#ic.answer

                  IT’S GOTTA BE SOME SORT of joke, right? no one calls this number unless they absolutely have to, and this is the kind of questionnaire she gets? she’d almost rather be sung happy birthday again instead.    ’ uhh… neither, thanks. ‘

        ❝There’s this place in the woods.                               My, uh, Dad and I used to sit there. It was quiet.❞                     it’s as much as she’s willing to say considering who might be listening. but she remembers. she liked the way he would sing with his steady voice and the way his hands guided hers when she learned how to shoot a bow. that had been their secret. no mother, no prim — just her and her father, alone and together.                                                           katniss peers up reluctantly, eyes neither focused nor dazed. it wasn’t the saddest thing she could have thought of. she could have lied and said what everyone wanted to hear.                                       wherever peeta is,                         in that moment,                                                    just his presence                                                                    soothes my sorrows.      she tries to not sneer.

      ❝Too much.❞                 there is a life where everything is in ruins. the world has collapsed. his brother is wearing satan and he is human with a very human ex-angel at his side. they fight monsters still, look for a way to gank the devil.                                    there is a life where he said yes to michael, and viscous wings dance across his spinal cord. he fights castiel there and sam. the world has been burned with the efforts of war. new humans are being born. he thinks he caused it.     there is a life where mary is alive and no one started hunting in their family ever.                                                    there is a life where mary is alive and they hunt as a family.                      there is a life where john is still alive.                                                                   there is a life where the angels have fallen, his children are burned into the ground, and the world is verging on disarray.          and as for his pasts? he remembers walking across water, his eyes closed as he shows his worth, and he remembers taking a grain of sand and breathing life into it in the form of an angel -- the last angel to be created, castiel.                there is a past where he creates the world with shaking fingers and makes a list, names his list of heirs that should be named when the time comes, and he shivers at the thought of having such power.                                                 he remembers his untimely deaths. all of them. whether he is dean winchester or another man burned into another body.              there is not a life he does not remember bits and pieces of.

      ❝What is there to know?❞             he had caused her pain, she had caused him pain. there was no in between of what true love was inspired to be. she adored another from a past life, and the scent of castiel clung to his skin across the decades. love was a strange thing, and he knows not of what she wishes to know. instead of speaking, he reaches out, wraps his fingers around her forehead and shows her.                                        he shows her the sunset on the break of dawn, the orange, reds, and yellows that paint her porcelain skin an array of vibrant instances that cause even he to shiver and revel in the majesty of it all.                                        he shows her in the evening, with the stars lighting her skin and the reflection of the moon nuzzling in her hair. she is the moon, he concedes, with her fair administrations of helpful and docile and kind.                                       he shows her the world as the sun peeks over half it's body, the moon as it drapes night over the other part -- the lava that bubbles in it's core and threatens to break through the crust with each passing day.                                        he shows her the likeness between her in castiel, how the sun and stars rotate around their existence -- for they are the same if they are not different, each another valve to his simple heart and mind.                      and finally he shows her the days she is not with him and the way his duties push down on his shoulders until they are sagging forward and he is alone, guilt and remorse crackling around his skin until he can no longer breathe. the angels that gather around him in his times do not understand the ache he feels deep in his chest, or the longing he feels in the tips of his fingers as he wants nothing more than to revive the lost loves of the world and replenish the happiness.                                              what an atrocious god he truly is.

         ❝I am absent, but I am here. I am prayed to, but I am ignored. I am God, yet I’m also Dean Winchester. And what are you?❞              a proud gleam settles within the darkened hues of the stilled man, his hands lifting slightly in case there was need to run or take flight away from her. he can feel the curiosity coming off her in waves, and it’s unsettling. he doesn’t know what identity to use. he hardly knew who he was before this war occurred.

         ❝You waited?❞                    there’s the sound of soft confusion that tints a ragged voice, but he does not question it further. off the edge of his throne she lies, her body wrapped firmly in his arms as he drags her closer. she waited — she had.                                         there had been the shattering of his own supernova, and then he’d been left alone. seeing donna now was like seeing the messiah rise from the grave — a memory that was not his own despite how much he wished it could be. she was the woman who waited with full intentions of taking care of him, and although he’s in no current state to be taking care of anyone, lengthy fingers drag through her star-ridden hair until he’s brushed it back from her paling features.    she had waited despite his intentions to never return, and it’s with a sleepy, throaty hum that he realizes how lucky he is to contain a star such as herself within the thin walls of his shaking palace.              he wonders momentarily just how long it will be until that palace shatters as the rest of his world seems intent on doing.

     it’s only slightly melodramatic     if you ignore that there are     rocks and mud clamped into     that snowball,     coupled with superhuman     strength.                                        it hurts her right in the face,                                        and so with a shrill cry,                                        she throws her arms over her                                        face and her tiny body down,                                        sharp hysterical sobs breaking                                        from her tiny chest                                        until she is shaking                                        and rolling.         ❝Do—n’t touch me, Z—inda! Do not come near me!❞

sometimes i do not know who i am. does that make sense ? like i see all these lovely girls with their lovely boyfriends and i hate them so much because they're happy all the time, and i should be happy, because i have lysander and friends and gosh, everything is going good in my life but i just (1/3)feel like everything is going to go down the drain again soon and i will be nothing but that girl forever stuck in december, with memories of the anime girl who loved me and the boy in the dress blues, and the boy who claimed to love me, and i become that again, no one will want to be friends with me (2/3)and i guess what i'm trying to confess is that i hate feeling like there's something wrong with me when there's not and all i want is to cry (3/3)