I lost my shoe.

....okay?

At this point, he should be used to it; the whole fall-asleep-in-one-place-wake-up-in-another thing. Being transient is all Sam knows, and blinking awake to a different (but somehow the same, always the same) motel ceiling was more comforting to him than the Bunker’s bleak repetition. Half the time he wandered the hallways like a disoriented sleep walker, confused and wondering why Dean wasn’t in a twin bed beside him. This isn’t to forget to mention the times he has literally woken up in another world, dimension, time, what the heck ever. Par for the course for the Winchesters, apparently, because they just never do anything half assed; including, you know, exist normally. 

So when he’s knocked out in a seedy shack by a pack of werewolves (unsurprising in of itself, the monsters always go for Sam’s melon), he’s nonplussed when he comes to in a park. He’s sitting on a bench like he’s been there for some time, apparently, lower back cramping from his hunched position. Despite the obvious, he’s also positive him and Dean started their hunt at night - 11:43 pm to be exact - which is why it’s really freaking weird that it’s now definitely daylight.  Sam whips his head around, trying to either orient himself or find a familiar face. Like he said, he knows too many entities that can warp reality, and he’s wary to see any of them. Okay. So, no one out of the ordinary. At least, not yet, years of growing up in the Life have taught him to never trust appearances. He goes down the John Winchester Checklist - 1. Take in your surroundings. (Done, he has no flipping clue where he is) 2. Check for your weapons. (He pats himself down quickly, from breast pockets down to the waist of his jeans. Nothing. Not even the Bowie he keeps in a harness on his ankle. Dammit.) 3. Check on your team. 

It’s then that he stutters alarmingly, realizing what should have been observation Number One. 

“Dean?” He calls out, hopeful, but not optimistic. Suddenly he’s sweating and has the inexplicable urge to move because WhereIsDean-DeanIsn’tHere WhatifHe’sHurt-What’sGoingOn-DeanFixIt. He’s immediately embarrassed by the last thought, but he’s spent his entire life with his big brother in his back pocket, being a panacea, that Sam has certain ingrained expectations, even as an adult. 

He’s standing now, adrenaline pumping, and he scans the area again. Just....people. Normal, everyday people. He knows people. He can work with people. 

He taps the shoulder of the first person he sees, calming himself and putting on his game face. First, learn where he is. Second, find Dean. “Uh, hey. Hi. Sorry to bother you, but...” He gestures vaguely. “Where are we?”

Let’s cut to the chase, huh? I’m back. Back into this cozy little part of the internet that was my home for so long; dang, it feels good to be here. While the world outside is crumbling, and I question if anyone remembers empathy, I’m doing better than I was. Physically, mentally. But that’s not the point of this post. I miss writing, I miss Sam, and with the show’s finale, I’m pretty in my feels. 

SIX The Musical Sentence Starters | Not Accepting

Jack didn’t eat much. Not by basic human standards, and by Dean Winchester measurement, he starved. Typically, it was a bowl of cereal in the morning, maybe chicken fingers and fries at night when they all sat for dinner. Though, Sam was never sure if Jack was hungry again or he just wanted be a part of the communal act of family dinner. Often, when he watched Jack mechanically place a fry into ketchup (or honey mustard after Sam told him it was his favorite, and his heart swelled and he swallowed the lump in his throat because little brothers never had someone mimic them. This was foreign and flattering and he loved this kid so much), he sort of gathered that it was definitely more about joining in than satiation. Jack ate like it was autopilot; like he was copying the action based of what he saw Sam and Dean do, or people on TV, and not on any sort of instinctual need to feed. So, as it was, Jack didn’t eat much. Because he was half angel.

Jack also didn’t sleep much. He’d go to his room when they all separated to their own corners for the night, sensing that soft lull of an evening winding down. He’d been living with them for years now, he was picking up on the social ques of daily happenings. Sam knew he didn’t fall asleep then, though, could hear him making noise in the other room or occasionally reading a book aloud. Jack was noisy, because Jack was a child, Sam often found he had to keep reminding himself of that. (He was also quiet and sullen and introspective and unanswered and unheard. And Sam was sorry he hadn’t listened more for every noise. Responded to every muffled call.) The kid only slept a few hours, maybe two or three, and that seemed to be more than enough - and Sam envied him - before he was wide awake and asking questions and absorbing information and learning, learning, always learning. Because he was half angel.

