“You’re in my spot,” Dean says, when he walks into the library and sees that Cas is sitting in his usual chair. He thunks two coffees down on the desk, disgruntled.

Cas blinks up at him for a moment, seeming to consider being stubborn - but eventually he shrugs, and moves to the next seat along.

“I used to have a spot,” he says.

“Oh, yeah?” Dean asks cursorily. He sits, and takes in the room from his usual vantage point. Good. All is right with the world. It’s strange, he thinks in passing, how the chair only really feels like his Spot, with a capital ‘S’, so long as Cas is in the chair beside him.

“Yes. Not too far from here… less than a light year away.” Cas takes a small sip of coffee, and winces. He doesn’t seem to notice Dean staring at him. “Mmm. Hot.”

“Less than a… right,” Dean says weakly. It’s so easy to forget, sometimes, that Cas is so other. “Well. I mean, each to their own, right? You, uh, you have your spot, and -”

“Had,” Cas corrects, looking down at his coffee cup with a focus that feels a little too hard to be real, as though he’s avoiding looking up at Dean. “Not anymore.”

Dean stares at him for a moment, not knowing what to say. He clears his throat.

“You got a different spot, now,” he says. Cas looks up at him, frowning slightly, and Dean smiles - trying to look reassuring, and not too worried about what he is about to say, too uncertain of how Cas will react.

“I do?” Cas says.

“Sure,” Dean replies easily. “Next to me.”

The look on Cas’ face melts all of Dean’s worries. They drink their coffee together, companionably - both of them in their spot. Together.

I’ve been pretending my whole life: pretending I don’t mind, pretending I belong. My life’s built on it—and it’s a good life, it’s a life I’ve always wanted. But then I come here and I get a glimpse, for a second, of a life in which I don’t have to pretend. A life in which I can be truly alive. How can I go back to pretending when I know what this feels like?
—  William, Westworld
belonging, pt. 0

a country far away mourning for one girl,
& a girl far away mourning for a country.

a poem about missing something you’re
not quite sure exists / that is to say loving
something without knowing it’s real.
i think that’s what i’ve been doing my 
whole life. i still ask myself whether this
is a Bad Thing. 

you see, i can only admit i love myself
when i’m feeling unreal /

i look at my hand that doesn’t feel like a 
hand & then i make myself kiss it & this is
okay because if it doesn’t feel real it doesn’t
feel like mine & that means i can pretend
it’s someone else’s. loving others has always
come easily, anyway (although that’s becoming
harder, too, & now i keep wondering if this
is a Bad Thing). 

a poem about feeling unreal a lot, bones
hanging onto flaps of skin & tendons slashed
& exposed. a poem about the unreal being
loveable & the corporeal being sickening. 

  • <p> <b><p></b> <b></b> "I look to a day when people will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character." -MLKjr<p/><b></b> 50+ years later and this is still relevant today, and even beyond. When are things going to change?<p/><b></b> To me this quote means so much. For me, it goes beyond race, caste or creed to the roots of humanity. Who are we really if not our character? How easy is it to be dismissed by someone because of their skin color, citizenship, income, education, attractiveness, body type, sexual orientation, gender, etc.<p/><b></b> As a person who has always felt a little on the outside, this quote resonates with me. Chances are, you've probably experienced one of the above, so you probably understand what I mean. Only when we start looking beyond the physical, can we actually getting to know each other, forming real connections.<p/><b></b> Start making a change, and yes you CAN make a difference; who knows what you'll find? Take a chance, what have you got to lose?<p/></p><p/></p>