Beautiful, quiet, cuddling-in-their-sleep art.

Dean has the angels; Sam has the Trickster.

Sam's not sure who's worse off.

Dean's been chasing this particular horizon for hours now, miles marked more by the ever-dipping level of the thermos than by county lines and signposts. Forty-eight ounces of bitter-black gas station caffeine guzzled down to dregs while the globe turned itself around, offered the Old World some time in the sun.

A story in 21 parts, featuring an Ancient Greek curse, an unexpected metamorphosis, adventures in pool sharking, numerous shots of tequila, a nun outfit, zombies, angels, demons, kidnappings, startling discoveries about old acquaintances, massage, a game of strip poker, girl-on-girl action, girl-on-boy action, and boy-on-boy action.

Music: Carnival of Rust by Poets of the Fall
Watch/download: Youtube, Vimeo or 4shared

"Dean?"

"'m okay," Dean said, resigning himself to it. "Don't let my brains leak out, Sam."

Sam snorted. "I'm not sure that would be a noticeable change."

Dean twisted his head, tried to bite at Sam's fingers but Sam was too quick and pulled away, the cloth coming unstuck from Dean's head, peeled off like a band-aid and it wasn't pleasant. It made Dean dizzy, a sloshing sensation in his brain.

The day Dean gets out of hell, the sun is shining and the sky is that postcard shade of blue, like maybe it goes on forever and if it doesn't, at least it goes deep, tight and familiar wire around his heart.

"Let me go, Sam," and Dean's voice was different, lower and stirring, not screwing around anymore, and Sam let him go at once. And he held his breath, because there was something here, something Sam had half-expected half a million times, this idiotic tension between the two of them that had had him terrified at fifteen and exhilarated at seventeen and morbidly depressed at nineteen, all this stupid potential and it was just like the two of them to have not lived up to it.

It's the kind of town where he and Dean stick out like sore thumbs, with their scarred-up hands and their clothes that won't get clean and their tendency to case a room when they walk through the door.

The high school is even worse. When Dean pulls over into the bus zone, they both grimace at the wholesome game of Frisbee going on out front, the girls sitting on the steps killing time by braiding each other's hair. It's like something out of a Norman Rockwell.

"Wow," Dean chuckles, drawing the word out long and slow. He slaps a hand down on Sam's thigh. "Have fun, Sammy."

[The Panabaker 'joke' is distracting, but otherwise it's near perfect - hot and awkward and real. Slightly underage Sam.]

summary: Just breathe. Probably NSFW.
music: certainty (remix'd). piano magic.
size/format/length: 31.3MB, wmv, 2:05
watch/download: 4shared | mediafire

It’s about him, his life. If he strikes out and makes something of himself, something real, then he can come back for Sam. He’ll find Sam anywhere. There are floods of blood between them, connecting them, a keepsake of bone.

They are beautiful and eternal, light and dark and grey, grey, grey. They are brothers. That’s just unbreakable. What isn’t unbreakable is Dean’s soul; he can feel it bending, reedy and pale, under the inconsolable strain of hunting, of his father constantly, slyly, making him into something he isn’t. It can’t shatter. Then he knows what will happen. He’ll end up ruined and alone, no use to Sammy or his dad or anyone else in the world.

He’ll end up a dead girl with her hair tied back and a dress in the closet.

There’s a soreness in Sam’s chest as he thinks of yelling at the side of the road, Dean’s face closing tight over his terror, and the memory of rising flame blurs his eyes. Some men are too many parts monster to be saved, and Sam might still be one of them.

“A car wash voucher? Yes, you’re right. It’s evil. It must be stopped. Next it’ll want to wax on and wax off.”

“Dude, I’m being serious! Stop making Mr Miyagi jokes.” Dean can hear the pitch of his voice rising, but Sam isn’t hearing him, and they’re obviously in danger, and sometimes being Sam’s older brother is a seriously tough gig, because he’s a moron with no street smarts.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Dean, your paranoia is not even a little bit cute.”

“Yeah, well, don’t come crying to me when a good luck demon attacks you and you’re screaming for help like a girl and I’m too busy saying I told you so to save your sorry ass.”

