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deleting this blog. hopefully this will be the last one i delete but it’s way too painful being here because of how mistreated i was and how easily i was thrown away.

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SPN writers: John did the best he could!

Me:

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Gabriel promptly pops out of a human sized PIE--that's right, not a cake, a PIE-- in male dominatrix stripper attire, wiggling his ass surprisingly well to Sexyback by Justin Timberlake. In the end he snickers, snaps, and is clad in his usual clothes, smacking Dean on the back. "Just kidding. Enjoy, dumbass."

          DEAN MORE OR less had forgotten it was his birthday, but he sure as hell remembers it now. he stays pinned to his place with features comically blank, and his muscles are frozen in a hilarious war between fight for flight. it’s like a trainwreck -- he can’t look away. as well-versed as he is in strip clubs, he feels like a catholic schoolboy that’s stumbled his way into a forbidden sex dungeon.

          ‘ wh-- ’ and just like that, it’s over. whiplash would be putting it lightly. he remains stunned. ‘ what the hell-- ’

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             IT’S A BLESSING not to have sunlight in his room, really. with the pounding headache of his hangover, waking up in pitch darkness is the ideal. with a surprisingly delicate, he peels the sheets from his sweat-soaked body, which is giving one hell of a riot against the poison he forced into it. his feet press against the cold floor, and he hangs his head. there was the bar…the club…then the bar again. a calloused hand rubs with unkind force down his face as she tries to remember more details, but they don’t come. he remembers yelling. but then again, there’s always yelling. he turns on the light. of course, it hurts, but he’s a seasoned pro with this kind of thing, and like a bulldog, he pushes through it. he hauls his sorry ass to the shower, turns it on so hot that it burns, and shoves the corpse that is his body into it. 

             he wishes the world could just beat him. the intrusive thought grabs dean by the throat, but he’s too tired to fight it. he wishes the world, in its collective hatred, could just press its elbow over his throat and punch him right in the fucking gut. sam would get a turn. castiel would get a turn. every soul living and dead that dean has ever hurt would get a turn beating the shit out of him. because it would fix things. every time john took a belt or a pipe or a shoe or anything he could get his hands on – once he was finished, it was fine. everything was normal. the next morning dean shut up and sat down and john gave him his orders like a good soldier and it was all normal.

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             IT’S A BLESSING not to have sunlight in his room, really. with the pounding headache of his hangover, waking up in pitch darkness is the ideal. with a surprisingly delicate, he peels the sheets from his sweat-soaked body, which is giving one hell of a riot against the poison he forced into it. his feet press against the cold floor, and he hangs his head. there was the bar...the club...then the bar again. a calloused hand rubs with unkind force down his face as she tries to remember more details, but they don’t come. he remembers yelling. but then again, there’s always yelling. he turns on the light. of course, it hurts, but he’s a seasoned pro with this kind of thing, and like a bulldog, he pushes through it. he hauls his sorry ass to the shower, turns it on so hot that it burns, and shoves the corpse that is his body into it. 

             he wishes the world could just beat him. the intrusive thought grabs dean by the throat, but he’s too tired to fight it. he wishes the world, in its collective hatred, could just press its elbow over his throat and punch him right in the fucking gut. sam would get a turn. castiel would get a turn. every soul living and dead that dean has ever hurt would get a turn beating the shit out of him. because it would fix things. every time john took a belt or a pipe or a shoe or anything he could get his hands on -- once he was finished, it was fine. everything was normal. the next morning dean shut up and sat down and john gave him his orders like a good soldier and it was all normal.

            but what chance does dean winchester have at normal. he’s broken beyond repair and even when put back together he’s a sight for sore eyes. michael saw. probably why he left without a trace. he probably could no longer take how he had to pull apart messy, putrid insides of dean’s soul to take control of his body like some kind of fucked up bead curtain to a dingy wrecked apartment. he tips his head back into the water. his skin is starting to turn pink. there is no normal for dean winchester because, whether for something as stupidly hopeful as comfort or as twisted as a beating, nothing’s going to come. nothing’s ever going to come. monsters will still be monsters, ghosts will still be ghosts, and dean will still be on the direct express line to becoming just like his father.

                                   ( and what undid his father is that he was alone. )

             and that’s what prompts dean to cry. in the shower of all places. he couldn’t be any more like a pathetic sorority girl if he tried. but one of the advantages of being alone is that no one sees when he’s this pathetic. so he cries it out. like his hangover sweats. you just have to wait. dean sinks against the wall, and uses the sound of rushing water to cover up his soft, aborted sobs. already he wants another drink. the thought makes him sick to his stomach but if he had more, then he would have to remember how alone he is. he won’t have to remember how no one is coming for him. and if he does it by himself and not in public, he won’t have to feel the raw humiliation and shame hitting him the next morning. the same humiliation that john winchester instilled in him when she grabbed dean by the collar in the middle of a discount grocery store, so hard that it choked him, and when he got scared, he pissed himself. people stared. people hurried their children along. 

