead, then Dean assured him that it was not true and asked Sam to get into his bed and sleep with him. They ended up in the spoon position.

Sam fell asleep peacefully, and when he opened his eyes, it turned out that he had been sleeping, leaning on his brother's grave for a long time. He could still feel the dried tears on his face. But it was more like he had a sweet dream than lost the one he loved so deeply that it hurt because he hadn't been able to sleep deeply for a lifetime. Except for his stiff neck and aching waist from sleeping crookedly, it was all perfect. A year after Dean died, Sam rarely dreamed of his brother, so it was nice to be able to see him again no matter what.

Then he stood up and filled the hole he had dug yesterday with his feet because his hands were bleeding from digging. He didn't want the soil to look dirty from the blood (he's impure, he has to be) when refilling it. He patted Dean's tomb twice, looked at it for a while, then turned around and drove away.

Prompt: I dreamed that my lover was dead and cried to the point of breaking my heart. Then I woke up and found that it was just a dream. I lay on the bed, being patted on the back by my lover to comfort me. I shrank into his arms and held him while crying for a long time. Inexplicably, I felt that his body temperature was getting colder. When I opened my eyes, I realized that I had fallen asleep holding my lover's tombstone.

I'm bored cuz I'm on a trip but it's raining heavily outside, then I recall I wrote this thing yesterday and my friend literally cried over this so I decide to translate it into English and share it with you😉 bear with me if there are grammar errors, already run through grammarly but i doubt it's completely correct

& here's the original version i put on my sms if you wanna know:

#supernatural #dean winchester #sam winchester #wincest #established wincest #established relationship #spn 15x20 #post 1520 #carry on #not actually a fic i guess #just brief description #but i enjoy it #😉😉😉 #i wrote so many of these things in Chinese #i think i need to translate them ALL #i promise all of them are interesting

[jinkieswouldyoulookatthis]

The Same Blood

A ficlet for @wincestwednesdays July 12th prompt Blood:

_______________ 🩸 _______________

They had so many things that were the same, they should have had the same blood, right?

They had the same parents. Both lost their mom too young and had to deal with what that did to their dad as much (if not more) than what it did to them. They grew up watching each other’s backs. Living in the same rooms, eating the same food, seeing the same sights (although they often remembered them differently). They shared the same clothes more often than not (whether or not they fit properly). They were both trained to know the same things, and had strengths that complimented and compensated for the other.

They learned to drive the same car. The same car that was the closest thing to an actual home they’d ever had. And while neither of them had actually lost their virginity in that car, they had both had sex in it (so had their parents, but that was best not to think about). 

They were both legendary (which still felt weird) hunters of the supernatural, their names spoken in hushed voices by both monsters and fellow hunters alike. Both were legacy Men of Letters (although Sam fit that role better). They had both broken seals that had released the devil upon the world and as a plague upon their own lives. Both had been possessed by archangels and had managed to re-take control of themselves again (with considerable help from the other). Both had saved countless lives, and were responsible for countless deaths. They had been to Heaven together, to Hell together, and both had even been to Purgatory (although those had been separate trips). 

They’d shared everything that two people could share. They knew each other’s scars, moles, freckles, eyes, smells… tastes. They’d consumed each other’s breath, spoken words that never moved the air but were heard loud and clear regardless. Spoke each other’s name in jest, and anger, and guilt, and pride, and shame. Whispered it like a prayer. Sighed it gently like a caress. Shouted it in fear and horror. Understood all the meanings it carried and understood, above all else, that it carried devotion.

They had faced so much together and for each other, to save each other, that it really didn’t seem right or fair (or even okay) for their blood to be different. It seemed like brothers who shared so much should have the same blood. 

But Dad had type AB blood and Mom was type O. So, of course, one of them had gotten the A type from John while the other had gotten B. They couldn’t donate to each other which was inconvenient at the best of times, but at the worst… Well, reality should have to pay the price for one of them bleeding out while the other desperately raced to get them to a hospital. That something as mundane as a transfusion should be denied to them when all other realms of possibilities were accessible with the right ingredients, the right words, the proper sigils and signs. Something about that seemed unforgivably cruel because bleeding out was a common hazard of the job they did, the job the universe insisted they do. 

They had worn each other’s blood so many times, too many times, how had it not seeped in? They’d cradled each other’s corpses, sobbed and wailed, and bargained and begged… threatened and killed to bring the other back. 

They’d died together too, not just apart, but side by side, shot in the chest. That one was, perhaps, the best, if not the last. It was best because they’d been together and because it was then they’d learned that they shared a heaven. Ash had said that was unusual and dropped the “S” word. So, of course their heaven was the same because their heaven was each other, how could it have been any other way? Heaven wasn’t heaven without him, after all. 

Together they were unstoppable, and would never let something as trivial as their blood keep them apart.

_______________ 🩸 _______________

Okay, I took liberties with the blood types since we only know John's (as far as I'm aware)

#wincest wednesday #wincest #wincest drabble #mine #I wrote a thing

[applecrumbledore]

Fic: He talked like you (timestamp)

sam/dean, 5k. tw: underage, recreational drugs, recreational f-slur. sam/OMC + wincest pining

This is a timestamp from Human hands, a fic in which Sam mentions that his first time was with a friend of Dean's when Dean was in high school.

I wrote to get it out of my head, then realized I don't want to actually post it, but it seemed like a waste to not post it anywhere, so I'm posting it here, even though it's way too long to be a tumblr fic.

Sam took the joint Eric offered him and Eric gave him an approving look, a wordless 'attaboy.' Sam was not immune to 'attaboy.' He had, in fact, made the worst decisions of his life in the wake of that specific brand of older-boy peer pressure, via Dean.

Read below, also in a gdoc here.

The RV was, in John's defense, close to a national park. In John's not-defense, it wasn't parked in the quiet, verdant paradise of the park, it was parked at the curb across from a self-storage compound and down the street from an industrial laundromat.

The RV had two rooms, three if you counted the bathroom. They found it for sale in the classifieds, and John didn't buy it so much as traded a stolen car for it. It hadn't been a great six months, financially.

Sam was laying on the sagging tweed sofa-seat with a makeshift heat pack, a tube sock filled with rice, tied with an elastic band at one end and microwaved until hot. For the past week, his back had been aching worse than any of his growing pains thus far, it felt like he was going to split in two down his spine and across his shoulders, and it didn't help whether he curled or arched or how he lay. The heat helped a little. The heat was also awful, because it was late August and it had been scorching all week, hot well into the night, and he was sweating into the couch.

It was after ten and Dean was still out. That wasn't too weird, those days; Dean had made friends in this little town the way he hadn't in others, and he was never home. That wasn't the case a few years ago, and Sam felt pathetic about how badly he wanted to go back to how things used to be. 

Three years ago, Dean seemed a million years older than him, he was a teenager with all the exciting bells and whistles that came with that. Back then, Dean didn't mind hanging out with him. If he went to the creek with kids from his class, Sam would go with him, and if he didn't, Dean was home by seven and they'd have dinner together and watch a movie or play cards. 

Then, overnight it seemed, Dean was sixteen and then seventeen, and all he wanted to do was drink and smoke and chase girls. Those were things it was lame to bring your little brother along for, so he didn't. So, Sam was left alone, now old enough to make his own dinner, and he had an infinite amount of time to think about this weird creature in the place where his big brother used to be.

