Through the Eyes of a Hero (Sam Winchester) 

At first glance you see hazel, maybe green — with a blue lining and a light in it that’s more than sunshine. At first glance you see a young man with glowing eyes, bright and vivid, and hopeful. 

Puppy-dog eyes that can change your mind so quick, you don’t even remember the other option. 

But at first glance you see nothing at all. It’s not until you take the time to look deeper. It’s not until you take he time to care that you see that there’s nothing bright nor happy about Sam Winchester’s eyes. 

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For Always (Thor/Loki) 

Requested by: willyousmile

There was something different about the look in his eyes, the way he spoke, the way he carried himself. And Thor didn’t let it go unnoticed. And even if Loki tried to hide it, he couldn’t. Nothing gets passed his brother, they both know that. 

But it was hard to get him alone. Even harder to get him to speak out. But when he did it was always like an overdue volcano.

He took hold of Loki’s arm, spun him until his back was against the wall and he prompted softly, “What’s wrong, brother?”

Loki’s eyes carried his stare for a little, but then dropped to the floor. Thor traced the outline of his mouth, watched as they flattened into a thin line. His eyes hardened first, and Thor could only imagine what witty, off-putting comeback he’d have to reply with. But before Loki even had a chance, Thor gripped his shoulder and said, “The truth.”

He swallowed, but his mouth was dry. In came a shaky breath and Loki brushed off Thor’s hand. He shrugged, reacquainted his eyes with the floor, and held his breath. 

Thor takes his chin in his hands, makes their glances coincide and says, “Loki,” in a tone that was so subtle and slow that it didn’t sound like his name at all. 

“Just…,” he starts, and Thor can see in his eyes that he’s looking for the right words. “Just promise that nothing will change — with us.”

“Wh—”

“Just. — please.”, and if Thor’s ever seen his brother look defeated, he’d be damned. His eyebrows arched upward, eyes clouded, and voice feathery. He forced himself to keep Thor’s stare and with his eyes just begs over and over. His hand cups Thor’s neck and it’s like another plea; but Thor doesn’t understand.

But he promises anyway.

“You’re my brother, my friend…,” his voice trailed as he looked for the most accurate way to phrase the next part. “…and other things. Nothing will ever chance between us. No matter what.”

And for a minute neither of them move. They’re still until Loki steps forward, pulls Thor upward a little until their lips meet.

Loki’s lips taste like desperation, and Thor wants to kiss it off. Lick and bite at it until it’s gone and his brother smiles again.

Thor’s lips taste like forever, and if Loki could stay here — right here — for that long, he would.

He pulls back first, places a calming hand on Loki’s chest and says, “Come with me.”

Loki doesn’t ask where they’re going. He doesn’t care. He’d go with Thor to the surface of the sun if he’d ask him to.  

It takes three whole seconds. Just three little, simple, microscopic seconds. Three seconds for everything to change from relief to panic. 

Second one, and I could hear Dean calling my name. He’s in walking distance, and he’s smiling just a little. I can see his gun lowering, and he’s sighing. Bobby’s with him, but, he’s not looking at me. Something’s caught his eye behind me. 

Second two, and Dean’s yelling for me. “Sam, look out!”. But I’m stunned, confused. Now he’s running toward me as fast as he can, but my smile is fading slow. It takes me point three milliseconds to process that I’m in danger. Point three. But that’s too much time. I’m too slow. 

Second three, and I’m knocked off my feet, but I don’t know why. I’m frozen though, like something’s squeezing me from both sides. I look up at the sky, breathe out, and for a second, it feels good. But then I hear Dean. A moment later I feel him, and he’s grabbing me. I can hear in his voice that he’s trying not to panic, but he’s failing at it. “It’s not even that bad, it’s not even that bad,” he’s saying to me. But I don’t understand. 

Dean’s shaking me, and he’s talking, I know he is, but it’s getting harder to hear him. And I want to tell him to quit it because I’m tired, but he won’t stop. Then he pulls me in, my head’s on his shoulder, and then a second later we’re face to face again. 

“Sammy? Sam! Hey, listen to me. We’re gonna patch you up, okay?”

And then I know something wrong. 

Something’s really wrong. 

I can see it in Dean’s eyes. They’re wide and vivid; racing and restless. He’s staring at me, mouth moving too quick for me to keep up, and he’s still shaking me; but it’s making me lightheaded. Dean, stop. 

