hope's kinda the point
- Jared Padalecki
buticancarryyou replied to your video “Imagine your OTP.”
i can’t see the video. :( idk why.
Here’s the link. IDK why it didn’t embed. :( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4I_NYya-WWg
marrieddorkss replied to your video “Imagine your OTP.”
I haven’t even watched it yet and I’m screaming
HAVE FUN
Imagine your OTP.
The things they must have heard. :))))) (x)
Dean used to read them to Sam before bed. And before Sam could read, he’d read stories back to Dean and make up the stories. Dean always went along with it, always smiled when Sam’d close the book dramatically and say ‘The End!’.
They were Sam’s first loyal companions. Stories of far off places, with love and tragedy, new worlds and happy endings. Places he could lose himself to, places that felt more like home than what truly surrounded him.
He started collecting them, started keeping them in his backpack. Tried stuffing it as full as it would get with all the books he’d find along the way. And he’d tell himself it was because he wanted to read them later, but more often than not, he’d just find himself appreciating the weight of them.
And it wasn’t until he was in Stanford, that he would use his textbooks for other things than just studying. Other things like, stacking the books on his chest–one by one, before he went to sleep. The books were heavy and they pushed him securely against the bed. They made him breathe deeper and they made the anxiety in his bones, dissolve.
By the end of his first semester, he was sleeping with at least five of his textbooks on his chest.
After he meets Jess, her body weight replaces the books and he learns to sleep without them again. Starts using them for pleasure, lets her read to him in the morning, when they’re both still lazy and not wanting to get up. And there were nights that they’d stay up all night, talking about their favorites and reading passages from the pages to each other.
But after the fire, he finds her favorite books and starts to sleep with them again. All of them stacked neatly on his chest, as he waits for the pressure of them to alleviate the grief in his bones. Some nights, he needs more than others. Some nights he craves the tightness of his ribs, craves the weight of something else–besides the world on his shoulders.
And it continues like this, throughout all of his life. Dean asks him about it once, after he gets his soul back. Asks him what about it makes him feel better and all Sam can do is whisper, “They make me feel safe.”
Dean never pretends to fully understand what it means, but supports Sam’s need for them. And even after everything with Gadreel–when Sam can barely look at Dean, his heart softens when he finds a stack of books outside of his door–all from the Bunker’s Library.
There’s a note on top of them and it reads, “To keep you safe.“
♥
Anoooooooooooooon. You’re making me cry. D:
To keep you safe.
ALL MY FEELINGS. I CANNOT. <3 Thank you, Anon. <3
Sam knew it was overdue, could feel the ghostly curses from his brother’s mouth, telling him to grow a pair and fucking do it. But the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to put it off. He even found himself braking as he passed by the Quickie Lube, thinking maybe it’d be better that way. But then he’d know Dean would kick his ass for ever thinking it, so instead, he ended up speeding by instead.
He takes it exactly 354 miles over the 3,000 mandatory mark that Dean had told him to use. ‘She needs em’ often, Sammy. Gotta keep her running like a miracle.’ And Sam watched the odometer carefully, achingly, feeling every excruciating mile pass beneath him. Every roll of the numbers, taking him further and further away from Dean.
Dean who was rotting in Hell, rotting below the ground. Dean who gave him life, who sacrificed everything–just for him. And how does he repay him? He doesn’t save him; lets the hounds tear into him and drag him screaming into the pits of Hell’s belly. And after he’s gone, he can’t find a way to bring him back and can’t even find the strength to take care of the two things he left behind.
Himself. And Baby.
He wakes from a nightmare, full of blood and a heavy body in his arms, full of dirt and tears and he can’t settle himself back to sleep. He gets up and finishes what’s left of the whiskey bottle, the same bottle Dean left behind, the one he hadn’t let himself touch–not till now. The amber liquid burns on it’s way down and settles in his stomach with an empty ache.
It’s 2AM and he’s prying the hood open and the creak it makes, causes his throat to knot up with a horrible emotion. And when he hangs the utility light up, his eyes blur over at the pride and joy that Dean loved so much. Every piece of her, every belt and cap, every whir and whistle, so lovingly cared for by Dean’s hands. And Dean is there, his blood and sweat still soaked into the crease and oil.
Sam stares at his own hands and watches as they shake with the grief of knowing what he’s about to do. He’s seen Dean do a million and two times, had Dean walk him through it, even cranked the tools a few times–always under Dean’s careful eye. But this is different and every bone in his body knows that once he touches anything, that Dean’s prints will be replaced with his own.
And Dean will just be that much more gone.
Nausea swims against the whiskey, as they fight over his empty stomach as he gets to work. It takes him longer to jack the car up, than it does to find the plug to drain the oil. And once the new filter is in place, he pours in the new ‘Dean approved’ brand of oil in. When he’s done, his body is warm from moving and his hands are dirty with grease and the ghost of Dean’s fingers.
