#and jacks anger is justified youre so so weird for calling it scary. hes a better man than me if someone killed my kids lord

[that-one-queer-poc]

why does everybody feel bad for felix's guilt that he killed two kids and is scared of jack's anger that his kids are dead. you guys are fucking stupid and weird and im starting to think you guys are only treating them like this bc of. certain colors

[spiders-hth-is-an-outlier]

Possibly a big ask to get just out of the blue but: what are your Supernatural season opinions? Which one is your favorite? Least favorite? Did you watch long enough to have showrunner opinions? If yes, which showrunner is your favorite and which is your least favorite? If no, which season that you haven't seen most tempts you to get back in the Supernatural trenches? Answer exactly as many of these questions as you want to. Carry on.

You know, I am not sure how long this Ask has been sitting here, because my Tumblr notifications are borked -- I hope not long? If long, I apologize, I wasn't ignoring it on purpose!

Okay, so I have more than the average number of Supernatural opinions, probably, but I'll try to keep this to a dull roar! Inside Me There Are Two Wolves: one of them believes that only the original five seasons of Supernatural are worth defending in any way, the other really, really loves seasons 11 and 12. The Kripke Era had a lot of problems, particularly in its treatment of women as bodies without agency and its treatment of Black men as literal predators, but also for all its flaws, it had a kind of coherence and narrative drive that comes from being the product of a dude who obviously cared about it and had something to say. Taken on its own, seasons 1-5 are a brutal and compelling story about the traumas of being men in a universe that's been absolutely destroyed by its Fathers: on almost every level, it's about these abandoned and brutalized boys discovering that their entire reality is the product of an abandoning and brutalizing God, populated by authority figures who are universally demanding and arrogant, but also completely fucking useless. It's quite literally about Sam and Dean trying to hang onto their souls and their own agency when everyone around them wants them forced into shapes formed by conflicts that fell into place at the beginning of time. It's hard to remember, but back then even the Lucifer plotline was about that! It was about the damage fathers inflict on sons! Things were about things, in the Kripke era!

Then we get to the Gamble era, and. Woof. I actually -- don't hate 6 and 7? Like everything Sera Gamble touches, those two seasons are kinetic and memorable and funny and weird and hit some really, really great emotional beats. There are Some Problems, but Gamble was saddled with a pretty dire job, trying to find a way forward after everything about the series really had effectively wrapped up in Swan Song, and I think she did an okay job. People got mad at her for killing Castiel, but you know, damn, I give her this: that was a storyline. Like, this character who was fresh out of the cult he was raised in becoming disillusioned by how messy normal life is and deciding that maybe people need better authoritarianism instead -- the way he's driven to take too many risks by the fact that he's abandoned and desperate -- Crowley as a legitimately scary villain while still being charming af -- and the tragic resolution of Castiel being torn apart by both his hubris and his heroism. It's actually really good. I understand why people didn't want what Gamble was serving up -- and I'm able to like it because it was undone later, you know? -- but she really did commit to a full season of character arc and saw it all the way through to an earned ending, and I gotta respect that.

I genuinely hate seasons 8 and 9. I think everyone is a dick, particularly but not exclusively Dean, to the point where I just find it a bummer to watch. I mean, you get Benny, and I love Benny. You get, I dunno, bits and bobs of decent episodes, but overall they are very fucked up seasons in my opinion. So Carver era is on thin fucking ice with me, but I do think you start to get a rebound in season 10 with the Mark of Cain stuff, although I wish they'd managed to keep Cain around longer. All the really good Claire stuff starts happening, which is nice because Claire, but also because for once the show is really letting itself go back and deal with the mess these protagonists leave behind them constantly. Castiel and Claire have maybe the most interesting non-Winchester relationship on the show. Oh, and Rowena shows up around here too, right? Love her. So the back half of Carver, 10 and 11, are starting to really gain traction for me. The world is building outward, secondary characters are starting to be genuine characters in their own right, the politics of Heaven and Hell get a little richer and more interesting. The show is really starting to feel like it takes place in a universe, which is great because we love the Frigging Winchesters, but they shouldn't be the only thing going, right? We have 15 seasons to get through! Season 11 is basically bracketed by what are probably my two favorite Supernatural episodes: Baby and Don't Call Me Shurley. (I think I'm the world's only living Metatron fan; I fucking love that little dude.)

