Tag: fuck yes

lipglosskaz:

Jared Padalecki: “If I knew what it was, I’d be a trillionaire” He was humble about his role in the success of the show, but it almost goes without saying that the bond, onscreen and off, between he and Jensen Ackles is a huge part of its enduring success.

Jensen Ackles: “I think it’s keeping our nose clean and just working hard. I don’t think there’s any great formula. I think it’s respecting the people that you work with, checking your ego at the door. And doing the work that you got hired to do and doing it the best you can. We really believe that.

Phil Sgriccia: “It’s all about Jared and Jensen’s relationship in real life and in the show. If they didn’t get along, we wouldn’t have gone to a hundred. They just became brothers in arms and brothers in real life. And the success is from them and their relationship and them allowing us to take crazy themes for the story lines.”

themegalosaurus:

Dean keeps that bullet, like he said he was gonna, but he never gets around to giving it to Sam. For a long while it just sits in his pocket, jarring him every time his fingers brush against it back to the nauseous, dizzying moment when he stumbled into the cabin and saw Sam lying dead on the floor. He doesn’t need that kind of blow to the head on the regular; it puts him off his game. But he can’t throw the thing away. He tries to, once, gets as far as dangling it between his fingers over the trash. He can’t drop it. He can’t shake the feeling that if he did, whatever spell it was that brought Sam back would shatter and his brother would collapse, right then, would buckle at the knees and fall, stomach gaping, blossoming bloody onto the floor.

It’s not good in the pocket, though, somewhere that he can forget and be reminded of it with that horrible shuddering jerk. He needs to put it somewhere where it’ll stay, where it’s always there and he can get used to it, deal with it, understand that Sam’s here and alive.

In the end, he drills a hole through it and hangs it around his neck on a length of leather. It’s better that way, a solid weight, the right kind of reminder.

In a few months time, they’ll be on another hunt and Sam will notice the cord. His eyes will widen and his cheeks will flush, but he won’t say anything, and Dean will think with a guilty shiver about the amulet he did drop in the trashcan a long way back, will think about the spell that was severed by that act. He’ll look at the tight line of tension in Sam’s shoulders; and he’ll tug the bullet out from under his collar, make a face that is half-apology and half-embarrassment, and say “it’s from -”

Sam will pat an absent hand over his own belly, where the scar still sprawls pink and shiny under his shirt. He’ll nod. He’ll still be a little drawn, Sam, these months down the line; still get tired a little easier, still look thinner around the lips, still refuse to discuss in any real detail the staggering feat of his self-rescue. But he’ll reach for the bullet as Dean holds it in the light; will clasp his fingers around it just for a moment; and when he lets go and it drops back down against Dean’s chest, Dean will feel his brother’s living heat against his skin.

kansaskisses:

kansaskissedlips:

has dean ever carried sam to bed

“Kid, you’re gettin’ too big for this,” Dean tells him when he’s fourteen, skinny and small for his age. He’s fallen asleep in front of the tv, trigonometry book in his lap, and he lays his head in the crook of Dean’s shoulder, breathes in that big-brother smell from his neck. Sam doesn’t think he’ll ever get too big for this. 

“Sam, you got to be kiddin’ me,” Dean grunts at him, and Sam can feel the tremble in his brother’s arms. He whimpers into Dean’s neck, clings to him tight, too hurt to move and he’s sorry, he is, except that it’s been years since he’s been carried to bed, and it’s comforting. 

“Come on, sweetheart, let’s go,” Dean says gently, scooping him up like they’re not grown men, like he doesn’t have inches and pounds on his brother. Sam kisses the hollow of Dean’s throat, lets his eyes drop shut. Dean crawls under the sheets after him, slips an arm around his tummy and tugs him in tight, kisses the nape of his neck. 

Sam will never be too big to be the little brother.

holdmesamthatwasbeautiful:

John wakes up and
tries to hide the liquor on his breath with coffee so black it moves like tar in
the dirty motel mug before he gets into the Impala and drives across the
country in search for darkness.

When Dean tells Sam
that their father hunts bad things, Sam giggles.

Because little
Sammy knows how to hide in plain sight.

Sam watches
through his lashes as John packs his bag: holy water, gun, silver bullets.

A bible.

Sam rolls over in
the warm bed and pretends to be asleep: Dean is warm and close next to him,
sleeping soundly. Sam can feel John’s tired gaze fall on them for a minute, and
the room is silent with goodbyes he knows John won’t bother to voice.

