Boys. I Love You. But. Watch The Road Please.

Being extremly drunk right now is makng me YELL at the boys while giffing them llike LONGING so much of it now have major need to tell what just what i wasd thinkling in other gifs i’ve made I’M LIKE LOOK watched spn for so loong but eyes of the wincest shipper man wahat am i watching this is like NEWhow not seen this efbore but but likke LOOK BRAIN:!

Like eveary anime everywhere flip em on theier back sam you knows he likes it that way.

ndd oh fuck the LOOKS beginn dean take that arm squash him SQUASH HIM hes your baby.

LONGINGNGGGGGGGGG!

WTF IS THIS’?!

WTF IS THAT?!

WHAT IN 7 HELLS IS oh god i just stare he just sstare E WE ALL JUST STARE!

yeahn totlly normal just stand their looking at your brother are like he didn[t even move like yeah sammy hes waiting you were late now he;’s pissed at you BLAH!

Dean will thouigh Dean do OH hell I think i need to get some water but sam on a rope in a rope brian not afucotjoning .

I SAID BRAIN N0TO FUCNTIONING!!!

No your not brothers, i’’m brothers, youre gay.

yeah sam correct exprssio[n for wathcing your brother get undressed. or was it dressed>? i ca’t remember now EITHER WAY ITS CLO;THES! IT’S ALL ABOUT THW SLACK JAWED DROPPING OF CLO;THING ONJ YOUR BROTHER!

awwww. cuties baby. smile at your bro daddy.

deeANN WATCH THE FUCIIKNG ROAD MAN sAMMY WILL whoa i’m in capitals still sammy SSAMMY WILL NOT SURIIVE YOUR LUST DEAN WATCCH THE ROD!

OH fuck YOUR E BOTH AT IT!

let m fall asleppp holsing your hand babysammy don’t leave wait who am i no why wait….what? YOU DON[’T UDNERSTAND THEY FELL ASLEEP HJOLDING HAAAAAAANNNNDS!!!!

smily smily SAD FACE SAD FACE!

litlle nod of yes! IT’S THE LITTLE SHOP OF YES! PERFECTION!

oh man i’mm gonna see this post in the morninjg and be like wtf WHAT DSID I DO?!

Just look at that wall. He used the wall tiles as guides. The map is occupying equal sections of squares; papers are all level, with even margins. And it's over the bed, of all places, hard to access and where normally you'd hang artwork or something.

The books on the table are squared and aligned with the binder edges. The hand towel in the bathroom is folded in precise thirds and hung exactly in the middle. No housekeeping will have stepped into this room either, not with that wall, so we know that's all Sam.

Needed to highlight what is probably my favorite aspect and key difference between Sam and John too which is the way in which they organize information: the room John rented in the Pilot shows his degree of thoroughness, one which the boys tend to follow for the most part for the majority of the series, but it also shows very pointedly a state of disarray (which could be explained away by the fact he might've had to leave in a rush or something along those lines, but I still think it's worth noting).

However, as showcased by the screencaps from OP, Sam's room is in a perfect state of order; yes, he is inhabiting it at the moment, and knowing him he's bound to clean up after himself, but it's the level of meticulousness in the organization of his notes that interests me further. There's another key difference here of course: John was just working a normal job, whereas Sam is specifically hunting the creature that put him through hell and then took Dean away from him, and I would agree except we do get another example to mirror the situation Sam finds himself in and it's in 1x21 Salvation, when John decides to share his findings with his sons.

Please do your best to focus on the backgrounds and not on the lovely actors' faces.

Here we can see how even then, even when he's specifically showing information about the thing that's ruined his life and cursed his family, there's still a level of disorder to it. What this shows us is that the state of Sam's orderly room and immaculate state of his wall of information, how seemingly detached on the surface while being aware of the obsessiveness that fuels it, the single-mindedness of it all -- that's all Sam.

john is gone before dawn. hunt two towns over. maybe three. dean stopped asking for details years ago because details imply return times and return times imply promises and john has never been particularly careful with promises.

still.

he leaves dean forty bucks and a loaded gun and says, “keep the door locked.”

sam is still asleep when he goes.

dean watches the impala disappear through the curtains and gets that familiar ugly feeling in his stomach. the one that always comes after john leaves. not fear exactly. more like the sense that the whole world has tilted slightly wrong and now dean has to spend the next however-many-hours holding it upright with his bare hands.

behind him, sam mumbles sleepily into the pillow, “dean?”

“yeah?”