Title: Supernatural (In My Pants)
Artist: The Lonely Island
Length: 2:42 min
Summary: It's perfectly normal, nothing wrong with me, but we're going to need a clean up on Aisle 3.

As it turns out, God is kind of an asshole. Yeah, there's that whole creating-the-known-universe thing, which, when you think about it, is pretty cool. And, y'know, humans didn't turn out too bad either for the most part. Butterflies, sort of over the top, but the scorpions are bad-ass and more than make up for those.

It's not real love if it doesn't make you a little crazy.

Dean is not speaking to him this morning. Dean says things, he directs them at Sam, but they're holdovers. They peer through the ice to see what's beneath it without breaking it. 'Bout time we did some laundry, I'm down to my last pair of clean shorts, and Dude, put a comb through your hair or I'm gonna start thinking you're something I gotta hunt.

He’s had it. Fucking fudgepackers walking in like they own the place. Baby-faced kid with a smile around his beer and fingers in a fresh stack of cash. Chester’s sick of these twinks. The way they roll into town, always rubbing up on one another, in each other’s space. Shoulder thumps and the ”accidental” ways their hips bump.

The demon knows this skin too well. It cradles the black of his soul and he sinks down into it, stretches out and it feels like home.

Alastair smirks at him. “The late, great Dean Winchester,” he says.

summary: The epic love story of Sam&Dean.
music: with you. natalie walker.
size/format/length: 118.55MB, wmv, 3:39

"Keep your goddamned house porn out of my backseat," Dean says, without any bite to it, and when Sam laughs, the last year seems inconceivable, a distant past in the rearview, and ever having been afraid of his brother seems a little inconceivable, too.

"Two of the musical kids? Spontaneously combusted. Doesn't say it's got anything to do with the dancing, but seriously. Two plus two."

Sam swallows his sweet and sour pork hard. "Demon?"

"A dancing demon?" asks Dean skeptically.

"Yeah, something isn't right there."

That was where it started, but it doesn’t stay there. It isn’t a surprise anymore, waking up in the morning to find Dean still alive, but it still feels soap-bubble fragile, like one wrong move might crack the whole world open again. Sam moves carefully, keeps close, and even though Dean gets it now – understands in his tight-lipped, glowering way – it’s obvious he doesn’t like it. ... In some ways it is utterly alien to touch his brother now, and in some ways it is the closest thing to coming home.

"Are you seriously telling me to sleep with my brother?"

"Yes."

"He's my brother."

"He's also your partner and the only person with whom you have significant contact at this point."

"We're related!"

"Many of the cultural taboos associated with incest are related to reproduction," says Dr. Brennan. "Since you and your brother are incapable of reproducing, being related isn't actually a problem."

Dean’s not sure what’s worse: the punch or the certain knowledge that he deserves it.

Sam is very good at giving head, about as good as he is at researching the occult and conjugating verbs in Latin, and one time when he was drunk (before this time now, because boy howdy is he heading for a stomach pump tonight) he asked a Rastafarian at some frat party how do you conjugate pain and then laughed and laughed at his own joke that wasn’t a joke at all, because Latin is deader than a dead thing.

So, he’s a little-lot drunk. Not scary motherfucker drunk, although he’ll try to get there if he can find the co-ordinates.

Later, when Sam’s wiping black, stinking troll guts off of his favorite knife, Dean says, “About this road trip.”

Sam looks up. Dean’s got a stripe of blood spattered from chin to forehead that makes him look deranged. He’s got slime in his hair, matting it down, and it’s totally ridiculous that Dean manages to look completely at ease when Sam’s pretty sure Dean’s got troll phlegm stuck to places he doesn’t even want to think about. Sam already misses him.

“Uhuh.” Sam glances at the window, at the floor, at the severed head by Dean’s left boot – at anything but the speculative expression on Dean’s face.

“You were serious?”

Sam nods.

Sam was asleep when Dad came back, choking the room with the charcoal-smut of a quick salt and burn.

Dean showered then, shoulders loosening. He hissed, rubbed his fingers at the hot little bite high in the lean fat of his upper thigh.

His own cock went fat and hungry, knocked against his abdomen with his shaky breath.

