#excerpts from my s1 rewatch coda writing exercise

[fandom-hoarder]

Six(ish) Sentence Sunday

Thank you for the tag @wincestismyheart ! I’m definitely interested in your WIP when it’s ready! That felt like a cliffhanger. 😱🥺

Rules: Each Sunday, post six sentences from a writing project — published, submitted, in progress, for your cat — whatever.

I decided to make a new post for this. And on my first post I’m already pushing the “rules” lol, but I had to have that last line.

Tagging: idk who to tag rn, please do this if you’d like to and tag me to read!

[excerpt from a writing exercise]

Of course, that’s when the lights start flickering and Sam realizes he can see their breath in the sudden cold. Dean looks up at him in shock. This wasn’t even on their radar, but it looks like they just found a case.

“But…my pie…” Dean whines mournfully when their table is suddenly flung off its supports.

“I’ll get you another!” Sam promises, hunching low as he tries to lead the staff and few other customers outside to safety.

It’s five days and a salt-and-burn later before he even gets a chance, driving them up to a McDonald’s because there’s not much else on offer in this nowhere town now that the Denny’s is closed for renovation.

Inevitably, they’re out of pie.

#spn fanfiction #six sentence sunday #sam n dean #excerpts from my s1 rewatch coda writing exercise #the saga of dean never getting his pie #tag game #writing game

[fandom-hoarder]

s1e9 drabble

He’s fighting to free himself, fingers trying to dig under the cord around his neck, to pull it away. It’s too tight; he can’t get a grip and he’s losing…he’s losing…

Suddenly Dean is there, saving him, unwinding the cord and pulling him close. Sam feels Dean’s stubble against his cheek, Dean’s hand cradling his head. He grabs onto Dean, fingers twisting into his jacket as he holds him tight.

‘Sammy.’ Dean’s voice is husky with relief. He pulls back and holds Sam’s face in his hands, rubbing a thumb over his cheekbone. ‘You’re okay.’

It’s a statement and a question and a promise.

‘Yeah. Yeah, Dean. I’m o—‘

His words are cut off by Dean’s lips. Sam pulls him in tighter, opening up to his kiss and giving back as good as he gets. They’re panting for breath, Dean’s lips moving down his jaw to his neck, and Sam starts to feel like all he can do is hang on while Dean ensures he’s alive with lips and teeth and tongue.

‘Sammy.’

‘Dean!”

‘Sammy… Sam!’

“Sam! Come on, dude, chow time!” Dean slaps a hand down on Sam’s shoulder.

“W-wha—” Sam flails awake, looking around wildly at his surroundings and praying Dean hasn’t noticed the current problem in his pants. Dean’s smirking at him, but that tells Sam very little. Sam hunches over under the guise of scrubbing his hands over his face and through his hair, and asks in a sleep-husky voice, “Where are we?”

“Biggerson’s, just outside Kansas City. Come on, I’m starving.”

“You go on and get a table. I’ll follow you in a minute.”

Dean’s smirk returns. “So it was that kinda dream. Glad the nightmares are easin’ up, little brother. That heavy breathing had me worried for a sec.” Dean squeezes his shoulder with a grin. Sam hopes his tense reaction reads as irritation to Dean rather than suppressed pleasure. Dean gets out of the car and leans in through the open door. “Alright dude. I’ll see ya in a minute. Just…if you’re gonna jerk it, mind your manners. Don’t make a mess in my Baby.”

Sam presses his forehead against his closed fist and pivots his face to roll his eyes at Dean. “Sure thing, jerk.”

“Bitch.” Dean gives a winning smile, pats his pockets and nods when everything is where it should be, and swaggers toward the diner.

Sam takes several calming breaths, wondering which is more messed up: his dreams or his reality. Is it worse that his mind turned a near death experience into an erotic dream, or that his brother teasing him only worsened his current predicament?

***

They end up getting a motel room later that night. Dean wants to hit a bar, and he’s got that look that tells Sam Dean probably won’t be back in the room until morning.

Sam needs to let off some steam, too, but Dean’s way of random hookups isn’t really his thing.

They drink a couple beers and hustle a game of pool together before Dean splits off on the prowl. Sam watches surreptitiously, nursing another beer, but turns his attention elsewhere when Dean’s imminent success becomes obvious. For a brief moment, he considers trying out Dean’s way of letting off steam, but quickly nixes the idea when he realizes he’s comparing the looks of all his prospects to either Jessica or Dean.

