3 AM in the Boy's Dormitories
  • Ron: Hey Harry?
  • Harry: What
  • Ron: Do you think Voldemort was a virgin?
  • Harry: Seriously Ron-
  • Ron: I was just wondering-
  • Harry: *sighs* *pauses* In the Chamber of Secrets, the memory had him in 5th year...
  • yeah, he wasn't a virgin
  • Seamus: Imagine being the lass to do the frick-frack with ol' Dark Lord Voldy
  • Dean: The Gryffindor boy's dorm; the place where we can talk about sex with the Dark Lord but not say the word sex.
  • Seamus: *throws pillow at Dean*
  • Neville: *after pause* Doing the Do with You Know Who.
  • Ron: He Who Must Not Be Laid

Sam, king of hell, sits on his throne with his favorite consort draped all over his lap. Dean’s eyes shift from the deepest black to glittery green when Sam strokes his hair carefully, admiring his brother’s beautiful face.

“I have a gift for you,” Sam says softly, fingers threading through Dean’s.

With a nod to the guards, the doors open. Dean tears his gaze away from Sam, his eyes widening.

Two lanky boys are being brought into the hall in chains, dragged along the aisle and pushed to their knees in front of the throne.

It’s Sam, little soft eyed twenty-one-year-old Sammy in a Stanford hoodie with ink stains on his hands. Next to him is Dean, eyes sparkling defiantly, shoulders hunched beneath his father’s too big leather jacket. “Who are you?” he demands hotly, eyes flickering between the king and his consort, eyes narrowing at the possessive way they’re wrapped around each other. “And why do you look like us?”

Sam says into Dean’s ear: “No one is good enough for you but us. Do you like your new pets, my sweet?”

Dean looks up at his king, pupils blown wide. Licking his lips, he replies: “Our new pets.”

Sam’s eyes gleam red for an instant, before he kisses Dean.

Little Sammy’s only fourteen, but the way his big brother falls apart for him makes him feel like he has eons after eons of ancient power; all it takes is a little sweep of his sooty eyelashes from beneath his dark bangs and Dean is worshipping him; treats him like a prince, like a king.


Dean whispers stories into his ear as he fucks him through the dark nights: stories of the boy who would be king, stories of power and glory and violence, and when Sam wakes up he’s exhilarated and sore and thrumming with something undefinable; he feels something rise inside of him.


Sam claws at Dean’s back when he comes, and he’s shaking when he whispers against Dean’s damp throat: “Tell me the story again. About the boy.”

Dean’s eyes are almost black in the night, wide and proud. “No baby boy,” he tells Sam in a voice that has so many layers it makes Sam go dizzy. “You’ll tell it yourself. Soon.”

Sam falls asleep in Dean’s protective arms. He dreams of fire and echoes, and of Dean: strong and black-eyed, kneeling by a throne.

Things only in Hetalia

• An entire religion based on a character.

• Hetaoni and Dreamtalia.

• Gutters and Danish Slaughterhouse

• 23.5

• Being able to trigger an entire fandom at the mention of Davey, Pineapples, and Jeanne D'arc

• 5 minute episodes, 4 seasons.

• Russia’s hands.

• 2p Hetalia

• The elusive 3p Hetalia

• Fucking micronations

• Direct 3rd wall breaking like in the office

• Gay Countries™

• Every Hetalian suddenly knows how to perfectly cook pasta

• Vocaloids made for the characters in Hetalia; Hetaloids

• All Hetalians know at least bits and pieces of several other languages OTHER than Japanese like other weeaboos; Examples include German, any Nordic language, French, Italian, and Spanish (All of which I can say bits and pieces of)

• Ace-ing history class

• Asking your history teacher what Prussia is, and where Liechtenstein is, and if Sealand is considered a country

• Everyone can voice act well or do at least one good or great impression of a character

• Being able to name more countries off the top of your head than anyone else

• Dark Lord Hima

• Studio Dean Animation

Truth or Truth

Requested anonymously: A one shot where the reader has never been able to orgasm through masturbation. When Dean finds out, he offers to help.

Warning: smut, masturbation

Word Count: 2300

A/N: Hope you enjoy, anon! XOXO

“Truth or truth?” Dean asks, grinning a little sideways in that way that lets you know he’s just the right amount of drunk.

Truth or truth is the game you play when you’re both feeling a little wound up, needing to blow off some steam. You’re too old for stupid dares and too nervous for dares that might actually make you touch each other, so you settle for sticking to truths. It never amounts to anything, but you both enjoy the sexy words said in the dark as you lie together on one bed, a bottle being passed between you, like you have a life and a personality outside of monsters.

