I'm tired, Sam.

Daily affirmations include: "I am Dean Winchester." love ya. - line

[pricelesstrashpanda]

line <3 | she/her | 23

writing blog: @nonstoptrashpanda

honey, I rose up from the dead - I do it all the time.

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very married to @trekkiehood

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asks, dms, and any other way you can think to talk to me are always open so come say hey.

[narutwitter]

[zooophagous]

I have been a sheep caretaker for like two days and already I'm like. Wow. I get it.

I get why these were some of the earliest mammals to ever be domesticated. They look up to humans with this sort of dumb but all at once innocent and pure and trusting expression. They're happy to see you. They follow you around. They like to be rubbed under their chins. Maybe its just some latent Scottish highland shepherd DNA I still have in me but I look at my sheep charges and suddenly I see why the love of God for humanity is so often described as a shepherd and his sheep. I'd fight a wolf for these guys. I'd go way the Hell out of my way for them. I'd carry their young for miles on my own back.

[upward-bound]

nearly 80k reblogs and how many of you eat lamb

[zooophagous]

The ancient shepherds I'm referencing also ate lamb lol

[nrilliree]

Sometimes I remember how awful it must have been for Steve Rogers in 2012.

It wasn't even the fact that he woke up in the future, all his friends except Dum Dum and Peggy were dead, and he was still mourning Bucky, who, for everyone else, had died decades ago, but the very fact of society's expectations for him.

Steve was awakened from the ice, and people expected the great Captain America, whose myth had grown over the years, the experience and wisdom of a hundred-year-old man…

And Steve was a goddamn 26 years old.

He was the youngest member of the Avengers at the time and people looked up to him and expected a mentor. Even the fandom forgets this and says Steve and Thor are the oldest, when Tony could practically be his father.

[nonstoptrashpanda]

sunset stole the light - 4

word count: 1962 tw: depression, disordered eating, referenced suicide attempt/suicidal ideation, referenced self harm, referenced trauma/neglect

summary: Sam's worry for his brother overflows, and he begs Jim to do something.

“He’s up there puking!” 

Jim’s head jerked up from his sermon prep at the irate voice of the younger Winchester as he came barreling down the stairs. 

“What?”

“Dean!” 

Sam skidded to a halt in front of the pastor’s arm chair, his eyes desperate, his arms crossed over his chest. “He’s throwing up his dinner.” 

“Did you see him?”

“No, but I heard him! Please, Jim, I wouldn’t–” The teen’s voice caught, his eyes filling a little. “I’m not trying to get him in trouble.”

The Guardian exhaled slowly, setting aside his Bible and notebook and removing his glasses. “I know, my boy.” 

There was a long moment of silence. Sam’s dark eyes were pleading with him even as he studied the carpet. 

“Please,” the boy whispered at last. “You have to do something.”

“I know, Samuel,” Jim replied softly. “I just want to do the right thing. Your brother… he’s a tough one. And this isn’t the first time.” 

“What do you mean? I’ve never seen him–”

“We shielded you from it,” he sighed. “And he’s never been quite so bad about eating. Not here, at least. But when it comes to talking…” A sad little laugh escaped from his lips. “When I met your brother, I wondered if he’d ever say more than two words at once.”

“But he was a little kid then!” Sam protested. “Adults don’t just stop talking!” 

“Adults that have been through the kind of trauma your brother has do,” he replied evenly. “And there’s been plenty of other times. We usually send one of you here, or send him to be with Caleb or Mac or Bobby. I know it’s hard to see him like this. But sometimes you just have to give him time and space.”

“But he can’t survive without food!” the boy argued desperately. “What if he’s just… trying the long game here?”

“You mean a slower route to suicide?”

“Yes.”

Jim pursed his lips carefully. “I really don’t think it’s like that. I think he’s just… well, he’s depressed. It can be hard to stomach food when you’re feeling as awful as he is.”

“Yeah, well, he could still kill himself,” Sam mumbled, his voice thick with restrained tears. “Whether that’s his goal or not.” 

The pastor studied the boy carefully for a long moment before motioning him over with a small inclination of his head. 

Sam’s shoulders slumped, his gaze dropping to the carpet, but he obediently closed to distance between them, sinking down on the thick arm of the chair Jim was seated in. 

Jim reached up to take one of his hands in both of his own, squeezing a little. “I know all of this is scary, Samuel,” he said gently. “Your brother’s in a lot of pain right now, and I know you just want someone to fix it. The problem is, no one can. This kind of pain just doesn’t work like that.”

“It used to,” Sam whispered. 

Jim felt his own brow crease as he looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, whenever Dean used to… get like this. Well, not like this. But bad. I used to think that a fix it was just a phone call and a road trip away.”

“You mean Caleb.”

Sam bit his lip. “That’s what he does, Jim. He makes Dean better. And he told me that–that he might not always pick up the phone in time. But that doesn’t mean we should stop calling him.”

He considered that, unsure of how to respond without throwing his Knight under the bus in front of his already-angry teenage son. 

“I wish I could call Caleb,” he said at last. “He might not be able to fix everything, but he does… have a special touch with Dean. I think he could help. But I don’t want to make things worse for you boys. Your father–”

“Can go to hell.”

Jim took a breath, then let it out. “I know you’re angry right now.”

“It’s not about me, Jim!” Sam snapped. “That’s the thing! Caleb’s right. I screwed up, and Dad crucified Dean for it. Caleb didn’t do anything but help Dean look for me. And Dad proved why they didn’t tell him when he immediately beat Dean’s face in over it.”

“I… don’t agree with the punishment either, Samuel,” he replied carefully. “But he is your father…”

“And you’re the freaking Guardian!” Sam was on his feet again, tears beginning to creep out of his eyes. “Are you gonna protect Dean or not?”

Silence hovered between them. Jim could feel his resolution breaking. Little Sammy had always had those… puppy eyes, as Dean called them. It was hard for all of them to refuse him when he got like this. 

And, young and angry though he might be, he was right. 

John’s punishment was cruel and unfair. And Caleb had always known what to do with a quiet, depressed Dean far better than even he did. 

“If you don’t call him, I will.”

He’d seen this coming. And what was he going to do? Take away the boy’s phone? That would border on abuse. Cutting off his contact to anyone but him would only break the deep amount of trust he was displaying by even having this conversation with him. 

“I’ll call him.” 

Sam looked up from where he was dripping tears onto the carpet. “Really?”

It was clear he wasn’t used to winning arguments. 

Jim spread his hands helplessly. “You’re right, my boy. Dean can’t go on not eating, and I’d rather call Caleb than send him to the hospital. If your father finds out… I’ll take the fall.”