Sam is getting tired of thinking about how fucked up he is. He finishes off his beer and decides to leave.

Sam waits until he’s back in their room, thoroughly ensconced in the embrace of shower steam, before replaying the dream images he’s been pushing away for hours. He teases himself with it, grip feathery light on his cock as he draws out the scene: Dean’s mouth on his, kissing down, hands moving from Sam’s face down his body… pulling him in tighter, kisses hungry, moving to press himself against Sam, between his sprawled legs… Sam thrusting his hips up in kind as Dean says his name over and over, ‘Sammy, Sammy, Sam…’

“Dean...” Sam is stripping his cock rapidly now, unable to hold back any more, needing roughness and the slight drag of skin against wet skin with only shower water and the dribbles of precome to ease the way. Imagines Dean biting a kiss into the side of his neck where the lamp cord had been; bites the meaty part of the arm he’s been using to lean against the wall, grunting his helpless release into the impression of his teeth.

He watches the water wash the physical evidence of his deviancy down the drain, and wishes his soul could be washed clean so easily. The brief warmth of satiation turns cold when he turns the water off and sees the bite mark he left on his arm.

The skin isn’t broken, but it’s going to bruise.

#spn s1e9 #spn drabble #wincest drabble #wincest #pining!sam #excerpts from my s1 rewatch coda writing exercise #things i'll probably never finish #strangulation kink #kind of

[fandom-hoarder]

s1e12 coda drabble

Dean is not going to die. Not if Sam has anything to say about it. He swallows thickly, refusing to give in to the tears he feels building like molten pin pricks at the back of his eyes. This world is full of unexplainable things, and Sam is not giving up until he’s exhausted every last possibility.

           ‘We can't work miracles. I really am sorry,’ the doctor said.

Sam’s not having any luck so far, though, and he has to stop and remember to breathe for a moment after hanging up with yet another of Dad’s contacts. It’s going to be fine. He’s going to find something. Dean’s not going to die from a freaking electrocution-induced heart attack. Not while Sam’s alive to help it.

He holds his breath, and lets it out slowly and shakily through his curled fingers, his bitten cuticles damp against his chapped lips. Tells himself he feels the pressure on his chest ease, but tears spill out when he closes his eyes nonetheless.

“God…” he sobs, just loud enough to hear his voice crack as he presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. Something tugs inside him then—urgent and desperate—and suddenly he’s letting himself slide to the floor between the beds, landing on his knees with his hands braced on the other bed’s comforter. He clasps his hands and bows his head; a pose that used to be so familiar that he can almost feel himself shrinking down to his teenage self.

“God,” he starts purposefully, clearing his throat when it breaks again. “Please God, help me find a way to save Dean. He’s all I’ve got, and he doesn’t deserve this. He saves people. He can’t die now. So please, just…help me save him. Please. …amen.”

His forehead presses against his clasped hands as he repeats the prayer in his head. He thinks of the way his teenage prayers were answered…not by removing his sinful thoughts, but by providing opportunities that allowed Sam to leave. But this is for Dean, not Sam. Surely God won’t punish Dean for the sins of his brother.

The sound of his phone ringing wakes Sam from the doze he hadn’t known he’d fallen into, and he lunges for it, barely managing not to fall on his face when he realizes belatedly his legs have fallen asleep.

‘Joshua’ the screen says, and Sam almost chokes on air before clearing his throat to answer.

Nebraska. Reverend LeGrange. Sam will get Dean there. He’ll have to get him from the hospital, and Sam says another silent prayer that Dean will be strong enough for the trip.

First, though, it’s time to call Dad.

***

“Hey, buddy? Your, uh, your clock's busted,” Sam points out to the pool employee.

“Oh, yeah, we, uh, can't get it workin'. Just froze at 4:17.”

“Is that the same time Marshall died?” Sam asks, dreading the answer.

“How'd you know?”

‘Because that’s what time my brother was healed,’ Sam thinks.

***

The more connections Sam makes, the further his heart plummets into his stomach. Lives traded for lives. There’s definitely something going on here; something very bad.

Maybe worse than that, though—or at least as bad—is how relieved Sam is that Dean was healed before they found out. Sam thinks about how his prayer was twisted this time…and knows he’d do it again.

He knows Dean won’t feel the same, though. And, of course, he’s right.