In the recesses of his mind, Sam longed for the clichés of fatherhood. For a son to be preoccupied with a book, or game, or something else so mundane but all-consuming, that when Sam called him for dinner he would chirp back with “five more minutes?” And Sam would feign annoyance, but oblige, because nothing made him happier than when his kid’s eyes danced with fully engrossed passion.

For a Wednesday morning to find him inside his boy’s room, nothing discernible but a lump covered by blankets (maybe a wayward foot peeking out the edge, a tuft of hair somehow on the bottom of the bed. Like the teen had flipped in the night). Sam would wake him up the same way he had woken his big brother for decades before in crappy motels across the country, and his son would reply in the same drawn out whine as Dean, “five more minuuuuutes.”

But Jack didn’t eat much anyway.Jack didn’t sleep much. He never had to request another five minutes.

But he was Sam’s son.And he was half human, too.

He remembers the first time Jack died. Blood pouring from his mouth, staining the bunker’s sheets in a macabre mosaic. Somehow grotesque enough to make Sam gag, but beautiful enough that for a fleeting moment he wanted to hang the stain glass in a church. To revere and pray for and idolize his fallen son; because Jack was half angel. He was half human.

He held Jack’s hand when he died. There was no one else in the room and selfishly he treasured it. He was the first one Jack ever saw on Earth, and the last. Sam might just be blessed. Tears clogged his throat and constricted his airway, he couldn’t speak until his kid had already passed, missing the opportunity to tell him how he was proud and he had never doubted him. It wasn’t until Jack’s lips took a grey twinge that Sam managed to stutter out, “five more minutes…”

“Five more minutes…”“Huh?”

Sam shook his head, blinking at the burning stinging wetness he was going to ignore that was building in his eyes.

Jack didn’t remember him here. Just when Sam thought the universe had run out of ways to flip him the bird they had handed him Jack 2.0: DC Edition. He faltered, forgetting what had triggered that memory in the first place. Right. He’d asked when the next bus was coming. It was so plaintive. So formal and distant and dissociative. He smiled, hand aching to cup Jack’s shoulder, but he took pause and knew had to take it slow; rebuild their relationship from the ground up. “Yeah, right, sorry. Thanks, appreciate it.”

It didn’t matter how long it took for Jack to see him as a mentor, or father, or friend again.

So, happy birthday, man. I don’t know where I’d be without you. Looking forward to your first hip replacement. 

But now the hunter was just stepping back, almost like she was seeing a ghost in front of her but no, that was him, her son, Sam. We’re okay. Those words that he told her touched her, because yeah, they were going to be okay or trying to be okay. “Sam..” A small whisper now looking at him. “I’m sorry…sorry…” Mary said, shaking her head once. “You are okay?”

@thestanfordmoose continued from (x)

Sam has found his life is constructed into a series of Before and After’s.

His life has never seemed particularly linear, a consecutive storyline with one cataclysmic event leading to another, and another, or another. (Which is ironic, because as it turns out his out his life has been nothing more than a fallacy. Heresy podcasted by an unreliable narrator masquerading as the Savior.) He’s segmented and disjointed - unable to cope with the trauma he never wanted, asked for, or deserved unless he separates it by way of “Life Before XYZ” for every single big bad or apocalypse, or, really, just general world altering (jarring, scarring, back breaking) event.

Some of these experiences were more formative than others. See: Jessica. Cold Oak. Dean being carved out like a Thanksgiving Turkey by hellhounds. Ruby. The Cage. The day his mom died again.

The After of Mary didn’t feel like the first time. His mother’s blood caressed his newborn flesh, dribbled down the contours of his lips and cheeks as it fell from the ceiling. Her body was kindling, feeding the fire that ate their home and he’s the one who felt the heat, let it lick him. He wonders if he cried. Her death was intimate for Sam, and despite that, unknown to him. “We don’t talk about mom.” One of the 10 Winchester Commandments, and one Sam wanted to vehemently rebuke, but he knew which battles to argue, and which got him smacked. Mary was a beautiful stranger, and he loved her, loved her, loved her.

This After, he knew her, but not as a mother. She was Mary Winchester, the Hunter, more of a college and friend than maternal figure. He envied the relationship his brother had with her, in the Before, Before, and After, After.

“He won’t even admit that mom’s dead. Won’t even admit it.” “Stop.” “Because if he admits it, then it’s real. And if it’s real, then he has to deal with it, and he can’t handle that.” “Right, because this is so easy for you, right?” “No, it’s no easy.” “But at least you had a relationship with mom!”