Dabb takes over in 12, and I really, really, genuinely love season 12. I fucking love Mary. There are so many episodes I adore -- Celebrating the Life of Asa Fox is a special favorite of mine, and I remain pissed off that the Banes twins never made it to recurring status, bluntly that feels wildly racist to me -- probably the best three-episode streak in the show is Lily Sunder Has Some Regrets to Regarding Dean to Stuck In the Middle (With You), three just almost perfect episodes. So I was poised to really love the Dabb era. I wanted to! My body was ready!

And I do really love the first chunk of season 13, the Widow Winchester arc. Obviously I'm a romantic, love that for me, but it's just also really good? The acting, the writing, the psychological complexity of Dean wanting Jack to be Bad so he has an outlet for his anger and Sam wanting Jack to be Good so he can retroactively parent himself and raise a Lucifer-tainted child who isn't crippled by self-loathing. Billie's great, and it looks like she's going to start being one of the major powers of the universe. Unfortunately -- with the occasional exception of this or that solid episode -- that's kind of the end of Pretty Good Supernatural. Season 13 kind of unravels; season 14 always feels like it's looking for itself (which is a bummer, because I wanted very much to care about Michael); season 15 is, idk. Idk about any of it, it's all pretty pointless. I feel bad complaining on some level, because the show's been on for like fourteen years at this point! It's kinda justified in feeling a little worn out. But the reality is that the later seasons systematically undo all the expansion that had excited me earlier -- the Wayward Sisters crew pretty much vanishes when the spinoff isn't picked up, Naomi and the angels stop doing anything, Crowley's gone, Mary's gone for much of it. We're just kind of futzing around with monsters who don't seem to matter (very much including Lucifer, who hasn't mattered in ages) and a lot of Jack, who. I try not to shit all over, because I know he's a popular character, but I find him just ungodly boring. Everything in the last two and a half season just feels like it's headed nowhere in particular, and also it bored me. The Empty deal is just sadness porn; it doesn't have any resonance or meaning in terms of Castiel's character, it's just him agreeing to die for his kid, which is okay, it means he's a loving dad, which he is, but there's no conflict there, ergo no real drama. It's just mean; it happens because it'll make us sad, and no other reason. Rowena is the only strong secondary character left, and her ending also doesn't feel particularly relevant to her, it's just a generic Sacrifice to Save the World. Everything just feels like they're autogenerating plotlines, rather than letting the actual needs and drives of the characters shape the narrative. So while I have this weird split personality with Carver where I either hate what he's doing or I love it, most of the Dabb era is just. There. It doesn't make me feel anything except kind of tired and embarrassed. Which is a bummer, because I have an inexplicable fondness for Dabb, probably just because of how much I love s12. I wanted to love his seasons! I did love his first season! I feel like maybe something happened when the CW rejected Wayward Sisters? I know that was kind of his darling, and it feels like maybe losing that kind of sucked the joy out of him, and he's kind of checked-out by the end. That's genuinely just my guess, however.

That's Professor Milo's Intro to Supernatural Studies, don't forget to fill out your course survey on the way out!

[lihikainanea]

Something in the BFF!Bill storyline that I had kicking around in my head today. It’s not chronological to where I’m at in their saga, this happened before they boinked each other’s brains out.

 It’s been a weird mental health day today, and sometimes I can find comfort in writing the comfort I think I need, if that makes sense. It seems to have worked.

And I think it’s important to note, when it comes to these two doofuses--that he has pulled tiger out of a lot of shit; but she has definitely done the same for him.

We’ve all got demons, don’t we?

*** He never exploded, which you could never decide if that was a good thing or not. Bill was imposing enough physically that if he had a temper added on top of that, he would be downright terrifying. But when he snapped--a rare occurrence in itself--but when he had truly had enough, his silent rage, the way he got so quiet, was somehow even more scary.

He was an open book if you knew him well, he wore his heart on his sleeve but always kept it guarded to his chest, choosing who he showed that side to. He was easy enough to read once he let you in, everything was always in his eyes. He was big on eye contact, you learned quickly, always seeking it out and pressing you for it when you spoke to him. And when he wasn’t in front of you, when you didn’t have his eyes to read, you learned to pay attention to the tone of his voice. 

His tone was why your blood ran cold the minute you answered the phone.

“Hi,” was his curt greeting, “how are you?”

When Bill snapped--the rare occasion when he well and truly snapped at something, when his mind won the battle he’d been fighting sometimes for weeks and couldn’t take it anymore--his tone became sterile. Tactical. Almost mechanical.

“Are you okay?” you asked immediately.

“No,” it was dry, direct. “I need you here.” “Okay,” you hauled a duffle bag out of your closet, already shoving clothes into it blindly.