***

Sam’s heart skips a few beats, breath catching in his throat, when he finds Dean’s picture crossed out with blood on Sue Ann’s altar.

‘You know if Roy woulda picked Layla instead of me she'd be healed right now. And if she's not healed tonight she's gonna die in a couple months.’

‘What's happening to her is horrible. But what are you gonna do? Let somebody else die to save her? You said it yourself, Dean: you can't play God.’

Sue Ann plans to trade Dean’s life for Layla’s, and Sam knows with a sickening surety that Dean would be okay with that. But no matter how much of an innocent Layla is in this, Sam will never let that happen. There’s no one—absolutely no one—whose life is more important than Dean’s. He knows it’s selfish; feels the guilt of that knowledge wriggle like a parasite in his gut; owns it. And flips over the table.

“Sam, can't you see?” Sue Ann calls through the cellar doors. “The Lord chose me to reward the just and punish the wicked. And your brother is wicked! And he deserves to die just as Layla deserves to live. It’s God's will. Goodbye, Sam.”

‘You’re wrong; I’m the wicked one. But that doesn’t matter, because Dean isn’t. He deserves to be saved, and I’m going to save him,’ Sam thinks fervently as he gives up on the cellar doors and crosses the room to bust out the dryer vent. ‘Please God, please, let me make it in time,’ Sam prays again, not breathing as he squeezes through the small space; not caring how his prayer may get twisted, as long as Dean lives.

***

Sam sits on the hood of the Impala, head bowed over his knees, waiting for Dean and Layla to say their goodbyes.

“I know it’s kind of presumptuous or—or egotistical to believe my prayers had a hand in saving Dean,” Sam says, voice barely more than a whisper. “But somehow…I do believe you’re listening. So if you are, I wanted to say thank you. For saving Dean. For answering my prayers.” He breathes a heavy sigh. “And, if it’s not too much to ask, maybe you could also look after Layla? For Dean.” Sam squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to think about that squirming thing inside him as he says, “Amen.”

#spn s1e12 #spn drabble #faith coda #pining!sam #sam prays #excerpts from my s1 rewatch coda writing exercise #long post

[fandom-hoarder]

s1e20 codaish drabble

Sam barely waits long enough for Dean to get back into the Impala before he’s straightening them back out onto the road ahead of Dad. There’s a fiery pit in his stomach, churning over the words he exchanged with his father.

           “You walked away, Sam. You walked away!”

           “You’re the one who said don’t come back, Dad. You closed that door, not me. You were just pissed off that you couldn’t control me anymore!”

The man is infuriating, with his stupid orders and need-to-know and fucking treating them like children. The lights of the truck glare into Sam’s eyes as they hit his side view mirror, and Sam pushes the pedal down to the floor, the Impala roaring his refusal to allow Dad to pass him.

Suddenly, Dean is squeezing Sam’s leg right above his knee. “Hey, hey, cool it, lead foot. Don’t make me take your driving privileges away. I get that you’re mad, but you don’t need to take it out on Baby!”

Sam breathes a dragon breath out through his nose, but eases up on the gas. Within a minute, Dad is passing them to take the lead again, and Sam scoffs loudly. His leg tenses, but Dean squeezes again, giving it the barest shake—enough to grab Sam’s attention without affecting his driving. Sam gives Dean a bitchface, annoyed that Dean’s touch had the desired effect of distracting his anger somewhat. He smacks at Dean’s wrist, but Dean just holds on, giving another squeeze as if to prove a point.

“What?”Sam asks tersely, taking a deep breath as Dean pulls his hand away. When Dean’s hand just moves to squeeze the back of his neck instead, Sam hopes Dean doesn’t think anything of the way his exhale shakes. He glares at the tail lights in front of him and clenches his jaw, trying to hold onto his fury.

“Not everything needs to be a pissing contest, man,” Dean says, like he’s imparting some ancient wisdom.

Sam shakes his head and gives an imploring glance, “Dean—”

“No, Sammy, look—”

A fine layer of goosebumps raise along Sam’s skin as Dean’s fingers slide up to grab a handful of hair and use it to lightly shake Sam’s head.

“Do you really think he’s going to steer us wrong? When lives are on the line? Huh?”

Sam feels a muscle in his cheek jump, head giving the slightest of shakes, knowing Dean feels it anyway with his hand firmly in Sam’s hair.

