okay yes good i think this will work for nOW I DN’T CARE IF IT’S THE SAME THEME AS MY RP BLOG gOD I FUCKING HATE THEME HUNTING
Dean Winchester has two prized possessions. The first, of course, is the Impala. The Impala that’s been his since the moment his father brought it home. The other being a gleaming, black Gibson guitar.
Not many people know this about Dean. Not even Bobby. Just Sam and their dad, from all those nights in cold hotel rooms, starving off the boredom. Dean never took lessons, didn’t have the time. Instead, he meticulously learned each chord, each string by heart, watched tutorials online, and taught himself the lullabies to put Sam to sleep.
“You haven’t touched that in a while,” Sam says from the doorway, except it’s not Sam, not really. It’s just a shell, a shell that makes Dean ache for those nights in hotel rooms with an absent father and nightmares that made Sam cry out in fear for his older brother. Dean strums the guitar and cringes at the off pitches. He immediately starts tuning it, not lifting his eyes. Sam shifts indecisively and clears his throat.
“Yeah, I needed a little…pick me up,” Dean says finally, and Sam takes a seat on the opposite bed with a small noise of agreement.
After a few minutes of awkward, wince-inducing chords, the familiarity returns to his fingers. Dean lets himself relax slowly, the tension seeping out of his shoulders. His head starts to bow and before he knows it, he’s singing under his breath to old songs and his eyes are closed. He loses himself in broken lyrics and hummed words, in memories of being the older brother and cleaning his first gun at fourteen. He sighs and taps his foot, plucking at the strings.
“I remember that song,” Sam says after a few minutes, making Dean jump in surprise. “You sang it to me the night after Dad killed that—”
“The vamp, yeah.” Dean’s fingers falter at the memory of the sheer terror he had felt. He’d been fifteen, standing in front of his brother in an abandoned building, their father no where in sight. The vamp was in front of them, bearing down, and then suddenly its head was rolling away and Dean’s jacket was covered in blood. Sam had cried for hours; he cried until Dean finally put him to bed, and then after when he woke up screaming. Their dad was burying the body; Dean pulled out the guitar and within minutes Sam was asleep, exhausted. After that, whenever Sam woke up from a nightmare he would be lulled back to sleep by the gentle strings of the guitar.
“Keep playing,” Sam says softly, meeting Dean’s gaze. And he knows it, knows that Sam is empty, he doesn’t feel anything, but he can’t help but hope. Dean starts playing again, softly, watching Sam’s eyes fall closed, and he’s hit with a fierce ache for his old brother.
He frowns but keeps playing, and that sit like that for hours afterwards.
Dean is sure he’s dying.
“Sammy…Sam…” he moans, then lets out a strangled yell when the knife pierces his skin again. “s-Sam….SAM!” he screams, body going taunt with pain. He opens his eyes just in time to see yellow, and then-
“Dean, Dean? Hey, you okay?”
“Jesus Christ,” Dean gasps, staring at the ceiling. He feels sweat cooling on his forehead and his throat feels like it’s been rubbed with sandpaper. “What the hell…”
“I think Hell is right,” Sam says from somewhere beside him, but Dean doesn’t bother to look. He can barely see the ceiling, it’s so dark. It must be early. He swallows thickly and closes his eyes again, wiping at his forehead.
They lay in silence for a minute, and then suddenly Sam shifts and starts playing.
It’s nothing fantastic or beautiful or tear-worthy, but Dean’s breath catches and his heart stutters a little because he knows that song. He’s played it hundreds of times, he can feel phantom chords under his fingers as Sam stumbles his way through them.
“Sammy,” Dean whispers, and even though Sam doesn’t answer, he understands. “Thank you.”
“Anytime,” Sam says evenly, pitch jumping with the word.
Dean closes his eyes and listens to the quiet music, and he thinks even though that’s not really his brother, sometime’s it’s okay to pretend.
creepy fun fact about my room:
sometimes when the fan’s on and everything else is dead silent (like, when everyone else is asleep), i hear—or at least think I hear—singing or voices. it’s different than if i was hearing someone in another part of the house.
i always think my radio’s on, but it isn’t. then, the voices stop.
dean what is with your wallpaper
#’Dean what are you doing?’ Sam asked as he walked out of the bathroom with a towel draped over his head. #Dean was lounging back on his bed propped up on one elbow and his phone in his other hand.#’Hold on this is cool’ Dean said before a push of a button filled the room with the unmistakable sound of a phone’s fake camera shutter #Sam scrubbed at his hair with the towel as he watched his brother take a picture of what appeared to be his shoes.#’Dude come on. you’re supposed to be be packing up your bag’ Sam pushed wanting to get out of this town half-buried in snow. #Ignoring the irritated tone in his brother’s voice. Dean hopped out of the bed and held his phone in front of Sam’s face. #’Dude with that stupid wallpaper does’t it look like I took this picture outside at like one of those ski vacation places?’ #Dean’s smile faltered when he got absolutely no response from his brother. ‘We should do that some time’ he added and smiled again.#’What?’ Sam huffed out a laugh. ‘Go skiing? Haven’t you gotten enough snow tracing that dumb yetti around all week?’ #’Not now you grinch. Next year’ Dean said with a finalizing nod. Sam just smiled and shook his head because maybe it’d be nice. Next year. #And a year rolls by and Dean looks at the wallpaper on his phone he hasn’t used in 6 months of his shoes and a tacky wallpaper #’Guess we shouldn’t have waited until next year’ he says to himself inside his garage. #’You comin Dean?’ Ben calls out from inside the house and Dean turns the phone off and drops it back into the Impala’s trunk. #He took a moment to recollect himself and took a drink from the flask in his pocket. He made a promise. #I saw the queue my queue met at the park smiling at her candlelight vigil
I saved the best for last.
when i went for this photo, Jim greeted me with ‘hello again’. I think he remembered my numb/blank look from our solo shot. I can’t stop looking at this one. They were both so close and i love them and they’re characters so much and i cannot help but see Bobby and Cas…