That was the first time, the first hunt that left him dick-hard for his little brother.

[Hot and dirty Dean pov weecest - incredibly hot! A little bit untidy in places, but the hotness more makes up for it.]

Gorgeous, moody and moving manip, Sam curled into Dean.

We begin at the end. On a Tuesday. A non-recurrent one. A normal one. Somewhere around 2020. They’re both long dead, but that’s not important. It’s not the how that matters, not anymore. Once you’re buried, burned, completing the food chain – the troubles that got you there start to worry you less. All that matters is that Dean and Sam aren’t brothers, they’re not lovers, they’re not even friends. They’re birds, they’re rocks, they’re trees. Chasing each other, once a part of the same land, bending sideways to touch in the wind. The whatever that delivered them is insignificant.

Fandom: Supernatural, Firefly/Serenity, Heroes Song/Artist: Climbing up the Walls by Radiohead Duration: 4:21 minutes Summary: Siblings. "I am the pick in the ice."

Dean busts his heart wide open in a small town on the southwest edge of Colorado Springs. “Because I want you,” Sam tells him, as if that says everything. “We can’t—” Dean starts, digging his fingertips sharp into the dip of her waist. “Yeah, we can,” Sam breathes out, as her brother gives in.

"You think about fucking me," says Dean, and damned if it's not the most screwed up thing he's ever said to his brother. All the worse for the fact that Sam is clearly not kidding around. This is not the conversation Dean thought they were having. Not that he's too clear anymore on what that conversation was, given this new goddamn revelation that Dean can't quite get his head around.

Beautiful drawings (hands, head shots, and Dean/Sam in coitus). Also wallpaper 1280x800 & 1440x900 and digital collages/chapter headers.

Dean Winchester works in insurance: brought up in foster care, he’s never hunted, never fired a gun, and never owned a car. Then, one day, he meets a guy called Sam.

After Hell, Dean needs Sam beside him.

Sam comes out the front door, screen banging behind him. He soaks up the summer breeze in his t-shirt and boxers, flip of hair wrapped soft around his earlobe as purple bleeds into the sky from the horizon like the sweet ache of a fresh, growing bruise.

Three days after Bela puts the Colt to Lilith's head and walks her backwards into a Devil's Trap, Sam tries to follow Dean into the bathroom when he goes to shower, and Dean almost puts a fist through the wall.

Sam and Dean lay low in Montana. Sam gets a girl. Dean gets a fryolater. The walls are thin and the power goes out a lot.

You can never tell when a conversation with a really smokin' woman is going to come back and bite you in the ass.

In Lawrence, Kansas, the way Dean looks at Sam changes.

[From the pilot to No Rest For The Wicked…]

Sam drives along the coast highway with an empty passenger seat beside him. He hums along to Black Sabbath in the tape deck—Dean’s music, not his, but Sam learned to make concessions a long time ago.

A minute later, Dean breaks. "Did you just put me on the couch for being crap at a gay incestuous relationship we're not even having?"

Sam snorts. "Oh, I think we're having it. Thanks to you being an ass, we're just not enjoying it."

"You're my brother, and I'd die for you." Epic romance. Wincest. (Spoilers only for season one.)
Song: Lamb - Gorecki
2:35 min, 20.5 MB, wmv

It's not the pain of it that gets to him. Not the fact that he spent that time in limbo, or the memory of what it was like to only need a room with one bed. It's the fact that, in that reality, there was a life after Dean.

Sam wrangles on his old Appaloosa during the day with Tippy, his black spotted mongrel, moving the herd into fresh grazing land. The cattle travel slow under the hot sun, lethargic and skinny.

They spent the last hour of sunlight gathering firewood and armfuls of apples, glossy red and yellow, sweet and creamy on the tongue. Sam built the fire slow, feeding it twigs and crumpled knots of grass and newspaper until the wet wood caught.

It’s just there one morning, when Dean and Sam leave their motel room in search of breakfast. Dean opens the door and stops up short. Sam knocks into him and makes a noise of irritation.

Dean says, “Dog.”

Sam says, “What?”

“Dog.”

It's not that he doubts Dean can take care of himself; not really.

It's just that it's Wednesday.

