sam yield

The Yielding

Author: @sugarlips-jensen
Word Count: 3,810
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Warning(s): Unprotected sex, kitchen sex, mild cursing. (I can’t think of any others, so if you can let me know)
A/N: So this wasn’t a request, but it was the only thing that I felt like I could properly write. I promise to try and get to more requests soon!

Originally posted by bringmesomepie56

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anonymous asked:

Did we ever find out why Ser Alliser hated Jon from the start or was it simply a case of, well Jon needs an adversary so here he is?

Short answer: Alliser Thorne is a very small man, and Jon stepped on his toes.

Long answer: there are many factors that helped shape the relationship between Jon and Thorne. For starters, Alliser Thorne was a Targaryen loyalist  who was sent to the Wall on the command of Tywin Lannister after the Sack of King’s Landing at a time when lots of loyalists were getting pardoned after bending the knee, something that clearly embittered him and left him resentful of the Rebellion and the Night’s Watch itself. Meaning that he was predisposed to disliking Jon, being that he was the son of one of the rebel leaders. Not that Jon would have been spared if he hadn’t been Ned Stark’s son; from what we’ve seen of Thorne’s behavior, he was predisposed to disliking all the recruits with equal fervor. Because Alliser Thorne is a bully who preyed on those weaker than him and who took out his resentment on his recruits. He always found a reason or another to hate his recruits which he took as probable cause to demean them.

The bigger shift from being one of many targets of Thorne’s indiscriminatory dislike of all recruits to being the target of his impassioned hate happened after Jon got the news that Bran woke up. Jon - who had previously received a verbal lashing from Donal Noye that smacked the castle-bred superiority right out of him and who was in a very cheerful mood after he got the news that Bran was going to live - offered to help Grenn with his training, essentially offering to do Thorne’s job for him, something that Alliser took ill to.

Alliser Thorne overheard him. “Lord Snow wants to take my place now.” He sneered. “I’d have an easier time teaching a wolf to juggle than you will training this aurochs.” 

“I’ll take that wager, Ser Alliser,” Jon said. “I’d love to see Ghost juggle.”

 Jon heard Grenn suck in his breath, shocked. Silence fell.  Then Tyrion Lannister guffawed. Three of the black brothers joined in from a nearby table. The laughter spread up and down the benches, until even the cooks joined in. The birds stirred in the rafters, and finally even Grenn began to chuckle.

Ser Alliser never took his eyes from Jon. As the laughter rolled around him, his face darkened, and his sword hand curled into a fist. “That was a grievous error, Lord Snow,” he said at last in the acid tones of an enemy. 

As far as Thorne was concerned, Jon publicly mocked and undermined him in front of the whole Watch, most of them his subordinates. For a prickly man who seems to have the same relationship with laughter as Tywin Lannister, and who found pleasure in holding his superiority over those weaker than him, that moment was enough to earn Jon his everlasting enmity. Jon effectively broke Thorne’s power by his cheeky comeback, something that no self-respecting bully would take kindly to. Jon was on Thorne’s shitlist from this moment onward.

It was a slippery slope from then on out. Because Jon continued to challenge and undermine Thorne. He showed Thorne up making it very clear to everyone in Castle Black how incompetent he was at his job. Oh he was just abysmal; his “training” consisted of yelling at the recruits and making them beat each other bloody without moving a muscle to actually teach them anything. He even denied them their personhood by coming up with nicknames that were either build on their physical appearance (and that relied on comparing them to animals) or were designed to hit them where it hurt (Lover for Daeron who was falsely accused of rape. Lord Snow for Jon whose bastardy was an open and easily recognized wound, etc). Thorne was content to make the recruits feel useless and denying them the means to prove him wrong. Until Jon stepped in to work with them and impart his own training on them, proving just how wrong Thorne was about them. The “Aurochs” made significant progress to the point of being named a ranger, as did Pyp who sought Jon out to learn from him because Thorne never bothered to show him how to grip a sword properly. Jon, more or less, replaced Thorne as a trainer and showed everyone that the problem was less about the ability of the recruits and more about how they were trained and who trained them.

