#we keep each other human

[haychester]

Story of my life

[septembersghost]

Between Dean and Sam: who prefers to be liked, and who prefers to be right?

dean, in spite of everything, is always seeking a sense of belonging and has an inherent need to connect with the people whose paths cross his own. his silly little jokes, his charm, his ability to listen and lend sympathy and pick up on personal details, his desire to be useful (even outside of hunting itself, like enjoying being part of a team in hollywood babylon), he really does often want to be liked and included, even if that can only be fleeting. dean has consistently lived more on the fringes and the outside of "normal" society, so there's a longing he has to find his place. sam - while he definitely does like to be liked (who doesn't?), can also do without it. he strives to be right, even sometimes desperately wants to *prove* that he's right. it gives him a sense of purpose and stability, and appeals to the analytical approach he often utilizes. if dean is the heart, sam is the head. it's part of why they work so well together, enmeshed and naturally clicking as they do, and it's also part of why they clash, because their approaches and perspectives are often coming from such unique to them (stubborn) places, and that's very informed not only by their personalities and internal drives, but by their upbringing and the roles by which they are consistently defined. it doesn't mean they both don't like to be right, or both don't choose to be personable (and caring) when possible, but when everything is on the line, it's how they're wired to respond and to prove themselves. and they need that balance - too much emotion or too much logic can lead you astray, but working in tandem gives them strength.

[septembersghost]

Oh, thinkin' about all our younger years, There was only you and me, We were young and wild and free. Now nothing can take you away from me, We've been down that road before, But that's over now. (x)

(dedicated to @alaynestone​ for loving our boys with me for so many years, listening to me cry, and being the best 💕)

[septembersghost]

this showed up in my IG recommended, but op's blog @rue2xx seemingly doesn't exist anymore? the levels of ❤ I have for this...

You will always end up here.

They chose family. And isn't that kind of the whole point?

[septembersghost]

pulled the car off the road to the lookout, could’ve followed my fears all the way down, and maybe I don’t quite know what to say - but I’m here in your doorway. and I just wanted you to know, that this is me trying.

spn x my favorite albums 💗 folklore, Taylor Swift

[septembersghost]

there’s something devastating in the way spn became intensely about generational trauma, and never quite explored it in depth (so we say of many things), but it starts as this story where we think...isn’t it horrible that their mother was torn open and died in the fire on the nursery ceiling, and how their entire life was molded in john’s grief and unrelenting revenge in the hunt for the yellow eyed demon, how their childhood was stolen, their safety, how heart-wrenching it is that they only ever had one another, how dean was unfairly parentified and sam was othered, how they were cruelly trained to be warriors more than they were ever allowed to be kids - and then we find out it was azazel and his scheme for his special children, and then we find out, actually, mary also made a deal, before her sons were even a glimmer in her future, this was inescapable, but then we find out, no, more than that, heaven itself conspired to make sure these two boys, these two perfect vessels, constructed to contain the blazing cosmic energy of the two most potent archangels, had to exist, and the plan stretches back all the way to cain and abel, and perhaps further still.

and samuel says, “you had ancestors hacking the heads off vamps on the mayflower,” as if this is a point of pride, as if hunting in the campbell blood is such a given that they’re happy to be soaked in it, and he doesn’t trust dean, because dean balks at the harshness and underhandedness of his methods, because dean is a hunter, yes, but that’s not everything. that’s not all he is. he is so much more than that. samuel perceives this as weakness, when it’s strength.

and henry tells them, "my father and his father before him were both men of letters. as john and you two should have been. we're preceptors, beholders, chroniclers of all that which man does not understand,” and somehow this equates to legacy - another legacy they didn’t know they had - and that’s supposed to be a revelation, but it’s just more burden, another thing they are, but are not.