                           ( john was not happy. dean’s rib never did set quite right. )

               dean wears that humiliation on this bathroom floor like someone wears a 30-ton brick, but one they’ve been wearing for 30 years to match. painful. written all over his face. but there’s no emotion anymore. it’s just a defeated apathy that knows one day, he’ll die. he could do it now, just by himself, but there’s too much left he has to protect. and losing dean would be losing one of the greatest soldiers the world has ever seen. because if dean gives himself any credit, it’s to how violent he can be. dean reaches up to turn off the shower, but stays there on the floor until the voice of his dad punches through his catatonic despair and tells him to quit playing the victim, and get up.

              he does so, but like that pathetic sorority girl, he has to stand in front of the mirror and wash his face with cold water until the signs of crying have left his face. and when it has, when he’s gotten dressed and walked out of his room, he’s just going to shut up, sit down, and pretend everything is normal.

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well just in case i forgot why i related to dean winchester the most !

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MINDOFCOLCRS:

Castiel observes Dean quizzically as he joins him.  He eases into a chair, and takes a beer dutifully, and drinks it, despite never quite acclimating to its flavor. It is home, because it is part of the rough-hewn flannel-clad man sitting beside him. 

     “I consider them exceedingly beautiful,” he speaks, after a moment’s honest reflection.  “A bit too appealing, in their way, because they’re so secluded, and they tempt me to run away from  … well, everything.”  

         ‘ that’s what i’m sayin’. ’ dean leans forward, suddenly eager in his direct, gruff manner. he’s leaning his elbows on his knees and begins measuring out spatial plans with his hands, his eyes are wide and focused, more focused than they’ve been in weeks. ‘ we’d get a hundred acres or somethin’, and we’ll build a cabin right at the foot of the mountains. big, huge deck. rockin’ chairs, the whole shebang. build the stable like over here somewhere... ’

            and he just continues like this, on and on, with surprisingly articulate detail about what each room in the house would be like, what it would be for, who would it be for, etc. then there are plans for all the animals, and of course the garage. there is hope in dean winchester’s eyes, but it is a desperate hope.

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it made me sad (again!) to think of dean having pizza and beer with cas charlie and sam back in s10. he felt good with them around, safe and comfortable despite the MOC drama and his terrible mental state. he wanted to be around people, he always does because it helps him deal. and now he locks himself in his room for days and eats that pizza all by himself because if he wants his family’s company he’d have to deal with people he doesn’t know or trust encroaching on his personal space and taking over the place and he wouldn’t even be able to relax, i mean look

dean’s a people person but there’s a difference between a house full of people and a house full of people he loves

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14.04 Mint Condition

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ILLUSIVEXEMISSARY:

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The youngest child of one father approaches the oldest child of another. 

The pacifist approaches the soldier.  The messenger,  the warrior.  The diplomat,  the straight-talker.

And everything that stands between Gabriel and Dean Winchester is that Gabriel’s father abandoned him, and Dean’s beat and bruised and indoctrinated him.   Gabriel was a Messenger screaming hoarsely into a void, and Dean was a soldier who lost sight of friend from foe, for far too long.  

Gabriel, who usually feints and dodges Dean’s punches, verbal or literal, who evades and laughs and occasionally stings, now regards Dean with something other than the lowly simmering panic of familiarity.  Dean is not JUST Michael’s Sword.  Dean watches hentai and guards family like a slightly overzealous dog and secretly likes wearing pink lingerie and polishes his Chevy Impala every Sunday no matter what greasy hotel he’s stranded at, and Dean comforts bereaved children, and Dean is a champion of riding mechanical bulls.  And Dean self-medicates with the anesthesia of liquor, the way Gabe does with food and sex.   And Dean loves Gabe’s wonderfully weird baby brother Castiel more than Dean’s own life. 

His expression is far from one of pity, but neither is it unkind.  It is warm, yet it is factual.   They need to talk. Really, talk.  And this time he’ll stay the course.  

So after staring, diagnosing, dissecting, for a good many minutes, the Messenger speaks typical words of dazzling aim:

      “It’s not your fault.”  