Now Sam was thirteen-and-a-half, and the whole thing wasn't so much of a mystery. He knew what sex was. He knew that his brother, despite his endless heart, could be kind of an asshole. The confusion melted away into awkwardness and a misplaced sense of betrayal.

It also left something else in its wake, that only came out while he was trying to sleep, or when he was laying on the couch with a heat pack. A horrible, Dean-centric feeling that made it torture to be alone with his thoughts. He didn't know what to call it, only that it was like jealousy but different. 

Well. He was pretty sure he knew what to call it, but he didn't want to.

He unstuck his back from the couch again. It was down at the far end of the trailer, boxed in on both ends like a booth. If he stuck his leg out, he could touch the table, and the sticky vinyl booth that surrounded it. If he stuck his leg out the other way, he hit the small, ancient TV they bungee-strapped to the narrow ledge under the window. The floor was covered in dirty clothes (both of theirs) and beer cans (Dean's). Everything stunk in the heat.

He heard voices first, one of which was unmistakably Dean's, talking and guffawing down the street outside. Sam groaned preemptively—he hated when Dean brought people back to whatever shithole they were living in. Dean milked the whole 'our dad's never home, no one tells us what to do' bit to its fullest extent, and Sam always wondered whether he genuinely didn't notice the flicker of pity on his friends' or girls' faces when they looked around and saw the mess and the poverty, or if he was just pretending not to see.

The whole trailer rocked as they climbed in, the screen door squealing protest. Dean, as always, surreptitiously scuffed his sneaker through the salt line at the threshold to scatter it beyond detection.

Sam smelled the beer on him instantly. He regretted not pretending to be asleep in the bedroom.

Dean stopped in the doorway to pry his shoes off as his eyes found Sam on the couch.

"Sup, dork. You're up late."

Dean's omnipresent denim jacket was gone in the summer heat and his arms were sunburnt to a salmony pink past the sleeves of his faded black tee. His nose was also burnt, and freckled beyond belief. His hair had gone nearly blond with the sun over the past few months. His lips were dry.

Before Sam could answer ("It's a free trailer"), a pale hand shoved Dean from behind and he pitched forward, cackling and swinging his fist blindly backwards.

Dean's friend Eric ducked his head to get through the door behind him. "Move your ass."

Eric looked insane. He was half a head taller than Dean and built like a scarecrow, all angles, a sharp nose and hollow cheeks. His hair was a messy stack of black, and Sam had never seen him not wear black, which, along with his twiggy legs, made him look like a crow. But Eric's skinny looked cool and punk, where Sam felt like his own skinny was gawky and childish and weird. 

He was nice, as far as Dean's friends went. He acknowledged Sam's existence on several occasions, which was more than he could say about most of them.

Dean swatted at Eric as he pulled his boots off. When Eric straightened up, he looked at him and gave him a big, wolfish grin.

"Hey, Sam."

Not dork or nerd or bitch or Sammy, just Sam. Sam suppressed a little shiver and shuffled up on the couch.

"Hey."

Eric had a grocery store bag swinging from his wrist. As Dean slid into the table-booth, Eric took a six-pack from the bag, twisted a wet PBR out of the plastic rings and tossed it to him. He got out a second one and paused, then looked at Sam, then Dean, then back.

"Absolutely fucking not," Dean said, cracking his beer noisily. "Put 'em in the fridge, they taste like ass warm."

Eric gave Sam an 'oh well' look before putting the remaining beers in the fridge.

Sam was just grateful he didn't laugh at the sheer thought of giving Sam a beer. Dean mothered him and brothered him and managed to be the worst of both worlds: he cared about Sam's health and safety with an oppressive, smothering intensity, while also being kind of a bully. He knew Dean loved him, but whether he liked him was up in the air, because Dean loved him on autopilot. Dean loved his brother and tolerated Sam.

He knew, on some level, that this was a tragic thing for a thirteen-year-old to be aware of. At the start of the school year, two towns ago, a teacher told him, "You're incredibly self-aware for your age." He hadn't taken it as a compliment. His classmates didn't seem particularly self-aware, and they were way happier than him.

Dean had a talent of spreading out to fill all available space—something he did both literally and figuratively, taking up all the air in a room—and managed to sit on one side of the table-booth and also have his thigh on the other side, so Eric headed for the couch.

Sam hurriedly tucked up his feet to make space as Eric flopped down next to him. He was bigger close up. He smelled like beer and sweat and pond and/or river scum; they'd been outside, in the woods they habitually wasted time at. Sam stared at Eric's sharp, witchy profile.

Being in the same eye-line as Dean made him look startlingly masculine, his features being very much the opposite of Dean's long lashes, big doe eyes and lush mouth. Dean, despite his very best efforts to come across as gruff and hardened, was sunny and shiny and pretty even when he was half dead. Eric looked like he hadn't slept in a week, and when he did sleep, he slept in a coffin full of nails.

Maybe because he was so un-Dean, Sam found him kind of attractive. Was desperate to find him kind of attractive. 

Eric's eyes flicked to his and caught him looking. Sam wanted to throw himself off a cliff.

Dean pointed at Sam's heat pack laying over his stomach.

"You got cramps, Samantha?"

Sam whipped the heat pack at him. He missed, but it almost hit his beer. The way Dean fumbled to save the can told him it was far from his first.

Sam said, "Fuck you, my back feels like it's splitting in two."

Dean snorted and drank his beer. "Sucks to suck."

Dean didn't see it this way, but he shaped himself to fit situations. He read what people wanted from him and, perfectly fluid, he became that thing. He was a crass, slick cool guy around his friends, the perfect foil to his dorky little brother. He was a drill sergeant around their dad, like his only purpose in life was honing Sam into something faster, stronger, safer. And he was almost sweet when they were alone, when he asked Sam about his day and remembered his teachers' names and talked about movies and comic books like they were actually friends. If they were alone, he might have offered to microwave the heat bag again, or let him have a beer to get his mind off it.

It was annoying, but the many facets of Dean meant that there was a secret, special Dean that was just for him, that nobody else got to know. It was the best Dean, too.

Anyways, Sam didn't blame him for being two-faced. If anything, he was jealous. It was a survival mechanism, and they both did it—you pretended to know about things like daycare and grandparents and soccer practice firsthand and not just from TV. If you only wore plain black or white t-shirts, no one would know you only had two of them and not a closetful. Your scars were from playing around outside. You were 'outdoorsy.' Your dad was outdoorsy, too.

"So you're in Michelle's room," Eric said to Dean, picking up the thread of an earlier conversation. He moved his knees apart in an affected sprawl and his thigh touched Sam's foot. Sam had a hard time thinking about anything else.

"Oh, shit, right, so, okay." Dean finished his slurp of beer. "Okay, so, she invites me up, I forget what she said, something about showing me some picture of her at some gymnastics competition, I dunno."

"And her parents are gone."

"And her parents are gone," Dean confirmed, "and she's all over me, like, we're on the bed instantly, and she's on top of me."

Sam stared at the TV, which he'd forgotten was on. He wished it was something even halfway absorbing, but it was a nature documentary about prairie dogs and they didn't have a remote, and getting up would have drawn attention to himself, which was at odds with his main goal of sinking into the floor and disappearing completely.