So not only did Jon prove Thorne incompetent, he proved him willfully incorrect in his assessment of the recruits. Basically, an idiot who had no idea what he was talking about. He stood up to Thorne repeatedly as well, from refusing to give up on his fellow recruits as a lost cause to stepping in to protect Sam in the yard, impressing the shame of still going after Sam after he yielded on his fellow recruits. Which publicly shamed Thorne as well considering that he was an anointed knight clearly breaking his vows and every chivalric code. Jon undermined Thorne again when he managed to convince the other recruits (or in Rast’s case, threaten) not to beat Sam up on Thorne’s command, and again when he went to Maester Aemon for help to get Sam out from under Thorne’s thumb.

And through it all, Jon was enabled in his defiance of Thorne by the highest ranking officers on the Wall: Lord Commander Mormont and the widely respected Maester Aemon, which is a reflection of what they thought of both Jon and Thorne. Maester Aemon listened to Jon and went over Thorne’s head to get Sam. Jeor Mormont denied Thorne the sick satisfaction he got from Jon’s appointment to the stewards by appointing Jon as his personal steward, a position understood to be given to someone being groomed for command. And it wasn’t only them who showed Jon favor. Tyrion - someone Thorne actively loathed for being both a Lannister and dwarf - laughed off Thorne’s humorlessness and got the rest of the high officers laughing at him, but he lent Jon his aid which consisted of twisting Thorne’s arm right in front of Jon by forcing him to tell Jon that Mormon’s summon had to do with Bran. The recruits defied Thorne and complied with Jon’s demands instead. Even when Thorne’s cruel barb about Ned succeeded in provoking Jon into attacking him, Jon promptly distinguished himself saving Mormont’s life the very same night and his punishment boiled down to being held in his room for a while.

With Jon established as Thorne’s enemy (which honestly says so much about the guy), it must have stuck in his craw that Jon was being shown favor from the same people who mocked Thorne himself, and was allowed and even rewarded for his defiance.

anonymous asked:

why bottom!dean, my friend? :)?

Well. Here’s a can of worms if ever I’ve seen one. So many ways we can take that question.

The first answer is: ‘cuz I like it, dude. Aesthetically, I mean. Not that bottom!Sam isn’t just as nice, when well-described, but–perhaps it’s because I’m lame and heteronormative and all sorts of other adjectives, but I have a preference for the ostensibly dominant figure being the larger, and the ostensibly submissive figure being smaller. (And yet there we immediately run into a set of assumptions and false equivalencies–who’s to say what’s dominant and what’s not, who’s to say that who does what to who has anything to do with–etc.) Nevertheless–it’s a preference, and there’s little we can do about those.

The second answer: for a canon presentation of the Winchesters (which is always my favorite kind) I cannot imagine Dean as the “aggressor.” That is to say: I can’t imagine a Dean who has the “idea” first, and presents it to Sam, and becomes the Actor in the scene without direct provocation and permission from Sam. How does a man having the idea that he wants to have sex usually work out? Often, it’s with the idea that he wants to get his dick wet. Imagine 13-year-old Sammy, just figuring out what his dick is for, just craving the idea of bending someone over and fucking them. Imagine 23-year-old Sammy, drunk and sad and cupping Dean’s face, looking at his mouth and imagining it elsewhere. Imagine a Dean who would do anything to protect his little brother, whose own life rises and falls with his brother’s happiness, and imagine how quickly he’d shy away from images of turning his little brother on his belly and riding him–but, if Sam is the one who wants it–if Sammy asks

So, the third answer: it’s not that it’s bottom!Dean, specifically. Yes, that is how it tends to work out, because of the previously-mentioned aesthetics of the thing. It’s that… Generally speaking–generally speaking–I prefer a Dean who is more comfortable being acted upon, than acting. A Dean who is strong and confident and brave, who saves people and saves the world, but who in this one case–in this one case–he… isn’t so confident. Because it’s Sam. Sam, who he holds as worth more than the world, whose opinion matters to him a great deal–whose safety is more important than the safety of nations–what’s most important is what Sam wants. And, therefore, he wants what Sam wants. If Sam wants to fuck him, then–oh, yes, please. If Sam wants to suck his dick, then–that’s a banner day. If Sam wants to be fucked, then–that’s what Sam gets. Dean yields, when he can.

And so, finally, the fourth answer: ‘cuz I like it, dude.

socmomofthree  asked:

Please tell me I haven't missed your geeky glasses/tousled hair/bookstore-library fanfic.