And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? Why Sam had trouble mourning, grieving, in the wake of her death. He didn’t know how to react to the death of a mother who had never felt like one. Who had died before you could establish any memories of her, who came back unlike the woman you created in your head through glorified stories a son who had treasured her (and was kissed by her, tucked in by her, fed by her) had formulated.

“You had something with mom I never did! And you expect me to just accept I never will?”

But, she was here, and like a suckling child, thirsty and neglecting of attention, he’s begging to try again. Sam just wants a mom.

He reaches out, wanting to wipe her tears but scared to be so personal. He does it anyway.

His bottom lip trembles as he smiles, the emotion striking him quickly and with force. “No, don’t.. don’t be sorry, mom.” He bends just slightly, not wanting to tower over her. “I’m good. I’m okay. See?” He extends his arms outwards in demonstration. “You have nothing to worry about. You’re--you’re really here.”

And so it began: After Mary Came Back.

closed event starter for @thestanfordmoose​ ( jack & sam )

“do you know the muffin man that lives on drury lane?” jack glances up at the stranger, holding onto a piece of paper that was scribbled upon with an address and a name. but every time he asked someone, either they laughed or told him ‘go home, kid’. but that would mean he had a home to go to when in reality…. jack had nothing. just a name and whatever possession’s he held in his bag, which seemed to be a bible. someone had implemented religion in his mind, that if there was belief in the all mighty, good things might come. “i tried asking others…. and they didn’t help me out.”

Well, no. That’s his first thought, despite the ludicrousness and mirth of the question. No, now that someone has bothered to mention it, Sam doesn’t know the muffin man. Which, really, is a shame because of all the sweets and carbs he has taught himself to do without, (misplaced righteousness and health consciousness, cloaking him wanting a cause and a say in his own body. He likes burgers, but there is a gluttony in that and a lack of control) Sam will actually eat a muffin. There were days when he wasn’t getting enough, living on black coffee and saltines, and in a rare moment of foresight Dean presented him a blueberry muffin. “You gotta eat something, man. You’re like eight feet tall, crackers ain’t gonna cut it.” It stung like a taser without the electricity going down, but ultimately satiated him.

In those desperate times, from then on, his brother always brought him a muffin. A peace offering, a compromise, his own iron will bending to allow a treat.

But, he digresses. His other reaction, and the one with more attached, was my kid is alive. The contradiction pelted him in the chest; the simplicity of the fact, because here Jack was, clear as day, standing in front of him, (with doe eyes and innocence and confusion and breath), contrasted with complexity. There was weight, physical, metaphorical, d) all of the above. Sam felt it crushing his windpipe even as he tried to speak. How was he here, what happened in the interim of him being supernova’d in the graveyard to him begging for the freaking muffin man in Washington, DC.

Did he miss Sam? Love him, still?

Forgive him?

The part of Sam that’s still a martyr wants to refuse his son, like a gift he doesn’t deserve; hasn’t earned. Because having Jack back like this is too straightforward, and there should never be an easy way out for people like Sam.

Sinners like Sam.

He swallows convulsely, speech still herculean as a combination of grief and gratitude clog his gullet like bile. He glances at the scrap of paper and grins, seeing the scrawl that is somehow both neat and messy at once, spelling out Muffin Man, Drury Lane. “Jack,” He breaths, first, over a smile. Then, “That’s, no, it’s just a song. A nursery thyme. You know, Dean used to sing it as ‘dreary lane’ and I always thought he lived there because his muffins made the street brighter--”

When the devil took her down to make her look pretty He said, "I'll give you the world if you just give me your skin, And I'll take you places that you've never been"

She said, “I was born bound Left to wander I'm just tryna get free

You took my mother You took my father Oh, but you're not gonna take me!"

[...]

continued with @thestanfordmoose​, from here

Chuck was used to the ‘college dropout, one of the guys’ persona he’d perfected during his time on earth. It basically wasn’t a persona anymore – he was that guy. He felt like that guy more than he felt like God, these days. It was like a suit that fit pretty well, and he liked how it looked and how it felt, and he liked walking around as this guy. Metatron had said he’d gone full method, and maybe that was true, but so what? He’d done the whole ‘Alpha and Omega, First and the Last’ thing for literally thousands of years. He didn’t wanna be that dramatic anymore. He just wanted to… chill. He was done with the ‘Lord of Hosts’ schtick. Besides, he was stuck in this world, so he had to go along to get along, for his own freaking sanity.