I open my mouth, and I want to tell him that I’ll be okay, but I can’t talk. Why can’t I talk? Dean, why can’t I talk?

He’s crying. I can see he’s crying. He’s telling me that he’s going to take care of me, written all over his face is sorrow. 

There’s black clouds floating around and they’re blocking everything. I blink once, maybe twice. Dean’s still talking, but it’s like he’s a million miles away. I can’t focus on anything. The world is moving boat-like, like Dean and I are drifting on water. For a minute, it’s peaceful…

“Sam? Sam!? Sammy!”

But I can’t hear him anymore, but I wish I could. I try to breathe in, but something’s blocking the air from me. I can’t feel…anything. Not even Dean holding me anymore. And I want to tell him I’m sorry. I don’t know why, but I’m sorry. 

It’s getting dark, like a closing curtain. For a second, I could almost feel Dean’s fingers in the back of my hair. 

Dean, I’m sorry. 

I feel lifted, and nothingness is blanketing me. And I can’t help but wish that where-ever I’m going, if I can take Dean with me. 

If ever (Sam/Dean) 

Summary: Maybe he was desperate, needy, and wanting for thinking that he was something permanent in Sam’s life.   

Pairing: Sam/Dean

Timeset: Preseries, technically, I guess. 

He says her name’s Jen, or Jane, or something.  And Dean doesn’t like the way Sam’s eyes expand a little as he goes off on tangents about her. He sits across from Dean, counting off thing after thing about her. Dean wonders if he can see the cunning disinterest on his face. Sam scratches the side of his head and begins, “Yeah, Jess and I…”

Jess. 

Her name’s Jess. 

Dean rolls his eyes. 

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Enter (Charles Xavier/Erik Lensherr; NC-17) 

Erik likes to be in control. 

He likes to be the one who calls the shots, because he’s never had that privilege before. Not as a child. Not growing up. Not ever, really. And more than anything, that’s what he was looking for. 

Control. 

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Unbalanced and hazy, John walks through the door. Under his breath he mumbles something only he can hear before blinking once, twice, three times. He fumbles with the doorknob and then pushes all his weight back to slam the door shut. Sam, who was sleeping lightly on the cough, jumps up. 

By the time he sits up, John was leaning forward regaining his balance and licking his lips. He could still taste the aftermath of the Jack and Whiskey on his lips and it stung all the same. Sam allows his legs to swing to the side and he stands up and goes ,with arms stretched outward, toward his father. 

“Dad, here,” he says softly, sleep still masking his eyes and his voice. He reaches for his dad’s forearm. Instantly John jerks away, anger in his eyes and movements , and he spits out, “Get off me.”

Sam huffs, rolls his eyes a little and answers, “You’re drunk,” with a little more blunt dislike than he meant to; and John’s whole body snaps toward Sam and he jumps a little. 

“Well aren’t you fucking brilliant.”

And at fifteen and a half, Sam hasn’t been afraid to stand up to his father since ever. But that’s when he’s sober. Drunk, he’s like a totally different person. And that in itself scares Sam more than he’d admit to himself or anyone else. But he can tell that his dad’s barely standing, the room probably spinning four miles a minute, and he needs help whether he wants it or not. 

“Dad, let me hel—”

“I don’t need your fucking help, Sam!”

With a gasp and a flinch, Sam steps back, but so does John and he knocks the glass plate off the table. Not more than a second later and Dean’s rushing out the bedroom calling for Sam with wide eyes and his fists balled. 

Dean can see the fear in Sam’s eyes and he steps between his brother and father.

“Look what you made me do! Fuck, goddamn,” John grumbles angrily, through still woozy on his feet.

“I was trying to help you,” Sam says with his voice up a decibel or two and his eyes beginning to narrow. 

John shakes his head and points his finger almost threateningly. “I said I don’t need your fucking help.”

“Well you wouldn’t if you didn’t go out and get drunk off your ass every change you got, would you?!” Sam stands up straight; hesitation only seen in his eyes, but he’s doing all he can to hide that, too. 

John’s hand raises, and Dean’s not sure what he’s planning on doing, but he shoves him backwards a few steps anyway, yelling at both of them to knock it off. 

“Dad, stop!”

Dean turns back to his brother, places a hand on his shoulder and gestures with his head toward their bedroom. “Sam, go.”