I was at my In-laws for the afternoon when this ask: petition for sam to do a photoshoot wearing his glasses with messy hair holding a book staring at cait from across the library. i need it. posted by @jamesandclairefraser hit us all in the feels like a ton of bricks:


Here is my version, better late than never.

Fanfic Masterlist

I’ll Say It Is Esteem

“Damn, damn, DAMN!” Sam raged, rushing through his shower as if it were pouring ice water. He hopped out and danced around on the mat, vaguely waving a towel around in his haste. He thrust long legs into his favorite pair of jeans at the same time as he pulled a soft t-shirt over his head, ending in a tangled heap on the floor. “Bollocks!” He shouted at the top of his voice. This was not a good start to the day. There was no time for proper grooming, so a quick swipe with his toothbrush and a frazzled hand shoved through his dripping locks was all he was going to get.

He’d already been late for work twice this week. Three times might just mean he’d get sacked. Which would mean he’d lose his apartment. Which would mean he’d be out of a job, homeless, no savings, unreliable acting prospects… “DAMN!” he raged again.

This was the perfect gig. He worked 5 shifts a week at the bookstore in exchange for rent and a small salary. The studio above the shop was all he needed and the flexible scheduling allowed him plenty of time to go on auditions. So much better than that clerical position he’d had a while back. The problem was, while he was great with the afternoon shift, the morning shift kicked his trash around. One day, he swore for the umpteenth time, he would get up early every day and work out at the gym before heading off to a brilliant acting gig that earned him loads of money and made him wildly popular.

“Ha,” he thought, “that’ll be the day.”

Sam gulped a protein shake as he bolted down the stairs, ran down the hall to enter the shop through the back room, and clocked in just in the nick of time. He wasn’t cut out for this sort of life. He had endless energy and motivation, but the daily grind of time clocks, shifts and regular schedules just didn’t work for him.

Sam started re-shelving the books that had been left out the previous night as he mentally ran through the list of upcoming auditions. There were a few things he was really excited about; one theatrical role, a few bits on the telly and his most promising audition, a substantial role in a film. That was the news that had kept him out late last night, drinking with his buddies. As he settled into the work of the day, the cozy, slightly dusty atmosphere of the bookshop soothed his mind and erased the stress of his frantic morning.

In spite of his absolute commitment to acting, Sam really loved the quiet little shop that had become his home. It was one of the few independent booksellers left in town and they had a ferociously loyal clientele. They carried all the latest blockbusters, but also had a very respectable collection of out of print, used and generally hard to find books.

Sam never got tired of the smell of the books. The shop was filled with the aroma of paper, glue, and the soft vanilla scent that was the gift of the older, decaying tomes. Add to that the fireplace in the corner, tea and coffee pots on the counter and the sharp resinous scent of the pine shelving and he was in heaven. The shop fairly reeked of imagination. It was a place where people came not only to get lost in the stories on the page, but also to lose themselves in the stories in their own heads. Companionable silences and quiet conversations filled the store from open to close. There were comfy chairs and cushions strewn here and there, and four additional rooms broke off at random from the main chamber. The building was an old one, and he couldn’t wish for a more perfect home to the hundreds of books that slumbered here, waiting to be awakened by the soft, loving touch of a new reader.

Sam was busy with paperwork behind the counter when the bell rang, announcing a new customer. Looking up from his work, he saw that she was here again. She’d come in seven times in the last two weeks. Not that he was counting. To be honest, he was definitely counting. Every time she came in he swore he would talk to her, get her number, ask her to lunch, anything, but as usual, he kept awkwardly to himself.

Absentmindedly, he pushed his glasses back up us nose and brushed a rogue curl off of his face. He remembered he hadn’t done anything with his hair this morning other than let it air dry and could only imagine the wild state it must be in. “Och, well”, he thought, “no need to be dapper if he wasn’t even going to talk to the lass.”

Normally when she came in she browsed, had a cup of tea, maybe sat and read for a quarter hour. One time she bought a few picture books, but he had been with another customer and hadn’t had the pleasure of helping her. He had noted the lack of a ring on her finger, and had happily filed away the fact that she was buying the books for her nieces.

Today he was lost in his musings, admiring the way the light played off of the dark chestnut of her hair, and noticed the freckles sprinkled across her face for the first time. He was so absorbed in this new discovery that he didn’t notice her walk up to the counter and pause, waiting to be acknowledged.