             DEAN’S SITTING AT the bunker table with his fourth glass of whiskey, still in his daywear because getting undressed means he has to look at the bare skin of his arm, that arm, and he just. doesn’t want to deal right now. preferably ever, but if he gets drunk enough he’ll be focusing too much on trying to stand to really pay attention to his own skin. it’s close to 3 in the morning. he’s still just buzzed.

             but leave it to an archangel to be awake at this ungodly hour. dean hunches his shoulders. archangel or not, he thought gabriel was the one who liked sleep, and thus would be safe from his or from anyone’s questions. alas, discovered, the hunter makes his displeasure known. he takes his feet down off the table in almost exaggerated movements, his boots thudding against the floor one at a time, and he heaves a long exhale as he reaches for a book he’d stopped reading hours ago. he plays dumb. or rather, he plays the move to protect himself. because if anyone’s going to ream his ass out for all of his sins, it’s going to be gabriel. and so while he is trying to make himself look bigger, trying to be as unhelpful and prickly as possible, it’s easy to see that he just looks like a dog bracing itself for a beating.

           ‘ what’s not my fault, ’ he answers gruffly after a time. it’s not so much a question as it is a demonstration of very obvious irritation. a warning growl from a scarred, nearly feral war dog, still bracing itself. he’s staring intently down at the book, not reading a damn word, just so he can build his body language into shouting CLOSED as loud as it can.

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           DEAN’S BEEN DYING for a drink every since he left. his body is his now, but it won’t feel good until it’s all numbed by the bitter taste of cheap whiskey. he slaps money on the counter, a movement that perhaps makes a little sound, but to him it couldn’t sound more violent. his features twitch. the young gas station clerk eyes him with raised brows that signal silently, “you good, pal?” dean purses his lips, and just shoves the money forward more aggressively. getting the point, the clerk just rings him up with a now disinterested gaze, hardly looking at him when he gives the elder man his change.

              his steps are as bull-stubborn as ever as he exits the shop, and he’s the picture of military composure up until the point he’s out of the light. that’s when he rips open the paper bag like an animal, unscrews the cap, and throws it into a bush so he can just shove the mouth of the bottle straight against his lips. wrinkles form at the edges of his eyes as he winces with the burn of the alcohol, and even being the seasoned drinker he is, he overshoots the mark, spluttering hot whiskey onto the dirt with heaving gasps. he can feel his lungs strain with every gasp. his body is his, his body is his, but it doesn’t feel like his –

             another strong swig, this time a little more controlled, a little less panic. there’s only one goal for tonight and that’s to get so drunk that his thoughts would finally shut up. shut up. that’s the key phrase here. shut up, shut up, shut up, dean, don’t be such a crybaby. don’t be such a sissy. you’re no good to anyone if you’re just gonna whine all the time. that’s why he’s not at the bunker. not even at the familiar diner that’s become their favorite for dinner. he’s got about a good ten minutes before the alcohol overruns his bloodstream completely, so he’s gotta drive fast and away from where anyone could have the misfortune of seeing him, let alone look at him. the sound of his body sinking into the driver’s seat scares him. 

                              he locks it up, and drives off, deep into the woods.

            when baby stumbles onto a dirt shoulder lane, dean stops fully. he intends on sleeping in his car tonight, so he just keeps drinking whiskey like it’s water. he can’t taste it anymore, so now it’s a matter of taking every measure to make sure he doesn’t lose this feeling while awake. no one’s listening here. completely and utterly alone, he can make all the noise he wants. nothing in those woods gives a shit. nothing in those woods cares about the body he wears but isn’t his. even if his mom stepped out into the dim light of his headlamps, nothing would give a god damn about his sorry ass.

             thinking of mary was a mistake. it makes him feel like a sissy. little mama’s boy, crying for his mama. john winchester’s sneer of disappointment rings loud and clear in dean’s head, but if it’s just john out in these woods, it’s nothing dean can’t handle. so in a drunken stupor, dean cries. it’s the only way he can cry without envisioning sammy awkwardly shuffling or cas rolling his eyes, because he can barely see straight. he slumps over the steering wheel. his shoulders shake. and with every sob he hits the dashboard, trying to feel his body, trying to claim it back from that sonuva bitch!– if only john really was here instead of in dean’s head, then he could at least beat the shit out of him until he feels something.

             a scream of sheer frustration suddenly rips into the silent air of his car’s interior, and it leads to his hand using the half-empty bottle of whiskey to shatter the window on the driver’s side. he exhales. he feels a little better, until he realizes what it is that does make him feel better. the breaking of glass on impact. loud yelling. his silent cries turn into the sobs of a little boy, peppered with whimpers and clumsy, messy sniffles. he wish he could just shut up. for good, he wishes he could shut the fuck up and be normal instead of a big dumb animal who bellows his frustrations and holds by the throat and hits whatever’s nearest. brisk night air out of a shattered window is all that greets him, and it might as well be a slap in the face. 

             no one cares, dean. the voice is soothing. if you’re going to self-destruct like this you might as well finish the job. croons like a lullaby, sweet and soft. don’t be a burden, dean. just be brave. be brave for me. and no one will have to listen to you ever again.

