#veganweecest

what is peace, exactly, to a man whose whole life has been nothing but blood and caution and never truly sleeping? what is peace when he doesn’t know he’s at war?

how do you explain to someone like him that’s it’s okay to feel weak, to lean on you not only because he needs it, but because it’d save his back from breaking? that feeling weak is not being weak?

he’s known peace, some semblance of it - when his soul was black, when everything around him was grey, and then again when his eyes drank the darkness again. in all those moments he didn’t need to hold himself back, in all those years he wasn’t himself, yet felt more like himself than ever before.

dean winchester’s biggest obstacle was always dean winchester.

with morals. with limits. with his stubborn clinging to invisible lines always separating him from his sammy. silly boy. don’t you want to breathe? don’t you want to admit to your little brother that you’re ashamed of dreaming of hell so often, of freedom of not having to decide anything, to just feel the flesh in your hands and do? sweet boy, wouldn’t you like to wake up knowing you’re safe to be weak?

precious brother, you don’t need the darkness, not really. am I not big enough to hold you together?

my brother, lay your weapons down and let me show you peace.

A poker chip doesn't have the solemn, cool weight of a coin. Outside of a casino, it's not even a representation of money. It's a mockery—cheap and gaudy, valueless.

Still, there's power in it. 

Five years sober, going on six, and in a fit of whimsy, Sam writes a careful '5' on the chip when he finds it, and he keeps it with him. He's come this far, and the chip serves as both a warning and a reminder. 

Strength is not always about brute force; sometimes, it's about quiet resistance, about denying himself every single day. Sam doesn't talk about it, but the sulfurous odor of demon blood still makes his stomach cramp with need sometimes. He's learned how to breathe through it, but it's not gone.

He keeps the chip in his back pocket, and his jeans wear and fade around it like they would around a wallet. Sometimes, when things are really bad, he'll pull it out.

Five years going on six. Can't fuck up now.

It's in his pocket when he hears it should be you up there on that pyre, when all he wants to do is drink something, anything to make him feel in control. It's there when he kneels on the cold concrete awaiting the swing of Death's scythe. It's there, forgotten, when engorged black veins crawl up his neck and he fears the end, and it's snug against his heel when he kneels and prays to God for guidance.

Before he goes to Dean about Lucifer, he pulls it out and holds it between his clasped hands when he calls out to God. Because maybe he can be saved, and even if he can't--even if he'll never be pure--he can at least do this. He can persist, resist, say no to the cravings when he wakes up sweating and gasping after a dream of blood and the need is there like claws in his gut, demanding sustenance and promising pain.

Most of the time, he forgets about the chip, but it's still there.

It's there, of course, when he goes to hell. Even as Lucifer's words flood over him like tar, a part of him remembers that even if his life is just a string of failures and disappointments, he can choose whether to let the bad stuff in. (Usually.)

It's there when the memories fade and he sits on the cold floor of the cage.

Sam reaches into his pocket and touches the garish blue chip, no longer worth the plastic wasted to create it (not unlike himself, he supposes), and he realizes that even though it has no monetary value, it's not worthless. It's an emblem.

So Sam Winchester looks the devil right in the eye and tells him no, and for maybe the first time in a long time, he feels a flush of pride. Five years going on six, and Sam's still going at it.

He can't control much, but he can at least control himself. 

There's peace in that.

Thanks so much! I really appreciate your thoughts on this topic!