“Excuse me.” And the loveliest sound drifted through his ears. Repeated again, Sam finally came back to full awareness.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He said, “Wandering off amongst the books again. How can I help you?”

She told him about a poem she’d heard quoted, wondered if he could help her track it down, had heard this was the place to go for hard to find books. Sam’s heart swelled as she described a lesser-known Robert Burns poem. He had no deep knowledge of poetry, but Rabbie was like an old friend, and without thinking, he adjusted his glasses one more time, grabbed her hand and excitedly led her to a back room containing some of the older poetry collections.

By the time he realized how odd he must seem, holding her hand and nattering on about Burns as he searched for the book, it was too late to retreat into social awkwardness. She seemed entertained by his enthusiasm, if nothing else. He eventually had the sense to let go of her hand and was rewarded with a light touch on his arm as he gallantly looked up the poem and began to read. His rich voice echoed through the tiny room as he deepened his naturally light brogue to match the language and tone of the Scottish Treasure’s words.

Once the recitation was finished, he flipped the page and started telling her, unasked, about the next poem. Daft he may be, but something in her blue gaze and swallowed smile emboldened him, and he wanted to show off for her, share with her his love of this man’s words. Leaning against the crumbling books, he continued to share lines from his favorite poems and they naturally drifted into casual conversation.

“I’m Sam.” He stated boldly, after a pause in the conversation.

“Hey, Sam. I’m Caitriona.” She replied and he felt a little crackle of electricity in the air at the sound of her name.

 They continued to chat, and Sam learned that this Irish beauty was a model in town for a magazine shoot, but had stayed on to visit family.

 “A model!” Sam blurted out before he could stop himself, “You mean like Victoria’s Secret and all that?” He could have died. Could he never have a normal conversation with a woman without embarrassing himself?

 Caitriona blushed a delightful soft rose and laughed.

 “Yes, exactly like that. I was actually a Victoria’s Secret Runway model.” Caitriona admitted, a little uneasy.

 It was obvious she didn’t want to be seen as some vapid model, so Sam wondered why she had even told him. The conversation seemed to come so easy between them. He told her about his acting and went off on his love of live theater. She in turn, shared with him her story of being discovered in college, modeling around the world all these years, but how what she had really always wanted was to act. When he finally got up the courage to ask her to lunch, he couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of his mouth. He sounded smooth and confident, as if he asked supermodels to lunch every day.

 “Oh, Sam. I’d love to. Really. But I’m due at my sister’s in 30 minutes. I really want to continue our conversation, though. Next time?”

 “It’s a date.” Sam smiled, and walked her back to the register to ring up her purchase.

Sam spent the rest of the day in a bit of a daze, never quite putting thoughts of Caitriona to rest. He heard her quiet Irish lilt, saw her pale skin and dark hair, the freckles and piercing blue eyes, the soft rose of her blush and the way her long, elegant fingers caressed the book of poetry. He hoped beyond reason that she would come into the shop the next day. He hoped the same thing the day after that, and again the following day.


 Six months later, Caitriona walked into the shop, a look of eagerness on her lovely face. When a causal glance around the room didn’t yield Sam, she walked to the counter to ask if he was working.

“Sam?” The clerk queried. “Who do you mean?”

“Well,” Caitriona said, “He worked here when I was last in town, about six months ago. Very tall, curly dark blonde hair. Scottish.”

 “Oh, yeah, Sam. I remember. I’d just started, so I never got to know the bloke well. He quit a while back. Got a part in some movie. Moved to Norway or Denmark or somewhere.”

 Caitriona felt a surge of disappointment and turned for the door. As she was leaving, the clerk called her back.

 “Sorry. I forgot. Are you by chance Caitriona? Sam left something at the register. Said if you ever came back in we were to be sure to give it to you.” The clerk handed her an envelope and politely busied himself with paperwork.

Thanking him, Cait walked over to a chair by the fire and sat. Opening the letter, she found a note and a second folded piece of paper.

 “Dear Caitriona,

 I was hoping you’d come back before I left. I never got to share my favorite Rabbie Burns poem with you. I’d like one day to meet again and talk poetry (or anything else you fancy). I don’t know where I’ll be when you read this (if you read this), but here’s my mobile number. Call me when you’re ready for lunch.


 Cait set the note aside, and reached to unfold the other page. At the top, in an unfamiliar hand, Sam had written out a poem. ‘My Favorite’ was scrawled in the top corner.

