#incestmurderbros

[saintsurvivors]

the baby bat screamed out in fright

[wordsinhaled]

i am so all about wincest right now BROTHERS wails

[wordsinhaled]

the great poets once predicted he would burn so bright that systems of worlds would form around him as around a star;

later, they learned that he’d take life as often as he gave it: he’ll steal it back, they whispered, if you don’t earn your breath…

they built temples once he came, out of fear.

he was born with a lit candle in his heart, and with each year it guttered all the more, falsifying every prophecy. a cursed wick that smoldered and smoked, his waxy blood melting and melting…

he should have been their new light, but he curled into ashes and served the dark instead. prophets are vague, lie as it suits them;

he made his galaxies beneath the earth, and his crown was of bones picked clean, not of sunbursts. so it came to pass. and it was good…

[wordsinhaled]

sam folds, goes down heavy onto his knees on the gritty damp pavement. the sky has cleared and the last of the fog is receding and god is before him, resplendent and beautiful. he’s a little the worse for wear, but no matter; still almost the same chuck shurley that sam remembers, the familiar made stranger. 

sam looks up at him from his new vantage point and he thinks he can see the light leaking out around chuck’s edges; maybe if sam squints. instead he closes his eyes, lets himself tip over and float in the surreal peace that’s stealing slow over his whole world. 

“don’t—come on, don’t go doing that,” chuck is saying, from far away above him, from all around him, tone hovering between endeared and mortified.

sam stumbles, finds his unsteady feet again—as if pulled by some invisible cord to heed god’s will, and the patient voice of god says in his head: rise up, sam winchester. i have never needed you to kneel.

[wordsinhaled]

dean remembers the day that changed his life like it was yesterday.

when he was eight and sam four, their parents drove them cross-country to move into a fixer-upper out on the edge of some town too small for its name to matter in the scheme of things. that was mom’s dream—a house to make memories in, on lots of land where dean and sam could grow up surrounded by fresh air; a house that was a home. the place had come cheap, and dad was going to make it beautiful. 

but then, of course, everything happened, and what family could be the same after something like that? looking back on it, dean still thinks, irrationally—vindictively—maybe it was the house’s fault. even at eight, he hadn’t been able to see it as the kind of house that would ever be happy.

the house was set back from the road a ways; a messy gravel drive led up to the carport. dean remembers how the impala would lurch over the bumps. there were no trees at all out front (”yet,” dad said, and dean grinned in the backseat, imagining a big sprawling treehouse).

it was only later that they found out nothing would grow in that soil but grass. as often as dad mowed it, the scrubby grass always seemed to grow back twice as high, already dry, already mostly dead. it stymied dad, offended his winchester determination, but mom would put her arm around him as they looked out the kitchen window together at that stubborn grass and say, “honey, it gives the place charm.” mom always had that kind of optimism, before. 

they’d been living in the house for maybe half a year when it happened. 

he remembers the heat. and the light, this light that filled up his and sam’s shared bedroom like it was late morning instead of midnight. he remembers not being able to move, not being able to talk, and there was wet on his cheeks, but he couldn’t hear himself sobbing. 

sammy was screaming, soundless and awful, his face scrunched up with fear, and dean remembers feeling sick; sammy was never supposed to look like that. it was impossible to hear anything over the terrible noise-feeling that spread through the room, intensifying with the light. 

it vibrated through dean’s body—grinding warble, nails on chalkboard, inside him, outside him. and then sam was gone. swallowed up by the light, leaving only an ashy silhouette charred into the bedspread. 

dean didn’t speak for a year after that. when he finally did, the first thing he said was, “the light took him.” 

those were the only words he would say, in spite of patient teacher after patient teacher, mom’s worried face, dad’s questions, therapist after therapist.

the light took him. it took dean years to understand—really understand—that he’d witnessed his brother abducted. and then he began to believe,  because he had to. was he a little desperate? maybe. 

was he too fervent? no such thing.

“hey, wesson.” he nudges his new partner. “what do you think about aliens?” 

[luciferious-archive]

incestmurderbros replied to your post:

i think you’re going to notice a huge difference just from taking vitamins. i take a multivitamin every day and i always know when i forget to take it because i start to feel like shit lol

I only just started taking them today, so not long enough to really notice a difference (beyond anything placebic anyway), but I have high hopes! It's a twice a day multivitamin that's also supposed to help boost energy, which has always been an issue for me. I'll report back once I've been taking them for a while for sure.

[kunikidazai]

incestmurderbros replied to your post:extermiknit replied to your post:"crowley being...

omg please i just want to be put out of my misery tbh

same though. crowley being made a series regular is just making this all worse for me

[ivoryathena]

incestmurderbros replied to your post: okay so i’m watching from dusk till da...

he’s soooooooooooooo fucked up and not in an endearing way like in the show

i know like in the movie he looks at kate and i'm like you stAY AWAY YOU CREEPY MOTHERFUCKER 

but in the show i'm 100% about richie finding some weird comfort in the twisted way he forms relationships