"And she's like," Dean went on, pausing for another cartoonishly lewd slurp of beer, "soaking wet, I never felt anything like it, Jesus. Her gray panties were black, I could smell it."

Sam couldn't help it, he made a choked-off, upset-disgusted noise.

"God, shut up, Dean."

"It's a free trailer, prude! Go someplace else! Eric wants to hear it, right, man?"

Eric looked, if not interested, amused. He didn't seem as drunk as Dean. "Sure."

"See? Close your ears, Sammy."

And so Sam watched prairie dogs teach their young how to hunt while his brother described, in excruciating detail, going down on and then fucking some poor girl he wasn't going to call again.

At some point, Sam very carefully put a couch pillow over his lap. He didn't think either of them noticed.

Dean was nearly slurring his words by the end of his story, that final beer pushing him from stinking drunk to nearly blackout, and that was when Eric pulled out a joint. Eric was kind of a bad friend, Sam thought.

Dean said, "Hell yeah," clearly having other ideas about that. "That's what I love about you, man."

Eric smiled. "I'm always holding?"

"You're always holding."

It was none of Sam's business whether Dean got high, and frankly, he preferred it to when Dean was drunk. It made him spacey and laughy and sweet, boneless and moving slow.

Eric lit the joint as Sam watched, prairie dogs forgotten. Eric had a sharp jaw and a nice mouth. He was allowed look, it was the only movement in the room other than Dean trying to shake the last drops of beer out of his can and into his open mouth, and that made it the safer choice.

He watched Eric inhale and hold it and then let smoke pour out of his lips. Sam always liked the smell of weed, earthy and musty and sweet. Maybe it was some Pavlovian knowledge that smelling it meant Dean was in a good mood.

Again, Eric looked at him and hesitated with the joint.

"Dude," Dean barked. "You're so fucking weird, give it."

He made a grabby motion with his hand. Eric leaned over and gave it to him, but not before he rolled his eyes at Sam, like a private joke between them: this fucking guy, right? 

Sam's whole body flushed. Not getting the joint was secondary.

Sam watched Dean smoke, too. His chest got tight. Like watching a horror movie and yelling at the TV, Watch out! Don't go in there! Don't stare at your brother's mouth!

He wished he was still ten. He didn't do any of this when he was ten, didn't have to constantly slap himself on the wrist and police his eyes and hands and deal with his stomach rolling over things he wished he didn't understand.

Dean's eyes met his. Sometimes they did, when Sam was watching him, but he never called him out on it. It was the one thing he never made fun of, no 'like what you see' or 'take a picture it'll last longer.' Sam wondered—dangerously, dangerously—what that meant.

Dean passed the joint back to Eric and they did one more rotation. Then Dean put his head down on the table.

"Fuck, man, I'm tanked."

Eric laughed at him, all teeth. "Pussy."

"I gotta— sorry, dude, I'm gonna call it, I'm fucking wiped." He struggled out of the table-booth, looking about as bad as he sounded, stumbling and mealy-mouthed, but Sam had learned to appreciate the way Dean's sheen wore off. It helped. "You good to get home?"

"Always am."

Eric didn't move to get up. Sam noticed this, but Dean didn't seem to. He headed for their dark bedroom door, waving aimlessly back at them.

"We on for Thursday?"

Eric said, "You know it."

"Cool. Later."

Dean all but fell over the threshold into the bedroom, just barely kicking the door shut behind him before he went face down on the bed. The door didn't close all the way. Dean's feet disappeared from view as he scooted up the bed.

"He's a fuckin' character," Eric said, in a completely unreadable tone. Sam stared at the doorway.

"Uh-huh."

Eric laughed. "What, you don't get along? You seem alright."

"I dunno. It's weird."

"'Cause you live in an RV?"

"Kind of."

Sam wished the weirdest thing about his life was that he lived in an ancient RV with his brother and, only occasionally, his dad. He wished it was the weirdest thing about his relationship with Dean. It wasn't either.

"You don't like it when we talk about chicks," Eric said, so matter-of-fact. Sam wanted to fold back into the couch and have it eat him whole.

"I dunno," Sam said again, feeling stupid and young.

Eric just shrugged. He looked at the joint in his hand but didn't light it again.

"Yeah. I mean, I guess it's gross, it's your brother. I wouldn't wanna hear about my brother getting laid. That's nasty."

Sam spent a few luxurious seconds imagining what it would be like to have sex be a thing that was so far disconnected from your brother to the point of being gross. It was a beautiful concept.

"But," Eric started up, and Sam tensed, "not to like, philosophize at you or whatever, but you better learn to talk about girls."

He looked right at him, with his dark eyes. Hawkish features. Sam wanted to shrink away, but there was no couch left to shrink away into. Was he talking about what he thought he was talking about?

"Oh." Not sure what else to say.

Eric rubbed the back of his neck and slurped at his beer.

"I'm just saying, dudes notice if you don't talk about girls. I know it's with your bro, but I noticed, and you're like— you're, what, fifteen?"

Sam recalled a deeply morbid, deeply awkward conversation Dean had with him about a year ago, the thesis of which was 'don't trust a guy who asks how old you are.' Dean was talking about strangers and truckers and hunters when he said it, older guys with a syrupy smile and a glint in their eye, but now, hearing it from Eric, it just made Sam's heart ratchet up. Triple time. He was stupid.

"Yeah," he lied. Stupid.

"Right, yeah, fifteen, so. That's too late to not be talking about pussy, you know? If you liked pussy. Like, if you were into that." Another drink. "And I'm not saying you're not, I'm just. You know."

It was awkward, both waiting for the other to go first. Sam picked a scab on his knee; a sharp rock, sliding down an embankment a week ago. He could be brave.

"Can you tell?" he asked quietly.

It felt like falling out of a plane. Eric sighed like he'd been holding his breath, waiting for it.

"Yeah. Like, big-time."

Sam wiped his palms on his shorts. How could anyone know if he didn't know? Did the kids at school know? Did Dad?

"Shit."

"Sorry. Just giving you a heads up."

"Does Dean know?"

"About… you? Uh. I dunno. He never said anything to me. The guy's not, uh… he doesn't pay attention."

That pause before you, that questioning intonation. Sam's heart was fully gone, taking off for the horizon. 

"Does he know about you?" he asked.

He winced, expecting a shout or a fist in his face. You didn't ask a guy that, you didn't suggest it, you didn't even suggest suggesting it.

But, Eric seemed nice. Eric was helping him out. Sam had no idea how to do any of this.

Eric looked at him for a while, moving his jaw back and forth.

"Nah. I'm not stupid." Eric looked down at the joint, rolled it in his fingers, then got out his lighter. "S'not just me, though, your bro's a fag magnet. He doesn't know it, but. Ain't a guy we hang with who doesn't wanna stick it to him at least a little bit. We don't say, but."

That made Sam sick to think of: the lies, the however-many guys that Dean thought were his friends, but they just wanted to— wanted—

Was he one of them? Was he a guy like that? He was lying to Dean the same way. He wanted to throw up.

"Oh," he said again.

Eric squinted at him. "Don't tell him I said that."

"I won't! Jeez."

But he would have, if he thought they were staying for longer than another month. Dean would be furious and grossed out and, worse, he'd know Sam was talking about him behind his back. He'd wonder why him and Eric were talking about liking guys.