Caitriona smiled as she read the title, “Esteem for Chloris

Imagine singing the Captain America song to Steve with Sam to tease him

“When Captain America throws his mighty shield!” you sang.

“All those who chose to oppose his shield must yield!” Sam joined in.

“If he’s led to a fight and a duel is due,” Steve rolled his eyes at you two.

“Come on you guys. I know you have a nice singing voice Y/N but-”


“Why did I introduce you two…”

Sunlight streams in from the open window, a soft morning breeze blowing the curtains back and forth against the pane. Sam blinks open his eyes, blearily rolling over away from the brightness. An arm around his waist prevents him from going too far and he freezes, confused for half a second before his brain catches up with him. Right. Dean.

He’s used to waking up with his brother’s arms wrapped around him now, at least he should be after three years of whatever their relationship is. Sometimes though, it still amazes him he got to have this.

Despite the brightness, Sam rolls over, admiring Dean’s half-naked torso escaping from the confines of the sheets. He’s lying on his side, cheek pressed against the pillow, mouth-half open. He’s surprised there isn’t a gross stream of drool leaking from his mouth. Sam twists around, running a loving hand down Dean’s side and leans down, pressing his mouth against Dean’s in a chaste kiss.

He wants to stay, but his stomach is rolling around in knots of hunger and he always loves waking his brother up with breakfast. It’s one of the best gifts he can give to him.

Somehow Sam manages to extract himself from Dean’s arms, and climbs out of bed, quietly padding into the kitchen to turn-on the coffee maker and start some eggs. While both the stove and coffee heat up, Sam wanders into the living room and goes to stand on the balcony. In here the sunlight is almost too much, illuminating the entire room in a white hue, and Sam has to shield his eyes with his hand in order to walk outside.

The ocean crashes from a couple hundred feet away, waves lapping at the golden sand. The salty breeze tickles his neck, and he breathes in a gush of it, eyes sliding shut. He relishes in the coolness, soaking it up into his body, wrapping himself in the peace he’s found here with Dean.

Two arms wrap around his waist, a head resting on his shoulder, and a sweet kiss on the back of his neck.

“Mornin’ Sammy,” Dean murmurs, voice cracking from sleep.

“Morning’ Dean,” Sam replies, craning his neck to face his brother.

Dean kisses him, all morning breath and softness, and Sam yields into him, arms sliding around Dean’s hips, pulling them together.

When he opens his eyes again, breaking contact from the kiss he’s alone. The room is dark, the ocean and his brother gone, leaving him with an empty, aching pit in his stomach that could easily be filled if he garnered up the courage to traverse the hundred feet down the hall to Dean’s room.

His bed in the bunker has never felt so cold and lonely.

#Supernatural TippiTV Recap: 10-1 "Black" (Repost)

(The formatting was driving me crazy. I had to do it over.)

Welcome back to my recaps! They were made possible by many fine backers, whom I’ll mention individually at the end if they’ve given me the OK.

The Road So Far:

How great is it to hear Pat Benatar in the montage? Pretty great. I have to confess, though, that for about ten years I thought she was singing “events of the wiener” instead of “invincible winner.” Considering a couple of scenes in this episode, I think my interpretation would have been apropos. Also, I’m glad they included Dean’s slo-mo Godzilla roar.


Some lady demon is handcuffed and being tortured for information by an unseen captor. She goes on about how she’d heard rumors a Winchester had gone bad, and we’re supposed to think she’s talking to Dean, but surprise! Sam’s the one slicing and dicing her. Or, rather, maybe it would have been a surprise if the CW hadn’t been promoting this scene. He slits her throat and demands she make one of those demonic phone calls.

Four weeks go by. Presumably the demonic phone call yielded nothing. Sam hears from other hunters that very little evil seems to be afoot. He’s wearing a shoulder sling because Jared Padalecki decided to wrestle Osric Chau at a convention or something. But think about what this means for the character. Sam’s been hurled through windows and into cars, tossed around like bags of bony meat, smacked around by every conceivable monster and generally ends up with barely a scratch. To end up in a sling for weeks and weeks? Some demon must have actually yanked out his arm like an overcooked Renaissance Faire turkey leg. Then I imagine Sam went home, jammed his arm back into place with a moist slurp of joints clicking back into place, slapped a couple butterfly bandages on the seam, and held it all in place with a sling and a prayer.

