Tag: my heart

semirahrose:

In seasons one though (most of) season 5, Dean, out of fear (and probably an ingrained tendency to expect the worst case scenario), could not cling to faith that Sam was not evil and could make choices that would affect his own destiny. 

Sam was not, in fact, evil, and always had the ability to take his own fate his his hands and the love for and faith in people that has made him such an amazing character. But there wasn’t another Sam to mediate for him, so the brothers had to struggle for each bit of insight.

It’s so heartbreaking and hopeful and lovely to see Sam tentatively stepping in with hope for another person with an evil birthright, and it’s humbling to see how things could have been—would have been—if things had been different.

I’ve said this a million times, but… if Sam had a Sam to fight for him, things would have been so much different.

radiophile:

Firsthand account from ‘06 Paleyfest:

So we’re waiting in line at the Paley Festival, and I’m coming out of the men’s room (which is a rather hard-to-spot door) and there’s this high-pitched shrieking coming from my right beyond the ropes, so I’m turning left and looking right, and walk right into a guy who’s looking to his left, and our belt buckles clink, and there’s a potted plant on one side and a wall of security guards on the other (with their backs to us) so nowhere to go and I see this poor guy looking quite unhappy (the wrinkled forehead, the tightness around the eyes, not breathing) and I think ‘Hm, Ackles is six foot exactly, so there’ because we’re exactly the same height and he’s got this miserable expression that says ‘please don’t be a freak please don’t be a freak’ and I step into the potted plant to let him past, and he nods in thanks, but security is in ‘protect the Pretty’ mode and now he can’t get past them either, (I scared them, coming out of nowhere) and his eyes are darting around and the shrieking (you know who you are, DeanGirls) was causing little birds to fall dead from the trees for blocks around and he was looking more uncomfortable and then (this is the part you’ll think I’m inventing but hand on my heart) he suddenly exhaled, and the tension around his eyes relaxed a bit, so evident that I turned to see what had caused this. About thirty feet ahead was the photography backdrop area, lights and cameras and fans and reporters and Jared and he slid between me and the guards and Padalecki had a microphone in his face, and smiling at the reporter, but his eyes were on Ackles coming towards him.

Dean guards Sam. Jared guards Jensen.

pathossam:

Dean sits in stunned silence for a moment, before turning to his brother. “Sam, what–”

“When I was sixteen,” Sam continues softly, like he didn’t just lay an earth shattering, gut wrenching, heart pounding revelation at Dean’s feet, “I came home really upset and told you I thought I liked guys. I was so scared, Dean. All I knew about being bi was the guys in the locker room muttering about beating up any queers that looked at them too long. But, you. You, you remember what you told me?”

Dean is stunned into silence. He remembers that day, yeah. Remembers how clean and freshly cut Sam was as a man-boy, and how blue his eyes were when he cried. He remembers holding Sam against his chest, feeling the protruding bones of his spine and thinking that Sam was both the most fragile piece of glass and strongest cut diamond in the world. He remembers pulling back and saying–

“You told me I could love whoever I wanted, that it didn’t make a damn bit of difference to you. That nothing in this world could make you turn from me or think any less. You,” and Sam smiles, thinking, a little bit of that sixteen year old left in Sam’s thirty-two year old grin, “you told me I could bring a goat to the prom.”

Dean smiles in spite of himself, pressing his shaking hands together. “Sammy, I–”

“You gave me permission to love you this way that day, Dean. And I’ve never stopped, not ever. I told myself if I ever got back out of that cage I’d, I’d tell you. So.”

Dean presses his side into Sam from where they’re sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in the dim light of Sam’s room. His brother has never been anything but brave, and so fucking smart to pick up on the hidden meaning he meant all those years ago, hoping he’d both never figure out, and hoping he would.

Dean turns his head to look at Sam, and Sam is already staring at him. Their eyes catch, and every year of their shared history plays between them. Every beautiful, painful inch, and Dean knows what he’s about to do will change nothing and everything.

“Shut up and kiss me, Sam.”

holdmesamthatwasbeautiful:

It’s normal for them, these days, to allow their
fingers to twine when they’re in public. It finally comes naturally, after all
these years of hiding, to give each other a small kiss in the line at the gas
station; to ask for a king sized bed without blinking.

It’s just.

It’s just that sometimes, Sam can’t help hearing the
whispers behind them. The dirty looks they’re thrown in bars, when a rosy
cheeked Sam places a peck on Dean’s cheek. Sam feels their disapproval in his bones, and for someone like Sam who’s
spent his life yearning for normalcy but never conquered it, it hurts.

That’s when Dean turns to Sam and places one hand at
Sam’s neck. It feels warm and safe when Dean pulls Sam’s face down, fiercely protective,
and whispers: “Don’t listen to them. I’ve got you, Sammy. We’re good, OK? I
love you.”

Sam kisses Dean. It feels so simple, so lovely; and
Sam thinks, Perhaps normalcy is subjective.

kansaskissedlips:

I hate myself.

Dean swallows hard, staring at the big bold letters in Sam’s journal. He knows he shouldn’t have looked, but it was right there, open on the desk in the motel room. 

Sam probably hadn’t even realized he’d left it out; hell, he tucked that thing into the bottom of his bag to ensure that it never accidentally got left behind, or so that prying eyes couldn’t see it.

It’s my fault that Dad died.

Dean’s jaw clenches. He should move away from it, pretend he never even saw it before Sam gets back in here from grabbing coffee.

I can’t sleep. I feel too guilty.

Jesus. Dean’s heart races. He knows he’s been hard on Sam – fuck, all they’ve done is fight and lash out since their dad’s death. Maybe Sam’s been right – they need to make an effort to talk about their issues, or it’s all gonna come out in the worst way possible.

He’s about to finally tear his eyes away when he sees one more stark phrase:

I want to die. I’d be better off dead.

And that? Dean can’t ignore that. There’s no way he’ll be able to pretend he hasn’t seen anything, especially when something as alarming as that stands out.

He takes a deep breath, heart racing. He needs to talk to Sam as soon as possible. He doesn’t care how pissed he’ll be. Doesn’t care how they’ve been getting on lately. This can’t wait.

Before he turns towards the door, something else catches his eyes, but it’s written so much smaller than everything else that he barely notices it.

I started cutting again. 

It all starts to come together in Dean’s head: the need to change in the bathroom, the long sleeves – even in hot weather or at night. Fuck, fuck, fuck. No.

Sam suddenly comes through the door, a shy little smile on his face. “Hey, they only had medium roast, hope that’s…” He pauses when he sees Dean’s face. “Dean? You okay?” He glances around the room – and then he sees it – his journal wide open on the desk. 

Sam turns white as the Styrofoam cups he’s holding. “I –” he stutters. “You didn’t –?”

Dean’s gentle and cautious in his approach. “Sammy,” his voice cracks. “Let’s talk, okay?”