He gasped as Sam hurled himself at him, burying his wet face in his shirt. “Thank you.” The words were muffled into the fabric of his flannel. 

Jim smiled fondly down at the boy as he returned the hug. “You’re welcome, Samuel. Now you should get to your homework. I don’t want you staying up too late tonight.”

Sam nodded, wiping at his face as he stood and turned towards the stairs. “You’ll call tonight?”

“Yes, Samuel. I’ll call now.”

Satisfied, he dashed up to his room. Jim inhaled slowly, then let it out. He didn’t like keeping things from his Triad. But at the end of the day… he was the Guardian, and the boys had to come first. 

He stood up with a small groan, crossing the room to where the phone was mounted on the wall. Another long hesitation. Maybe he should call Mackland instead. 

But somehow, he didn’t think medical treatment was going to do anything but keep Dean physically alive and shut him down emotionally even more. 

He dialed Caleb’s number and raised the phone to his ear.

Just when he thought it was going to roll to voicemail, the line went live. 

“Jim.” The word was half-grunted, followed by heavy breathing, then a heavier thud. 

“Caleb,” the pastor greeted him warily. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Um.” There was a screech in the background. Caleb swore violently, then the crack of a shotgun split Jim’s ear. “No. Not really.” 

Jim couldn’t help a small chuckle. “For some reason, I don’t believe you.”

There was a crash that Jim’s well-trained ear confidently identified as a very full bookshelf. Caleb swore again. “I mean,” he grunted. “Just a ghost.” The unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked, then another crack as he fired it once more. 

“I didn’t know you were hunting a ghost.”

“I didn’t either,” Caleb mumbled. 

A loud creak and snap suggested he was ripping up floorboards.

“Until about thirty minutes ago.”

This screech was louder. 

“Can I put you on hold? I need like thirty seconds.”

Before Jim could respond, he was wincing at the very-close thud of Caleb either dropping or throwing the phone onto the floor. 

Continued, though more distant, swearing. The shotgun went off again. 

Then, he heard the rush of fire. A final scream from the ghost. Silence. 

“Bloody hell,” Caleb muttered from somewhere above him. A pause, movement, then his voice clipped back into the receiver. “Alright, I’m here. What’s up?”

“Where’s your partner?” Jim asked mildly.

The younger man let out a heavy sigh. “I don’t make a habit of having my dates chaperoned, so no one was handy.”

“Date?”

“Met a girl. She said her uncle had a cozy little cabin we could do dinner at. Cozy little cabin was haunted, because why the hell wouldn’t it be? I’m not getting laid tonight.”

“Caleb, please.”

“Alright, sorry. Adrenaline’s talking.”

“Where’s the girl?”

“Sent her home after she almost got impaled by a wayward steak knife.”

“I see.”

“Seriously, though.” More anxiety than he’d ever expressed over the ghost he’d just killed crept into Caleb’s voice. “I didn’t pick up to gripe about my bad date.”

“You know, you don’t have to pick up in the middle of a battle, Caleb,” Jim replied with a little amusement in his voice. “I appreciate the dedication, but you can call me back when the ghost is dead.”

“Yeah, I usually would,” the boy sighed. “But given current circumstances…”

“You mean Dean.”

“Yeah, I do.”

Jim sighed once more. “I wish I could say that’s not why I’m calling.”

“What’s our crisis level?”

“No crisis.”

Caleb’s sigh of relief was clearly audible. “K. Okay. What’s going on?”

“When’s the last time you talked to him?”

There was a long pause. Clearly, Caleb was trying to decide where he thought his Guardian’s ultimate loyalties lay. 

“I am not Jonathon’s spy, Caleb.”

“Two weeks ago. He–uh… he’d just gotten off a hunt with Bobby.”

“Yes. Alright. And how did he seem?”

Another long hesitation.

“Work with me here, Caleb,” Jim chided quietly. “I’m trying to keep him safe.”

“I called him,” the psychic admitted finally. “It–uh. It felt like the Great Wall of China had gone up again. Turns out, he just took the meds we got him.”

“Meds?”

“Depression meditation. They prescribed it after–um. After the last time. He didn’t tell you?”

“No, of course he didn’t,” the pastor mused softly. “That might be part of it.”

“Part of what, Jim?”

The older man heaved a heavy sigh. “It most likely won’t surprise you that he isn’t talking.”

“Not at all?”

“Not in the past week and a half.”

Caleb hummed a little, clearly trying to assess how bad that was.

“But he’s also not eating.”

“What? Not at all?”

“I mean, barely. He probably keeps down less than a thousand calories a day.”

“What do you mean keeps down?”

“Well, he ate some soup and bread for dinner tonight. And then Samuel heard him puking it up. I doubt it’s the first time.”

“How’s he staying conscious?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe he’s eating more than I think he is. I know he’s drinking some. But it isn’t much.”

“He’s lost weight?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“It’s hard to tell,” the Guardian replied carefully. “You know how he dresses. But enough. His face… he looks sick.”

There was another pause. Then, quietly, “Have you gotten a look at his wrists?”

“Not recently.”

The younger man swore softly. “So he’s not talking, not eating. May or may not be cutting. Anything else?”

“I mean…” Jim shook his head helplessly. “He’s just not himself, Caleb. Which is to be expected. But he’s wasting away. Samuel’s going crazy with worry, and I… I’m not sure what else to do.”

“So I’m coming.”

“I don’t want to disrespect Jonathon.”

“Which is why we’re not going to tell him.”

Jim held out for a final moment before his shoulders sank in resignation. “You know I wouldn’t do this lightly.”

“I know. It’s not about John. It’s about Dean.”

“Yes. Exactly.” 

“Understood. I’m on my way.”

notes: Finally giving Sam a little break in this series lol. Even though he frustrates me, young Sammy especially will always win over my soft-spot for him, because, well, I am Dean Winchester. Anyway. Just really, really love you all, and so grateful to you for being here. Let me know what you think!

- Line

[nonstoptrashpanda]

sunset stole the light - part 3

tw: depression, suicidal ideation, medication, self harm, disordered eating word count: 2492

summary: Back at the farm, Dean struggles to keep his head above water.

notes:  I'd forgotten how lowkey plotless this entire installment of the series is until I finally skimmed through the entire thing again yesterday. That's probably part of the reason I never posted it. Like, there is a plot, but tbh it's mostly just angst and hurt/comfort - it's really not as exciting as the others with the exception of maybe Not Alone. Just thought I'd give that disclaimer before we got any deeper and you all started getting bored lol.

part 1 | part 2

Ao3

Dean could tell Sam was worried when he volunteered to go on a hunt with him. 