Saddened, he wanders over to Dean’s old room in the Lair O’ Letters and mulls over a note his brother was nice enough to leave behind.

Finally, he comes across a clue in the news and hurries to call Castiel about it. Castiel, holed up in some motel bed somewhere, tries to hide the fact that he’s coughing up his trachea. Years of growling out his dialog have finally taken their toll. Also, he’s dying because of his angelic grace fading away to nothingness, much like any interest I may have once had in angelic storylines.

Eventually, they get around to talking about Dean. “I miss him,” Castiel sighs.

“You think there’s any chance at all that Dean is still,” Castiel starts to ask. Sam cuts him off: “That he’s still even remotely Dean?” The question makes him so sad that he just… stops talking and ends the call. It didn’t seem like the conversation was over, but whatever. People just hanging up on each other.

Meanwhile, Dean is in some karaoke bar, duckfacing his way through “I’m Too Sexy.” Everyone is pretty horrified, except for a pretty blond waitress who makes flirty eyes with him. Please note that Dean does not have to consult the monitor for the lyrics, so familiar is he with this musical masterpiece. Meanwhile, Crowley is deep into an unheard conversation with a couple of bar patrons. Judging by his pointing, he must be talking about Dean.

Cut to Dean and the waitress finishing up some bedroom acrobatics. They’re pretty impressed with all the wild sex they just had, even though there’s not one drop of sweat anywhere, and the waitress’s hair is neatly arranged on the pillow. “Just don’t get too attached,” Dean reminds her. “Because I’m just rollin’ through.” I seriously can’t tell if this is supposed to indicate that he’s an asshole, because this show has such a bizarre take on sex sometimes. I mean, consensual sex between two adults where the guy specifically tells the woman he doesn’t want to lead her on could be considered evil on this weird show, so I just don’t know.

Crowley waltzes in, annoyed to find the two hump bunnies availing themselves of his bed. He’s even more scandalized when Dean fails to trouser himself and he gets a glimpse of the ol’ infernal externals. The ol’ serpent and fruits of knowledge. The one-eyed demon and Beelzeballs.

Later, Dean and Crowley challenge two guys to a game of foosball. They’re the bar patrons Crowley was talking to earlier, and they look exactly alike. Are they two-thirds of the triplets Crowley mentions later? The Demonic Duo lose the game because they’re so busy arguing about the waitress, Ann Marie, whom Dean then notices is being accosted by some guy at the bar.

Dean beats the snot out of the guy and gets all territorial about Ann Marie, which doesn’t impress her nearly as much as his boudoir antics.


Hannah drops in on Castiel, who, as it turns out, is as neglectful in the pants area as Dean.

She feels super awkward about it, although, as an angel, shouldn’t she regard his human package as inconsequential? It’d be like seeing a monkey’s wang at the zoo.

While he laboriously dresses himself in the bathroom—every move is plainly exhausting—she fills him in on Heavenly news. Long story short: Metatron is still in jail and the angels have no leader. Some of the angels have killed others who tried to force them back into Heaven. “Well, we have free will now, so suck it,” Castiel doesn’t say, and instead agrees to help her confront the rogues.


Sam follows his lead on Dean, which brings him to some security video of big bro killing a demon at a convenience store. This is the first time Sam sees Dean’s new black eyes. In the present, Dean kills another demon who jumps him behind the bar. No black eyes that time.

Weird cut to some dude’s heavage as he works out. The workout montage goes on long enough to let us know he’s really serious about keeping himself in a state of preparedness. Also, he looks like the lovechild of Jeremy Renner and Robert Patrick. He gets a fax of Dean’s picture from the security footage. This is followed by another montage—this one of him packing up a bunch of weapons.


En route to meeting the rogue angels, Castiel has to pull his pimpmobile over because Hannah is nauseated. Now, on TV, whenever a woman is nauseated, this usually means one thing.

They take the opportunity to talk about how Castiel is dying and needs more grace. This could almost be a conversation between any two people watching me dance. She thinks he should just kill another angel, but he’s rather adamantly opposed to that idea.


Sam talks to the sassy store clerk who saw Dean—or Porn Guy, as he likes to call him, on account of his affinity for titties in print. Luckily, the dead guy left his phone behind, because Sassy, as entertainingly sassy as he is, is basically useless. Turns out the demon got a text alerting him to Dean’s location, and went to avenge Abaddon’s untimely demise. When Sam calls the sender back, it’s Crowley who answers.

