[Share something with your partner]

There are a lot of things he could share with Claire. Things about Dean, things about the scars on his body or the destiny he fights. There are stories about John and events in his childhood that make him who he is. There are fewer things he should share but they are there, numbered in his mind like a list. There is only one thing he needs to share with her and it’s the one that comes hardest because it’s the one that he’s not used to sharing with anyone. The words I love you never came easy in the Winchester family. He supposes at one time his father said them to his mother or his mother said them to him and to Dean but in his memory that’s something reserved for dying or coming back from the dead. It’s strictly a chick flick moment and he doesn’t do that. He can’t do that because in some way it betrays everything he is and everything Dean was. He knows it’s ridiculous and he knows if he’s feeling it, he should say it but feelings have been bottled for so long just to stay in one piece that he’s a little afraid to let them out.

So he won’t say that he loves her. He won’t share it in any way. That’s just asking for a Yellow Eyed Demon to come along and pin her to the ceiling or a werewolf to bite her or any other number of scenarios he can come up with. Instead he’ll hope that one of these days she’ll figure it out because he keeps coming home. To her.

Inkblot

Okay see that’s Dad and me fighting about Stanford and Dean right in the middle. We were yelling at the top of our lungs and Dean had his elbows dug into our chests trying to push us apart. Dad was flexing his fists and I was bowing up, using all of my height. He’d get Dad simmered down and I’d rile him right back up. Stanford was far from the first fight we ever had but it was definitely the worse. I was kind of surprised to see Dean stand up to Dad that way. I mean he’d always gotten in between us but he’d never actually gone toe to toe with Dad before. John Winchester was the scariest man on the planet. For some reason I was born to go toe to toe with him. Dean swears it started by the time I was two. Dean was always the good soldier, the peace maker and the one who smacked me in the back of the head for arguing with Dad. The day though, over Stanford, he sided with me.

Comfort

His entire life comfort was Dean. He had a nightmare and he went to Dean. He felt sick, he went to Dean. Some kids in school were making fun of him, he went to Dean. Dean was his comfort, his father, his brother, his guardian, his defender and his best friend. When he lost him, Sam resigned himself to being alone for the rest of his life. He’d lost too many people to even try. In so many ways he had to become Dean to survive losing Dean. There were women but he doesn’t remember their names and they all bled into each other. Dean was better at remembering but Dean was trying to hold on. Sam was just letting go.

And then he ran into her. It wasn’t that he intended for her to become his source of comfort. At first she was just a brunette that some men were hassling. He saved the day and she was nice enough to offer her guest room. That’s all it was supposed to be. He ended up staying just over a week; a lull in cases giving him some rare time off. And then, the job was finished and he wanted to be back in Las Vegas in guest room. Yeah, the guest room was nicer than ninety percent of motel rooms he stayed in but it was more than that. It was breakfast in the mornings and movies on her couch at night. It was the way she worked to make him smile and flat out having someone to talk to after so many years of having no one. He didn’t even kiss her for a couple of weeks. It had been years, long before Dean died, since he’d taken his time with a girl.

Somewhere between a guest room and where he is now, she became comfort and something closer to home than he’s had since Dean died. He didn’t plan it and he doesn’t want it. Comfort and home are things that can be taken away but no matter how he denies it. Comfort and home are a person once again and that terrifies him a lot more than being the anti-Christ ever did.

1. What's your girlfriend’s favorite color?
Answer: Pink

2. What's your girlfriend’s favorite city to visit?
Answer: uh…

( Read more... )

Okay so I had a slow week and decided to make a cassette tape (Yes tape, the Impala still plays those and only those) with some songs that remind me of Claire and I.

( For track list and a picture )

Limbs uncurling; joints popping in celebration

Lungs swelling; chest burning; spine lengthening.

Time served and freedom attained.

Confinement had curled him into an old man, spine cured, shoulders hunched but freedom had brought his power back. He has been that prisoner locked away and forgotten, brought out only for self flagellation or internal torment but now he is free. That knowledge makes laughter tickle his throat and fill his chest. Oh this is going to be

So

Much

Fun.

