#sam:chuck

Toy Story Sentence Starters || Not Accepting!

Dean had often told him Sam was John’s favorite. Which was, frankly, insecurity at best and speculation at worst. He was his father’s inferior; his challenge and provocation. Sam was the dangling question mark at the end of John’s order, a defiance which translated to the two older Winchesters as disobedience. He has been ostracized for being different his entire life, long before anyone knew he was bottle-fed Azazel’s blood prior, even, to being weaned off suckling his mother’s milk. In the same sick way you know you’re not getting a date to the prom because of how undesirable you are in junior year, Sam sensed his divergence in the way he bled, in the way he never understood the blind faith Dean had in their father, the vendetta which was incomprehensible beyond a motel Vacancy sign.

And Chuck watched. He knows that now; he was an idle God who filtered out Sam’s voice to blend in harmonic melancholy with millions of others. While he grappled with his inability to distinguish blood duty with blood twistedness - what I owe to my family versus what I feel, in my gut, is wrong - Chuck would only bare witness.

He had images, childish to him now and embarrassing, like admitting he still needs to sleep with a light on at age 36 (and the radio in soft vocalizations, like a distant hum in the background because silence upsets him. But too much noise sets his nerves on end, like flayed wires haphazardly cut, raw and sparking), of his knees pressed against velvet lined pews. His denim clad legs clashing with the ornate décor (there’s nowhere you belong), and he feels suddenly too lowly and undeserving to pray against them. He does anyway.

Sam is contradiction personified; his ‘Sunday Best’ is just a moment to himself. He supposed he was meant to imagine his dad beside him when his weary head falls forward onto clasped hands, but John had never signified comfort or salvation. Instead, God’s hand cupped his shoulder and would whisper a soft, “I see you,” in time with Sam’s “amen.” And Sam fabricated the interaction so often he convinced himself it was real, real, real, up to the day he thought he saw an angel in the form of dead Father Gregory.

So the nonchalant hesitancy Chuck affronts him with now both startles and angers him. He feels a chamsic betrayal, something deep set like a splinter under multiple layers of skin. But, there’s still a spark of hope, of Faith, lining his sinew and viscera. The casual, let’s just get a few beers and chit-chat, stance accompanied by an unassuming form; Chuck, his Lord. His puppet master and his once-panacea. HIs protector and resurrector.  

He chokes on something that tastes like reverence. 

His first instinct is to decline the offer, purely because he knows Dean is pissed and would want him to, but Sam doesn’t have the same blind heat. 

He just wanted to be holy.