But there was one guy who he knew who always struggled with God being Carver Edlund, and that was Sam Winchester. He wanted the religiosity, the piety, the holy nine yards. He wanted to deify Chuck in a way that he was really sick of being deified. Sure, he was the creator of… well, everything, but he didn’t want to be idolised anymore. He wanted to be the Winchester’s buddy, their go-to guy, their friend who slummed around in boxers and ate takeout and watched porn on Dean’s computer, who also happened to be God. It was the only way he was gonna keep them on-side, if they saw him as their pal. And that was what Sam needed. His obsession with being holy and worthy and spiritually clean was really unhealthy. It had been a necessary evil for his whole ‘demon blood’ arc, and it had cropped up later during the trials of Hell, but Chuck really wished the kid would get over it now. He’d hung out with God in the bunker, seen him in  a t-shirt and boxer shorts, eating cold Chinese food. You couldn’t get further from holiness than that, right?

So, he told Sam he wanted to talk because he did. Just talk. No appearing in a heavenly flash of light, no booming voice from the sky calling Sam his ‘son’. None of that. He just wanted to talk. Sam said that he’d prayed, and Chuck sighed. “Yeah, I know you did,” he said, wearily. “I heard.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and gave Sam a long-suffering smile. He’d heard all of it – Sam’s faith paralleled the faith of the saints from biblical times, David writing the psalms. How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? Everything was so emotive and passionate and the end of the freaking world.

He loved Sam – of course he did – but he didn’t know what Sam wanted from him. Dean was easy – he wanted Chuck to be an absentee father, the fall guy, so he could get pissed and hate him for every single thing that went wrong in his life, XTC’s ‘Dear God’ style. But Sam? Sam wanted him to be a Father, sure. He wanted him to be his supporter, to validate him. But he wanted something else. Something Chuck couldn’t give because he didn’t even think it existed. Some sort of holy anointing, divine cleansing… thing. If that had ever existed, he’d quit doing it hundreds of years ago. Humanity just didn’t go in for stuff like that anymore – Sam was about two thousands years late. The vial in the Basilica of the Holy Blood was just a bottle with a piece of cloth in it, the Shroud of Turin was just a shroud. There was no hallowed mystery to anything anymore. Chuck couldn’t give Sam what he wanted, so he gave him what he needed instead, even if Sam couldn’t see it was what he needed, like a good father should.

“I didn’t answer your prayers with words, Sam,” he said. “But I was always rooting for you guys. You know that. I’ve told you.” He didn’t say anything for a few seconds, but he knew he had to bring up Dean. “I guess you know your brother’s not my number one fan right now, huh?” he asked, conversationally, as if it didn’t piss him off every freaking day. “But you and me, we’re still good, right?” It was a question, because he didn’t want to tell Sam that they were good, but he figured he knew the answer. Sam couldn’t hold a grudge against God. It was literally impossible for him. They would always be good.

Sam understood his own hypocrisy. How, just like he’d beseeched, God stood on sacred ground and played King of You. There was no parting of the tides or “and the earth opened her mouth wide and swallowed him whole”, even when Sam wavered and dreamt of being consumed. Chuck’s betrayal wasn’t done in technicolor, but it was the first and only time he had felt like a God. It was there, in the graveyard as he watched his son’s eye ignite (they always die in ash and brimstone), Sam realized that this was exactly what he’d asked for. He wanted Chuck to step out of his lackluster ‘tude, the apathy which disgusted Sam in all the same ways he envied it, and to take up his role as a deity.

Instead of Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Matthew 11:28, Chuck was God the Conspirator; and the hunter had a split second to reconcile his idea of faith with the one killing his kid. He zeroed in on the grass stains crisscrossing Jack’s back, muddying the sweatshirt with licks and kisses of Earth, as if a promise to ground him - he’s part human, too. Jack flops helplessly, likely unawares as the same grace that has resurrected him and his brother and Castiel and - everyone, everyone, it made everyone - corrupts and burns and mutilates a body, a child, and Sam’s sense of self all in one ‘snap.’ The callousness of the gesture - look how easy it is for me to hurt you - was never lost on him. A double entendre wearing cheap loafers and moth-bitten jeans.

He would be his own advocate.

