Fallingonbrokenwings - FallingOnBrokenWings

TILT YOUR SCREEN BACK AND CRY.

when no one in class is ready for the test

He was born a warrior

with shrapnel freckles and poison green eyes

One of million, sent to fight an unbeatable behemoth

Every other soldier kept a picture- a pretty woman in pigtails, a house made of carved sycamore- but this one had only an amulet

He wears it over his chest like it'll stop a bullet

and keeps a knife under his pillow

He barely speaks, sleeps, eats,

and the only thing the others could get from him is that he's waiting for a brother to come home

In the meantime, he fights like his life has no worth

fights like there's someone out there who's does

There's salt in his pockets

and he runs through fire like it should fear him

There's no rain in the desert

but the soldier speaks of California storms

Rumors whisper heartbreak but the man's only ever spoken one word

Sam

That's not the one they carve on his gravestone

ALRIGHT YOU LITTLE SHITS I’VE MADE YOUR SKIN SOFT AND YOUR LIPS RED AS BLOOD NOW IT’S TIME FOR SOME FINE ASS HOME FURNISHINGS CUZ YOU’RE ABOUT TO LEARN HOW TO MAKE

MUTHA

FUCKIN

STRING

BALLS

FIRST THINGS FIRST YOU NEED A BALLOON. IF YOU’RE BASIC LIKE ME YOU CAN USE NORMAL BALLOONS OR IF YOU WANT YOUR BALLS TO BE AS ROUND AS THE SOULS YOU HARVEST THEN GET SOME PUNCHING BALLOONS LIKE THIS

NOW THE FOLLOWING STEP IS OPTIONAL AND BY OPTIONAL I MEAN JUST DO IT LIKE A NIKE SHOE. GET SOME VASELINE AND SMEAR A THIN LAYER ALL OVER YOUR BALLOON I KNOW IT’S GOOEY GET OVER IT WEAR GLOVES IF YOU MUST OK NOW YOU NEED SOME STRING I LIKE THIS KIND

YOU CAN USE COTTON STRING OR YARN OR HEMP WHATEVER YOU LIKE YOU CAN GET IT IN COOL COLORS OR JUST PLAIN ASS WHITE

DID I MENTION YOU SHOULD HAVE PUT DOWN NEWSPAPER OR SOMETHING BECAUSE THIS SHIT COULD GET MESSY? YOU SHOULD BE ABLE TO FIGURE THESE THINGS OUT. NOW THIS NEXT PART YOU CAN TOTALLY BUST OUT THOSE GLOVES AND I WONT EVEN JUDGE CUZ DAMN I HAVE MORE GLITTER ON MY FINGERNAILS THAN A DRAG QUEEN GET YOURSELF SOME MOD PODGE

I USED THE KIND WITH GLITTER OR YOU CAN USE ELMERS GLUE I GUESS IF YOU REALLY HAVE TO OR WHATEVER KIND OF CRAFT GLUE OR DECOUPAGE YOU LIKE TO USE. YOU CAN MIX IN GLITTER IF YOU WANT TO. NOW GET YOUR STRING AND CUT OFF HOW MUCH YOU THINK YOU WANT TO USE AND LAY IT ON A PAPER PLATE. NOW SOAK THE STRING IN MOD PODGE LIKE THE STRING IS A WHITE T-SHIRT AND THE MOD PODGE IS WATER.