Sam stomps toward the room and Dean can see him rubbing his eye with the back of his hand, shaking his head, and mouthing something to himself. 

“A fucking brat!” John spits out, with eyes so dark they’re almost black. 

Dean grabs him by the shoulder. “Don’t,” and his voice is stern and strong, and he’s ever talking to his dad like this before, but he doesn’t care. “He didn’t do anything but try and help you…,” he sighs, blinks a time or two and his voice softens. “Just go to bed, Dad. Sleep it off, okay.”

Dean watches his dad make it to the couch before reentering his and Sam’s bedroom. Sam’s lying down with a pillow over his head and his shoulders are shaking. Dean sits beside him, rubs his back and tells him, “He didn’t mean it. You know he didn’t. He loves you a lot, Sammy.”, just like he always does. 

Sam’s lips are soft, just like he knew they’d be. The room’s dark, and there’s a shadow of them on the kitchen’s tile floor that’d look like something on some cheesy couple’s photo album. Sam’s all grown up now, about an inch or two taller than Dean, and he smells like rain and mint. 

There’s only a few things in Dean’s life that he’d dare to deem as perfect. His mom’s cooking, that snow-day a few years back — and possibly this. 

His hand comes up, fingers brushing the back of Sam’s hair and he breathes him in. And even with his eyes closed and Sam’s lips pressed against his, Dean can feel that something’s off. And even though it kills him, Dean pulls back, just by centimeters, and says slowly, “Sammy, what?”

Sam can feel his breath sweep across his lips and he closes his eyes, drops his head and Dean can see him reaching into his back pocket. He unfolds the paper and hands it to Dean. 

At the top it reads: “Congratualtions, Samuel Winchester…”

And Dean can feel his heart feather. His mouth’s open, but he can’t say anything. He doesn’t know what to say honestly. He can feel Sam staring at him, wanting him to reassure him that it’s okay, like he always does, but it wasn’t. This wasn’t okay. Not this time. 

About a month and a half later Sam’s standing in the doorway with two bags on the floor and a backpack on his back. He’s got tears in his eyes and his hands keeps clenching into fists. 

They’re all a little high-string, especially since their father just made it clear that if Sam wants to go he should stay gone. And that’s the first time Dean can remember actually wanting to punch his father, slam him against the wall and scream, “Don’t you say that. Not to Sam. Out of all people, not to Sam.”

He opens the door and Dean follows. There’s no goodbye to their father, just a quick glance, cold stares, and hard silence. 

For a while they’re silent standing in front of their door. They know the bus’ll be coming soon, and that it may be the last time they see each other in a while — a long while. 

And it’s unexpected when Sam grabs Dean’s chin and pulls him in. This time Dean can feel the desperation and sorrow Sam has and it make him pull Sam closer. He doesn’t cry, not there, and it took all his strength not to. 

In the background they can hear the rumble of the bus coming up the road and Sam pulls back, but his eyes never leave Dean’s lips. 

“Take care of yourself, Sammy.”

And it’s a poor and pathetic substitute for ‘I’m going to miss you.’

Sam nods, means to say, “You, too,” but he can’t find the words. So he kisses Dean again, deep and meaningful for how quick it was; and he picks up his bags. 

From the front step Dean watches Sam board the bus and he feels sick. 

It feels like goodbye. 

fremples:

“Dean, please.”

And even drunk and woozy Sam still manages to get his eyes to soften, lips to part, and twist it with the right amount of emotion to make Dean’s stomach tighten. He’s tugging on Dean’s collar, hands sloppily reaching for his face and he’s panting like he just ran a mile. 

If Dean said he didn’t take a second lingering his eyes over Sam’s mouth open and glistening, he’d be lying. And in his head he’s debating with himself. But even he’s said it: Sam’s his weakness and he can’t say no. 

And before he can recognize it, or stop it, Sam’s mouth his pressed to his. He’s licking, biting, panting on to Dean’s lips. He can taste the Whiskey on Sam’s tongue and makes an honest attempt to suck it off. 

Then Sam’s pulling him down, hands sliding up his shirt, but he keeps saying thank you. “Thank you, Dean; thank you,” but he never breaks the kiss. 

Sam’s pushing up into him; so fast their zippers are scratching and Dean’s eyes are shut tight, mouth agape, because fuck he wants this. 