“you’re standing weird again.”

dean looks down at himself. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

sam opens one eye. squints at him. “like a divorcee.”

“i’m sixteen, asshole.”

“still.”

then he falls immediately back asleep, because twelve-year-old sam is still somehow both the bitchiest and most exhausted person alive.

dean grins despite himself.

later, when sam is awake for real, they walk to a grocery store six blocks away because dean’s trying to stretch forty dollars into three days. sam trails beside him in one of dean’s old flannels, sleeves swallowing his hands.

“what do you want for your birthday?” dean asks.

sam shrugs.

“c’mon, man. you gotta want something.”

another shrug. more stubborn this time.

dean stops walking. “sam.”

sam keeps his eyes on the sidewalk.

and there it is. that thing dean has started noticing lately. the way sam folds inward whenever anyone asks what he wants. like wanting itself is embarrassing. dangerous, even.

john’s voice lives in both of them by then. waste of money. don’t be soft. quit whining. learn to go without.

sam kicks at a pebble. mutters, “it’s stupid.”

“yeah? well, i’m stupid too. tell me anyway.”

sam hesitates so long dean thinks he’s not gonna answer at all.

then, very quietly:

“cake mix.”

dean blinks. “cake mix?”

“those little boxed birthday cakes.” sam’s ears are pink now. “the funfetti ones.”

and jesus christ.

dean has to look away for a second because there’s something so unbearably little-brother about that answer. something that cracks him open straight down the middle.

“dude,” he says softly. “that’s easy.”

sam brightens immediately, trying not to show it. “yeah?”

“yeah.”

they buy the cake mix. and canned frosting. and plastic rainbow candles shaped like stars. dean even lets sam pick soda instead of generic motel orange juice.

the cashier wishes sam happy birthday when she sees the candles.

sam smiles shyly and says thank you like he’s not used to adults speaking kindly to him for no reason.

dean hates everybody a little after that.

back at the motel, they realize halfway through making the cake that they do not actually own a cake pan.

sam bursts into helpless laughter first. loud, startled laughter, the kind that almost never gets out of him anymore. dean stares at him for a second, genuinely caught off guard by it.

“what?”

“nothing,” dean says quickly. too quickly.

sam narrows his eyes. “you’re doing the face.”

“what face?”

“the weird fond one.”

“shut up.”

they end up baking the cake batter in a frying pan on the motel hot plate. it comes out vaguely concave and a little burned around the edges.

perfect.

sam sits cross-legged on the bed eating directly from the pan while dean watches bad cable television with the sound low.

there’s frosting on sam’s mouth.

without thinking, dean reaches over and wipes it away with his thumb.

and then something happens.

just a pause. a tiny horrible pause where sam goes still beneath dean’s hand.

dean feels it too.

the warmth of sam’s skin. the softness of his face. the way sam looks at him after, eyes dark and unreadable for one strange stretched second.

then sam ducks his head fast.

“you got frosting too,” he mumbles.

dean pulls his hand back like he touched a live wire.

“yeah, well.”

outside, a train howls somewhere far off in the desert dark.

inside, sam leans sleep-heavy against dean’s shoulder by the end of the movie without asking first.

dean lets him.

of course he does.

sam is twelve years old today. all coltish limbs and enormous hands he hasn’t grown into yet. too smart. too sensitive. carrying loneliness around inside him like an extra organ.

dean looks down at the top of his head and thinks, with sudden terrifying certainty:

he thinks it's just because he's not built for a soulmate, that the weird, ugly, broken thing inside of him exempts him from ever being connected to another human being like that.

he keeps books underneath his mattress, stolen from school libraries and left whenever they leave, of big dramatic soulmate revelations. of people who aren't soulmates but make it work anyway, of two widowed soulmates falling in love. a million soulmates-by-choice stories, where people carve out their own happiness.

he resents the fact that the sky is blue on the day of jessica's funeral, that he's allowed to know it.

in "faith," it's raining and dark and sam is so strung out he doesn't even notice the color leeching out of the world, a slow dial lowering the volume tick-by-tick.

it's not until dean gets dragged to hell, sam screaming no-no-no-no, that the world clicks off color like a light switch. sam crawls over to dean, and hauls him into his arms, and can barely see the blood anymore--soaked into the already-dark wood of the floor.

Someone said tip toeing Dean and this happened. I tried to draw it quickly, so I’m sorry for any mistakes. :(

bystander: i literally just saw you kissing that guy over there

dean: oh, no, that’s my brother