“You ever hunt a vampire?” Dean asks. “No, ‘course not! And maybe Dad hasn’t either, but he knows a helluva lot more than we do, even with that crash course through Elkins’s journal. So just trust him, okay?!”

Sam gives a sigh, scowling but conceding Dean’s point. Still, he can’t help but say, “But don’t you think that’s all the more reason for him to just fucking give us all the information? We’re going in blind, Dean. He doesn’t want to tell us how he’s tracking them. He won’t tell us the big deal about this gun… What else is he not telling us that might be important to know? We’re just supposed to trust that the information he gives us is enough?”

Dean hesitates for a breath, then yanks his handful of Sam’s hair once more as he replies, “Yes.”

“Oww,” Sam grouses like it’s scripted, feeling stupidly bereft as Dean pulls his hand away finally, despite the tenderness of his abused scalp. His hand automatically goes up to replace Dean’s, rubbing at the ache and resisting the urge to tug. Then he shoots Dean a contemplative look, and Dean quickly slides himself against the passenger door—as if that could stop Sam from pulling Dean’s hair in retaliation if he really wanted to.

“Look,” Dean says, tone a little softer but no less no-nonsense. “I’m not saying I don’t want to know all that shit, too. Jesus Christ, vampires are real—”

“And Dad never told us anything about them,” Sam interjects.

Dean continues pointedly, “And I know I can’t keep you two from having it out, okay? No matter how much I want to. But right now we can’t afford for you two to be fighting. So just… give it a rest for now, Sammy, would ya?”

Sam huffs out a breath; gives a petulant, “Fine.” And tugs at his hair after all.

#spn drabble #s1e20 #dead man's blood coda #missing scene #excerpts from my s1 rewatch coda writing exercise #sam likes his hair pulled ok #but don't tell dean #pining!sam

[fandom-hoarder]

s1e2...drabble?

Sam sits off to the side of the campsite, away from Haley’s group, practically vibrating under his skin with fury and impatience. They shouldn’t even be here; Dad’s sure as hell not; but if they’re going to be here it’d be a lot easier to get this job done without civilians hanging around. Every minute—every second—that ticks past makes him feel that much further away from Jess’s killer.

He can’t even muster the usual empathy he has towards the people they help; all he feels towards them right now is resentment.

He tries to ignore Dean coming to sit beside him, but his head swivels the slightest bit of its own volition before he can stop himself.

“You wanna tell me what's going on in that freaky head of yours?”

“Dean—“

“No, you're not fine. You're like a powder keg, man, it's not like you. I'm supposed to be the belligerent one, remember?”

Sam rocks a bit, needing to get the energy out so he doesn’t raise his voice talking about Dad and finding Jessica’s killer and how they need to just get these people to safety and get back to the real mission.

But, as usual, Dean is somehow able to talk him down. He’s earnest; confident in their assignment; in Dad’s absentee orders. Gives him one of those sincere big brother speeches Sam never quite expects, despite knowing from experience Dean’s always seen into him better than Dad ever could. Sam has never really been able to puzzle out how Dean can be so patient and insightful when he has such an impulsive personality; he feels simultaneously endeared and vexed.

“How do you do it? How does Dad do it?”

“Well, for one, them,” Dean answers, looking back towards the group around the campfire. “I mean, I figure our family’s so screwed to hell, maybe we can help some others.”

That, Sam really can’t argue with.

“And I’ll tell you what else helps: killing as many evil sons of bitches as I possibly can.” Dean gives the barest of smirks.

Sam can’t help but smile, something in him warming.

And then the wendigo starts yelling for “help.”

***

Sam watches the road stretched out before him, the day’s events playing through his mind. He thinks of the stomach-dropping moment when he’d realized the wendigo had taken Dean; when he found Dean’s broken Molotov cocktail on the forest floor. He just lost Jess, and he was about to lose Dean, too. But it only lasted a couple of seconds at most before an absolute conviction had filled him.

He wasn’t going to lose Dean. He was going to find him. And then he had.

And then when Sam and the Collins siblings had been trapped by the wendigo… as much as Sam’s heart had been racing, body thrumming with fear and adrenaline, he knew—knew—Dean was going to get there in time.

And then he had.

Dean shifts in the passenger seat, and again Sam’s head is drawn that way like it’s on a tether.