Keep reading

The thing was that Sam, Dean knew, was perfectly lethal.

Dean would know: he’d raised him to be.

Those wide, earnest eyes never missed a thing; Sam knew the second someone’s guard dropped - and that’s when he would strike.

Dean had bought Sam his first knife when he was eleven.

Sam’s fingertips had been feathery light over the blade, his eyes calm and dark. “Won’t you need a knife, too?”

“Nah baby boy,” Dean had told him a little breathlessly. “I just wanna watch you.”

Jensen talks about the Mary-Dean-scene in 12x22...

…and how it relates and calls back to the end of S11 to him when Amara said “I’m gonna give you what you need most”, because he expected John to return and he struggled all season with Dean and his relationship with Mary, because it didn’t make “sense” for him and how when he read 12x22 made a lightbulb go off over his head, because he then realized that “what the Darkness meant for Dean to need most” was to be able to confront and forgive his mother.

 Dean needs to kill because if he doesn’t, he throws up like a sick cat.

The mark wants what the mark wants, and Sam doesn’t like the smell of vomit.

He doesn’t mind the tangy, ripe smell of blood clinging to their dungeon however, and he really doesn’t mind the way Dean’s strong arms tremble, adrenaline fueled, above the wheezing, dying human beneath him.

Dean’s eyes lock with Sam’s and for one brief moment, blackness flickers across that green-eyed stare.

Sam looks at Dean’s mark. He wants to trace his tongue over it, but that’s for later.

Now, Dean needs to kill.

And Sam, well -

Sam likes to watch.


Destiel AU: Dean Winchester leaves Lawrence on a whim to go to visit his childhood best friend, Castiel Novak, at Stanford. He breaks in, intending to make this a surprise visit. but things don’t quite go as planned when Castiel initially mistakes him for an intruder. [read the ficlet on ao3]

Dean didn’t know what possessed him to get in the Impala and drive across the country. Or maybe he did, but he was too much of a chickenshit to admit it. It certainly hadn’t been an easy trip. Stanford was thousands of miles away from Lawrence. Twenty-six hours of drive-time if you followed the speed limit (which he didn’t). So like it or not, ending up five states away at his best friend’s doorstep at 1am was not something he could brush off as an accident, and that scared him.

It scared him that Cas might look at his presence and know exactly what Dean was scared to say.

It was a good thing he had a lot of practice ignoring his own feelings, because if he’d really let himself appreciate the gravity of what he was doing, he probably wouldn’t have been able to get out of the car. He made his way to the front door, double checking the address on his phone. He could feel his heart rate speeding up in anxious anticipation. He couldn’t believe it had been months since they’d seen each other without the aid of computer screens.

Thinking about the last time he’d seen Cas wasn’t really something he liked to do. He knew he had no one but himself to blame for that day Cas had driven off, his long suffering Pimpmobile full to bursting with clothes and furniture for his new apartment.They’d exchanged goodbyes on the sidewalk. Dean had so many things he wanted to say but he’d swallowed them down so Cas wouldn’t hear the lump that was stuck in his throat.

“I’ll see you at Christmas,” Cas had said, trying to smile at him.

Dean wanted to remind him that he could call anytime he wanted, that they would Facebook message every day, that Dean would be thinking about him…but instead all he’d done was nod solemnly. Cas grinned at him like he understood and opened his arms for a hug.

Dean was usually the one who held back from physical contact but this time he’d surprised himself, pulling Cas in tight, breathing him in for what promised to be the last time in a long time. He’d patted Cas’s back, instead of burying his head against Cas’s shoulder the way he wanted.

After a moment they’d pulled away and Cas had given Dean that look he reserved for the times when he knew Dean wanted to say something but wouldn’t. That look that promised not to judge him, if Dean could only lend himself the same courtesy. But Dean wasn’t that much of a dick. He might have been in love with his best friend, and sure, he might not have admitted it to himself until the worst possible moment, but he certainly wasn’t going to ruin this day for Cas. His friend had a long day of driving ahead of him today, and yet another one tomorrow. He didn’t need to spend it thinking about how Dean was a giant cry baby who didn’t want him to leave. Cas had great opportunities waiting for him at Stanford, with even greater people, of this Dean was sure.