Everything that had gone down in New York–and more importantly, everything that it had pushed Caleb to tell him–had brought about an obnoxiously pitiful weight in the boy’s puppy dog eyes that bordered on true repentance. However, his attitude towards their father, and as a result the Triad and the life they lived, had probably only gotten more hostile. 

For the first few weeks, he just hovered. Relentlessly. Griped and moaned and cried, borderline begging Jim not to send him on a hunt, and when that didn’t work, full-on begging Dean not to go. 

It had been a long time since Sammy had begged like that, and it had almost worked. But Dean had known as well as Jim did that he needed a Grade-A distraction, and hunting was the only thing that was gonna do. 

That one had been local, so he and Jim had taken it. A test run for Sammy, to see if he could be trusted alone at the farm… and a test run for Dean. Make sure he wasn’t gonna do something stupid as soon as they let him out on the field again. Of course, Jim hadn’t said anything about any of that… but it had been understood. 

The second one rolled around, and that was when Sam had volunteered as tribute to the surprise of both Dean and the Guardian. When Jim had decided he shouldn’t miss school for a hunt Dean and Bobby could easily handle by themselves, he’d sulked and pouted and told Dean one too many times to be careful and not do anything stupid.

 Jim, for his part, sat him down over coffee the morning he left, quietly asked him how he was doing, if he felt alright about going, if there was anything he wanted to talk about. Reminded him to follow Bobby’s orders, not to be reckless. 

And then, as if the two of them weren’t playing the role of mother hens well enough in his life, Bobby had hovered and worried with his eyes and pried about his wrists for the entirety of the drive back and forth from Ohio. 

It had only been a few weeks since he’d dropped Caleb off at the airport, but Dean wasn’t sure how he was going to stay sane for the next month. 

And that was only a month assuming that his dad didn’t get pissed and extend the sentence. 

It was thoughts like that, that made him wonder what the point of any of this was. 

He knew he couldn’t say crap like that outloud–knew he shouldn’t even entertain the thoughts. But after the dust settled, this time and the last time, he had to wonder. 

What was the point? Why did he have to keep getting dragged away from the edge? His life was hell–that wasn’t something you could argue with. It wasn’t something even Caleb tried to argue with. 

He always just told him that he was better than this, and that things were going to get better. 

He was pretty sure Caleb actually believed that. 

Or at least, that he really, really wanted to. 

Deep down, he had to know it wasn’t going to happen. 

Dean had been on a one-way trip down under since he was four years old. All hunters were. 

Mac and Jim seemed different, and so he had hope that Caleb would be, too. They lived normal lives on top of hunting, so there was always hope that they would eventually be able to disappear into them. That when they’d saved their last person, hunted their last thing, they would be able to live out their days in peace. 

That wasn’t in the cards for his dad. Since he was a little kid, huddled in a hotel room with a salt gun in his hands and a baby asleep on the bed behind him, he’d known John would go down hunting. Every night of his childhood that he’d spent alone and waiting, he remembered praying to whoever was listening to just not let it be tonight. 

And it hadn’t been. 

That was probably only because of Bobby and the Triad. If John Winchester didn’t have people watching his back whether he liked it or not, Dean couldn’t imagine him surviving this long. 

But what he hadn’t known as he prayed for his father to live another day, was that one day, he would wake up as just another hunter doomed to die. 

John would go down on a hunt, and Dean would too. 

Except, his hunt didn’t seem to be coming quickly enough. 

Clearly, it wasn’t the dying that bothered him. He’d proven he was willing to die with a lot less honor than going down a hero, protecting the innocent or his brother or the Triad. 

It was the living in the meantime that seemed to be worse than any hell he could imagine. 

Saving people, hunting things… it could only get you through so many werewolf hunts and dead civilians and drunken rages and runaway brothers. 

Sammy was gonna get out, and when he did, it would mean that Dean had done his job… protected his brother long enough to make sure he got off of the Winchester Highway to Hell. 

But when Sammy got out, what then? As bratty as the boy had been lately, he was still one of the only light spots in Dean’s world. He had been the only thing keeping Dean off of the ledge for years now, and it was clear he was outgrowing his need for him. 

His clinginess as of late only reminded him that he would get over his shock and worry and go back to hating the sight of him. 

And when he did, what then? 

He’d–hopefully–have Caleb back. But, no matter what Caleb had to say about the matter, he deserved better than being Dean’s lifeline and babysitter for the rest of his life. 

The problem was–Caleb was very convinced he couldn’t lose Dean, and Dean of all people understood why. 

So what? So he was chained to this existence until he gave in to temptation and did it right, or until a monster had mercy and put him out of his misery. 

It was a spiral like this one that had driven him to take that first pill before he left for the hunt with Bobby. He’d slept the entire drive to the hunt, and while that had avoided the issue of talking, it had taught him his lesson… now, he took them at night. He was used to waking up hungover, so the headache in the morning wasn’t anything new.

A week in, he was pretty sure they were working. 

The problem was, he wasn’t sure that this was any better than the alternative. 

Talking was harder than it’d ever been. Sleeping was easy, but his nightmares were worse. He hadn’t told Jim he was taking them, so he could get away with drinking a little, but the bottle strongly discouraged it, so he treaded carefully to avoid unpleasant symptoms that would give him away to the Guardian. The site of food made him feel sick to his stomach, but he was choking down enough to survive. Mostly, he just couldn’t seem to feel anything… other than this heavy, hopeless sense that he was going to live the rest of his life like this.

Dean was used to surviving on little spots of joy, no matter how small or trivial they were. Sam was perpetually annoyed by it–the joy he took in movies and baseball and good food and pretty girls. John was too. Jim and Mac mostly just disapproved of half the things that brought him joy. Caleb was the only one who seemed to understand–or maybe, he just really liked seeing Dean smile. 

But now, it was as if there was a heavy blanket, like one of the wool ones Jim only brought out during the coldest spells of winter, over his mind. And yeah–it smothered any thoughts so dark and desperate that they would push him to do anything about his underlying desire to die. The problem was, they seemed to be suffocating everything else with it.

But what was the alternative? 

He could stop taking them… but the flood they were holding back was not going to feel good when it came crashing out. 

He hated numbness, but he feared what would happen when he had to feel it all again, all at once. Other than when he was sleeping, he hadn’t really thought about the horrors of the job or the humanoid monsters he’d killed or his father’s wrath in a week. All of those memories seemed to exist behind a very heavy curtain in his mind. If he let that curtain fall, he was pretty sure all of them would come crashing out, and he was pretty sure he wasn’t in a place to deal with that. 

