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supernatural season nine 》episode eleven 》first born
the mark can be transferred to someone who's worthy. you mean a killer like you? yes. can I use it to kill that bitch? yes. but you have to know with the mark comes a great burden. some would call it a great cost. yeah, well, spare me the warning label. you had me at "kill the bitch". good luck, dean. you're gonna to need it. yeah, I get that a lot. let's dance.
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supernatural season nine 》episode ten 》road trip
I said get. the hell. out.
supernatural season nine 》episode nine 》holy terror
I got to tell you some stuff fast. it's gonna piss you off. okay. those trials really messed you up. yes, I know that - no, you don't. I mean messed you up like almost dead. no more birthdays, dust to dust. well, that messed me up, so I made a move, okay, a tough move about you without talking it over because you were in a coma. wait, what? when? you were in the hospital, okay, and they said you were gonna die. dean. what did you do? I let an angel in.
Their lives are written in the lines of a poetry book with a battered cover. The pages are full of tragedy and pain and overwhelming love. Every time they cry, every time they laugh, a new page is written. Another poem pouring from their hearts, sketched with trembling hands onto the pages of their story.
The poems written from Dean's heart are flowing and long and vibrant with love. Devotion written in the dust of spilled gunpowder. Long sentences about curls and dimples and why did he grow so fast? Imagery bringing to life the world he feels underneath calloused fingertips. The rumble of a car engine and the shaking shoulders of a little brother waking from a nightmare. The lines of his poems tell of a roadtrip - the end uncertain, the only priority clear - as he describes the way his brother's eyes change colors in the sunlight.
From stormy-sea green
To the hazel of lightly-steeped tea
The poems that pour from Sam's heart are shorter, the meanings more hidden. He talks about his brother in every line. Over time those lines change from questions of does he? to statements that say he always does. And sometimes the poems sound hauntingly empty, like something is missing. But the frighteningly vacant poems never last. The missing piece returns, and with it come lines about a necklace that reflects light and gentle hands and the smell of car oil.
And his face is always the same
At least when he looks at me
Sam Winchester's happiness is all that matters to me.
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–tyler knott gregson
b&w dean: the benders
maybe I could save you from your sins