NOW TIE THE STRING TO THE BALLOONS NECK LEAVING ABOUT A FOOT OF EXTRA STRING THEN WRAP IT AROUND UNTIL IT LOOKS LIKE A PIECE OF FUCKING ART AWWW YEAH YOU’RE SO GOOD AT ART NOW ALL THAT’S LEFT TO DO IS TIE IT SOMEWHERE TO DRY, TAKE OFF YOUR PANTS, AND CATAPULT INTO BED AND WAIT FOR TOMORROW

IS IT TOMORROW YET I SURE HOPE SO NOW THE NEXT STEP IS VERY IMPORTANT TAKE YOUR FINGERS AND WORK THE BALLOON AWAY FROM THE STRING BECUASE OTHERWISE IT WILL GET ALL CRUSHY LIKE THIS WHEN YOU POP THE BALLOON 

SO JUST GET YOUR FINGERS IN THERE AND UNSTICK THE STRING FROM THE BALLOON THEN SNIP A HOLE IN THE BALLOONS NECK AND CAREFULLY LET THE AIR OUT AS YOU KEEP WORKING THE STRING OFF

NOW SLAM DUNK THAT BALLOON IN THE TRASH YOU HAVE YOURSELF ONE HELL OF A STRING BALL NOT REALLY YOUR FIRST ONE PROBABLY WONT LOOK THAT AMAZING BUT DAMN YOU MADE IT AND YOU’RE A FUCKING ALL STAR GET YOUR GAME ON GO PLAY

NOW YOU CAN MAKE A BUNCH AND STRING FAIRY LIGHTS THROUGH THEM OR JUST HANG THEM AS DECORATIVES TRY YSING DIFFERENT COLOR STRING OR EVEN STRIPS OF LACE THE WORLD IS YOUR STRING BALL CLASS DISMISSED MOTHERFUCKERS

Chinese magazines of Jensen have taken over my feed

The wincest in this song really hurts

the dubious philosophy of salmon

ships without lanterns are lost to the sea

Dean’s been awake for a while when Sam’s labored breathing and thrashing limbs finally pull him from the nightmare they both know he’s having. For a moment, all he can hear is Sam’s pointed gasping directed at the ceiling. In this dark, anything could be there and they wouldn’t be able to tell. Dean likes it that way. He thinks Sam does too.

“Do you think she would still love me?” Sam asks breathlessly.

Dean thinks of that week away from Stanford, with Sam in the passenger’s seat again, murmuring mindlessly along to Aerosmith. How he woke earlier than Dean and turned on all the lights while padding around the room, going through a half-awake routine of brushing his teeth and pulling clothes on. The way his eyes shone and the corners of his lips pulled up when he folded open his wallet to tip the diner waitress. That easy smile that Dean’s memory had almost forgotten, like a polaroid dulled and tattered at the edges, now back in vivid technicolor.

“Yeah,” he whispers back, voice hoarse from the tightness in his chest. It sounds rough in the quiet of morning, like someone's been rubbing sandpaper against his lungs. Like the words have been cutting up his throat where Dean’s been holding them hostage. 

“How can you be so sure?” Sam’s voice comes back from across the divide, so empty and unknowing. As if he can’t fathom how someone could possibly love him, just little ol’ Sammy. Dean wants to reach across the space between them, thrust his thumb onto the pulse there, hold Sam’s hand until he just sees, but even Baby can’t span four years of running in opposite directions. The gap between their beds has never seemed wider, not even when Dean used to still order two queens knowing that the other would go unused.

In the safety of the darkness he wants to say some sentimental shit like ‘you have mom’s eyes’ or ‘kinda hard not to with that laugh’ but he’s never been that type of person, hates that he doesn’t know how to do this anymore. He bites his tongue until the pain is a sharp reminder in the dull, soundless room. He’s been quiet too long. The blood is bitter behind his lips. It reminds him that Sam’s would taste exactly the same.

“You’re you,” is what he says instead, and immediately regrets it, knows he said too much. Fists clench, sharp archs of pain where unkempt fingernails dig graves into his palm. The words were sharp in this paper-thin silence, slicing it open until all Dean can taste is blood, blood, blood. It pools in his mouth, his fingers, drips from the shadows pinned to the ceiling- pit, pat -until Dean can’t take it anymore and closes his eyes.

Sam stays quiet on the other bed, on the other side of the world. Dean can still hear his breathing, and knows he’s not asleep.

apfelgranate:

Sam stands on his tiptoes until you lift him up, his arms tight around your shoulders.