Especially without Caleb there. 

If nothing else, the older man could crawl into his mind and put it back together when it fractured under the weight of repressed emotions and memories. 

And, he could win a wrestling match with Dean and a gun. 

Neither Sam or Jim could. 

So, he kept taking them. 

And talked and ate less and less as each day went by. 

And when his clingy puppy act didn’t get the words out of Dean’s mouth or the nutrition into it, Sam started to get scared. And when Sammy got scared, he also got mad. 

“Dean!”

He was yanked from the heavy train of thought by the boy himself, calling to him from the stairs.

“Dinner!”

Dean exhaled slowly. 

Speak of the devil and his deeds. 

He got to his feet and took a step towards the door, but it was flung open before he reached it. 

“Dean!” Sam was glaring at him through hair in desperate need of a trim. “Come on!”

Dean nodded tiredly, gesturing with one hand to indicate that he’d been coming. 

Sam’s latest efforts to get him to talk had mostly been trying to pick fights, and he didn’t seem pleased that this one hadn’t worked, rolling his eyes as he turned back toward the hall. 

“Well how was I supposed to know that?”

Downstairs, Jim was setting a pot of what looked like potato soup on the table, which was already set with bowls, spoons, and a loaf of bread. 

Potato soup. Simple, easy on the stomach, but a comfort food. 

Jim wasn’t being subtle either.

“Evening, Dean,” the pastor greeted him with a smile. “Did you find what you needed this afternoon?”

Mostly because he couldn’t handle their hovering, Dean had driven to the library that day to do some research. Not that he had a case at the moment… but the plus-side of not talking was that you could hold up a library book and not explain yourself any further. He’d actually ended up walking the perimeter of the town just because he needed the air and the movement. 

But he just nodded a little, and Jim returned the gesture. “Good.” 

At least he had the mercy to ask him yes-or-no questions. Sam showed no such restraint. 

Dean went to the kitchen and filled three glasses of water, since that seemed to be the only thing missing from the table. If there were any other hunters present, they’d drink beer, but Dean was still technically underage, and while Jim didn’t usually put his foot down, even when he wasn’t mixing it with meds, Dean usually didn’t push it either, especially not at dinner. 

“Thank you, Dean,” Jim said as he set the glasses down on the table, and he nodded again, bringing his hand up to his chin and then out towards the Guardian as he did. 

No one but Caleb understood more than the bare basics of sign language, but thank you fell under those basics, and Jim smiled.

“You’re welcome.”

Dean could feel Sam glaring at them as they had the exchange, but he pointedly avoided looking at the boy and acknowledging it. 

“Will you pray for us, Sam?” Jim asked before he could say anything to supplement the pout on his face.. The boy’s only protest was a small sigh, but he obediently mumbled out the Lord’s Prayer so that Jim could start spooning the steaming soup into their bowls. 

He gave Dean less than himself and Sam, but somehow, that wasn’t comforting. 

It just made him feel like a toddler who wasn’t given very much dinner–but was expected to eat everything that he was. 

He stared at the bowl with lead in his stomach. 

He knew he had to eat. 

If not because it was necessary for survival, because it was necessary to keep his family off his back. 

But even the mild stew in front of him made him feel like he was going to vomit. The bread that Jim handed him was even worse. 

Jim and Sam both started to eat. Dean could feel them watching him–though the pastor did it far more subtly than his brother did. He just kept staring at the food and willing himself to pick the spoon up. His hand didn’t move. 

The silence hovered for a long several seconds, then several more. 

“It’s soup, Dean!” Sam’s voice came out high and tight with worry he was trying to make sound like anger. “God! Just eat!” 

“Samuel…” Jim warned quietly.

“Well are you going to do something about it?” the boy snapped. “Because someone has to!” 

“He’s trying, Samuel.”

“No, he’s not! Does it look like he’s trying to you?”

“Yes, it does.”

“Well trying isn’t going to keep him from starving,” Sam mumbled. “You’re supposed to be keeping him from ki–”

“Samuel.” That wasn’t a tone anyone talked back to. “That’s enough.”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and tried to go anywhere but here. 

“Dean…” He opened them again, looking at the Guardian with shamefully pleading eyes. Jim’s own expression was gentle, but firm. “You need to eat, Son.”

Dean’s eyes dropped back to his soup. He swallowed hard as his foe steamed up at him.

The question was, who would they call if he didn’t? Caleb? His dad would get wind and he’d be lucky if he ever saw his best friend again. John? He’d be lucky if he just murdered him outright. Maybe Mac. He was a doctor, after all. But he was already taking the happy pills. Mac’s next rec would no doubt be shrink-ville. 

He picked up the spoon and took a bite. It felt like bile going down. 

But Jim smiled, reaching out and laying one hand over Dean’s that wasn’t holding the utensil. “Thank you, my boy.”

Dean didn’t meet his gaze. He felt like he was going to throw up. 

He took another bite. 

He could puke after dinner.

[nonstoptrashpanda]

sunset stole the light - part 2

word count: 2577 tw: depression, medication, referenced suicide attempt/suicidal ideation, referenced self-harm

summary: Caleb calls Dean after his psychic read goes dull again.

notes: I would like to preface this by saying I know the bit at the end is probably soft to the point of being a little ooc. I don't care. Let me have my emotionally expressive men in peace, please & thank you.

part 1 Ao3

“Oh my God, what?”

Dean’s voice was raw and hoarse, evidence of what Caleb had already known–that the boy hadn’t been talking much lately. Jim had told him that the past few times he’d called to check in, saying that he hadn’t gone completely silent, but he kept words to the minimum to say the least.

That was most likely at least part of the reason it had taken him seven missed calls to finally pick up on the eighth. He’d probably been hoping Caleb would just text him so that he didn’t actually have to speak.

“I could be dying for all you know, little jerk,” the psychic tried to snap, unable to hide the relief from his own voice.

“You’re at a bridge conference,” the boy scoffed. “The only thing you’re dying of is boredom.”

“What if there was a ghost at the conference?”

“You’d probably be calling Mac seeing as he’s two days closer than I am.”

Caleb sighed heavily. “Yeah, touché.” 

“My question stands. What do you want?”

Apparently they were gonna play the punk game again. “I want to pass on something I learned at this stupid conference.” He kept his tone just sharp enough to be able to swing with the kid’s own chosen attitude. “About bridges.”

He heard Dean take a breath, but he didn’t wait to hear whatever quip he’d loaded up.

“They’re really big, and when you build them, people tend to notice. Kinda like huge-ass walls.”

