We bought this lovely little 90-year old log cabin from the son of the man who originally built it in the late 1920s (in the black and white photo). It’s located on Lac Courtes Oreilles in northern Wisconsin, on a beautiful piece of lake front-property. The outside of the cabin has had a lot of wear, but the inside is gorgeous, with beautiful woodwork and great little details. It’s truly a special place.
I did a trekking from the Hardangervidda plate to the fjords and this cabin was located in a very remote gorge full of waterfalls from the surrounding glaciers who where melting. The cabin itself was one of the last things that were left of the mining in the area except for some old pickaxes.
It’s in the name of the island, at first. “Nobody knows quite how to pronounce it,” your dad laughs. Your friend and you laugh too. It doesn’t quite reach your bellies. It’s in how none of the day sailors stay the night at the dock. It’s in the sunset, where the sky looks like it’s melting and sun lingers far too long on the horizon. It’s in the old hermit’s cabin, who people swear is there but you’ve searched the whole island and not seen it. It’s in the old hermit himself, who they say vanished one day and was never seen again. They say it was a storm. People don’t just vanish. They never found him or his boat, no wreckage or anything. Those on other islands don’t look you quite in the eyes when they tell you. There are no other people anywhere. The seals sunning themselves have slightly too human eyes. It’s in the old growth forest, undisturbed for hundreds of years. It’s in an arch of trees that are far too perfect, and when you look the next day it’s gone. It’s in how your friend and you walk around the island, done in ten minutes when it took an hour to row around. “It’s because we’re inland farther,” you tell yourself. It’s almost believable. It’s in how you feel eyes watching you in the wood, and you make eye contact with your friend and walk a little faster. You don’t run. You never run. It’s in was that mud patch there before. It’s in when you reach the dock and were the planks that old before. Isn’t the tide supposed to have changed. Your friend jokingly asks if you were replaced by a changeling behind her back. You laugh. She still asks you a question, just to make sure. You have a notoriously bad memory. What was the answer again. You see the fear in her eyes when you fail to answer. She asks a different one, and you both pretend the relief is not very, very real when you answer correctly. It’s in when you row back to the boat and your dad asks if you’re planning on going to the island because you need to leave soon. You tell him you’ve already gone and come back. He laughs and remarks that time flies. He looks at his watch and you see his eyes go grave. It’s in how later, you comment that time felt like it was on pause while you were there. Everyone agrees. It’s in how exactly when you leave, a tour boat full of people goes into the cove. You wave to them. Funny how when you look back a little later you can’t see them. You thought the boat was taller than the cliffs. It’s in how you only relax when you have an ocean of salt and running water and iron-filled fishes’ blood between you and the island. What was it’s name again.
What I’m saying is maybe it’s not the fair folk. Maybe it’s a type of distant relative. What I’m saying is if that’s a single island, what’s a school. What I’m saying is you’re never prepared.
Inspired by Elsewhere University and one very strange visit to a particular island in the San Juan
1) Don’t step inside the standing stones up on the mound. Those are the teeth of greedy, sleepy old Grandfather Ogre
That cabin out by the woods, the man who lives there loves dogs. He has
a dozen or more, feeds them from his own hands. He’s raising the pups
of the Great Hound deep in the forest, tree-high. He’s not a man at all.
You’ll catch her sometimes if she’s quiet, loping along with that
awkward gait, watching the birds. When she whistles the men follow her
and they never look at her mouth. Her legs alone must be twice their
height, but they’ll never speak of it when they come back. If they come
4) Always two of them. Man and woman. Husband and wife
maybe, but they always wear the same face too. They love to measure - if
you stand still by them they’ll measure every part of you, down to the
finger-bones. They love smaller things. They’ll make things for you if
you let them, from the junk they carry, but they always make them too
big. They especially love children.
5) Sometimes you see them
flit by at night - bright-winged and butterfly-free. At a distance you
can mistake the little ones for fireflies. But when you see the broader
glow coming over the curve of the hillside you must remember to look
6) The whole bottom of the river is covered in shells and
they rattle when you cross the bridge. Shellycoat loves distracting
travelers and getting them lost - down her gullet, if she’s hungry.
You find them in churches - abandoned ones - torturing themselves.