(henry also said, “you’re also Winchesters. as long as we're alive, there's always hope,” but let’s not even begin to get into that...)

and lucifer looks at dean, wearing the face of his beloved brother, and he says, cooly, “you will always end up here.” and michael looks at dean, wearing the face of a version of his father that he never knew, and says, “think of a million random acts of chance that let john and mary be born, to meet, to fall in love, to have the two of you. think of the million random choices that you make, and yet how each and every one of them brings you closer to your destiny. do you know why that is? because it's not random. it's not chance. it's a plan that is playing itself out perfectly. free will's an illusion, dean." and michael looks at him again, wearing the face of the brother they didn’t know they had, and yells, “you are no longer a part of this story!” when dean unwaveringly standing there is the story’s defining factor - and it’s not because of destiny, it’s because of choice. michael and lucifer can never understand why dean comes to the battlefield for his brother. but sam understands, and breaks through.

every single force colluded to make them exist. to attempt to box them into predetermined fates, to maneuver them into place. hunters, men of letters, boy with the demon’s blood, righteous man, angelic vessels, weapons of the world.

eve hadn’t even sunk her teeth into the forbidden fruit when heaven and hell were already plotting their inevitable war, wrapping it in gospel and calling it divine, an illusion of faith that’s really delusion of grandeur. an inability to recognize what gives the universe its true light. the winchesters were most wanted and desired and that bite hadn’t yet been tasted.

all of this set into clockwork motion, every twig on their family tree, roots drenched in violence underneath, playing exactly the part on the stage that they were meant to play. even john and mary. why would anyone ever expect anything more from sam and dean? they followed in footsteps they couldn’t even imagine having been taken. it’s generational trauma that echoes the turns of the wheels of the universe. stars erupted and flamed out in the expanse of it. the cosmos would surely laugh at the thought of these two boys being that valuable, but certainly wouldn’t expect them not to hold up their ends of the bargain, claim the mantles constructed for them, be the destructive flame and the holy sword.

generational trauma, all their own pain and suffering and scars following a lineage of the same, the entire road unfurling under their feet. all this twisted, thorny fate was thrust upon them, and sam and dean just kept defying it. they kept questioning it. they kept overturning it. saying no. saying yes, but then crumbling that yes from the inside. choosing humanity and love and free will and their own identities over and over and over again. being such integral bolts in the machine that they themselves could break its gears, remake it. it’s wild and brave because they’re told repeatedly that their intended designs matter more than anything, and because of that, they don’t matter at all. they are insignificant. what they are, in their cores, in their souls, all those manipulators perceive those fundamental facets as not being real, as not having meaning, but they’re the most real and most meaningful things. (you’re nothing, so you’re everything.) it’s something gods, monsters, angels, demons, and even their own family could never have foreseen, and can never steal away from them. their individual natures were serendipity; not divine intent, but human transcendence. the power in their bond, and in the way the existence of their compassion touched others, that was unexpected.

destiny dictating generations. all that weight which was inherited, yet what mattered most was what was inherent to them. they weren’t supposed to have that tenderness in their hands or that gentleness in their souls, that defiance and cleverness in their bones and minds. they weren’t supposed to have those open hearts. but they did. there’s a miracle, right there.

[septembersghost]

THE DEVIL DOESN'T KNOW OR CARE WHAT KIND OF CAR THE BOYS DRIVE

VICKY, I was going to emotionally meltdown to you privately as usual, but I find this important, and it is dear to me (I mean, all of our conversations are important and dear to me, but this one has shareable context? 💕), it’s perhaps even more deeply affecting given the past decade, and recent events; its purpose has clarity that I want to hold onto for additional reasons now, so I’m posting it -

This line is monumental, it’s everything, because it’s what underscores the core of their journey, the enormous difference between the Winchesters and every single monster or agent of heaven or minion of hell or even misguided human being who tried to come after them in vengeance or dominance, who tried to dictate their fates. They don’t know or care what makes them...them. They can’t conceive of the depth of their humanity, how world-changing it is, the power of their ability to love (and, like, canonically in Swan Song, the writing went, “love as the Platonic ideal - ie: the true and essential nature of things that cannot necessarily be perceived by substantive/reflected reality because it is so much more sublime - that love is the most tremendous force imaginable, and is stronger than prophecy, death, and any religion.”)