Within those precious few breaths, Sam decided he was tired of having his autonomy taken from him. Inhale; I wanted you to love me. Exhale; I was good. Inhale; you’re hoping he stay blind. Exhale; I can see. Inhale; and he has a gun in his hand and he’s firing it before he can register the hilt or remember the consequences. There is one thought, and only one, as he takes aim and shoots: ‘If only the Truth made you holy.’

Human instinct. That’s what he acted on. Unbridled anger; the feeling of being used like the rag beside a kitchen sink, reliable and coveted but somehow also worthless and covered in grime. Humanity is something Chuck can never mimic, a creation gone awry, and it was their rapture.

Blood sluggishly leaked from his shoulder like sewage from a rusted pipeline, and before Sam would stop it, he found himself revered because he’d been touched by God.

He doesn’t bleed like Christ, but his wound matches Chuck’s and he’s a stigmatic and he’s blessed and do you smell roses?

Let him bleed out like Christ on the cross. Leave bloodied footprints on the grimy motel carpet so Dean can see where he’s walked and trace his footsteps after he’s redeemed. Let him wash Sam’s hair with a red solo cup, filling it in the sink and tipping it back over “you sure you don’t want me to cut it for you?” to rinse away the clumps of dried soot and blood that have tangled in the strands, caking them together and giving him his Crown. He’ll smell floral and for awhile, Dean will associate roses with his brother’s death, but it’ll be okay because Sam will have been saved.

He understood his dichotomy and it made him ill everyday. Every time Dean scolded him or raged against Chuck, Sam wished he didn’t crave heaven’s pity.

“I didn’t need a cheerleader,” He replies meekly. Somehow feeling inferior all over again, like he isn’t also the man who shot God. And it’s true, because that isn’t what Sam needed or wanted. He didn’t care if Chuck fist bumped every time Sam so much as found a case or banged a girl. “I needed to you hear me. To help. Where have you been?”

The fury, the questioning, fades quickly and Sam is just a lost kid again. He nods, unable or unwilling or undeserving to hold a grudge against Chuck. He envisions himself reaching out desperately, chubby hands grabbing, clawing, aching. “Yeah, yeah--of course. No, I get it. I mean, I’m mad, but you-we---”

Sam looks toward his palms with a morbid disappointment, unmarred flesh, supple and pink and whole.

“We’re good.”

marlene leaned against the bar counter as he responded, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to really give her a response, or at least not the one that she was hoping for. sam wasn’t exactly a psychic. and marlene was just being dramatic. as always. but she couldn’t help herself, her mind reeling whenever she allowed it to wander off from work for just one moment.

her life was something that she was sure they could have written stories about, complex situations that she struggled to navigate on her own. it was why she was thankful for sam, he was an outside source, someone she could turn to when she needed to vent, to talk about something other than her world, or her job. a life that she barely understood followed him. and one he could never truly understand followed her.

they got each other. and for that, she was thankful. it was easy, to not have her dramatics taken so seriously. to be able to ask, “why am i alive” and not be hit with some romanticized idea of life. instead, he brought more to the conversation, a thought she never really let cross her mind before.

“maybe–” she replied to his first comment, looking up as he continued. “absolutely mate. there’s no playing involved though. i think we’re all pre-programmed to have a certain path each day. we only have the idea of free will.. like, you don’t really get to choose if you want toast or not, that’s already decided for you.”

her reply came easily, before she gave him a smile of her own.

“besides, i don’t even really like eggs.”

Picking up girls in a bar had always been Dean’s shtick. Not because Sam was incapable (contrary to what the Supernatural books like to portray about his skills with women, and frankly, that was something he’d have to bring up with Chuck because what the fuck. Considering the guy fancied himself on Sam’s side, it was pretty petty to dedicate so much of his novels to the mish-mosh of Sam’s love life - or lack thereof. Or, okay, unfortunate ends of. Whatever. Digressions), but because it just wasn’t his style. There was something wholly informal about it. It felt as if he was taking something which should embody intimacy and instead pushing it at arm’s length, as if afraid to touch. If he wanted to psychoanalyze, that was likely why Dean preferred this method. He never had to worry about building a connection and getting hurt, everyone was gone by morning; nothing but a whiff of perfume, a phantom touch on his bottom lip, and stains on borrowed sheets.