“I have a flight lined up for you. Can you be at the airport in an hour?”

“Yes,” you did a quick mental recall, trying to remember where he was. Yes, yes he wasn’t far for this one. Just one timezone over and the flight was maybe 3 hours.

“Okay. I’ll text you the boarding pass. My assistant will meet you when you land and bring you to set. I still have a few hours I need to be here,” like a drill sergeant. Cold. Factual. Completely devoid of emotion.

“Bill, I don’t need details, but tell me...something. Are you hurt?” you tried not to panic, but a cold sweat was breaking out on your neck.

“No. But I’m done.”

“You’re done?”

“I’m done, tiger,” he said, “I’ll see you soon,” and with a curt farewell, you hung up the phone. An Uber arrived at your apartment before you could even order one.

You knew what he meant by done. He had been working on a project with a director that, for the first time in his career, he wasn’t clicking with. While Bill adored your fire and grit, he had a hard time processing and relating to people who he found cruel or who harboured excessive, irrational anger. This director, when you pressed Bill for details, was making his life a living hell. Never happy with the takes while simultaneously not being able to tell the actors what he wanted to see, flying off the hook at the entire crew, pushing the actors beyond the limits of their comfort zones without creating a safe space on the working set. Bill had been FaceTiming you a lot more than usual on this gig, and each time he looked more and more stressed. His empathic side, one that he relied on so heavily in his life, was in shambles. Bill was a sponge in most social situations, reading people and absorbing their energies. When surrounded with nothing but negativity, nothing but anger and blind rage and criticisms, he disappeared into his own head and sometimes had trouble puling himself back out of it.

From the sounds of it, just from a phone call, he had snapped. He was, you knew, in the midst of a mental breakdown that was the result of a nightmare director, a project he had originally been so excited to work on, and his own demons. Bill’s mind was a complex place, and for as much kindness and gentleness that he showed you in your friendship, he sometimes forgot to treat himself the same way. 

You texted him when you boarded, again when you landed. You texted him when his assistant ushered you into a car, hopping in the driver’s seat and taking off. He hadn’t responded. The drive to set was under the half hour mark, and the car had barely stopped before you were out and trying to find him. There was no scene in action, but the director was yelling anyway. You cringed.

One of Bill’s buttons--few as they were, but easy to push--was yelling. Belligerent, aggressive yelling.

You couldn’t find Bill, instead hearing murmurings from the crew of an actor that had snapped. Had walked off, mid scene, and locked himself in a bathroom stall. Had refused to come back out, like a diva. Wasn’t answering his phone. Was wasting everybody’s time on set like an arrogant prick, as they waited for this delicate flower of an actor to get his shit together. You seethed. They were all glancing in the same area, a hallway slightly to the right of the enormous green screen. You headed that way, and stopped in front of the last door. You texted Bill to unlock it, but he didn’t respond. Grabbing a bobby pin from your bag, you jimmied the lock just enough and slammed your palm into it. The door creaked open.

Bill was scrunched up in the furthest corner on the floor, his legs bent at sharp angles and his knees coming up under his chin. Cigarette butts littered the floor around him, a lit one between his fingers. He didn’t move to put it out as he usually would, when he saw you.

“Hey bud,” you said. You approached him, slowly, as one would an unpredictable animal.

“Hey, kid,” he said. His voice was still devoid of emotion, and his look terrified you. His usually expressive eyes were stone, his jaw locked, his entire face was ice.

You knelt in front of him, waiting until he lazily slid his gaze to your eyes. He looked away quickly.

“You want to talk about it?” you asked.

“Nope.”

“Do you want to get out of here?” you tried again.

“Nope,” he took a long drag of his cigarette, turning his mouth to blow the smoke away from you. He was stoic.

You knew there was no sense in asking him what he wanted to do. His mind wasn’t functioning, and this was the most far gone you had ever seen him. So you tried another approach. Unzipping your bag, you took out a colouring book and the pencil case that had kept you occupied on the plane. You gently set them down on the floor.

“Can I touch you?” you asked, quietly. You didn’t dare move. He nodded his head.

“Bill, look at me,” your tone was gentle, but firm. Working his jaw, he took another haul of his cigarette and stubbed it out before he brought his eyes to yours.

“Can I touch you?”

“Yeah,” he rasped. You still kept your movements slow,  sitting down beside him and squishing your shoulder into his side. Coaxing his legs down from their sharp angles, you tossed one of your legs over his and rested your head on his shoulder. You felt him rest his chin on top of your head, breathing in, before plunking his cheek down. Tearing a page from the colouring book, you placed it on his lap and grabbed the pencil case in front of you. You started to colour. It took a few minutes, but eventually his hand reached, plucking a crayon and starting to colour between the lines of the drawing you had given him.

