“He was the first man I’d met who wasn’t afraid of me.” -Hillary Clinton
AU:Dean, he looks shady. His earlier roommate ran away.
Shut up, Sammy. He looks adorable.
A healer in Nebraska chooses Dean to be saved and calls it the will of God. For a fleeting, blissful moment, Dean almost believes it.
Providence, Massachusetts. Dean chases a man after he assaults a woman, and when a pole flies through the man’s windshield and impales him, Dean reluctantly calls it the hand of God as he absently flexes his fingers.
All that pent up, confused kind of belief slithers away when the hour strikes and the truest force of evil tears apart him and every ounce of faith he may have harbored. There is no higher power, no force of will that takes interest in the life of one small, insignificant man. There’s just the taste of iron in Dean’s mouth as his heart slows and his soul falls down, down, down.
Dean breathes fresh air for the first time forty years later. It sears his new lungs and the heat of it settles low in him. Life. He’s tainted and battered and broken, but there is life and a speck of belief that maybe he really has been saved.
"You don’t think you deserve to be saved.”
Dean stabs the angel Zachariah in the throat and he watches the light of him burn out, the force of it so bright and hot that it scorches itself in spiraling patterns into his retina. For weeks after, every time he blinks, he sees it again. A brief flash of something otherworldly, something holy, something familiar.
But like a puddle of water, the harder he tries to grab hold of it, the faster it slips through his fingers. Eventually it fades so far away that he thinks he must have dreamed it. He must have closed his eyes, otherwise he wouldn’t even have eyes.
Dean’s faith exists in unsteady bursts. In his father, his brother, his friends, but never himself, and it always fades out. Like the flash of an angel’s grace bursting, the scorch eventually heals over and his faith needs some way to be restored. Every time it hurts just as bad, burns just as hot.
Now there exists the brand of Hell’s finest upon his arm, a physical reminder of all that darkness bottled up inside.
Heaven is empty, Hell is flowing over and trapped in the middle is Dean Winchester and the everlastingly inconsistent flickering of the broken remnants of his faith in the world.
I can’t do it. I’m not a hero. I’m not strong enough. Find someone else.
Sometimes he can’t help but think that he might know just how God felt when He abandoned it all.
WE’VE WALKE D ON THE FUCKIGN MOON BUT I CANT WEAR SHORT S TO SCHOOL BECAUSE SOME GROSS 15 YEAR OLD WILL C;UM IN HIS PANTS IF HE SEES LEGS
Purgatory!Dean is the stuff of nightmares ≧◔◡◔≦
just going to throw out there that Dean just referred to gay sex as the sexy kind of drilling.
like a dorkon the Supernatural set
I’m just an unattractive and really sad person who uses bands and TV shows to fill the void I feel in my heart.
WHEN HE WAS A YOUNG WARTHOGWHEN I WAS A YOUNG WARTHOOOOOOOOG