Sam, though, he wanted interaction. He wanted stimulation in the form of academia and conversation (forget that he hasn’t allowed hands to cradle him in years. That’s still too much, too much, too much. Ants under the skin, nibbling and biting and crawling right where he can see and feel but can’t do a damn thing about it. Their sole purpose is to be a nuisance). He doesn’t have the wherewithal to waltz into a pool hall or bar, bat eyes at someone and take them home just to blow off steam. Plus, even if he did, he’s kinda past his prime at this point. Who would want to follow a 37-year-old man back to his apartment? (Where there’s two beds, two rooms, because Dean always finds you.)

All this to say it’s still surprising that Marlene even sat next to him. He’s not here to do that with her, but even this casual rapport is somewhat outside his realm. They’ve had a handful of meetings where he hasn’t had to be anything but Sam; which is refreshing in a way he hasn’t tasted since the first few weeks at Stanford. There’s no strings, no mistakes, no harbored resentment that is just festering, being ignored, until you see your brother as the monster he was prophesied to become.

Here, in this bar, in this secluded corner they’ve claimed as their own, they’re both two people who seem to have an understanding.

There isn’t more too it. And Sam didn’t realize how much he needed that.

She was complex in her simplicity. Wildfire and introspective calm. She was smart, able to quip back at his comments where his brother tended to offer a “what the hell, Sam?” They volleyed.

She doesn’t realize how on the nose she is. That Chuck had promised he had decided their entire lives; Sam didn’t know if it was the same for everyone. If they all were hamster’s on God’s wheel or if Chuck just liked playing House with the Winchesters, but the principle was the same. The certainty in Marlene’s voice, her surefire conviction, made him wince. It was sad, to have no faith. He missed his.

He laughs, nodding, “There must not be a lot going on if our breakfast choices are the big talking points of the universe.”

she was watching him, now, more intently. of all the weird things to happen here, she guessed that seeing dean wasn’t too weird on the whole scale of things. as she snapped out of it, she started gathering cups and placing them in the trash can that was behind her and going back for more.

as the other spoke, her brow arched and she tilted her head, a bit confused. “brother?” she questioned.  “i’ve known dean for a long time and he definitely doesn’t have a brother.” it then dawned on her the other possibilities of this strange place. there’s dopplegangers. she had heard about them when she talked to lucas last and, although, she had never seen it, maybe this was one of those situations. “i’m guessing we’re both talking about a different dean,” she said in sort of a questioning tone.

Sam lowers his hand when she doesn’t take it, awkwardly placing it into his front jean’s pocket and bouncing slightly on his heels, making his bent knees bob.

He senses her scrutiny, and for a few tense minutes feels like a lab frog on a dissecting tray; spread eagle and on display. Eyes ogling him like a prize pig, and he’s fat and plump and curated for carnival entertainment. Sam wasn’t always so shy and wary of subtle perusal, but years of being violated in body and mind has left him in a state of constant exposure, unsure of intentions, however innocent Rory’s may be. Her eyes scan him, calculating, and he knows, in the logical part of his head, that she just wants to check and determine if she knows him or not, but the part covered in Lucifer’s hands and kissed by Gadreel’s grace just wants to be covered.

(We stayed in an empty motel room on the corner of Darwin and Mckinley. Inside, clothes for lamp shades, for sheets, for bed spread, for decency.)

He feels the brittle cardboard of the coffee cup crinkle in his fist, fingers tense and rigid before he shakes them loose. He flexes his hand for a few seconds - open, close, open, close - until he doesn’t feel so caged.

He rises from his crouch, all the cups now clean, and his joints aching from sitting on the concrete for so long. He’s initially hesitant to give their last name - old habits die hard - but relents to confirm his, and Dean’s, identity. Plus, he doesn’t know which alias they were using last and doesn’t want to have to pretend to not be related to Dean again if they both give out different surnames. He hates when they do it; makes him feel despondent and disconnected from the only person he desperately needs to be tethered to. “Winchester? Dean’s-a, you’d remember him. Likes to make sure he’s not forgotten; he’s got a pretty big ego.”

“Sorry I’m not who you’re lookin’ for,” He swallows.

Shane Madej Sentence Staters || Not Accepting

-But you’re a demon!-Don’t be such a racist.

He’s catapulted, first and foremost, back to Ruby, who despite all her soliloquies about remembering what it was like to be human (emotional manipulation, and you fell for it, you fell for her, you remember how she tasted), she was also awfully vocal about being respectful of demons.

Which, yeah, fuck that.

- Iron walls drenched in salt. Demons can’t even touch the joint.- Which I find racist, by the way.