Shuffling steps, a
key in the lock, and the roar of the Impala.

Sam smiles softly
into the pale morning light.

When Dean wakes
up, Sam’s close: dark eyes heavily lidded, a sleepy smirk that looks
indecent on his young face. His fingertips are feathery light on Dean’s shoulder,
counting the faint sprinkle of freckles there.

“You’re pretty when
you sleep,” Sam tells Dean. His voice is very quiet, and Dean blushes like a
virgin.

“You’re pretty
when you’re awake,” Dean says, and Sam slides unhurriedly on top of him,
grinding their barely dressed warm bodies together. Dean makes a beautiful
noise somewhere between a plea and a whine, and Sam can smell the guilt on his
neck.

It smells like
victory, and Sam keeps smiling when he thinks of John out there: I have to protect you boys.

John never
realizes that the call is coming from inside the house. That when he locks
the motel room door, he leaves Dean at the mercy of the most dangerous thing of
all.

By the time John exorcises
his first demon, Sam is counting the freckles on Dean’s hipbones with the tip
of his tongue.

holdmesamthatwasbeautiful:

Dean is packing his
duffle when he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and for the fraction
of a second, he’s convinced that a stranger is staring back at him.

He straightens his
back and looks again. He hasn’t looked at himself in the mirror a lot, these
past years – not much to see, he’d figured. Now, he looks.

New scars. The
same guilt-ridden tautness in his shoulders. He doesn’t look young anymore: the
fullness to his mouth that has been there has faded, the lines around his eyes
are sharp and tells tales of sleepless nights full of whiskey. There used to be
a playful gleam in his eyes, but he realizes now that he’s lost it somewhere
along the road: he looks somber and tight jawed, and there’s a touch of grey around
his temples.

He looks like John
had, the last years of his life; tired and pinched, the planes of his face a
little mean looking.

Dean looks away.

“Hey.”

Dean turns around.
Sam’s watching him, standing in the door opening with his arms crossed over his
chest. He smiles softly, and Dean’s heart flutters in his chest; nothing’s changed, there.

“What are you
doing?” Dean asks.

“Same as you,” Sam
says easily and steps into the room, one eyebrow arched. “Admiring the view.”

Dean scoffs out a disbelieving
laughter and feels his cheeks go a little warm. “You’re cheesy.” His eyes
flickers back his reflection again. He adds in a murmur: “Ain’t that much of a
view anymore, anyway.”

Sam walks up
behind him, and Dean’s breath catches a little in his throat when Sam’s fingers
curl around his waist. It’s a little softer these days, and he bites his lip as
his gaze drops to the floor.

“Dean,” Sam mumbles
into his ear, his warm breath sending shivers down his spine. “Look up for me.”

Dean does. He
stares at them in the mirror: Sam’s behind him, one arm wrapped around Dean’s
waist, his long hair falling in a soft curl around his face. He still looks
young, Dean thinks: his mouth is still pink and soft, his gaze glittering. He
looks like something Dean doesn’t want to tarnish.

“Do you know what my
biggest fear has been?” Sam asks quietly, running his knuckles softly against
the scruff of Dean’s jaw.

Dean’s eyes meet
Sam’s in the mirror, and he shakes his head. “No.”

Dean feels Sam
swallow, his grip around Dean growing a little tighter. “That I never would get
to see you like this,” Sam says. Dean almost, almost, misses the tremor in his voice. “That I wouldn’t get to see
you age. Dean, I’ve been so terrified I’d have to go on living, without you.
With just. With just the memory of your young face, while I grew older.”

Dean’s fingers find
Sam’s; braids them together. “Sam.”

“You have no idea,
do you,” Sam murmurs. “Just how beautiful you are to me like this. You’re. You’re
alive, and ageing. Dean, you’re so perfect.”

Sam turns Dean
around gently, lifts his chin, and Dean feels like he’s sixteen years old again;
melting into Sam’s arms, just as powerless as he had been all those years ago
when he’d first realized how gone he
was for his beautiful baby brother.

Sam’s mouth is hot
against Dean’s when he whispers: “Never been more in love with you.”

Dean throws his
arms around Sam’s neck. They kiss, and it’s so simple and perfect, and when
Dean’s fingers tangle in Sam’s hair, he thinks: I need centuries more of this.