He doesn’t shower afterwards, no, he sleeps with his hands curled up under his chin. The smell of Baby and Dean, warm and real, soothes him into the first deep sleep he’s had in a solid month.
And if he cries in the morning, as he starts Baby up–another set of miles ahead of him till the next change is due, no one would know it–but him.
♥
SEASON 3 ANGST. YES. I LOVE THIS. I love getting a glimpse to what Sam was like those first few months after Dean died. I love how Baby works into this.
“And if he cries in the morning, as he starts Baby up–another set of miles ahead of him till the next change is due, no one would know it–but him.”
I AM DEAD. THANK YOU, ANON.
patchworkgirlfriend-deactivated
sent a message
sent a message
Soulless!sam and Demon!dean. xoxo
OOOOOOOOOOOH. GIVE ME ALL THE DARK!CHESTERS
- Sam doesn’t feel anything, and Dean just doesn’t care, but they both know that they’re each others. But they’re little shits so they try to make the other one jealous every time they’re in a bar. Its begun to become a game with these two.
- Dean always wakes up to Sam pounding his ass. Sam needs to work out every day after all.
- The Impala stays clean, because Sam is meticulous and doesn’t tolerate chaos. But Dean will push him. He’ll make a mess, he’ll leave his stuff lying around, he’ll push just enough until Sam snaps and Sam fucks him over or against the nearest surface.
- Sam doesn’t need to eat, but he cooks for Dean. Sam doesn’t need to sleep, but he makes sure Dean is well-rested. Sam doesn’t need sex, but he’ll take it and he’ll give it to Dean because why the fuck not?
- Sam is soulless because he couldn’t live with Dean becoming a demon again, but he doesn’t want to leave his brother either. So he asked Death to take away his soul. And now, Sam’s sole mission is to keep Dean alive. Except now, he doesn’t feel the pain of having a demon for a brother.
So, no, they don’t do cute. But angst? Yeah, well, that’s the family specialty. Served fresh and raw with a side of fucked up.
Thanks to Chuck, now the world knows about their lives. What should have stayed private, private and buried under layers of denial, under strings of ‘yeah, I’m fine’ and ‘it’s gonna be okay’, is out there. On display. It’s so damn wrong, and if they had any energy to spare, they’d be pissed as fuck, even more than they are.
What the public doesn’t know, though, is what the books don’t cover.
Say, the readers don’t know about that time Dad didn’t make it back home. He was trying to reach the car while holding his guts in place, gutted like a fish by a black dog. He got rescued by a hunter - of the deer and boars kind, ha - on a dirt trail, just a few yards away from the Impala. Of course, Sam and Dean got the whole story days later, when they were sitting into a white room with white chairs that flanked a white bed. Even Dad was white, all pale and sick and frayed around the edges, and the only shock of color was the black of his stitches. Back then, the fear of not knowing where Dad was got replaced by the fear of knowing exactly where he was, and it had an acrid, white taste.
Then, the readers don’t know about the two days Sam spent in a group home. In hindsight, that had been more of a cosmic joke than a clusterfuck - Sam was almost of friggin’ legal age - but a teacher filled with good intentions and a run in with a poltergeist got him removed from Dad’s custody. Busting him out? Piece of cake, considering. The frenzy and the rabbit-like pulse, the clammy hands and the grim set of Dad’s mouth, the SammySammySammy and pleaseGodno acting as white noise, day and night and day? Well.
Chuck’s books don’t feature the fights that escalated into Sam sending out college applications, the tense silence in the car while Dean drove Sam to the bus station, or the kisses filled with guilt and desire traded when Dad wasn’t looking..
There’s nothing in there about how your Mom’s hair smells like when it’s on fire, the consistency of blood while it drips on your forehead, the longing, the aching, the first speed-dial key fading on the old phone and staying new and shiny and untouched on the new. There’s nothing about how much a recorded message can hurt when it’s dark and the campus is asleep.
No, the public doesn’t know everything. There are certain pains, certain regrets that are theirs and theirs alone. Small mercies.
(Anon would like to apologize for the quality of this. Sick!anon is sick, her brain game is weak.)
the first speed-dial key fading on the old phone and staying new and shiny and untouched on the new.
ANON. ANON WHAT HAVE YOU DONE. NOOOOOOOO. MY HEART. MY HEART HURTS. THIS IS SO BEAUTIFUL. IF THIS IS HOW YOU WRITE WHEN YOU’RE SICK, I CAN ONLY IMAGINE HOW YOU DO WHEN YOU’RE DOING WELL. THIS IS AMAZING, ANON. THANK YOU SO MUCH.
the boys in every episode: When the Levee Breaks