Dean obviously caught onto the metaphor, and his attitude didn’t seem so keen to come out of his mouth anymore. There was a long moment of radio silence between them, broken by Caleb, who allowed his tone to soften just a little.

“So I hope you’ve got a good reason for the one you decided to build last night, Kid.”

Once again, a long few seconds of silence stretched between them. When Dean finally spoke, his voice was even quieter than before, and all of the edge had vanished from it, replaced by a painfully small tone.

“I didn’t rebuild the wall, Damien.”

“Is psychic a joke to you, Dean?”

He could see the boy flinching in his mind’s eye, knew that the use of his first name had been weighted, but couldn’t find it in him to feel bad about it. He thought the events of the past eight months gave him the right to be a little edgy when it came to this stuff, and the kid had promised to call him if he needed him. That wasn’t a promise he was willing to play games with.

“No,” the boy said heavily in answer to his question. “But I think you might need to get your freaky brain checked, because–”

“Dean!” Caleb didn’t have the patience for this. “Cut the crap, or I’m on the first airbus to Kentucky that Mac’s money can buy.” 

More quiet.

“I didn’t rebuild the wall.” The words were the same ones he’d spoken before, but they were said in a different tone–less defiant, more defeated. “But I did take one of your stupid psych pills. That could have something to do with it.”

Caleb opened his mouth, but nothing came out. When he tried again, his own voice came out almost as small and uncertain as Dean’s had. “The–you mean the prescription we…”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

That wasn’t what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t something he could see his best friend lying about–especially not in that ashamed, broken tone of voice. And it made sense. If the meds were supposed to dull the kid’s emotions, it was likely they’d likewise dull his read of said emotions.

He cleared his throat, struggling to find something to say. “Is it working?”

“It says I won’t know for a few weeks.”

“Ah.” He swallowed hard. “I guess that makes sense.”

More radio silence. Caleb took a deep breath, desperately trying to pull his thoughts together. “So I guess it’s pretty bad, huh?”

He heard Dean swallow on the other line. “I’m fine, Damien.”

“How about let’s try again.”

A heavy sigh. “I’m trying, alright?”

“I know, Kiddo. And I’m damn proud of you for it. But I know you had to feel pretty crappy to even consider picking those things up.”

“I’ve felt pretty crappy since May, Damien.”

“I know,” he repeated heavily. Hesitated before asking, “Do you want me to come out?”

“Do you want my dad to string your carcass up by your hamstrings?”

“Your dad–”

Dean cut him off. “Seriously, Reaves. I’m fine. Jim’s not gonna let me do anything stupid even if I wanted to. And I’m hoping your stupid pills will make me not want to as bad.” 

“I hope so too, Deuce,” he sighed. “But you say the word, and I’ll be on my way.”

“I know you would be,” the boy admitted softly. “But I’m good. Stay with your bridge nerds. Try to learn something interesting.”

“Yeah.” He exhaled in duel frustration and defeat. “I’ll try. Hang in there, Kiddo.”

“Yeah I would, but Jim said no hanging.”

Caleb choked, not wanting to laugh, but unable to avoid it. “You’re not allowed to make jokes like that, Deucy.”

“A guy tries to bite a bullet one time…”

“Two times.”

“A guy tries to bite a bullet two times, and no more fun for the rest of his life.”

“That’s exactly it. No more fun, ever.”

Despite themselves, they were both laughing. “Glad to hear you’ve still got your wit, Kiddo.”

“You know me.”

“Yeah, I do.” He exhaled again, running a tired hand down his face. “Call me if you need me.”

“Yeah. I will.” Then, the line went dead.

Caleb stared at the cell phone in his hand for a long moment before swearing softly. It was good to hear the boy laugh. But he just didn’t know what he was doing. He knew he was in good hands, but he absolutely hated that they weren’t his own.

Before he could consider the problem any longer, the device he’d just closed started buzzing in his hand. But this time, it was Bobby’s name that was displayed on the outer screen. Caleb wasn’t exactly in the mood, but in this case, it was genuinely possible that the call would be an SOS. Bobby was known for breaking the golden rule that was never hunt alone.

“What do you want, old man?”

A scoff carried to him from the other line. “Good morning to you too.”

It didn’t sound like he was dying. He should've let it ring. 

 “It’s not a good morning,” he snapped, “and I’m not in the mood for one of your bright ideas.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not in the mood for your attitude,” Bobby scoffed, “so I guess we’re both mad.” Before Caleb could respond, he went on. “But I don’t have a bright idea. I’m callin’ about Dean.”

Despite the fact that he’d just gotten off the phone with the kid and knew he was… well, maybe not okay, but knew that he wasn’t dying, the words made Caleb’s stomach clench out of sheer instinct.

“What about him?”

There was a long hesitation.

“What about him, Bobby?”

“I’m worried about him,” the older man said at long last. “And I know I ain’t special for that. I know we all are.”

While Bobby didn’t know what had gone down at the farm in December or in New York a few weeks ago, it didn’t take a psychic to be able to tell there was something going on in the Triad and those closest to it. Besides that, Bobby had been there for the showdown in Flagstaff, and he’d been Dean’s main hunting partner in the time since. 

“But I—” he faltered again. It was a strange thing to hear a grown, semi-functioning alcoholic and seasoned monster hunter stumble over his confession like a teenager afraid of getting his friend in trouble. 

“Come on, old man,” Caleb sighed. “Unless you want to call the kid and initiate a grade-A chick-flick yourself, you better go ahead and spit it out.”

Bobby scoffed a little. “Yeah, I tried that. Didn’t go well.” Another brief pause. Then, finally, “He’s got fresh cuts on his wrist. Kind like I haven’t seen on him in a long time.”

While the news was hardly surprising, it still made Caleb’s heart sink inside of him, igniting a burning in his chest and a thickness in his throat that it was hard to speak through. “Cuts. Self-inflicted ones, you mean.”       

He didn’t phrase it as a question, but a statement, and the lack of surprise in his heavy tone was obviously far from lost on Bobby.

“You know already?”

“About these particular ones, no,” Caleb sighed. “I’m still in exile, and Deuce isn’t exactly the type to make voluntary confessions about his unhealthy coping mechanisms over the phone.”

“But you know he…” Once again, it was odd to hear a man like Bobby struggling to even finish his sentences about the matter.

Caleb bit his lip. “It’s been a rough six months, alright? And I may have gotten wind that he had a thing with a glass shard when he was a kid. I take it that’s what you’re talking about?”

He didn’t like the thought of Bobby noticing something that he had failed to, but there had been a stretch there when John had gone increasingly rogue, and thus kept his distance from the other Triad members to avoid getting in trouble with them. As a consequence, he’d also tried to keep his distance from Caleb—and he’d left the boys with Bobby often. It was easy to imagine Dean’s sleeve slipping on a hunt or under a car for long enough for Bobby to put the pieces together.

