His kisses were like warm rain.
On the forehead, as long as he could remember, every night since he was a baby.
Brotherly, reassuring, affectionate.
From the crib, through elementary and junior high, even into high school.
They became a torrential downpour when plush lips met candy pink, they turned passionate, desperate, the night Stanford became reality.
Sadly again they were soft and barely a brush, ones of comfort, solace, and acceptance the night Jess was shown a pawn.
It was only a matter of time before they became each other’s breath, drawing and pushing air between them as nothing else mattered.
Sometimes they tasted of whiskey, sometimes of blood, sometimes of demon.
Then those times they would taste of death.
And the kisses still fell, as brother kissed brother, driving the cold away by sheer will, until butterfly kisses and whispered words of a prayer in each other’s name moved the universe in reprieve, again.
And the tears would fall like warm rain.
Dean didn’t say much after the fire.
John tried every approach he could think of and a few suggested by well-meaning strangers.
But at night Dean would crawl into the crib with Sam and whisper to the baby.
"We gotta be really good, Sammy." Dean used to say. "Then maybe they’ll give us mom back."
I just can’t imagine why
Sam has always
hated hunting so much
WHAT A BAB. And look at that eyeliner. mmmhmmm. I approve.
this is a work in progress hihi but thank you <3 I MISS YOU A LOT
*doesnt see name tagged* *tries not to be offended* *cries because you’re so fucking pretty* happy roseeeeeeee. :)))))
happy happy happy still happy from yesterday night!
DONT BE FRIENDS WITH ME I LAUGH AT MY OWN JOKES FOR YEARS
Look at the way his face lights up! (♥)