Sam realized all of a sudden that this was the first time he'd ever talked about liking guys, maybe even to himself. His head was pounding.

Eric brought the joint to his lips. The sweet, herbsy smell filled the trailer again and Sam just watched. Eric looked blissed out. He looked good. 

"But," Eric added, extending a finger in the air like he was making some important point, "for a straight dude, he sure gets handsy when he's drunk."

This was, officially, either the best or worst conversation Sam ever had. His mind was racing, horribly remembering that he already knew that about Dean, his noogies and shoulder squeezes and an arm thrown around his neck when he got home late and loose. He hadn't thought of it as handsy. It made a sick jealousy crawl up the back of his throat to think that anyone else got to be on the receiving end of it.

God, he had to figure out how to tell Eric to go home, it was too much.

Just then, Eric's knuckles bumped against his arm. He jumped. Eric was holding the joint out to him.

Sam froze. A thousand thoughts all at once: stupid, Dean's gonna know, this is weird, you don't know him, he's cute, he's so cute, he's Dean's friend, he's so much like Dean, grow up, it's fine, what good is being smart if you're still so fucking stupid?

He took the joint and Eric gave him an approving look, a wordless attaboy. Sam was not immune to attaboy. He had, in fact, made the worst decisions of his life in the wake of that specific brand of older-boy peer pressure, via Dean.

He took a hit the way he'd seen them do it. It was scratchy and hot in his lungs, musty and grassy. He tried to exhale and instantly started coughing, his eyes streaming, hand blindly groping to give the joint back to Eric, who was laughing.

"This isn't your first time, is it?"

"No," Sam managed quickly, furiously wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "Dean and I smoke all the time."

He wished. If Dean denied it, Eric wouldn't know which of them was lying to sound cool.

Eric just shrugged and nodded. He was looking at the TV. The documentary about prairie dogs was over and now it was something about World War II, some monotonous narrator and black and white footage. 

Why wasn't Eric leaving? Did he not have somewhere to go? They sure as hell couldn't fit him in the trailer. Was Dean supposed to wake up and rally?

Sam guessed he was starting to feel it. He felt gauzy and weird, hyper aware of the texture of the couch under his hands as he scratched his nails against it. He didn't know what he expected. It didn't feel like on TV, when people laughed at nothing and fell down.

"Does this thing pull out?" Eric asked, looking down at the couch and bouncing a little. 

"No."

"Then where do you sleep?"

Beyond humiliating, every time this came up. Dean was better at talking around it than he was, most of his friends were nice enough not to ask.

When he didn't answer, Eric's eyes flicked past his head to the dark bedroom. It was obvious just looking through the wedge of open doorway that it was the size of a closet.

All Eric said, after a beat, was, "Weird."

The older they got, the weirder it would be that they shared a bed, and the more embarrassing it was that they were so poor they didn't have a choice.

The tiny, horrible, secret thought that Sam kept to himself, with such vicious fervor that he wasn't even sure if he really thought it, was that he was glad that his height and constant increase of that height meant it would be inhumane for him to ever sleep on the couch.

(About once a month, he woke up with Dean's hand somewhere on him—on his shoulder or arm or resting on his chest, his fingers loosely curled in sleep—and it gave him something that got him through the following three weeks.)

"Yeah," Sam agreed.

He hoped the primary takeaway was 'man, these guys are poor' and not the other thing. He didn't think many people's minds would go to the other thing.

His thoughts spooled out. He felt heavy and tired, nice, empty. He didn't know how long they sat there, he just stared at the TV without really watching it. They were showing tanks rolling through the European countryside and it was freaking him out a little but getting up to change the channel seemed impossible. The night had finally cooled off, but he still felt sweat roll down the back of his neck.

He realized at some point that Eric's knee was up against his. He didn't know how long it had been there or if he was the one to close the gap. So embarrassing if it was him. Eric's bony knee with his black jeans, his own, smaller and scuffed and bare below the hem of his blue basketball shorts. 

He looked up. Eric was leaned back into the couch, the picture of relaxation, except he was looking at him. He didn't know how long he'd been looking at him.

"What?"

Eric smiled. Sam's stomach flipped over again.

"You, uh. You look like him."

Huh? "What?"

"Dean."

Sam scowled. He hunched in and stared at the TV. "I do not."

He wasn't an idiot. He was in second grade the first time a girl asked him to introduce her to Dean. No one ever asked Dean to introduce them to him.

Eric said, "Yeah, you do. Same eyes and shit." A pause. "He a heavy sleeper?"

Eric shifted on the couch and now their whole thighs were pressed together.

Sam forgot to lie. "Only when he's drunk."

Eric nodded. Sam was looking at him now and he couldn't look away, paralyzed. His whole body was thrumming, partially stoned and partially turned on, he'd been half hard since Dean's story about his date and then he started thinking about that, Dean taking off some girl's panties, Dean's face between her legs, Sam hadn't met the girl he was talking about but he'd seen others and they were gorgeous, tall college girls who might as well have been alien for all Sam wasn't even on the same planet at them. It was insane that Eric said he looked anything like Dean because he'd know if he looked like Dean, people would like him the way they liked Dean, they'd let him— Don't think about Dean, think about Eric, think about—

Eric leaned in. He put his knuckles against Sam's thigh.

"You always stare at me. Whenever I'm around."

He smelled his beer and smokes and he had such nice skin close up, pale and unmarred. His eyebrows were brownish, he dyed his hair. Sam swallowed.

"Yeah."

"Yeah. So." Eric was looking at his mouth. "I stare at you, too."

That couldn't be right. This couldn't be real. Weed didn't make you hallucinate, right, could he be making this up? Guys like Eric didn't like him, they smoked cigarettes and drove cars and liked girls or guys like Dean, not stupid little kids.

"Oh," he said, and regretted it. Not cool, not smooth, Eric was gonna change his mind from wherever the hell he'd put it in the first place. "Really?"

"Yeah. You're hot."

It's like he was talking about someone else. He reached out and brushed his hand through Sam's hair and Sam shuddered at the feel of it, he was so weird and sensitive, it was like a bomb going off in his head, warm heat and pleasure just from Eric's fingers in his hair. 

Eric asked, "Can I kiss you?" and Sam thought that was pretty polite. No one had ever asked before. He couldn't think of a reason to say no.

He nodded, and Eric put his big hands on his face and kissed him, and kissed him, and kept kissing him until they started doing other stuff instead.

-

During it, Sam imagined Dean coming out of the bedroom and seeing them. He'd shout and beat the shit out of him but he'd see them, and he'd know that someone he liked, this friend, liked Sam enough to have sex with him. The fantasy tripped out of control; maybe Dean would push Eric aside and take over. Or join them. Whatever. Whatever it was, Dean would see him, and he'd know.

-

Dean didn't wake up. Eric left afterwards.

Sam crammed into the RV's tiny shower stall to wash under the lukewarm spray. His whole body felt hot and pounding, swollen and weird, sticky. He was still kind of stoned and his hands were clumsy. His heart wouldn't slow down. His only complete thought was: it was good to get it over with.