“Yeah, that’s it,” the older hunter said in answer to his question, his tone sad and conflicted. “Caught wind of ‘em while the boys were staying with me. Told me he’d thrown it out and begged me to keep my mouth shut. I agreed so long as he stayed clean.”

“Sure.” Caleb wanted to be angry he hadn’t shared the information, but, putting himself in Dean’s shoes, he couldn’t be. He’d treated him like the adult he’d always had to be, and he couldn’t truly blame him for that. “But now he’s not.”

“Far from it,” Bobby confirmed heavily. “And I tried to talk to him about it, but it went nowhere. I know you ain’t supposed to be talkin’ to him right now, but I also knew he’d prefer I went to you if I was gonna go to someone, and I know there’s no way you’re keeping those orders anyway.” 

Caleb scoffed a little. “Yeah, you’re right there, old man.” There was a long, unhappy pause between them. Finally, it was the younger man who broke it. “I just got off the phone with him, and he’s gonna be pissed if I call him right back. But I’ll keep close tabs on him. I know Jim already is.”

“Yeah,” Bobby agreed with another heavy sigh. “I know you both do.”

The psychic hesitated again before offering, “Thanks for calling, Bobby. It’s good to know other people are keeping their eyes on him while I can’t.”

“I care about those boys,” the hunter replied gruffly. “I care about them a whole helluva lot.”

“I know.” It was Caleb’s turn to sigh. “I’ll take care of him. Promise.”

Then, he flipped his phone shut before the older man caught any sort of wind of the moisture he could feel thickening his throat all over again.

This time, the curse came out a shout, and was joined by the hurling of the cell phone he’d just closed across the small space that was his Jeep’s interior. With elbows resting on the steering wheel in front of him, he pressed his hands against his eyes until colors burst behind them, desperately trying to fight back those stubborn tears.

It was moments like this, that he wished he had Jim’s faith, or even better, the kind Sammy had when he was a little kid. Actually believing that someone was listening when you prayed had to be some sort of comfort when the person you loved most in the world was hurting and there was absolutely nothing you could do to help.

A tap on his window pulled him out of the spiral. He jerked upright, and his eyes locked with Moose’s through the glass. Obviously, he’d found a nearby parking spot in the garage under the conference center, and he’d noticed Caleb had yet to exit his own vehicle. He swore again, a little quieter this time, but was quick to lunge across the front seat to retrieve his thrown cell phone, then reach into the back for his briefcase, before climbing out to greet his friend.

“Hey.” He hated how thick the word came out of his throat. 

“Hey, Buddy.” The larger man greeted him with a clap to one shoulder, squeezing a little as he regarded him with no small amount of concern. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Caleb swallowed hard as he turned in the direction of the elevator, desperately trying to regain his composure. “Yeah, I’m good.” 

He could feel the weight in his partner’s gaze as he followed him to the elevator, and it only got heavier as they waited for it to arrive. He didn’t have to say anything, and he knew it. Another long moment passed before Caleb finally broke.

“Just… worried about Deuce.”

While he’d shared none of the details, Moose knew it had been a rough several months for Caleb’s little found family, and his fondness for Dean was immediately evident in his concerned expression.

“He okay?”

“Yeah. I mean…” the psychic exhaled heavily as the elevator opened and they trooped inside. “He’s okay.”

He wasn’t prepared for the way his voice broke, just a little, on the last syllable. 

And he also wasn’t prepared for the bone-crushing hug that Moose wrapped him in a moment later. 

He froze for a second, taken completely off guard, but then the comfort of the contact broke through, and he returned it a little desperately, letting his head sink into his friend’s shoulder for just a few seconds. As rarely as the two of them showed any kind of affection to each other, he knew Moose’s hugs to be the kind that might break a few of your ribs, but also could hold you together when you needed it most. He took a deep, shaky breath, taking advantage of the fact that his face was hidden in his partner’s shoulder to choke back his tears, before patting the larger man on the back and slowly pulling away.

He couldn’t fully meet his gaze as he swallowed again, nodding to him awkwardly. “Thanks. I think I needed that.”

Moose answered only by a clap to his shoulder, and then they were saved from having to move themselves on from the chick-flick by the elevator doors opening.

As they exited into the busy conference center, Caleb took one more deep breath, steadying himself for real. He had a hard mental tab on Dean, and despite the meds he was on dulling the signal, he’d know if something was really wrong. The exile was almost over. He just had to tough it out a little longer. 

But hadn’t he thought that before? 

Notes: You GUYS. Genuinely blown away by all the love I received on the last chapter. Thank you so much to everyone who stayed subscribed & invested, and for all of your kind words. Truly have missed interacting with all of you so freaking much. Also, because I didn't realize a number of you were genuinely concerned about my well-being and I feel awful for that... while I have no intention of falling off the face of the planet again, if I ever do, you can always reach out to Jamie (Trekkiehood). Assuming we didn't decide to bite the bullet together lol, she will know if I'm okay and tends to be much more active than I am in general. Anyway, thank you times a million. I love you all.

- Line

[pricelesstrashpanda]

When you get this, you have to put 5 songs you actually listen to and publish. Then, send this ask to 10 of your favorite followers (non-negotiable, positivity is cool)

Look at me, answering 3 year-old asks! It’s fine I’m fine everything’s fine.

Here are 5 I haven’t been able to put down lately.

[greater-than-the-sword]

I bet those astronauts are pretty excited to be the farthest from Earth anybody's ever been. You might even say they're over the moon about it

[tropiyas]

[cumvvelt]

"Guy" and "man" have different connotations with adjectival nouns. Like "tree guy" = arborist but "tree man" = he lives in a tree, or maybe he is a tree.

[thedupshadove]

"I know a guy" = "I have a useful contact."

"I know a man" = "I am about to tell you a story."

[turtletotem]

“He’s a great guy” = he is pleasant and fun and well-intentioned

“He’s a great man” = he has saved countless lives and changed the world irrevocably

[greater-than-the-sword]

"He's a good guy" = he's a warm-hearted, morally upstanding, trustworthy individual

"He's a good man" = He's dead or is about to die

[pricelesstrashpanda]

sunset stole the light - part 1

fandom: supernatural (brotherhood au)

series summary: Dean didn't even really know what he was doing when he walked into the kitchen at the right time and in doing so showed sixteen-year-old Caleb that he wasn't as alone as he thought. Years later, Caleb knows much more than Dean would like him to the minute he sees an all-too-familiar look in his eyes.

installment summary: Dean stops talking (and eating) after Caleb is sent away once again, and Jim has to choose between disobeying John, or watching the kid spiral deeper and deeper into the darkness in his eyes and his mind.

set: 1999 word count: 1739 tw: self-harm, depression, trauma

summary: While on a hunt with Dean, Bobby struggles to know how to help him out of the darkness he's clearly drowning in.

part 2 | part 3 | part 4

Ao3

Sunset stole the light,

The colors in your eyes.