                        it’s mary, not john, that guides him into his drunken slumber.

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           DEAN’S BEEN DYING for a drink every since he left. his body is his now, but it won’t feel good until it’s all numbed by the bitter taste of cheap whiskey. he slaps money on the counter, a movement that perhaps makes a little sound, but to him it couldn’t sound more violent. his features twitch. the young gas station clerk eyes him with raised brows that signal silently, “you good, pal?” dean purses his lips, and just shoves the money forward more aggressively. getting the point, the clerk just rings him up with a now disinterested gaze, hardly looking at him when he gives the elder man his change.

              his steps are as bull-stubborn as ever as he exits the shop, and he’s the picture of military composure up until the point he’s out of the light. that’s when he rips open the paper bag like an animal, unscrews the cap, and throws it into a bush so he can just shove the mouth of the bottle straight against his lips. wrinkles form at the edges of his eyes as he winces with the burn of the alcohol, and even being the seasoned drinker he is, he overshoots the mark, spluttering hot whiskey onto the dirt with heaving gasps. he can feel his lungs strain with every gasp. his body is his, his body is his, but it doesn’t feel like his --

             another strong swig, this time a little more controlled, a little less panic. there’s only one goal for tonight and that’s to get so drunk that his thoughts would finally shut up. shut up. that’s the key phrase here. shut up, shut up, shut up, dean, don’t be such a crybaby. don’t be such a sissy. you’re no good to anyone if you’re just gonna whine all the time. that’s why he’s not at the bunker. not even at the familiar diner that’s become their favorite for dinner. he’s got about a good ten minutes before the alcohol overruns his bloodstream completely, so he’s gotta drive fast and away from where anyone could have the misfortune of seeing him, let alone look at him. the sound of his body sinking into the driver’s seat scares him. 

                              he locks it up, and drives off, deep into the woods.

            when baby stumbles onto a dirt shoulder lane, dean stops fully. he intends on sleeping in his car tonight, so he just keeps drinking whiskey like it’s water. he can’t taste it anymore, so now it’s a matter of taking every measure to make sure he doesn’t lose this feeling while awake. no one’s listening here. completely and utterly alone, he can make all the noise he wants. nothing in those woods gives a shit. nothing in those woods cares about the body he wears but isn’t his. even if his mom stepped out into the dim light of his headlamps, nothing would give a god damn about his sorry ass.

             thinking of mary was a mistake. it makes him feel like a sissy. little mama’s boy, crying for his mama. john winchester’s sneer of disappointment rings loud and clear in dean’s head, but if it’s just john out in these woods, it’s nothing dean can’t handle. so in a drunken stupor, dean cries. it’s the only way he can cry without envisioning sammy awkwardly shuffling or cas rolling his eyes, because he can barely see straight. he slumps over the steering wheel. his shoulders shake. and with every sob he hits the dashboard, trying to feel his body, trying to claim it back from that sonuva bitch!-- if only john really was here instead of in dean’s head, then he could at least beat the shit out of him until he feels something.

             a scream of sheer frustration suddenly rips into the silent air of his car’s interior, and it leads to his hand using the half-empty bottle of whiskey to shatter the window on the driver’s side. he exhales. he feels a little better, until he realizes what it is that does make him feel better. the breaking of glass on impact. loud yelling. his silent cries turn into the sobs of a little boy, peppered with whimpers and clumsy, messy sniffles. he wish he could just shut up. for good, he wishes he could shut the fuck up and be normal instead of a big dumb animal who bellows his frustrations and holds by the throat and hits whatever’s nearest. brisk night air out of a shattered window is all that greets him, and it might as well be a slap in the face. 

             no one cares, dean. the voice is soothing. if you’re going to self-destruct like this you might as well finish the job. croons like a lullaby, sweet and soft. don’t be a burden, dean. just be brave. be brave for me. and no one will have to listen to you ever again.

                        it’s mary, not john, that guides him into his drunken slumber.

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x

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I own you.

                   So, hang on and enjoy the ride.

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S14, Ep 3: The Scar

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Supernatural | 14x03 - The Scar