You don’t know how long you stayed like that. You had no intentions of moving until Bill told you he was ready. You checked in every now and then, nothing pushing or urgent in your tone, just wanting to see where he was at in his mind. You would have sat with him, like that, for days if he needed it. And he would have done the same for you, you knew.

Eventually, he nudged you. Shifting a little, he moved you until you sat in front of him. He looked down, fiddling with his hands, and you gently placed one of yours on top. The other tilted his chin up.

“I know what they’re saying about me right now,” he started quietly.

“Who gives a shit what they’re saying about you right now,” you said, your words were biting but you tried to keep your tone level.

“I’m done, tiger,” he continued, “I tried to make this work and I can’t.”

You nodded, staying silent.

“I can’t do this. But I can’t walk away, either.”

“Why not?” you asked.

“What if it ruins my career?”

It was a reality. You told him that. Walking away from a project with a big director attached to it could have been career suicide, you knew that even when you had nothing to do with his world. But you also knew it was still early in the project, you knew that he paid a lot of money to publicists, agents, assistants, anyone who could manage his public image. You knew there would be a way to spin this--creative differences, at worst--that could justify his dropping out of the project. You knew that people with hearts of gold were easy to pick up on, and even in the smoke and mirrors that were part of being a celebrity, that would somehow shine through. It took some time, a few more cigarettes for him, but he eventually nodded.

“Get me out of here, kid,” he said, his eyes pained, as he stubbed out his last cigarette. You brushed the hair from his forehead, helping him to his feet.

“You trust me, Billy Goat?” you asked. He nodded.

“Good,” you pulled out your phone, firing a quick text to his assistant for her car keys, and the location of his trailer. You plugged your earphones into the jack and tugged Bill’s shirt so he’d bend into your reach. You put your hands on either side of his face.

“You need to do exactly as I say. Your eyes stay on me, at all times. You look at no one. You don’t take the earphones out. You listen to no one, you speak to no one. You do nothing except hold my hand and follow me. Got it?”

He nodded. 

“I love you, bud” you said as you kissed his cheek, tugging the hood on his sweater up around his head.

“I love you too, kid,” He let you place the earphones in his ears, wincing a little as you cranked the volume on a Nirvana song. You popped your phone into his pocket.

“Let’s get you the fuck out of here,” you said, but it fell on deaf ears. Grabbing his hand, you unlocked the door. His assistant stood beside it, and you grabbed her keys from her outstretched hand and blew past her. With Bill hot on your heels, you stalked off set. When the director yelled after you, you barely spared him a glance.

“He’s done,” you yelled back, not breaking pace.

You identified Bill’s trailer from the instructions his assistant sent you. Locking the door behind you, you gently pushed him onto the couch and plucked an earbud from his ear.

“Anything other than your bag in here?” you asked. He shook his head. You shoved the earbud back in, grabbed his knapsack, hauled him off the couch, and started toward his assistant’s car.

You took your phone back when you were safely the car, looking up directions to the airport and texting his assistant to have his luggage from his hotel shipped to him back home. Bill stayed silent, his face still blank as he leaned against the window.

He let you guide him into the airport, plunking him down in a chair while you figured out a route back home. A flight would leave in two hours, but an overnight layover was needed at the next stop before being able to fly home from there. You gave the agent your credit card.

It was akin to dealing with a child, the way you had to guide Bill through all the steps. You had to tell him to take off his shoes, when to put them back on. You had to remind him to drink some water, and when he squished next to you on the small plane seat with his legs jutting into the aisle, you managed to gently coerce him into eating something. When you landed for the overnight layover, you booked a room at the hotel there and shoved Bill into the shower. When you emerged from yours, you sat next to him on the bed where he had curled up. He reached for your hand, placing it on his wet hair. You threaded your fingers through it. It was only then, when he looked at you, that you started to see your best friend in the eyes that had been blank since you busted the lock on the bathroom door.

“Thanks, tiger,” he said.

“Any time, bud. We’re in this together, all of it. Always,” you reassured. 

“This is gonna be one hell of a shit show,” he sighed, pinching his eyes shut. You moved your hand from his hair, smoothing your fingers over his features.

“Those are my favourite,” you said. It earned you a laugh and you kissed his cheek.

“Get some sleep, Billy Goat. We’ll deal with the rest tomorrow. Together.”