They’ve a fascination with the crucifixion. Sometimes they’ll come close
to a village, inching along on those long fingers and toes, and try to
lure out a priest to talk to them.
8) You have to understand is
it’s not your wife, your husband. The thing gets into the ground and
inside of them, makes them move again. It’s not hair - how could hair
grow that long? You have to cut it out of the corpse. Get that long
strand and follow it back to the beast in the earth.
Summary: You’re a cold hearted, remorseless hunter who’s after a witch. When you unintentionally save Dean Winchester’s life, you shoot him. He finds out you’re staying at the same motel as him and Sam later that evening, and then you guys do..things.
wtf kind of summary is that
Request: hey! so i just saw the requests are open.. ive been thinking about some dean x reader smut/fluff stuff inspired by bad woman by motörhead, it just fits perfectly! if you find it inspiring aswell, id love to read a fic about it! youre amazing :) love!
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Warnings: SMUT, Oral (female and male receiving), over stimulation, vaginal fingering, anal fingering, language…I think that’s it?
“Sam?!” Dean whispered as he stalked around the old cabin. Sam and Dean had been separated outside by something, and Sam was out in the woods somewhere.
The cabin was dark, dank, and no one good had stayed there in years. This witch was supposedly here, but it was quiet, very quiet, and the witch was still nowhere to be found.
That was until Dean tripped a wire, and the witch burst through the doors, absolutely pissed that her home - if you could call it that - was being invaded. By a hunter nonetheless. The witch held out her arms, flinging Dean across the room. He hit the fireplace before hitting the floor.
“Bitch.” He groaned as he rolled around, trying to stand up. He held up his gun to shoot, but it wasn’t his gun that went off. He jumped at the sound of another gun shooting and the sight of the witch falling to the floor.
“Sam?” he stepped forward and looked around, thinking it must have been his brother that shot the witch. But as he rounded the corner, he was surprised to see you standing there.
“Hey, uh, thanks.” Dean said as he rubbed the back of his neck, taking you in. You were gorgeous. Long flowy y/h/c hair, striking y/e/c eyes, paired with skinny jeans, knee high boots, and a leather jacket zipped up just enough to give Dean a nice look at your cleavage.
“Don’t thank me,” you spat out, “I wasn’t trying to save you. That witch bitch just needed killing.”
Dean was taken aback at how cold your words were. He thought you must’ve been one of those mean, loner hunters him and Sam came across sometimes. But there was something different about you.
He looked you up and down, his eyes trailing across every curve on your body.
“Ugh, fuck you.” you spat out before you raised your gun and shot him, the bullet just grazing his arm and knocking him on his ass. You didn’t take well to being gawked at.
Summary- Dean comes back from Purgatory a changed man, and things between he and the reader shift from friends to something more.
Word Count- 9,415 (**laughs maniacally, ripping her hair out all the while**)
Warnings- Longform NSFW Smut (chest worship, fingering, a hint of sub!Dean, definite rugburn, fluffy sex), language, protective! Dean, and Dean angst in regards to early season 8 events.
A/N- This takes place in season 8, mostly at Rufus’ old cabin. I know the cabin doesn’t have a fireplace, but we’ll pretend it’s right next to the tv. Cool? Cool. Title is taken from the Toto song of the same name. Again, thanks to everyone for being patient with me while I wrote this one. Super special thanks to @jpadjackles for helping with my plot bunnies, and @winchestersinthedrift for the lovely smut writing advice that I hope I did some justice with. Part of @curliesallovertheplace’s Celebration Challenge and @sis-tafics and @eyes-of-a-disney-princess’ Have a Hubba Bubba Birthday Writing Challenge. The prompts were “What if Dean is a cuddler?” and “The One With All The Kissing”.
(Blockquoted sections are flashbacks)
Each bump in the road has you shifting in your seat, the old chevy truck’s shit suspension making your butt numb with vibrations. You check your watch and, yep. You’re making really good time. You should be with the way you’re speeding on the blacktop, mile markers flying past.
Your phone lights up, the man consuming your idle thoughts’ face smiling up at you from the screen. Him and his stupid pretty face. It’s funny the way you could just as easily kiss said stupid face as you could punch it. And you wanted to kiss it. A lot.
You flip open your phone, “Dean?”
“Hey, you almost here?”
You fight to stifle a laugh. “Impatient much, Winchester?”