who is sam winchester? *

“      yeah,    well,    couldn’t  miss  looney  tunes.      ”      the  television  sits  stagnant,    black  and  lifeless,    tantamount  to  the  expression  darkening  the  elder  winchester’s  countenance.  across  his  threadbare  blanket  is  a  spread  of  tomes,    occult  &  otherwise  paranormal  ;  in  their  margins,    notes  are  scrawled  across  post  -  its,    annotations  and  reminders.  a  barely  -  there  glimpse  is  spared  towards  his  brother,    ever  -  present  concern  shadowing  his  own  fatigue.      “      lookin’  handsome  as  ever,    sunshine.  what’s  the  plan  for  breakfast?      ”

he offers a mirthless chuckle, forcing himself off the bed and into the bathroom. for once, they got a room that actually has some semblance of privacy. any response he might’ve thought of giving to dean is drowned out by the sound of the faucet, loud, white-noise, something he drowns his conscience in. for the few moments he lets the water run, the outside world doesn’t exist anymore. the headaches, the pain, but most of all the hunger--it’s gone. and then, suddenly, the pangs return. he suppresses them, down, down, further down. ‘ didn’t know yosemite sam was so fond of the qabalah qlipoth. ’