- for KING & COUNTRY

The walk back to the ‘70 Adventurer that was Bobby’s current ride was quiet, as the rest of the past two days had been when they hadn’t been filled with ACDC or George Strait, or the screaming of the Pale Lady who’d been luring hikers to a death like hers in Hocking Hills State Park over the past several months.  

Without much hope of digging up all of her remains from the wooded floor of the  since-dried pool she’d fallen into while running from a date turned violent, they’d resorted to making a fire barrier around it and salting and burning the whole thing. It had worked, and this woman in white was less malicious than many that they’d encountered over the years, so she’d even gone down without too hard of a fight.

All in all, Bobby’s twenty-year-old hunting partner had seemed more haunted than the Ohio woods they were trekking through.

The kid had never liked fire, and it was a small mystery why. But salting and burning was their whole gig, and over the years, it had become routine enough to him that, at least when it was small-scale, it didn’t seem to bother him at all anymore. Larger fires, house fires especially, had been a different story, but they’d bothered him in the way things were supposed to bother Dean Winchester–the way that wound him up and made him that much more serious about his mission and his calling, put him on the very top of his game. 

That was a way of being bothered that Bobby never worried too much about. 

But vacant eyes, dull nods, and heavy silence? 

That was the Dean Winchester he worried about.

He’d seen enough of that Dean over the years, times when John hadn’t wanted to take them to Jim, usually because it was his own recklessness that had Dean in such a state, but had wanted them out of the way, seeing the boy’s pain as a nuisance to him and his vendetta. 

The tree of them would stumble up his porch steps at some unholy hour or another, John would ask if he could take them for a while, Dean would either mumble apologies or say them with his eyes if this one of the particularly bad times, when he wasn’t just quiet, but silent.

This was one of those times, and seeing as it was the first one Bobby had been privy to in over half a decade, to say it was concerning was a heavy understatement. 

Usually, he left the worrying and fussing over the Winchester boys to Jim and, even more so, Caleb. But thanks to the ill-fated events revolving around Sam’s untimely escapade to Flagstaff, Caleb wasn’t able to look out for the boy like he usually did, and the unspoken words in Jim’s eyes when Bobby had picked Dean up from the farm had said he wasn’t sure what else to do to help. 

All of those things were more than enough to make Bobby worry, but that wasn’t all. 

There was also the factor of the thin red slits he’d seen poking out from under Dean’s bracelets when he’d taken his turn driving halfway between the farm and Hocking Hills.

He’d seen cuts like that on Dean’s wrists–or rather, the slowly fading aftermath of them–once before, the better part of a decade ago. 

The boy had been thirteen or fourteen at the time, dumped at Bobby’s with his little brother while John chased a lead on Yellow Eyes that he’d been specifically told not to chase by the Guardian. Bobby had recruited his help on a Corvette with a bad tranny that had been giving him problems. His sleeve had slipped down while he was under the car, and the small collection of fading, yellowish slits which were visible on either side of the bracelets he never seemed to take off had caught Bobby’s eye. 

He’d asked, Dean had lied, and then he’d asked again, and then Dean had lied again. He’d given him one more chance before he called Reaves. Bobby threatening to call in the psychic of his own accord was a sure sign that he really meant business, and Dean had known that. So, he’d broken. Told him that it had been a rough few months in the Winchester household, and then he’d dropped a plate, cut his hand. Something about it had felt good. So he’d kept the shard and done it a few more times. But now Dad was getting suspicious, so he’d thrown out the shard, and it wasn’t going to happen again, and please, Bobby, don’t tell the Triad, and don’t tell Reaves. It was in the past, it wasn’t going to happen again, they’d all flip in their own ways and he knew it.

Grilled cheese and peanut butter sandwiches and beds to sleep in? Bobby could handle that. Throwing a baseball with Dean to get his young mind off of monsters and demons and absent fathers? He could handle that too. But pain so deep and far repressed that it caused a fourteen-year-old kid to cut his own wrists for a little relief? That was entirely out of the grizzled hunter’s depth, and he’d had absolutely no idea what to do. 

Dean wasn’t apt to beg, and seeing him do exactly that, desperately plead and promise and bargain to keep him from telling anyone about the fading scars, had been uncomfortable and painful and unnerving. So, he’d told him he would think about it. Taken the boys on a field-trip to the library the next day, checked out every book he could find about teen mental health and self-injury, shaken his head at himself as he tried to comprehend them, wondering why on earth he wasn’t just calling Mackland, who no doubt owned and had practically memorized a dozen books better than the ones he’d found about exactly this sort of thing.

But the recurring theme in each one of them was that the best way to help a person stop was to give them responsibility and control over it. Support them, offer your assistance and love and guidance, but don’t force them to stop–enable them to make the choice themselves. So he’d told the boy that, so long as the scars continued to fade without new ones being added–and he would be checking–he’d keep his mouth shut. Asked him to seriously think about talking to someone about this, whether that was him or Caleb or any member of the Triad, but seeing as he’d been functioning like a little adult for the huge majority of his young life, he wasn’t going to start treating him like a child now.

Bobby didn’t know if anything he’d said or done had made any difference in it at all, or if Dean’s fear of his father’s wrath alone was what made him do it, but he’d stopped as he’d promised to, and so he’d held up his own end of the deal as well. He stopped asking to see his wrists after a year or so, and they’d never spoken of it again. 

And if Bobby hadn’t known what to do with a fourteen-year-old who was cutting himself, he certainly didn’t know what to do with a twenty-year-old who’d fallen back into the same vice. 

Because functional adult or not, Dean had been a kid back then, and Bobby had known he had both the right and responsibility to put his foot down on the subject in one way or another. 

Now, what was he supposed to say? Dean had been watching both Bobby and John put down far more liquor than any healthy, functional man should for his entire life. Just because it was a slightly more round-about method of harming one’s self to cope didn’t mean it wasn’t still doing exactly that, and Bobby would loathe to be the hypocrite making Dean feel broken and messed-up and small because he’d chosen a more direct route. 

However, one fact remained, and that was that he loved the boy far more than he’d ever like to admit, and when you loved someone that much, sitting around saying Oh well, he’s an adult. What can I do?  upon discovering that he was hurting himself to cope felt very, very wrong, and nearly impossible anyway. 

