I stand before you, and tell you ‘I’m home’. Know that I mean it as such: you are my home. Your arms are my foundations. Your eyes the doorways. Your lungs the fireplace. Your ribs my walls. Heaven cannot compare to the sanctuary that is you. So let me come back; let me rest in your heart. I’ve been on the road for too long.
Before I realized it is heavy because you have so much love. You are pained because you’re all the good in the world trapped in one body, breaking at the seams, and you’re a beautiful explosion just waiting to happen.
A person sleeps. Within those hours, there are five cycles. Each cycle is of a non rapid eye movement sleep and a rapid eye movement sleep. The earlier further subdivided into four light sleep stages before you are able to lucidly dream. Every single dentrite in the cerebral cortex dims itself slightly if not completely, like a city resting from its simplistically patterned trivialities. The body revitalizes itself, forms itself, heals itself in the period of time you let your mind siphon its consciousness away. And for few vivid minutes of dreaming, lives are lived inside resting heads. The next time you wake someone up for mundane purposes, think about how much good things are jerkily screeching down into a sudden halt. Step out, close the door. He can know you love him the next morning.
There is one word that could easily sum up Dean’s day so far, and that word is fuck.
His nails are bitten to the quick, his palms are so sweaty he’s surprised they aren’t dripping, and there’s a new silver ring burning a hole in his pocket right now. Unconsciously, Dean fingers the damn thing, pushing it as far into the lining as it’ll go without ripping. He kind of wishes he could throw it into the ocean. Or a volcano, Mount Doom style.
He’s probably Smeagol. No doubt that the red flush creeping up the back of his neck is that cursed mountain’s lava, swallowing him whole, melting the very flesh off his bones, and – wow, he’s so screwed.
Here’s the thing—guns at carnivals are always rigged.
Dean’s been using all kinds of guns since he was nine and has never missed a shot since he was nineteen when he put his heart into it, but guns at carnival games are a completely different ball game. Okay, fine, Dean is shit at this stupid game, but only because everyone is supposed to be shit at it. Rigged guns for easy money and all.
cas gets scrubbed of his person over and over and over again and is hypermanipulated by naomi and metatron for their own personal gain
sam is unable to lead a path of life he wants for himself and is also down the road tricked into being a vessel for a rogue angel and is consequently denied of his right to die
dean is desperately and unknowingly bound and chained to a misplaced, problematic sense of responsibility to his brother that was ingrained into him from the earliest days of his life that even he doesn’t realize how it’s damning him over and over again
petition to change team name to team not-so-free will
- Three days ago, you thought there was no such thing as me. Why do you think we’re here walking among you now for the first time in 2,000 years? - To stop Lucifer. - That’s why we’ve arrived. - Well… bang-up job so far. Stellar work with the witnesses. That’s nice.