We Should Have Some

dog6. gouache watercolor painting on coaster. one of my coasters for 'salut 9' at nucleus portland

peel back the skin to see what lies underneath

odi et amo.

look at these chemical romance doodles boy

Cart Mathieu. Blood. Photography

Adult filarial worms located in the pulmonary artery of a dog’s heart.

that one line from bobby's hunting guide or whatever, about how john picked up dean one night on the side of the road after dean had gone out looking for him... in my gut I know john was a "get out of the car; you're hoofin' it from here" kind of parent. a "quit that right now or you're walking home; hope you can find you way" kind of parent.

so I need sam waiting on tenterhooks in the motel room of the week, up way past midnight waiting for john and dean to get back from a hunt. for him to breathe deeply for the first time in what feels like days when he hears the rumble of the loudest car in the universe rolling into the lot, and for john to give the special knock at the door and sam's so relieved to let them in, equilibrium resettling, all three of them together under one roof.

only dean's not with john.

he's not out under the weak light of the parking lot sodium lamps. he's not crouched over the back seat of the impala, rifling through the footwell. he's not unpacking gear from the trunk or coming back from the bank of vending machines with condensation-wet cans of squirt jammed in his pockets or leaning bloody and spent against dad's shoulder.

he's not. fucking anywhere.

I need sam losing his absolute shit, zero to feral in six-point-three seconds flat. screaming and scrabbling at john, "where is he where is he where the fuck is he?!" I need sam just sobbing with his whole chest because it finally happened, this is his nightmare, his literal worst fear realized because dean's dead out there somewhere and knowing dad, he's probably already salted dean down and soaked him in gasoline and lit him up, a tragedy with no loose ends.

I need sam just wailing, can't catch his breath crying, the ugly snotty gagging kind of crying as john finally just manhandles him back into the room and tries to tell him, "jesus, sammy. he's fine. thought it'd be a good idea to run that smartass mouth of his on the way back, so he's taking a little time to himself and walking the last stretch here."

I need sam who looks at john with more disgust and visceral loathing than a twelve year old should be able to manage. who grabs his coat off the bed and his knife from under the pillow and is out the door into the night before john can get a hand on him. I need sam sprinting down the busted concrete drive to the main road and taking off along the sloping gravel shoulder in the oh-dark-thirty blue-blackness, still crying but trying to get his breath back so he can holler for dean.

(I need dean trudging along in the pre-dawn dark, pulling up short when he hears the slip-slide of running feet on gravel headed towards him and his name screamed into the dark. dean who takes off at a dead run because sammy sammy sammy sammy shit-fuck sammy what's the matter)

(I need sam who launches himself bodily at dean when he finally gets close enough. who lets his heart pound rabbit-quick against dean's chest through their jackets. who's probably too big to be picked up and held like this, really, but who can't won't let go once he's got dean wrapped up in his arms. who slides around to dean's back and pulls dean's collar aside so he can put his ear to dean's pulsepoint as he's piggybacked the rest of the way back.)

anyways... john pretends to be asleep when they make it back to the motel. they know he's awake, he knows they know he's awake, but no way is he gonna look at sam's face again without at least five hours of sleep under his belt.

(nobody says a word about it when they pack up and check out in the morning. nobody says a word about it, ever.)

“people on the outside of the Wincest/ Wincest adjacent bubble are like “so you think Sam and Dean want to have sex?”

and honestly I’m here like no, you absolute pedestrian. They want to crawl up inside each other and and occupy the same skin and exist away from the whisper of threat of feeling they ever have to compete with anyone or anything for one another’s devotion. And only one of them even realizes how fucked up that is.

If they wanted to have sex it would literally be more normal. That’s how insane they are”

- saint-wincest [x]

y’all the new richard siken poems are so goddamned sad (and also so fucking good, as expected) y’gotta read them.

driveway

heart valve

gun case