As the adrenaline dissipated, other thoughts came through. Dean would kill him if he found out. Eric asked him not to tell him, like Sam was that fucking stupid. He saw a future where Eric and Dean had some falling out and Eric threw it in Dean's face. Maybe it would come up that Sam lied about his age: Dean would say he's only thirteen and Eric would say he told me fifteen like that was any better at all, and then Eric would kill him if Dean hadn't already. 

The whole thing had been… good. It felt good, anyways. He was so quick he hardly remembered parts of it and he was blisteringly awkward, clumsy and bumpy, but Eric didn't seem like he cared. No one had ever seen him naked before and, importantly, now he wasn't a virgin anymore. He got it over with. It could have been worse. One of his knees had a friction burn on it from the couch and he couldn't think of a good lie to tell Dean if he noticed. 

He knew that Dean had been older than thirteen, his first time. Sam had no idea what to do with that information. Being proud of himself felt gross.

He crept into the bedroom, his heart thumping loud in his ears. He could see the shape of Dean on his side of the bed, shirtless in the heat and laying under only the thin top sheet.

Sam went around to his side of the bed and took his shorts off, kept boxers and t-shirt on; he worried he'd have marks from Eric's hands on his back, Dean had great night vision.

As soon as he got into bed, Dean turned his head to the side and mumbled, "Hey, baby," thick with sleep.

It was a term of endearment that only came out when Dean was very drunk, stoned, tired or hurt, usually appended into 'baby brother.' 'Baby brother' was bad enough, but left unattached the way it was then, it made Sam want to put his head in the oven.

Sam didn't respond. If he responded, he was baby. He couldn't let himself be baby.

Dean said, "Back still giving you trouble? I can get in there."

Dean gave him massages when the growing pains were bad, sitting on the couch with Sam's twiggy leg in his lap, absentmindedly working his calf with his strong hands as they watched TV. It was heaven.

"No." Sam's hands itched towards Dean in the dark. They stayed very firmly balled into fists. "Go to sleep."

Dean turned over. "Bossy."

Sam slid into bed next to him and stared up at the ceiling. Once Dean's breathing went slow and even with sleep, Sam turned his head and looked at him. His eyes traced the planes of his back and his big shoulders in the barely-there light from outside and he decided, once and for all, that there was something very, very wrong with him. The important thing was that Dean never found out.

#this was very much a 'wrote it for myself' thing but that always feels like a waste #no one will read 5k words on tumblr and that is fine #just go read the parent fic. I like it #wincest fic #weecest #roncillary

[sonofatoasterwaffle]

Chapters: 5/5 Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Underage Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Sam/Dean Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Additional Tags: Consensual Underage Sex, Wincest - Freeform, Weecest, teen!chesters, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, Pre-Series Sam Winchester, Oral Sex, Sex Toys, Bottom!Sam, Top Dean Winchester/Bottom Sam Winchester, Bottom Sam Winchester, brief mention of John - Freeform, Spanking Summary:

“He drags his fingers down Dean's neck, rubs gently at his collarbone. Dean loves that soft shit and nobody knows that better than Sam. He bends to get close to his brother's ear. "I want you to fuck me." Dean shudders; it makes Sam braver. "An' you always give me what I want, Dean."”

Dean refuses to fuck Sam until he's eighteen. It's not for Sam's lack of trying.

Title courtesy of The Story So Far

#i wrote a thing #for the first time in a very long time #it's filthy #have it #wincest #teen!chesters #wincest fic

[bring-mxre-knives]

thinking once more abt the time i saw an anti-rpf person reblog my poem abt writing freaky nasty frerard fic as a teenager with a tag like "cw rpf but it's a good poem tho" like. bestie. that poem literally *is* rpf. the entire book is. i think you might not actually be anti-rpf. wishing you love and light and a loss of shame.

#sorry to break it to anyone that the guy who wrote a whole book of self insert fanfiction abt gerard way is also a profic rpf fucker #but you should've seen it coming #if anyone ever finds my ao3 account its gonna be soooo over for me #(no i don't write mcr anymore) #(i am doing things that are so much worse) #anyway. guilt is for catholics #fanfiction is not ruled by ethics #moral grandstanding is lame #and richard siken has written wincest #should i tag this with my name #probably not #i am already tempting fate as it is #sorry i never come on here unless its to bitch about something

[glorious-spoon]

i think the funniest thing to witness as someone who was in supernatural fandom in the early days and hasn't been in many years is the discourse about wincest.

because like. i cannot emphasize enough how wincest in the pre-castiel days was treated as an absolutely bog-standard slash ship.

standard shippy tropes circa 2005-2009, indistinguishable from the way people wrote any other odd-couple ship of the era. the fact that the characters were brothers often didn't come up at all, and if it did it was often just not a big concern. if you weren't into it because of, you know, the incest thing, you were politely considered a little odd, but to each their own. this probably has a lot to do with the fact that until s4 there was literally no one else you could plausibly ship either character with, but it's still unbelievably funny to me to witness the evolution there

#supernatural #wincest #i was never that into it for the simple fact that their relationship was already so toxic and codependent #that i didn't think adding sex would make it meaningfully worse lmao

[balladofthevisibleboy]

#brotherhood codependency and cannibalism #wincest #hey i wrote a thing again #original poem #poetry #dean winchester pov #words words words #weirdcest #poem #deansam #poets on tumblr #supernatural #spn #dean winchester #sam winchester #dark poetry #poems on tumblr

[paellegere]

read two insane wincest fics in the last two days and honestly i have no idea how to move on from them. they've bored into my skull like worms and i will not get over them any time soon

watch you weigh your powers

selfishly, i wish there had been more actual mind control in the fic because i have problems in my brain and the horrors attack me nightly, but otherwise this is just really great. i love the focus on sam's emotions and the fear and horror of what he's been doing. the paragraph spacing is all kinds of wonky and honestly really off-putting, but once i pushed past that, it was an awesome read.

camdon inn

deadass i think this author lives in my brain. i can't believe they wrote my exact kink, wrote it well, and gave it a satisfying ending all in one fic. i love how they executed their incest headcanons and developed the background for their relationship, and jesus christ i can't even stress how good this soulbond is. i can't be normal after reading this. author has a tendency to skip over words on occasion, but otherwise it's really well written and i'm so impressed with it.

i've never done a fic rec kinda thing before but idk leaving a comment wasn't enough for me. i need more people to read them. holy shit

#supernatural #wincest #i guess this is a fic rec yeah #i'm used to fics only slightly catering to my tastes so i was totally blown away by these #it's so rare for me to find well-executed fics in this specific category #mind control AND soulbonding AND fatal need AND telepathy? i am god's favorite. his specialest little guy #.txt #sam's demon blood freak nonsense is the reason i breathe actually

[johannestevans]

so bizarre when people are like "Oh the glorification of incest has real life consequences" and they mean like. someone who wrote wincest. like my grandfather didn't molest me because a completely different person wrote porn about 2 fictional brothers fucking in a tv show

incest is a problem in the home because like...