She was petulant, indignant, in a way that made him want to pity her while simultaneously worship her. He had somehow started to see her as… something less sullied, less tortured and monstrous, and more misunderstood. Touched, maybe, like she had woken up from the crap Hell blinds the soul with; she had morality, personality, a name. She wasn’t ‘a demon.’ She was hunger and satiating, she was curves and his overbite, after losing Dean was like having all his teeth pulled.

He believed her.

The years after her betrayal, Sam operated in the same extremes as his brother; black and white. Good and bad. He let his vision grey, but little else had ambiguity. Demons = enemies. Demons lie, demons torment, and demons pretend to explore your body for wanderlust when it was actually for conquest.

Adam’s voice is deadly serious, but Sam picks up on a hint of amusement. It’s like the perfect meld of him and Dean, humor to mask hurt (his brother), defense of a ‘higher ground’ as pure conversational escapism; a way to run (leaving is what you do best.) He’s learned the nuances of Adam’s syntax and inflections from centuries of catching pieces of conversations between him and Michael. Jealously wishing he’d been the vessel of the Good Solider. Guilty that Adam was sacrificed without consent.

(You took his choice, and choice is all we have. It makes you ill and you tell Dean it’s the flu.)

He briefly wonders if Chuck realizes that the two Winchester sons who were lost in the Pit were the two with biblical names. Probably.Our Lord who Art in Heaven scrawled that seed with glee and self-adoration, and Sam smiled because attention is love.

Shane Madej Sentence Staters || Not Accepting

“No,” He said, voice and stance firm. “Don’t go.”

Almost 18 years ago, John Winchester told Sam the door was closed. That if he walked out to pursue an education – safety – then he should never try and walk back in.

For an educated man, he wants to call bullshit on this nature vs nurture crap that he read about for three weeks straight fourth semester. Pre-law requires a basic understanding of the human mind, of settling emotions and temperament, sorting through mental dynamics. This may help him as a lawyer and hunter, or may just make him psychoanalyze his brother on the bench seat of the Impala at 2 am with four coffee cups and a pile of beef jerky wrappers littering the space between them—Never mind. Either way, Sam decided early on the whole thing tasted a little sour in his mouth.

The thing was, Sam was going to feel like a monster whether he was brought up to know about them or not. Somewhere in the pit of his stomach he knows this and doesn’t let himself linger on the thought for too long. Never has. That despite the demon blood and being Lucifer’s vessel, Sam would always feel dirty. He wonders if circumstances had been different, would he have run to Stanford anyway? Though it settles like expired milk in his belly, he knows the answer is yes.

(He’s been guided by heaven or hell even before he was conceived; what is autonomy and free will when the Lord Our Savior guides your limbs?)

4 years after coming back into The Life, Dean Winchester told Sam that if he walked out that door with Ruby, that he should never come back.

Had he been in his right mind, had the entire fucking world not been alight in smoke, Sam would have seen the hurt in his brother’s eyes. There had to be reluctance beneath the steadfast conviction that said, “go.” The stern set of his jaw that mirrored John and sent Sam away. The ‘come back’ that hung unspoken fell on deaf ears, too concealed in anger and betrayal for either brother to really hear, or believe.

The door was meant to close on Sam Winchester. And it hit him on the way out.

Sam was tired of splintered wood and cracked plaster, of walls that couldn’t talk but could always hear, and of doors which might as well be made of cement with how immobile they were. The confinement emotional as it was physical, a tangible barrier between him and his family; impenetrable and lost in translation. Neither party ever spent the time trying to understand the other, John berating a petulant son, and Sam resentful that he isn’t free to rebel. (Lucifer, Lucifer, Lucifer. Mirror mirror, on the wall...) 

He just wanted to open the fucking door. He had wanted someone to stop him all those years ago, to say they wanted him to stay because they’d miss him, loved him, not because they needed another solider. Instead, John severed ties; out of grief or anger or quelled hurt, Sam didn’t know, but either way, he walked out that door and let it lock. 

Today, there would be no cracked plaster or splintered wood between him and his father. Sam had forgiven him. A long time ago.  Sam’s shoulders hunched, his tense form all but melting and his facade falling. Really, he’s just a boy in the presence of his father. “We need to talk, I want to talk, Dad.” 

There was a greatness I felt for awhile But somehow it changed Some kind of blindness I used to protect me From all of my stains

Yeah I wish this was vertigo It just feels like I'm falling slow

Oh if God is on my side Then who can be against me?