The world has changed since he was last unleashed. It is faster and jaded; darker and decayed around the edges, like a shiny apple just past its expiration date. One good swing and it will all fall down.

Likes ashes and ring around the rosy. That was his idea you know; little girls dancing, hands held and singing at the top of their tiny, pitched voices about the end of the world. Irritation prickles his features and a scowl crosses his lips before a cocky smile takes up more permanent residence. He should have had the little girls and the dancing to welcome him home. He shrugs, removing his hands from his pockets and moving with a boneless grace that the body he’s in never possessed. He’ll make the most of it because that is what he has been doing for centuries and look where it has gotten him:

Right where he wants to be. Father would be so proud; ashamed, enraged, fiery rain from the Heavens. It is all much the same thing isn’t it? Attention is love and he is about to get a lot of attention.

A girl with nicotine stained fingers and purple, dark shadows under her eyes stares at him as he passes and he reaches out, fingers brushing her shoulder. The sensation is nearly orgasmic and he has forgotten what it feels like to experience this world without that wet blanket of morals, intentions, duty and control insulating him from it all. He is sure it was supposed to teach him a lesson, residing all these years in sight of that pool of potential, never able to reach it, tap it or even fully comprehend it but even the omnipotent make mistakes—zing! Right there, blasphemy in the thoughts. It’s been a while since that’s happened to this boy wonder with such perfect faith. Oh but it feels good, a little chill down the spine and a fuzzy feeling in the pit of the stomach. He has mentioned how much fun this was going to be; didn’t he? The omnipotent makes mistakes, doesn’t see, doesn’t believe because he—or she, let’s be politically correct here—can’t summon the same faith in his or her subjects that he or she expects them to have in him or here. Isn’t PC a wonderful thing? Decayed just around the edges; one good swing and…well the picture is clear.

The thing is there are too many forces at work. No one can really keep up. Seriously, imagine his (or her) inbox for just a moment. Events line up, catastrophes happen and there’s all that pesky free will. It’s the thing that makes the world go ‘round. Not money, not love. Yes the Beatles were wrong. Deal with it kiddos. Free will makes the world spin like a little top. It’s where rebellion starts, temptation giggles and all of the sudden this job isn’t a job. It’s a choose-your-own-adventure with all endings leading to one thoroughly predictable ending. Now don’t look like that. Everyone has known it for centuries and if they didn’t…Reality television really is taking over, isn’t it?

The girl is replaced with a boy with track marks on his arms, shoulder bumping against him; apologies and coy smiles. Apples, apples, how do you like them apples? Oh he likes them just fine. So much time spent trying to save a world that didn’t want to be saved in the first place.

The boy wonder in him is screaming and dying and whimpering—at least he’s being entertaining—because this wasn’t how it was supposed to all go down. The very notion makes him laugh because this was exactly how it was supposed to go down. This is what he’s been planning on for centuries. Oh sure being stuck in the body of a stripper or a drug dealer, a very smart serial killer—personally he liked the secretary from Peoria. She showed such promise and then…isn’t that how it goes—now where was he? Oh right, the golden boy; at least that had made things interesting; nausea-inducing but interesting.

“Sam. Sammy.”
A hand grabs his elbow, fingertips digging into the skin as bruises rise, livid and dark. His eyes narrow and the Boy Scout rallies. A string of curses bubble to his lips but they come out sounding like laughter. The ground spins, his stomach roils and then it is slipping, uncoiling too fast; anchor pulling at the chain, catching, holding and straining. It sucks at him from the center before it implodes

Right

Before

His

Eyes.

Limbs atrophy; joints screaming in protest.

Lungs collapse; chest sinking; spine contracting.

His breath is coming in shallow pants as a cold sweat covers his skin but the hand on his elbow is strong, pulling him back and keeping him anchored; straining, holding and pulling but holding.

“You okay?”

He nods, the hand loosens but the anchor remains. Dean’s hand slaps his back and he winces because it’s harder than he would like but the weight and the force is right.

“Come on, Dude. Let’s go get some pie.”

“Apple.”

“Hell yeah, friggin’ apple.”

1. Go here to generate 10 numbers between 1 and 100. Do this first.

2. Then I will answer the corresponding questions from here

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I sorta can't sit still.