we live in a society that doesn't value the bodily autonomy or rights of the child, including rights to privacy

children are often not given suitable education about their body parts or their rights to them, so they cannot necessarily accurately describe sexual abuse

because children are taught that the satisfaction and contentment of adults around them is more important than anything else, and that disobedient is the worst thing they can be, children are often not empowered to criticise or even question authority figures who might be abusing them

when children do speak up about abuse, people either want to deny it as an invention because children cannot know what sex is, or they want to say it's a lie bc they don't want to believe that someone they care about or respect might abuse children

and then there's further issues w sexualisation + misogyny + homophobia, like esp when it comes to the acceptable sexualisation of teenage sisters / daughters / nieces especially, and it being a big pop culture thing, but like. that's also a v diff set of tropes in diff media - mainstream porn, mainstream cishet stuff, etc

the thing about wincest is that like. a lot of siblings who are isolated from society and become codependent do end up in incestuous relationships as a coping mechanism and a way of self-soothing/soothing one another, and while it's obviously an indicator of deep harm done and often does further harm to them the longer it goes on like that's... a real thing that happens to kids who were abused in the way that they are

like i understand being grossed out or disgusted by it in fanfic or on tv or whatever but like. incest is a really big problem in our society and it's largely extremely invisible?

but the idea that someone abuses a family member or becomes sexually codependent with a sibling or cousin etc because of fiction is just like... ? do you not understand what it's like to be a victim of incest? like, do you not get that there's far broader structures in place that lead to the disenfranchisement and institutional permissiveness to a culture of child abuse, including csa and incest?

it just seems like a fundamental mix-up of cause and effect

#musings

[jinkieswouldyoulookatthis]

Forget and Forgive

for @wincestwednesdays week four prompts Choices, Make ups & Breakups (it kinda fits both)

A short little Wincest fic that sprang up out of nowhere and demanded to be written down. Little bit of pining and confessions and memory loss, told from Sam's POV. Nothing explicit, just lots of half said things and bad coping skills.

words: 1711

read it on AO3 here

_______________________________

Twisted and tangled up in each other, that’s what people had said about them as long as they could remember, that they were very close, said in a way that heavily implied they were too close. They were codependent and emotionally enmeshed. What they had was something special. They’d been assumed to be a gay couple more times than they could count. Told they bickered and argued like an old married couple numerous times. 

Folks didn’t even know the half of it.

When Sam was 17 he did something completely unforgivable, something he has never spoken out loud, let alone even considered telling anyone about, not even Dean. Especially not Dean. Never, ever, ever, Dean. In a way, he supposed, Dean already knew about it, or he used to, before Sam… 

Well, seriously, what else could he have done? He’d made one last, desperate attempt to hold onto Dean, and it had failed so utterly and completely, because what he’d hoped to hold turned out to have never actually been his in the first place. So what else was he supposed to do? 

Sure he was leaving. Sure Dad had told him to never come back. Sure… but that didn’t mean he could live with Dean hating him, or hating himself, or worse. I mean, you didn’t see him, how bad it was, how badly he took it, when Sam told him… H–He’d freaked out. Actually, “freaked” was an understatement… He’d started going into thermonuclear meltdown, just imploding in a way that Sam could see imminently blasting everything in their life to smithereens. 

And the worst part was that Dean blamed himself, because of course he blamed himself, Dean always thought that he was to blame, that he was solely responsible for anything and everything that happened to Sam, or that Sam did, or thought, or felt. Which was completely unfair and insulting, by the way. Like Dean didn’t think that Sam was capable of doing, or thinking, or feeling, anything on his own. No, his brother’s ridiculously overinflated sense of guilt meant that he must have been the one who had done something wrong, said something wrong to have led Sam to… 

And he’d had the spell, so… If he hadn’t then there’s no telling what Dean might’ve done. He’d found the spell while researching something for his dad about a year or so before, and he held onto it, memorized it, because it seemed like the kind of thing that might come in handy someday. When you did what they did, it seemed like it might be useful. And he couldn’t leave Dean like that, he couldn’t, not when he looked like he might... 

So he made Dean forget it and then locked it all down inside himself and ran the fuck away from his life and started over out in sunny California, a real American dream kind of story, if, you know, those dreams involved making a pass at your very, very straight (like mucho macho) brother only to wipe his memory of the whole thing… 

The guilt and shame was still shockingly painful, even after all these years. But repression is like the Winchester family’s game of choice, all three of them were better at it than they were at cards or pool or darts or shooting, so that’s what he did, he repressed it and distracted himself 24/7 until it got easier to ignore. Until he met Jessica. 

Falling for her had been so easy and natural, like standing in the sunshine at noon on the beach and just letting it blind you. She was radiant and warm and she loved him. She actually really loved him. And things were hard, but they were good, promising, you know? And he could see it, see a path forward that wasn’t lonely or terrible.

And then Dean broke into his apartment, like a complete psychopath, because of course he did. And while Sam tried to say no, he knew it was a sham, because Dean didn’t ever ask him for his help, never. Dean was the strong one, capable of anything and everything the world might throw at him (except for what Sam threw at him… no, not getting into that). Dean who took care of everything, took care of him, his whole life. Dean who hadn’t understood but who’d let Sam go. He stopped even calling two years ago, after yet another fight when Sam had angrily shouted for him to just leave him alone. He wasn’t coming back and that was that. 

What he had only shouted in his own head was that he couldn’t come back because it still hurt too much, the shame and guilt and raw wound of rejection that Dean didn’t know anything about. But since he couldn’t, wouldn’t say any of that, he instead deflected to Dad and his ultimatum. 

And that had been that. Nothing for two years. Just California, and Stanford, and Jess, and his new normal life. 

But then suddenly, Dean needed him, needed his help, and actually came all the way out to Palo Alto to ask for it, in person, in the middle of the night, in his dark living room. And though Sam tried to say no, he just… couldn’t. Because for the first time in a really long time, right there under the thin veneer of cool confidence (and that’s all it was, a paper thin layer and nothing more, he could see that clearly suddenly) his big brother was actually scared and needed him. 

So he went and he told Jess, promised her that it would just be for the weekend, he’d be back before Monday and he slid right into the front passenger seat of the Impala, right next to Dean and even though they didn’t find Dad, he helped dispatch an angry spirit so that it wouldn’t kill anyone else. He did. Sam. 

And it felt… good. It felt really, really good. And Dean was looking at him like he was worth looking at, worth smiling at, like he was happy he was there. 

And then… shit. Then Jess… Hmm. Yeah, um, Jessica had silently pleaded with him for that terrible, horrible second that seemed to last too long but was gone before he could even breathe in to shout. And then, yeah, she was gone and so much for anything good or normal. So much for all that beautiful California sunshine and a higher education that wasn’t all arcane and dusty lore, and a future that wasn’t an endless hunt down the dark highways and small towns full of secrets and shadows. 

And it hurt. God, it hurt so much. 

But everytime he felt it dragging him down, Dean was right there, pulling him up, smiling at him, staring at him like he was something worth staring at, doing everything he could for Sam, just like always. 

Sam thought he was doing okay, you know, managing things (the anger helped keep the other stuff down pretty well) until Dean got himself electrocuted and was dying, and still not a word from their fucking dad, and Sam felt it all swelling up again, and he couldn’t lose Dean, not when he’d somehow managed to get him back and Dean was looking at him like… 

And then it was one thing after another, after another, until one night after Dad had died, after Sam had died and Dean had, fuck, he’d sold his soul to bring him back and now there was a clock ticking down to when Sam was going to be left all alone. And they were in some long forgotten graveyard in the middle of Nowhereville. And there were flames in an open grave lighting up Dean’s face almost like sunshine, and he was looking at Sam again, like he was worth looking at and he said, “I remember, you know.” 

