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An open letter to whoever ends up with my Summergen prompts

Hello, friend. If you're reading my prompts and thinking "what on earth am I going to do with this nonsense that she would actually like," let me assure you that it doesn't matter. Write whatever your muse tells you to write. Take my prompt and turn it sideways. Take one tiny detail and magnify it, and ignore the rest. Just have fun with it, and create something that makes you happy. Chances are, it will make me happy too.

(Okay, don't turn it into an outer space AU where Cas is a Martian and Sam is an android. That probably won't make me happy.)

{smooches}
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Fic: The whirlwind is in the thorn tree

Genre: Wincest (non-explicit)
Length: About 1300 words
Rating: Hard PG or light R
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester
Synopsis: My first (and probably only) Wincest. No actual sex, just post-coital angst. The morning after the first time. Dean's POV and then Sam's POV.
Notes: No, I am no abandoning my gen status. But this plot bunny burrowed into my brain and refused to go away until I wrote it out. Flowers in the Attic is a cheesy gothic novel featuring four children who are locked in an attic by their scheming mother who hopes to hide their existence; the oldest son and daughter eventually begin an incestuous relationship. The title is from "The Man Comes Around" by Johnny Cash, which I never heard until recently but am now obsessed with.

. . .

Part 1: Dean

It doesn't start with romance or lust. It doesn't start with that little flash of bare skin visible above his jeans when he raises his arms (it makes you crazy and you don't know why; you see him shirtless all the time but for some reason that little strip of skin that isn't meant to be showing just brings you to your knees). It doesn't start with you staring at that perfectly sculpted spot at the base of his throat and finally setting your mouth to it and marking him up the way you've dreamt about for years (you've bruised him when you were sparring, and you've battered him in anger, but you've never left a mark for the purpose of saying hands off, he's mine and oh, what you would do just for the chance). It doesn't start with you too drunk to keep holding it all in and Sam too drunk to say no (you would never, you would never).

It starts with terror. Pure balls-to-the-wall terror that you're about to lose him. A horribly fucked-up hunt where you almost die, but more importantly, you almost watch Sam die, and you stumble into your motel room, both still out of breath, still not quite sure what happened out there, and you're checking him for injuries and every breath is a silent mantra, I almost lost you, I almost lost you, and nothing is enough, you want to crawl under his skin, you want to open him up and cradle his heart in your hands to make sure it's still beating, you're holding him tighter and tighter and he's clutching you just as tight, looking into your soul with those big wet eyes and saying "Dean, Dean," like your name itself is a prayer, a request. A plea. Whatever he is pleading for, you will give it to him. And it turns out the only thing he wants is all of you.

Which is convenient. Because the only thing you want is all of him.

. . .

But then comes After, and you have to face what you've done.

When you wake up (his arm is still flung over you, it's so wrong, it's so wrong), you quietly crawl out of bed and hurry into the shower. There is no water hot enough to scrub you clean, no soap strong enough to wash away your sins (watch out for your brother, it's your most important job). When you give up and turn off the water, you realize you didn't bring any clothes to change into, and you sure as hell weren't wearing any when you fled into the bathroom. There's nothing you can do but wrap a towel around your waist and hope he's still asleep.

He's not. He's sitting up in the bed you shared. His hair is a tousled mess, a silky brown cloud, and your fingers twitch with the craving to be tangled in it again. He doesn't look disgusted, or repulsed. He looks… hopeful. Like he hasn't caught on yet that you are a monster.

(He will be the death of you.)

(He is your reason for living.)

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Initial reaction 16.04: “Take the Long Way Home”

What's this, you're asking... season 16? Well, some folks have formed a group called Frontierland Productions and plotted out a 16th season of Supernatural, taking place in the years (yes, YEARS) between 15.19 and 15.20. When I read the most recent episode, "Take the Long Way Home," I expressed my love and writer ameliacareful suggested I recap it like a filmed episode. And then quickreaver basically double-dog-dared me, so here it is. A retelling of someone's fic. Will anybody care? Let's find out! But go read the fic first. Seriously, it's amazing.