Everything about the Impala in Swan Song is so breathtaking because, of course, it’s not really about that at all. Like the toy soldier. It’s about the boys, and the way they made their home where they could find it, in between stops at sketchy motels in forgettable towns, their home was safe on the road, the squeaky doors, the rattling vents, their initials carved in forever, because their home was each other. Falling asleep to the feel of the moving tires. Singing at the top of their lungs. Helping one another when they were injured. Laughing at bad jokes and pranks, momentary annoyances dissipating into the ether as the signs flew past. Dean knowing exactly how to handle a hairpin turn, taking assured command of the wheel, but also knowing when to surrender it, to show vulnerability in the simple act of handing over the keys. Deciding what to grab from the trunk. Rolling out into the night, and pulling up into the sunrise. Sitting on the hood and watching the stars, and not needing to say a word. This isn’t to say it’s easy or harmless or untangled, it is complicated and difficult and it can bear sharp thorns, for them and others; it is selfishness and selflessness all in the same breath; any blaze in the dark can be used as guidance or destruction. The brutal fights, the aching mistakes, the spectres of their parents, the shadows of their upbringing, the violence leaving blood on their tender hands, the bruises and whiskey-drenched stitches, the destiny meant to carve them into seraphic warriors with their personhood sapped away, all that hurt and exhaustion, it’s all part of what happens to them, but it’s not them. What makes them who they are is something God and the Devil could never comprehend, because they don’t care to know, they can’t uncover their spirits. Those intimate, innately human bonds of connection and understanding and joy don’t matter to the divine plan - which makes them matter more than anything else. The sacrifices, the fundamental, stubborn free will, all that almost unbearable love, it’s the most incandescent thing in the universe.

Michael and Lucifer don’t expect Dean to show up on the battlefield (a battlefield that is a cemetery, a war predicated entirely on powder white bones and waiting tombstones, on dying and defeat, and he rides in like a classical knight, all honest devotion and love-soaked lungs and sanctuary heart, to bear witness, because he refuses to let his brother die alone). They treat him like a nonentity, yet he’s the most shining, valuable entity in the whole world. Lucifer thinks breaking him to pieces - ruthlessly tossing him against the windshield of the car he’s never noticed, shattering it, the most important object in pretty much the whole universe because it’s wrapped up in their childhood, their enduring memories, their reunion as they learn to earnestly know one another as whole people, everything that carried them to that place together - shattering him (and his perfect face, and there are a lot of layers to the physical damage he takes there) will be enough to stop him, but it isn’t. Dean is not going to leave, Dean will never give up. Dean brings the sun with him (who’s the real morning star?). He is symbolically aligned as the sun in that scene, depicted as that light that glints from the car to the toy soldier to Sam’s eyes, the luminous presence which is enough to bring Sam back into control of his mind and soul. The montage set to no sound beyond the wind, as Sam’s memories spin faster and faster, as hope and love return to him in a rush, and he unclenches his fist.

It never occurred to them that, sure, maybe they never really had a roof and four walls, but they were never, in fact, homeless. It is true of the Impala because she’s special and iconic and cool, and symbolizes a certain happiness and liberation, the trusty steed that lets our folk heroes travel the edges of the map, but that line’s center is them. Their vitality, their resonance, their promise.

The Devil doesn’t care what kind of car the boys drive, and so the Devil has a blindspot. He has no concept of their essences. It’s why he loses. Ten years later, it’s why Chuck - as much as his megalomaniacal cruelty claims to have controlled everything, is narcissistic enough to think he knows what makes them tick - loses too. Everything they truly are is in defiance of their surface archetypes. Their resistance and resilience is astounding to everyone, and its roots didn’t grow in revenge or spent bullets, their earthen foundation is love.

I put something about this in tags on a gifset, but when Cas is sent back after Sam has thrown himself and Michael into the cage, Dean is on his knees, and Cas heals his terrible injuries (erasing the physical pain, but never removing the internal wounds), and Dean rises to his feet as he asks Cas if he’s God. And it was striking to me because I felt a link between it and the scene in Inherit the Earth where they were just so undaunted that it was practically unhinged, laughing in Chuck’s face, bloodied and with broken bones, holding each other up, still getting on their feet every time. It acts as reverse supplication. The Winchesters don’t bend to divine intent, it instead orbits around them. Celestial beings - ally or foe - stand before them in some pretense of commandment, and they choose to rise back up, because that’s how powerful their own humanity is. It’s stronger than the forces of heaven or hell.