Sam blinked at him, “What?” 

“That spell you cast, to make me forget. It was a spell, right?” But he didn’t even wait for Sam to answer, which is good because Sam’s mind had ground to halt, Dean just continued, calm and serene as anything, “It had to be. Doesn’t matter.” he shrugged a little and looked down, stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets. “I got hit by a hex a couple of years ago. A real nasty piece of work. Had to find someone to get it off me, and, well, they didn’t just take the hex off. Suddenly I remembered it all, that whole night.” 

Sam couldn’t recall if Dean’s cheeks had been flushed before, from the digging or the cold air or the fire, 

“Remembered it like I’d never forgotten.” He cast a reproving look up at Sam, who swallowed hard. 

“Dean, I…” 

But Dean just kept talking right over him, “and it freaked me out for a while. There was drinking, a lot of drinking, involved in that process. But, then, I guess the more I actually… when I stopped being a drunk dumbass about it… Is,” He took a deep breath before continuing, “Is that why you left? Because I freaked?” 

Sam was blinking too much. “No. No, I had already gotten accepted to Stanford and was going to go, that was already… that wasn’t. Dean, I’d wanted you to come with me.” He said it so quietly, barely breathing it out. If they hadn’t been standing so close Dean might not have been able to hear him over the crackling embers below. 

But Dean heard him. He’d heard him and he just looked down at his feet and nodded, his mouth set all serious and thoughtful, and he toed some loose dirt over the edge so it fell into the grave. 

“You, uh, you should have given me more time.” 

Sam couldn’t swallow suddenly, his throat had seized up and his eyes stung with tears but he just looked at his brother and waited. 

After several long minutes, with the flames dying back and the remains burnt down enough, Dean gave another nod, like that was that, and grabbed the shovels from where they’d been leaning against the headstone. He handed one to Sam. 

“Come on, let’s get this filled back in and go grab some breakfast, I’m starving.”

#wincest #wincest fanfic #I wrote a thing #not the wip I was supposed to be working on but who cares! #sam winchester #dean winchester #wincest wednesday

[winchesterride]

So, here it is, my first Wincest fic 🥳

It wasn’t Sam's fault that serial killers excited him. And wasn’t Dean’s fault he would do weird stuff to please Sam.

Rating: Explicit

Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Rape/Non-Con (Actually doubt con)

Fandoms: Supernatural (TV 2005)

Categories: M/M

Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester

post series, POV Sam Winchester, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, rough sex, Objectification, possessiveness, light bondage, serial killer kink, marking kink, role play, knife play, light blood play, rape play, light Break Me!Sam¹, light Tamer!Dean, mention of cannibalism, mention of necrophilia, Incest

Okay, thats PRETTY dirty, one of the dirtiest things I ever wrote, but I enjoyed it a lot, so hope you guys enjoy it too.

Please read the tags and warnings before reading!

PS: I put it only to registered users because it's mature, hope this don't prevent anyone from reading

¹Break Me submissives in BDSM play with physical struggle, they resist if not restrained, appealing to physical fights and runaways, making the scene look like a rape

²Tamers in BDSM are doms that deal with disobedient subs and have to discipline them

Credits of the Moodboard:

Photo by Jon Tyson na Unsplash – Taxidermy Deer

Photo by Akinori UEMURA na Unsplash – Chains

Photo by Igor bispo on Unsplash – Knife

#supernatural #spn #sam winchester #dean winchester #samdean #sam and dean #deansam #wincest #wincest fanfiction #wincest fic #wincest smut #wincest wednesday #supernatural fic #supernaturaledit #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #ao3 writer #ao3 link #fanfic #supernatural moodboard #my writing wincest

[according2thelore]

These ES/LS snippets are truly saving my need for more of your fics.

You very quickly became my favorite wincest author, hitting every one of my favorite tropes(hurt/comfort is my bread and butter too!) And I'm excitedly(and impatiently lol) waiting for your next fics to come out.

Your writing is SO GOOD and I find myself going back to your fics all the time. My first was your love potion fic and that's still one of my absolute favorite samdean fics out there.

This isn’t really an ask so much as it is an appreciation lol. Can't wait for your next fic!

(If this was an ask though, I'd love more thoughts on your ES/LS universe and even MORE hurt/comfort and jealousy lol)

BABE???? OH MY????

i don't even know what to say! this is the nicest compliment!!!!! you're so incredibly kind, and i'm so unbelievably honoured that my work is special to you!

EEP! i can't even express how much this ask means to me!!!! there are literally no words!!!! the love potion fic was meant as a fun little add-on to that month's challenge, but i've been blown away by how much folks have liked it--i live for a little melodrama and H/C, lol!

every writer dreams of getting asks like this one, and just ARGH! i'm kissing you on both cheeks!!!!!

as for upcoming things, my next fic will probably be my teen!chesters piece for the wayward sons zine (it will be HEFTY). charlotte and i were outlining this fic, and it ended up being about five pages of outline. so def a larger one!

because this ask was so incredible and lovely and kind (so kind?? holy shit?? my hand in marriage??) i wrote a little thing for you! i hope you like!

dean rubs his hands on the sides of his jeans, before he catches himself doing it. shit.

he crosses his arms, then realizes that he looks awkward and posed, so he uncrosses them again. he pushes his hair back from his face--but fuck, what if his hair looks weird now? dean checks frantically around for a reflective surface, but the only thing even close to him is a giant telescope, and--even though he briefly considers it--there's no way he'd be able to crawl back up it and down in time.

"what are you doing?" he mutters to himself, able to at least recognize that he's acting like a preteen about to meet one of the jonas brothers.

it's just sam.

just sam, kind of, dean's brain quietly corrects. it's just sam, but fucking huge.

it's just sam, but his ridiculous hair has grown and curls softly around his ears, brushes his jaw when he ducks his head. it's just sam, except his arms are bigger than dean's head. dean didn't miss the show the other day when sam came to look for something and lifted a fucking stuffed armchair with one arm.

(dean tried it later, and it took him both hands and two tries to get it off the ground. that thing must be reinforced with some crazy cold war steel or something. definitely.)

dean eyes the main room again. he should just sit at the big table. he eyes the big sword on one of the shelves. no--focus. sam went into "library annex 3" to find a book that he thought dean should absolutely take a look at, and left dean, dazzled, in his wake. so dean is going to sit here and wait, because he's been running out of excuses to see sammy lately.

dean slumps into one of the chairs, sighing. what is wrong with him?

he gets so...easily distracted whenever sammy--future-sam or whatever--starts talking to him. and most of it isn't even his fault, okay? sammy always puffs up whenever either 2006 winchester gets close, a dick-measuring if dean's ever seen one. as soon as sam got a single inch on dean in height, dean's never heard the end of it. but this sammy, older sammy, straightens up and his chest gets all big and--fuck--arms! big arms!!

dean keeps trying to find plausible excuses for sammy to take off his shirt because dean is convinced he has a six-pack under there, and it's his right to know!