But it was also difficult to start such a conversation when the person you needed to have it with had said a total of eleven words over the course of the past two days, and seven of them had been during the most heated part of their ghost hunt.

He waited until they’d loaded everything back into the bed of the truck, then loaded themselves into the front of it, and were back on the road to Kentucky, to finally look over at the young man on the driver’s side. 

“Dean…”

Dean glanced at him, his green eyes a little apprehensive, but reached out and turned down the music, a sign for him to go on. 

Bobby floundered a moment later before pressing forward. “Just… you know I care about ya, don’t ya?”

The boy seemed to flinch a little, his eyes darting back to the road, but nodded. 

“Course, Bobby.” The words came out soft and raw, out of a throat not used to talking, but they surprised Bobby none-the-less.

“And you know every offer I’ve ever made to you still stands?”

This time, Dean just nodded a little.

The older man returned the gesture, still feeling like he was barely keeping his head above water. “You’re an adult now,” he said at last. “And I’ll treat ya like one. But it doesn’t take a psychic to figure out you’re hurting. So if you need anything…” He sighed, knowing exactly how weak it sounded. “You know where I live. You’ve got my number.”

A long moment of silence answered. Out of the corner of his eye, Bobby saw Dean swallow hard. 

Then, still barely audible, he spoke again. “Yeah. Thanks, Bobby.” 

The older hunter exhaled heavily as the younger turned the radio back up. That had been a pathetic attempt to help if ever he’d seen one. 

You didn’t have to be a psychic to know the boy was hurting, but he had to wonder if it might help out a whole lot when it came to knowing what to do about it.

[pricelesstrashpanda]

Hello. Believe it or, I’m not dead, and I haven’t abandoned you forever. I’d like to profusely apologize for falling off the face of the planet with so many projects left unfinished. It was never my intention and believe it or not, that has been an anxiety in the back of my mind literally every day since. Thank you so much to everyone who continued to read, comment, and beg for updates in the meantime. I’m working through all my comments now, and I can’t tell you how much joy they bring me. Somewhere in the delirium of the past three years, I wrote this next part for Light It Up in its entirety, so this will be the first thing updated, but it is not my intention to leave anything unfinished. I also have some other things coming down the pipe that I'm pretty hyped about, so stay tuned for that. Long story short, Honey, I rose up from the dead (I do it all the time). But if you're an appreciator of a good, old-fashioned Ao3 author update, I've got a banger here.

Alright. Story time. Once again, I’m very sorry for disappearing, and for the lack of updates. After I spent all of high school and gave up college to raise my sister and hold my family together, my mother (who raised me a step short of fundamentalist) had a torrent affair and abandoned the family anyway. This was after months of reigning absolute terror on me, then using my sister to keep me from high-tailing it to Florida. Very mindful, very demure, very John Winchester of her. My pastor sends me to get my head screwed on straight (i.e. realize I need to leave) as a camp counselor, but I find out that my mom’s skipped town two days before I come home. My last night there, I get SAed by another counselor. I leave him on a mountain at 3am and after hiding from a mountain lion for the next hour, drive home. My life completely falls apart. My pastor and his wife drag me out of my father’s house and into theirs (probably quite literally saving my life). During the summer of 2023, I do a little stint with this missions organization called YWAM, which doesn’t stand for Youth Without Any Money, but it should. My mom her steals the inheritance I was counting on to get me through the program. In terms of money, I have 0. Picture me in Practically Canada, Montana, depositing $1 bills like a stripper (it was actually Dutch Bros tip money, but potato, potato), in order to un-overdraft my account. I then find myself in Nuevo Vallarta, Mexico, under the supervision of idiots, trying to keep the three teenage students alive (literally). On my 21st birthday, one of them nearly dies of a heat stroke because they refused to take her to the hospital and told me to calm down while she was literally dying :). She survives by the grace of God cuz in the words of me, “That’s great. God is good, even when we’re idiots.” I come home traumatized and numb to all human emotion. In this extremely compromised state of being, I meet up with another counselor friend from the summer before. He also SAs me. Randomly end up working in politics (none of them care about us and I'm pretty sure we should rebel, btw) for the next 2.5 with this guy who calls me HeiHei (yes, like the chicken from Moana). It's fine cuz I get to call him Moana. He eventually abandons me, very sad. I also become friends with this older, freshly divorced (or so I think) guy, turn him down a few times, then finally start going out with him. He spends 3 months telling me we’re not ready to make it official while also describing in detail how he’s going to propose to me someday :). All we do is fight, but for some reason we keep trying to make it work. Then, plot twist! I discover he’s not actually divorced. Yessir, this man was legally married the entire time we were dating :))))). My pastor and his wife have effectively become my parents at this point, and I finally understand what people mean when they say their parents are their only friends. I spend a few months pretty much only enjoying the company of them and my little sister (and my Jamie, but she’s in Florida). This makes my life infinitely better. After another rather traumatizing trip overseas and a lot of unmerited favor from these people who decided to love me for no good reason, everything finally starts to chill out. There’s some extra trauma with the whole big girl job thing, and I'm sure a lot of things that I left out and/or repressed from my memory, but those are the highlights :). Now I'm moving to Pueblo.

...and that is the story of how I (should have) died, and instead just had a really not fun time being alive, but also found my Calebs, so to speak. If your life is in shambles and you’re living it in the company of abusive narcissists, would highly recommend no contact and and found family. Once again, you have my profuse apologies for disappearing. As far as it is in my power, it will not happen again. Til next time…

Love ya. - Line

[moss-wizard]

What a year this week has been.

[we-dont-matteratall]

It’s Monday.

[jacuwi]

It sure as hell is.

[actualaster]

The earlier in the day Monday you reblog the funnier this gets

[64mpg]

those days where your entire train of thought is just “I CAN’T FUCKING DO THIS I CAN’T DO THIS I’M NOT GONNA MAKE IT PLEASE HELP ME” and whole time ur just like. sitting at your desk completely fine

[mongeese]

omg look at how they look at each other 😍😍 there's NO romantic explanation for this literally the amount of devotion they have could only be platonic. people who r just dating don't act like that, those two are sooo best friends

[trekkiehood]

Impulsively just bought a ticket to see @pricelesstrashpanda in like... Two months. This is so unlike me

[pricelesstrashpanda]

She drags me into fandoms and I make up for it by being the most feral and worst influence in her life. Colorado Woman Syndrome is contagious can confirm.

[trekkiehood]

And she writes fanfics for shows that *I* talk sbout 😂