He flips Sam over, pins his hands above his head and pushes into him; and he can feel their cocks rubbing even through the layer of clothes and thick denim. 

And Dean’s not surprised it came to this. He knew he couldn’t say no to Sam. Never could. 

by this asshole

Sam was never really one for celebrating. But maybe it was simply because he never had anything worthy of the exception. This was different, though, and he knew it. This was what he’s been working his ass off for. This is what he left everything he once knew high and dry for. Not just anyone gets a full ride to Stanford, you know. 

And maybe it was the excitement, or maybe it was the drinks, but Sam’s thoughts and vision were a bit blurry. He doesn’t remember the exact moment when he pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed his brother’s number, either; but now he’s leaning against the sink in the men’s bathroom listening to it ring. 

Pick up, Dean, come on. Pick up…

Then there’s a deep and rusty ‘Hello?’ on the other side of the phone and Sam stands up as straight as he can. 

“Dean —”

“Sam?”

And Sam can feel his eyebrows furrow a little and he rubs his index finger across his forehead. Not Dean.

“Dad?”

And the thought of telling his dad that he just took a big step in his life didn’t even occur to him. All he knew what that he called for Dean and no one else. 

Slurred voice and all he says, “Dad, lemme ‘alk t’Dean.”

Then there’s a strong, ton-sized silence on John’s part and it makes Sam’s heart jump though he doesn’t know why. And he can feel something’s wrong, he knows it. But he says, a little clearer this time, “I need to talk to Dean.”

He sighs, John does. And he knows that it was stupid of him to wait this long to say this. Even worse that he has to break the news this way, under these circumstances; but now he’s trapped.

And the tension over the phone was enough to knock you off your feet. Sam says, “Dad?” but this time his voice is soft and ghost-like. “Dad, what’s wrong?”

“Dean,” John starts. And he doesn’t know how to say it. Hell, he still doesn’t want to believe it. And he chokes on his words until they boil and spill out. “Dean… he’s, uh — Sammy, Dean’s… gone.”

For a split second Sam almost didn’t catch on. Must’ve been the booze. But then it hits him and he stumbles back away from the sink. He stammers backwards until his back hits the wall. 

“…h-how?”

John’s eyes close and he’s gripping the phone tighter. “I…I found him. I — gunshot. It was a gunshot…to his head. He, I don’t know, he couldn’t take it anymore I—”

Sam’s eyes are cloudy and he keeps wiping them away but the tears keep coming back. He can’t see anything, he can’t think; nothing. He’s shaking now, and he keeps trying to swallow but he can’t. There’s a lump in his throat the size of a softball. 

“When?” he asks, voice broken and feathery. 

There’s a slight hesitation on John’s end. “Six months ago—”

“Six? And you kept this from me ‘till—. Fuck you. Were you ever going to tell me?!”

“Sam…”

He slams the back of his head against the wall, hot tears running down his face and his fingers keep flexing. “You waited… six fucking months… to tell me that my brother is dead? Fuck you, Dad.”

And looking back, Sam’s sure he didn’t mean to say it that way. Not entirely. But he throws his phone across the bathroom and it shatters the mirror parallel to him. And he just screams. Screams until his throat burns and he can’t breathe. Screams Dean’s name until his face turns red and his eyes go bloodshot. And when he finally stops he’s lightheaded and disoriented. 

It takes all he has to walk out of the bathroom. And he heads to get a drink. And then another. And then five more. 

He drinks and drinks until it feels like he’s drowning. But it doesn’t block out the words in his head. His conscious screaming at him that the only person he needed was gone for good and he couldn’t do anything about it. 

He’d trade Stanford, this life, all his years in college, his shot at normality and everything else in this damned world just hear his brother’s voice. Just one last time. 

And Everything in Between (Sam/Dean) 

Well I wrote this, this morning. 
And I was thinking about how much love Sam has for Dean and then bam this happened.  

Originally posted on my livejournal, which is here. 

—- —- —-

You’re called Sam. He’s renamed you Sammy. And you fall in love with that concept entirely. How he, broad shoulders and all, can set new boundaries for himself that no one else can cross. “Only he’s allowed to call me that,” you said. And it’s more than just a nickname when it all boils down. It’s a subtle, subtle way of telling the rest of the world to back off, because you’re his.

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