"i found it!" a muffled voice from down the hallway, so deep that dean's brain goes a little sideways. and dean feels his whole body lock up, like he's just been thrown out of an airplane.

sam--sammy steps through the doorway, holding up a book triumphantly. his eyes are bright, and he's got little wrinkles at the corners, barely there. his grin is radiant, and dean feels absurdly like he's looking directly at one of those religious frescos with the yellow circles behind everyone's heads. sam would get a kick out of that.

dean whimpers. he straight up fucking whimpers, covering it quickly with a cleared throat.

"great!" he says, too bright. it's not his fault! it's not! dean barely resists the urge to bash his own head in.

so sue him! sam is suddenly huge and old and glad to see dean? he lights up whenever dean walks into a room, greeting him warmly. he seems to find dean adorable, which dean kind of resents, but it's hard to stay mad at sammy when he clearly finds so much delight in seeing him.

and 'sammy' isn't helping. 'sammy' had always been a dean word. it had been an 'us' word, a 'they don't know you like i know you, they can't understand you like i can' word. as soon as dean's own sam--2006 sam--had shrugged off the word, and older sam had donned it, dean knew he was screwed. wires crossed. you can only call so many men 'sammy' before you start to tease them and want to be around them and give them shit and look at their huge fucking tits--wait...no. shit. focus!

"so get this," sammy says, and he slides into the chair next to dean, smooth and graceful and so in touch with every muscle in his body that dean has to catch his breath a little. and his chest does something funny, because sam shows him the book and starts babbling.

he starts babbling. like a two year old sam and an eight year old sam and a twelve and a fifteen and an eighteen year old sam.

it seems impossible that this person--this man, all poise and purpose and focus, whose eyes can cut and soothe, whose stubble scratches when he rubs a hand across his jaw--is still dean's sam. dean's sammy.

and he knows it. and he likes it. this sammy brushes his shoulder and doesn't recoil like it burns. he looks to dean first when something is wrong. dean saw, the other day, how his older self comforted sam after a nightmare, how easily sam contorted himself to fit the shape of older dean's arms. sam likes being dean's. or at least this version of dean.

"anyways, i think that this is probably our most comprehensive record of vampires--their habits, their physiology, their weaknesses. if you wanted to give it a read, i think it'll really come in handy." sam says, still talking like dean cares at all for vampires and not the exact shape of sam's mouth.

dean aches. he feels inadequate. there is something clearly in this dean that is worthy, something that sam finds lovable. or necessary. dean wants to be necessary. dean needs to be necessary.

"yeah." dean says, suddenly, when he realizes that sammy's looking for a response. "that--uh--that sounds great."

"you didn't hear a thing i said, did you?" sammy asks, eyebrow raised, teasing and knowing and fuck--dean's chest collapses. sam knows him.

it's so strange to be known by this...this man. this man who blots out the sun with his shoulders, and has callused hands, and looks at dean like he's proud of him. this man knows him. this man is sammy, and that's all dean every really needs.

"naw." he says, scrubbing a hand in the close-shorn hair at the back of his head, abashed and feeling strange. "'m sorry."

"don't be." sammy rolls his eyes, but it's in good humour. sam--2006 sam, and it's weird that dean has already made that distinction--would genuinely be put out. he thinks dean doesn't take him seriously.

both sams are alien to dean. sam, because his burden is eating him alive. he's terrified of himself, of his powers. furious at what he's becoming and increasingly furious at dean for not taking his own safety seriously. like sam could ever hurt him.

and this sammy, of course, is different. he's physically very different, but also...softer? that's the wrong word. he's easier, maybe. his smiles are soft and he thinks through things before he says them. he doesn't hurt to hold in your hand like sam does, all spikes and hard edges like rock that resents you for holding it. sammy is a stone worn smooth by a river, and dean doesn't know if that makes him a bad brother.

he doesn't want to know, because he can't think about this being another way of failing sam. dean's been failing sam since that first over-long look in 1995.

this sam, at least, dean has a reason for not understanding completely. time has made a stranger of his brother, not circumstance, and time is easier to blame.

"what?" sammy asks, and dean snaps back to the present, abashed again. god. it's like his first fumbling date a fourteen all over again. but wait, no it's not--why did dean think that?

"nothing. sorry. you're just--" dean can't find the words. sammy seems delighted at this, eyes sparking with a challenge like they're both in on a joke.

"i'm..." he prompts, drawing it out. dean sputters. he and sam give each other shit all the time. it shouldn't feel different with this sam, but...it does.

"hi."

dean jerks away, sitting up straight in his chair. sam stands in the doorway. he looks pissed. his hands are balled into fists at his sides, his jaw is set, and he's...not looking at dean.

dean looks to sammy, whose eyes widen. he seems surprised by something. proud of something.

"dean wants to know if we're ready for dinner. what are you doing?" sam asks, words loaded. dean's about to jump in, feeling weirdly guilty. they're just talking about a book, it's not like they were--

"just talking with my little brother." sam says, jostling dean's shoulder with his elbow, like this is all a big joke but what the fuck?? dean's spine melts and drips down his ribs. oh my fucking god.

little brother little brother little brother sam could pin dean down if he wanted to, dean looks down at sam's huge fucking hands oh my god, little brother--

"you--" sam starts, and sammy sits up straighter, tilting his head forward like he's coaching sam through something, but sam's eyes are suddenly on dean, and dean freezes.

he doesn't know what to do under sam's critical gaze. the weight in his stomach is definitely guilt, but dean doesn't know why. dean looks away first.

"we're just talking shop, sam." dean says to his hands. a pause. dean hears sam leave, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.

he better not be going to see that old geezer. dean doesn't like he way he looks at sam.

"we almost had him," sammy says, thoughtful. dean looks up, and sammy is looking down at him with an expression so fond that dean's throat closes. "next time."

dean's heart beats faster.

oh man. he is so fucked.

#ask box #lizzy answers #ES/LS verse #animangalover15

[just-antithings]

Just a vent, if that's okay: I miss fandom 10 years ago so much. SO much. I miss being openly freaky. I miss not having words ruined for me (I hate the words "problematic", "gross", and "freak" (as an insult) SO much). I miss when people avoided things that weren't for them while understanding that a pRobLEMaTiC ship was just... weird, and not a sign the shipper was the worst, most dangerous person alive.

Elsanna was like, the second most popular Frozen ship and, yeah some people minded, but not like today. I mean, take Richard Siken recently saying he wrote Wincest, for example. Ten years ago, I think most of us would just laugh and move on? But now, everyone has to put this shocked performance! Oh my god!! Such weird, impure thoughts and desires!! So gross!!! 😑

And I know that, in the grand scheme of things, fandom is just a hobby, and that most of this would sound bollocks to most people. But man... it sucks to have to either perform all the time, or to put a target on your own back for harassment and doxxing led by "normal people". It sucks that the next generation of deeply conservative people think of themselves as progressive and normal, and we can just sit and watch. It sucks to tiptoe around friends and to try to figure out how honest you can be about what you like, to know that that supportive little community would see you as a lk disgusting monster for *checks notes* liking and wanting to explore a fictional ship.

On the bright side, I've been checking the quote RTs on some on the tweets from Unhinged AO3 Tags, and it's very encouraging! Like, oh my GOD, that's where my people are!! Maybe I'll create another account and join the freaks (affectionate). I truly feel the most safe with them

Thank you so much for your time. Hope this was okay and that you have a good day!

.

#mod erin #ask #just anti things #posted without comment #incest mention #doxxing mention