And if we take it down to its origin in Dean himself, that’s why he’s so transformative - for his brother (we have examples for days of Dean professing his love for Sam and I could inscribe them here so easily, they’re ingrained in my remembrances, but let’s talk the reverse, since we’re looking at the constellations of Dean’s influence - no sir, not before everything; you're my big brother, there's nothing I wouldn't do for you; I don't want ten years. I don't want one year. I don't want candy! I want to trade places with Dean; it's okay, Dean. it's gonna be okay. I've got him; I see a light at the end of this tunnel, and I'm sorry you don't. I am. but it's there, and if you come with me, I can take you to it. you're not a grunt, Dean. you're a genius. when it comes to lore, you're the best damn hunter I've ever seen, better than me, better than Dad. I believe in you; it was always “one more job,” you know? one more job. then I was gonna go back to law and then my life. I guess I really understand now that this is my life. I love it, but I can’t do it without my brother, I don’t wanna do it without my brother; please, Dean deserves better. Dean deserves a life; you were the one who was always there for me, the only one; my entire life, you've protected me - from Dad, from Lucifer, from everything. I didn't always like it, you know, but it's the one thing in the whole world that I could always count on. it's the only thing I've ever known that was true), for Castiel (who, unlike Lucifer or God, is able to learn to care about everyone because of Dean, who we hear say by his own admission that this changed him, Dean as a catalyst, the knowledge that all his actions are defined by love as radical philosophy - you’re the most caring man on earth, you are the most selfless, loving human being I will ever know), for Benny, for Amara, even for Rowena, for Crowley, at times for manifestations of Death themselves, for their found family members, whomever you want to include on this list (there are so many) - his capacity for love as pure as that, for compassion and forgiveness, no matter any trauma or anger or heavy burdens on his shoulders, despite all those collected scars, is such an irrevocable influence that it molds and shapes everyone around him, redefines them, unveils wild and fluorescent colors, changes events and possibilities so profoundly that predestination falls apart at his feet. He’s so beautiful they’re content to exist in tandem with whatever of him they’re allowed, whatever he’ll reveal to them, whatever shimmering facets, whatever echoes. They’re content to give themselves over to gnawing, unknown chasms of potentially chthonic places if only to know he’ll remain walking in the world.

The car is a vital component because the car isn’t only a car. It’s an extension of Dean. It’s a home because of Dean, and what Sam and Dean have shared. Dean’s woven into every golden thread of the story so transcendentally that he can never be extricated from it. Swan Song gives us this meaning without ever having to say it outright, cloaks it in metaphor, but it’s always there. The final montage at the end, “they chose family,” highlights their bravery as a throughline to their bond, and at its heart, it’s still all love. Love cannot be killed or swept aside.

Nothing ever really ends, does it?

[septembersghost]

thinking about dean and sam sharing clothes - all throughout their childhoods, it stands to reason that sam wore dean's hand-me-downs, a little soft and worn from wear, a little oversized on him, and he complained about it at times, as kids do, but deep down it was nice, almost comforting, inheriting things from his big brother, wrapping himself in that protection and bravery that he looked up to so often when he was young in a tangible way. and then he suddenly grew, and was taller than dean, and neither of them really knew what to do with that development - dean so used to being able to shield sam with his own body, and now he has to glance up to look him in the eye, and sam tries, unconsciously, to scrunch down a little, to even it out, but dean's clothes don't fit anymore. dean worries silently about sam outgrowing him in the same way. he leaves for stanford, they go two years without one another. dean comes to find him, wearing something too big himself this time - john's jacket. then dean gets hurt and nearly dies, and their positions reverse, and dean gets wrapped in sam's soft, too-big gray hoodie, and sam is protecting and taking care of him, and dean has to lay part of his old armor down and realize the way they share now is different, the balance is different, and maybe...it could be good. faith for the both of us in many ways. it's one of those tiny turning points for how they learn to reknow one another as people