#excerpts from my s1 rewatch coda writing exercise #spn drabble #sam winchester #dean winchester #sooooo much quoted dialogue #big brother dean

[fandom-hoarder]

s1e17 coda drabble

As Sam struggles against the shtriga, trying to reach his Taurus, he has the vaguest sense of déjà vu, like trying to remember a dream. He feels himself growing weaker as the shtriga holds his mouth open and its corpse-like maw starts to glow; feels something being pulled out of him, strengthening that déjà vu feeling. Is this what happened to him before, when he was little?

Suddenly there’s a bullet in the creature’s forehead, and Sam gasps in air and his own life force.

“Sooo,” Michael says a few minutes later, as the three of them are looking at the pile of rags the shtriga left behind, “you guys are going to clean up this mess before my mom comes back, right?”

Sam smirks as Dean gives Michael an exasperated look, largely exaggerated. “Sure thing, kid. How ‘bout you go get us something to drink?”

Michael’s eyebrows raise, “No problem. Do you want water or milk?”

Dean scoffs a laugh, “Water’s good.”

“You got it,” Michael replies, with a sarcastic finger gun, and leaves the room.

Suddenly Dean’s hands are on Sam’s face, his throat, manhandling him as Dean says, “Let me look at you. You okay, Sammy?” Dean does this head tilt, like he’s leaning down to see into Sam’s eyes, despite the physical impossibility of it with Sam’s height.

It’s such a big-brother-Dean thing; so familiar; and Sam feels suddenly overwhelmed with love and nostalgia. He lays his hands over Dean’s and squeezes his wrists quickly but firmly, reassuring and grounding. “Yeah. Yeah, Dean. I’m fine.” Sam looks into Dean’s eyes and nods, letting him see the truth of his words.

Dean nods in return, but the line of his mouth still tightens minutely and then Dean’s arms are around Sam’s shoulders, pulling him in for a tight hug, once again acting all big-brother-Dean like he’s still taller than Sam. Sam has the fleeting wonder of whether Dean will ever stop hugging him like this—like his arms can shield Sam from anything and everything; like his little brother will always be little to him no matter how big he actually gets. Sam is quickly filled with such a dread of that happening that he tightens his own grip around Dean’s back.

Dean gasps the tiniest bit, and it sounds like relief.

The sound of a throat being pointedly cleared comes from the doorway. Dean pats Sam’s back and eases his arms away, giving Sam’s hair a quick but thorough ruffle. Then he scowls his own version of a bitchface at Michael.

Michael holds up two glasses of water in answer and sets them down on a bedside table, one eyebrow raised. Sam is once again left to wonder in the moonlit dark of the room if Dean is blushing or if it’s a trick of his eyes. But his next words kind of answer that for Sam.

Dean clears his throat, “What, like you’re not gonna hug Asher if he’s better?”

Michael shrugs as if to say, ‘fair point.’

Dean grabs the water glasses, handing one to Sam before gulping half of his down in one go. “Okay, time to clean up.”

#spn drabble #s1e18 #something wicked coda #brother hugs #sam n dean #excerpts from my s1 rewatch coda writing exercise #did i really write that line before the finale??? #i honestly don't know #probably ripped it off. idc

[fandom-hoarder]

s1e16 coda drabble?

They leave Chicago—and dad—in silence, tears of frustration mingling with the blood dripping down Sam’s face. The salt burns.

He’d been lulled into a false sense of security, thinking everything was about to be over; that they would get the demon and he’d be done. He scoffs at himself. Naïve.

“Hey, why don’t you look in the glove compartment,” Dean says after awhile. “Think there’s a couple shop towels in there. Got blood drippin’ in my eye but I don’t wanna stop ‘til we’ve put a good chunka distance between us and Chicago.”

Sam obliges wordlessly, handing over a slightly grease stained towel and using his own to press at the scratches on his face.

“Better not wait too long. Don’t want those to scar your pretty face.” He tries to say it teasingly, but a whine tinges the edge of his words. He can almost feel Dean’s smirk.

“Don’t you worry about me, Princess. You, though… might be an improvement.”

Sam shakes his head and huffs a laugh.

#excerpts from my s1 rewatch coda writing exercise #spn s1e16 #spn shadow coda #the full fic is wincest but it's mostly pining!sam so this can be gen too #things i'll probably never finish #it was mostly to dust off my writing ability and get into sam's head better anyway #spn drabble #this part was based on the comment on the spn wiki timeline about sam and dean's shredded faces being magically healed by the next episode