Tag: SHIT

kansaskissedlips:

“Hey – hey, what’s wrong?” Dean’s voice is still groggy with sleep, but he can hear Sam’s deep breaths; the barely-held-in sniffles. He gets out of his bed, stumbling towards Sam’s, touching his arm.

“Nothing,” Sam’s voice is hoarse. “Nothing’s wrong. Go back to sleep.”

They’re on a case, staying at a motel for the first time in a long time, the comfort of the bunker left behind. 

Dean crawls into Sam’s bed – hey, he doesn’t give a damn – and turns towards him. “C’mon. I’m not stupid.”

“I – I don’t know why I’m upset,” Sam suddenly says, his voice soft. “And it feels so fucking stupid.”

Dean bites his lip. “Is this…kind of what we talked about the other day? That you’re…feeling sad, and stuff?”

Sam nods, staring down at the comforter. 

He keeps his lip between his teeth, concentrating, trying to figure out how to say it gently. “Sam – Sammy. I…man, it’s not…normal to wake up crying in the middle of the night, you know? Have you…”

Sam looks at him – and he always looks at him like he’s his whole world – and swallows hard. “What?”

“…I think you’re depressed, Sam. Not just – ‘oh, I had a bad day and I’m sad.’ But…like depressed. I don’t know a lot about…y’know, this kind of stuff, but I know you’ve been suffering. And man, you don’t…you don’t have to suffer.” Dean reaches for him, ‘cause he knows that physical affection will soften the blow. Not that he minds holding him, anyway.

The whole room’s suddenly quiet, save for the way Sam exhales into the crook of Dean’s arm, and the way the coarseness of Dean’s hand glides against the soft fabric of Sam’s t-shirt. 

“I think I am, too,” he murmurs, as if giving in, struggling to accept this thing that’s been haunting him for months now. “And I don’t know how to fix it.”

Dean holds him, moving his hand to Sam’s hair. “Maybe we should…” He swallows thickly. “Book an appointment with someone? And just…see what they say?” Two years – hell, even a year ago – he’d be against this. But…seeing the way this invisible force of grief is tearing through Sam is breaking his heart.

Honestly…he knows the feeling. And he doesn’t want that for Sam; he never has. 

“Okay,” Sam acquiesces after a minute. “I’ll…I’ll go. See someone.”

Dean can hear the fear in his voice. “I’ll come with you. Don’t worry. Okay? I have your back.” He squeezes him tightly. 

Sam nods, but he knows…eventually, at least part of this will come down to being in love with Dean, and not being able to tell him.

It always does; doctors can’t right this kind of wrong, even with drugs.

babybrotherdean:

Imagine little Sammy who isn’t quite right. Sam who likes it when other people get hurt. Who watches and smiles and maybe thinks about it when he touches himself, who makes people uncomfortable simply by existing with his cold smile and his dead eyes.

Sammy who goes soft and warm just for his big brother. Who plays a part for Dean because Dean is his, and he knows exactly what Dean wants to see. Sammy who widens his eyes and pretends he’s innocent right up until the moment he asks his brother to hurt someone for him, because there is no line that Dean won’t cross for his little brother and Sam knows.

Sam who plays his big brother like a fucking violin, because he doesn’t like to get his hands dirty, and Dean loves him too much to say no.

It’s taboo to admit that you’re lonely. You can make jokes about it, of course. You can tell people that you spend most of your time with Netflix or that you haven’t left the house today and you might not even go outside tomorrow. Ha ha, funny. But rarely do you ever tell people about the true depths of your loneliness, about how you feel more and more alienated from your friends each passing day and you’re not sure how to fix it. It seems like everyone is just better at living than you are.

…A part of you knew this was going to happen. Growing up, you just had this feeling that you wouldn’t transition well to adult life, that you’d fall right through the cracks. And look at you now. La di da, it’s happening.

Every day you vow to change some aspect of your life and every day you fail. At this point, you’re starting to question your own power as a human being. As of right now, your fears have you beat. They’re the ones that are holding your twenties hostage.

Stop thinking that everyone is having more sex than you, that everyone has more friends than you, that everyone out is having more fun than you. Not because it’s not true (it might be!) but because that kind of thinking leaves you frozen. You’ve already spent enough time feeling like you’re stuck, like you’re watching your life fall through you like a fast dissolve and you’re unable to hold on to anything.

I don’t know if you ever get better. I don’t know if a person can just wake up one day and decide to be an active participant in their life. I’d like to think so. I’d like to think that people get better each and every day but that’s not really true. People get worse and it’s their stories that end up getting forgotten because we can’t stand an unhappy ending. The sick have to get better. Our normalcy depends upon it.

You have to value yourself. You have to want great things for your life. This sort of sh*t doesn’t happen overnight but it can and will happen if you want it.

Do you want it bad enough? Does the fear of being filled with regret in your thirties trump your fear of living today?

We shall see.

Ryan O’Connell (via thequotejournals)

jessmoorechesters:

sometimes i wonder what the moores would think of sam now, or what they even thought of him when he disappeared, of this kid, this young man who was force fed so much turkey by jess’s grandmother that he looked about ready to pass out, who accepted ugly sweater contest jabs (“what ugly sweater?”) in stride, who did not speak openly about his family but was welcomed into theirs nonetheless, who let a three year-old stick rainbow barrettes in his hair for the sake of amusing her, who loved their daughter and wasn’t overly subtle about it

but then there was the sam after the fire, stoic and quiet at the funeral with a man they didn’t recognize, who offered them his condolences with watery eyes but declined any offers to stay with them, said he needed time, said they all did, said he and his brother (that’s who he was, the quiet man with the hard eyes and half-nods scanning the room) needed to find their father, said he loved her, said he missed her, hugged her mother and let her cry into his shoulder, said he’d never forgive himself

the fire’s ruled suspicious, the circumstances are unsettling, there are no concrete answers, and there is never any word back from sam aside from the week he and his brother stayed for the service, and after a few months there is some resentment, some bitterness bubbling up, brief moments of you left and my daughter died that they instantly regret, and sometimes they just wonder, wonder about sam, wonder about their daughter

the winchester show up on the news, show up wanted by the fbi, show up in prison, show up dead, show up as a pair of serial killers

the mugshot of the boy who was once sat at their kitchen table over a weekend, spent the new years with them, wished them all merry christmas stares back out at them, murders a man in cold blood, is a wanted killer and they think oh god, think no think you left and my daughter died