So after they’d said their goodbyes, as Cas was getting into his car, Dean had dropped his hand on Cas’s shoulder. For a moment he searched for the right words that would encompass everything he wanted to tell him.

That Cas was the best friend he’d ever had. That Dean was proud of him. That he was loved. There was nothing that could quite do the job, or at least nothing he could let himself say. But Cas was looking up at him with those big guileless blue eyes and Dean had to say something.

“Don’t ever change,” Dean told him, annoyed by the way his voice grew rough with emotion.

He’d thought about that moment a million times in the months that followed, going over it again and again and wishing he’d done it differently. But now was not the time to dwell on the past, now was the time to remember everything he’d ever read about picking locks.

Keep reading

Cas cuddling up against Dean’s back as he sleeps, wrapping his arms around his waist and brushing the back of his neck with kisses, peppering them down his shoulders and up into his hairline. Cas breathing in the scent of Dean’s apple-cinnamon shampoo, and whispering ‘breakfast?’ into his dark hair. 

Dean shaking his head no, and pressing back against Cas’s warm body while hugging the blankets closer, murmuring ‘just five more minutes’ without even opening his eyes.

Cas smiling against Dean’s skin, wordlessly saying of course, because he’s held Dean all night while he slept, chased away his nightmares and waited patiently for him to wait up to start their day together. What’s five more minutes? Of course, Cas will wait.


“You’re a good guy.” You whispered into the darkness. Dean lay on his own bed, just a few feet to your right. Sam’s snoring filled the silence while you waited for Dean to respond.

“You always say that.” He whispered back, his voice was raspy and aching for a good night’s sleep that you knew neither of you would receive tonight.

You pulled the blanket up higher up over your chest. The sheets scratched against your ass; once again you forgot to pack sweat pants.

“I always mean it.”

“Huh.” He muttered in response. You heard him flip sides. Was he facing you? You couldn’t see.

Regardless, you turned from your back onto your side, to face him.

“Dean?” You asked.


“Do you ever…feel lonely?” You asked. After two in the morning, you found that more often than not, your filter seemed to leave.

After a beat of silence he responded, “Most of the time.”

“What about the other times? What helps you get through them?” You hadn’t realized that your grip around the blanket tightened.

His breathing was even. Dean always breathed deeply, you noticed.

“You.” The word slipped out from between his lips so quietly you almost misheard, until he repeated, “You do.”

After hearing that, you weren’t sure if you allowed seconds to tick by, or minutes. Years worth of tension just released itself between these shitty motel walls. You kicked the blanket down to your ankles before quietly stepping out from your bed.

“Move over.” You gripped his shoulder beneath your fingers. He did as he was told and you crawled under his sheets. He didn’t touch you until you pressed your forehead against his chest. His t-shirt smelled like him, and you nuzzled yourself even closer.

“Do you love me?” You asked suddenly, and Dean lifted his leg over your own. In his own way, that was an answer. Laying there intertwined, you allowed yourself to savor the moment of feeling completely whole in his arms until repeating your question.

It felt as if nothing before this moment had ever existed, even though you had never even been this physically close to him.

Hugs, of course.

Kisses on the forehead, always.

But something was different now; suddenly you became more than just his best friend.

“Yes.” He answered, his lips ghosting over your head. “So fucking much.” His voice was shaking as he said it. You raised your hand to plant it firmly on his jaw. You traced circles over his temple and down to his ear.

“Why have you never told me?” You asked.

He gripped your head in his hand. “I never knew what you thought of me.”

“What I think of you?” You said more to yourself than to him, “You’re honest. Strong. Brave. Caring. Hilarious.” You began listing his qualities, “And that smile of yours, it can light up a room.”

He tucked your hair behind your ear as you spoke. When you dragged your fingers to his cheeks, you realized they were wet.

“You’re selfless, Dean.” You added, “And most of all you’re good. The kind of good that makes the best of men yearn to be like you.”

Right there, you realized you had only seen him cry one other time.

“I love you.” He whispered again and tried to pull you closer. There wasn’t any more space but damn did he try.

“Dean?” You whispered his name as if you hadn’t heard him speak just a second ago, “You’re also the guy I love. I don’t know if that fits in with the rest of the list, but I do. So fucking much.”

He was squeezing you so tight now, you nearly began to sweat.

“It’s the only part of the list that matters.” He said as his hands gripped your back.

– – – – 

I haven’t written for this blog in a while. Partly due to exams, and partly to writer’s block. Let me know if you like this/send feedback! I’d love to know how you all feel about this type of imagine.