a man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river but then he's still left with the river. A man takes his sadness and throws it away but then he's still left with his hands.
{a simple introduction is offered to the stranger, & without hesitation, the little hawaiian sits herself down beside him. in her hands, she holds two cones of shaved ice, one strawberry and the other blueberry. with a small smile, she nudges his shoulder with hers, holding out the strawberry cone.}
❝You looked really sad and lonely, so I brought you this. I didn’t know which flavor you liked. I just got the one that I thought you might prefer. Strawberry’s pretty good, & over 75% percent of people say that it’s supposed to make you smile. But, I’m not really sure if I believe that. Unless, you can prove me wrong.❞ {within her statement, a small challenge had been offered. whether it was to be accepted was completely up to the stranger. yes, she knew that it was stupid and childish, but, it was the best she could do. as long as it got him to smile, then it didn’t matter how dumb her attempt had been.}
{if there was one thing lilo couldn’t stand, it was sadness. as soon as someone showed the first sign, she made it her own personal mission to cheer that person up, even if she didn’t know them. & to her, this man was no exception.}
he isn’t angry. it’s not that, really. it’s not sorrow either, or fear, or disappointment, but some mangling of the four. everything he feels is twined so tightly together, convoluted and ugly, and he’d rather let it sit balled up in his chest than try to untangle the strings.
it’s not dean, he knows, but no matter how many times he tells himself that it’s the mark speaking, not his brother, he still can’t help but think that it still sounds an awful lot like him. sam wants to dig his knife into dean’s arm and carve the damn thing out, to find cain himself and give him a piece of his mind.
instead, he finds himself sitting on some random bench, god knows where. he had to get away for a while, to remove himself from the situation, no matter how much it hurt. it seems no matter how far away he goes, the pain never lessens.
the small girl startles him, and he shifts over instinctually to give her more room. his hand flits to the gun in the waistband of his jeans, but he lets it fall away when she offers him the shaved ice. a laugh wiggles its way out before he can stop it, a reluctant smile playing on his lips.
❝ is that right? well, it looks like it worked on me at least. ❞
she’s small and confident, and sam immediately likes her. he does spare a moment to wonder what she’s doing out and about alone, approaching strangers, but then he’s not one to speak, since god knows his childhood was exactly the same.
shaking himself from his thoughts, he raises the cone in acknowledgement, shaving some of the ice off the side with his front teeth. it’s chilly and far too sweet, but it tastes like innocence and naivety, and that alone makes him want to devour the entire thing.
her consciousness flickers, fades, revs up in precise points of time; of space.
it’s not death—- not really, anyway. it’s more like a brain-vacation. she’s not even sure if she is dead….
if it was all just a dream.
she can no longer feel her feet, nor anything, for that matter. but she sees; and what a sight it is.
if she had a heart, it’d be thundering right about now.
the solid perfume of death approaching hangs off him in waves.
his shoulders hunched; his body rigid, and weak.
—- and she knows him, somehow.
the face he had so long ago is at the forefront of her losing mind. his name bubbles on her lips, the sound so foreign, so… effortless. slipping out like air, like smoke.
❝sam—-?❞
everything’s too bright. even with the curtains drawn and the room bathed in darkness, light from the hallway sneaks in under the door. sunlight bends around the window and manages to claw its way into his eyes.
he’s just so tired. no matter what he does, the need to lie down, to shut his eyes, is overwhelming.
he has to stave it off, though. finding metatron is more important finishing the trials is more important than a n y t h i n g that’s happening to his own weak body.
body hunched on the edge of one of the sagging motel mattresses, sam rests his head in his hands. things are flickering before his eyes [not visions, thank god, not visions again ] like dean when he was younger, spiders crawling on the wall in front of him, jess sitting down beside him.
sam raises his head, squinting at the figure before him. jo. that’s new. he hesitates, smoothing back his ragged hair with trembling hands. it’s just another vision. he’s feverish, dean said so himself, he just needs to let it pass.
Alright, you crazy sons of bitches. Here’s a little appreciation from me, to you, just to thank you all for getting me to this frankly quite ridiculous number; I’ve literally only ever had two roleplay blogs that have reached a number higher than this, and it still perplexes me daily. SO, WITHOUT FURTHER ADO, HERE ARE THE BEAUTS THAT I STALK, AND AM IN TOTAL AWE OF:
it’s not a pretty edit bc i just have no tolerance to look at photoshop right now after making a crap ton of icons and then promptly lost them all as i was going to save. ug H i wish photoshop had a more reliable autosave feature but— anyway. onto the big thing.
i haven’t done a follow forever in way too long. i’d like to thank the guys that stayed with me after i switched blogs and the new folks that have come about recently. you are all a pleasure to watch on my dash and i’m so very thankful to have you all.
his palms are stained with crimson f e a r , his brother’s face heavy in his hands. they tremble, struggling to support the weight of the world which dean has shouldered, but sam is not strong enough, not nearly strong enough. it should have been him here, stained with sin and sent back to hell, because he is abel and dean is cain and they all knew how this story was supposed to end.
dean. dean.
he has been here before, staring at the righteous man bruised and bloodied, but this time there is no sacrifice, no exchange. he has not marred his brother’s face with his own flesh and bone and yet somehow that is worse, because neither can his hands mend the wounds.
[ i know, you wouldn’t do the same for me
i lied ain’ t that a bitch]
he doesn’t know, he still doesn’t know that sam would do a n y t h i n g for him. and now they are here, at the end of the road —- again and again, they can never seem to just keep driving——— and sam wants to take the filthy words and stuff them back down his throat and bury them deep in his flesh because he never wanted this, never meant for this, and dean is on the brink of darkness and yet he still doesn’t understand.
[ i’m proud of us ]
his body falls as if someone has cut his strings, and sam is left alone with the weight of his guilt. but his arms are made of glass and his legs are wobbly with s i n , and he sinks to the ground because dean is gone and there is nothing he can do. he has shattered into a million pieces, and his resolve crumbles into ashes beneath his hands. a thousand years of pain return to him
[ bring him back we won’t come after you, i swear
i wish you’d drop the show and be my brother again
i don’t want ten years. i don’t want one year. i don’t want candy. i wanna trade places with dean. just take me! it’s a fair trade! ]
and he can’t do it again, he can’t. then suddenly, he realizes. he can fix this. he has to fix this. the righteous man does not deserve this - his brother does not deserve this. sam is fashioned out of fire and blood but dean is woven with light. dean would want this, he knows. dean does want this.
[ if the situation was reversed, and i was dying, you’d do the same thing ]
abel vows to sell his soul to give cain one last chance at life.
♔ balthazar — fallen angel ♔ great warrior of heaven, thief of heaven’s arsenal, sometimes guardian angel ♔ spn mainverse, shit ton of aus. ♔ ten plus years of rp experience, two plus via tumblr. ♔ familiar with all seasons ; mainly falling into season six ♔ script, prose, novella friendly