Sam is under the impression that a demon is possessing his brother’s corpse, but Crowley sets him straight. They bicker about who should get custody of Dean, and bicker long enough for Sam to have traced the call.


Castiel and Hannah find Daniel the angel fishing in an idyllic little stream. He rhapsodizes about fishing like he’s Will Graham with lesser dialog. He says he only killed the other angel because the other dude tried to force him back to Heaven. Hannah gets tired of listening to all this talk of fishing and freedom, and whips out her blade. Castiel calms her down and convinces her to suffer through more of this boring storyline. Noooo!


At the bar, Crowley confesses to Dean that he sent the attacking demons. “To keep you sharp,” he explains. They talk about how killing “sates” the Mark of Cain and keeps Dean from turning into a demon. But… isn’t he already a demon? Maybe they mean, like, a really scary evil demon, because so far, Dean is only about a 3.5 on the Numeric Scale of Evilness:

Also, shouldn’t killing make him more demonic?

Anyway, Crowley wants to rule Hell with Dean at his side, but Dean is too busy having fun to want any part of that. “The deal was, we howl at the moon,” Dean reminds him. “No time stamp, no expiration date.” But Crowley’s done with hanging out in dive bars. “We’ve howled, we’ve bayed—we’ve done extraordinary things to triplets!” Like… at the same time? Because Crowley seemed sort of prudish about Dean’s nudity. As a last resort to light some hellfire under Dean’s perky-but-contented ass, he mentions Sam is probably on his way, seeing as how Crowley totally let him trace that call.


Sam is driving along a dark, deserted stretch of road when his car dies without warning. The Renner-Patrick lovechild just happens to be happening by, seeing as how he’s the one who rigged Sam’s car. Sam, his guard down and down one arm, is easily taken captive.


Dean drinks and sings more terrible karaoke, and drinks some more until he passes out. How do demons even get drunk? Anyway, he wakes up in his motel room with Ann Marie trying to take care of him. He invites her to run away with him, but she turns him down because she has sense like that. His widdle feelings hurt, he calls her a skank. She says she feels like she deserves that, because that’s how screwed up she is.


Angel storyline. They’re joined by Adina, another angel who wants to be free. Hannah and Adina fight, then Daniel jumps in to defend Adina, and Castiel kills him to save Hannah because whatever. Adina manages to cut Castiel before scampering off into the woods. Hannah wants to go after her, but Castiel reminds her that, as the C-plot of the episode, they don’t have time for that nonsense.


Crazy kidnapper doesn’t identify himself, but his name is Cole, and that’s what I’m gonna call him because he’s taking too long to introduce himself. He drags Sam into a barn and zip-ties him to a chair so that he can speechify about wanting revenge against something Dean did a long time ago. Sam warns him against that. “He’s a monster,” he says. “Well, he was, many, many moons ago, but now he’s prey,” Cole says, “and I’m the monster now.”


Castiel and Hannah argue some more in the pimpmobile. “Without rules, there’s chaos,” she says. “Out of chaos, rise angels like Naomi, Bartholomew, and Metatron.” For some reason, Castiel doesn’t point out that Hannah is acting like those very angels right now and instead focuses on how it’s not so bad to be human. There’s stuff like art, hope, love and dreams.

While he’s driving through the perpetually rainy night, Dean gets a call from Sam. Why did he even keep his phone? Of course, it’s not Sam, but Cole using his phone. He threatens to kill Sam unless Dean shows up.

“There’s no trade, there’s no meetup, there’s no nothin’,” Dean says, “except the 100% guarantee…that I will find you, and I will kill you.” So, like, he isn’t moved enough to rescue Sam, but he still cares enough to avenge him? Even Cole seems a little bit confused by that.

So that’s it. That’s the first episode of the tenth season. Before I get to the episode rating, I’d like to make my shout-outs:

Special thanks go out to Daniela A.; Omar Gallaga who got me into recapping in the first place; Porschel; Kris Troske; MissManners62. (There are a couple more of you, but there were a couple of communication issues, so you’ll get a shout-out in a future recap!)


I give this episode 3 out of 5 Hellhounds:

And one pair of men’s underpants:

–Tippi Blevins, TippiTV