And remember, any snark is written with the utmost love and respect...


THEN: Chuck. Jack. Sam and Dean are the subjects of a podcast. They went to Vegas and killed a minotaur. Same shit, different day, right?

NOW: We see the Winchesters in the Impala, staking out an apartment complex. Apparently they're waiting for a witch who is magicking up a career as a fashion designer, despite a lack of talent so appalling that even Sam Winchester recognizes it. I wonder what Tofer the witch would think about Sam's orange jacket? (I'm quite sure Tim Gunn would be disappointed, but kind.) Two women are dead, but (spoiler alert) we never find out if Tofer is killing his competition, or if his ugly-ass clothes are killing his models.

A cute little purple car shows up and the guys follow Tofer inside, using the building keys they stole earlier. Oh, wait, this guy's full name is Christopher Listofler? That's. Um. Unfortunate. Okay. Moving on. The door opens on its own before they have a chance to break in. Tofer is sitting there in his living room with a lit candle, for that nice witchy ambience. {Sidebar: I need to point out how pleased I am that Sam changed his hair a little bit after 15.19 and has long, face-framing bangs again, kind of like the back half of season 8. And no evidence of hairspray. I approve.}

Tofer immediately pegs them as Not FBI, but Sam, for some reason, is mesmerized by whatever is draped over a clothes dummy in the corner. He can't seem to look away from it. Dean is also distracted by it, but not to the same extent. Tofer gets out a spell that makes Sam hit the floor, so naturally Dean shoots him in the head. The candle sputters out but the room is brightly lit by a brilliant glowing cloud swirling near the ceiling.

Sam's eyes are open but he looks dazed and unfocused. Dean goes into full-on panic mode (nice!) and checks for a pulse. Sam suddenly comes back online with a gasp. Dean is still panicky, buzzing around Sam asking if he's okay and telling him not to move. Sam calmly touches his chest, gazes up at the glowy cloud swirling above him, and says "I think that's my soul."

Duh duh duh!!! Soulless Sam is in the house!

Title card!

{Sidebar: I also have to say I appreciate that season 16's title card is just shirtless Sam with wet hair, lying on his bed with his hands behind his head, staring sadly through the blades of his ceiling fan. It's a bold choice and I respect that.}

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Let’s talk about Walker for a minute

Okay, I'm not officially watching Walker, but I'm also not not watching it? Which means I've downloaded some episodes (eps 5-9) and watched most of them? I've skipped a lot of the parts that aren't Walker or his smoking hot brother (ha, Jared Padalecki and a hot brother, where have I heard that song before?) but I've still managed to come up with some thoughts. Spoilers below.


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Fic: You don't know how it feels (to be me)

Genre: Gen
Length: About 3600 words
Rating: PG
Characters: Soulless Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester
Synopsis: Soulless Sam tries to deal with his brother's feelings about, well, everything. Including his hair. Set in season 6, before "You Can't Handle the Truth."


Not the threatened Wincest, not in time for borgmama1of5's birthday. An idea I had a long time ago, resuscitated by Jared's Walker haircut. The title is from "You Don't Know How It Feels" by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.

. . .

It's a stupid case.

The manager of the county fairgrounds is a stooped, gnarled old man wearing one of those ball caps veterans wear sometimes. Gold embroidery on the dark blue hat proudly displays the name of his ship or submarine or whatever. Sam doesn't care about his ship or submarine or whatever. He doesn't care about this guy's service at all. Most days, old Blue Hat here got three meals a day and a warm, dry place to sleep in exchange for whatever he gave up. He got a pension when he was done fighting. Sam gets to scrounge for cheap food and sleep in crappy hotels when he's lucky enough to actually land someplace other than the back seat of the Impala. Sam's service to his country earned him a trip to Hell. Sam will get to stop fighting when he's dead. His only pension will be a pyre.

Sam doesn't even get to sleep any more.

(This should bother him. But the truth is, it doesn't.)

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