In the end, it doesn’t take centuries. Just fifty-three years.

Sam got married on a summer day.

He’s spent nights pressed between and pillowed on warm, sweet-smelling bodies, with Madison’s breast beneath his cheek and Jess’s thigh draped over his and Sam the only living thing in the bed.

Their cottage is less than a quarter mile from the ranch house. Dean whistles, slapping the gloves against his thighs as the birds lined along the fence cackle to one another, singing to the sleepy morning sky cracked open with light.

Dean/Sam manip, suggestive nudity, NSFW.

There are times Sam imagines he can see the slow fade happening right under his nose, like every time he looks at Dean there's a little less of him. Like one day he might look up and find he's gone, scattered into nothing like a spirit shot with salt.

"The sea gives only what you deserve, boy," he tells him over baked beans and toast in the hold, black coffee warming their guts. "Get greedy and she'll take back, suck the air right outta your lungs."

Sam ran away to find a normal life. Even though it's not Dean he's running from, he can never go back.

Music: Ride by Cary Brothers

49 MB download or stream.

After the third worried message from Sam, Dean started sending him cellphone pictures. Road signs—NEW YORK CITY 212—titty bar signs—WORLD CLASS TOPLESS GIRLS—church signs—JESUS SAVES, BUT ONLY IF YOU PITCH STRAIGHT.

The hellhounds were milling around her legs, almost high as her waist: pale white hides and red eyes, long red tongues lolling out between their stained teeth, all of them panting like the exhaust of an eighteen-wheeler and staring right at him.

"What?" he says, a curious defiance in his tone. "You think they're wrong?"

Dean glances up at him, green eyes sharp and blank, then his attention shifts back to the gun.

"Of course I think they're wrong. Don't you?"

"No."

"Sounds like one bad house. We should check it out." Dean did a screeching U-turn in the middle of the road.

Sam shot him a dirty look.

Dean grinned. "Illinois's the other way, dude."

Sam and Dean have been saving one another for their entire lives.

“Sam, are you awake, man?”

No, Sam says to the imaginary Dean who lives in his head and occasionally shuts his mouth long enough for Sam to get a word in. I’m not awake, I don’t want to talk to you. Go away.

When Sam was very small, after the fire but before words, he would dream of his mother.

Sam heaves a sigh, lurches out of bed with his eyes screwed shut, stumbles blindly to the bathroom, fumbles for a minute with his too-small pajama pants, and finds himself holding someone else’s dick.
“That’s a first,” he mutters.
(It’s not.)

Inside, he finds what he’s looking for, but not what he expects.

They’re chasing rumors of a ghost ship on the Great Lakes, about as far North as they can get and still be in Michigan, when Dean disappears. He just steps out for coffee one morning and doesn’t come back.

"I want to know how my brother dies," Sam says. To the wrong person.

Dean's never done anything anyone will remember him for, and for the first time, he kind of wishes he had.

He could speak it to change things.

"Yeah, you boys nailed that trickster real good," Bobby said, dry as dust.

They kiss: goodnight, good morning, hello, at stoplights, and once because Sam wants the remote. It's like coffee and cough syrup, cinnamon gum and mouthwash, and Sam passes on two colds.

Cold Oak was a month behind them, but he could feel the pull of the crossroads and the smooth skin of his back like it had all been a vision; like it was something yet to come.

Sam and Dean go to Hogwarts.

It’s a hard realization to make, understanding that you’ve spent your life being in love with one person and never really known it until they were leaving you.

Manip and wallpaper, in four sizes: 1024 x 768 / 1280 x 800 / 1280 x 1024 / 1440 x 900

When Sam was a baby, he spent six months hating Dean. It's one of those things about his childhood Dean's been dying to forget but never really can.

She looks different when she’s in the car, her bare feet up on the dash, long gangly legs bent sharply to fit. So young. Younger than her sixteen years, young enough to want more than what he can give her.

"Ten years of hunting, and then we're done. We get a place. We get off the road."

So Dean wasn’t prejudiced, by any means. Universally insensitive, yes, to women, men, other races, and religions, and people with other musical preferences, but the only group of people Sam had ever known Dean to be prejudiced against were dead people.