#an eye on his friends to make sure they werent... ya know... possessed????

[sampilled]

doing a lot of thinking about how scared sam was as a child

in the pilot we learn sam left hunting, not because he wanted normal but because he wanted safe.

in a draft of the pilot script, sam says he doesn't want to help dean find john because he "just stopped having nightmares" (obviously taken out because it would contradict later plot lines with sam having nightmares about jess dying but i wish they had replaced it with something similar because i think a lot less people would think of sam as selfish if we had got to hear it)

we also get this scene in 1x04

this is four episodes into the show! sam has been back in hunting for a month? maybe? and he is already having nightmares about the job again (and while dean tries to act tough, sam sees straight through him and knows that he's scared too)

hunting again is bringing back bad feelings that he thought he'd left behind but at this point, he is motivated to find his father and avenge jessica so he pushes through his fear, as a kid he didn't have these things to fuel him. he was just this sad lonely little child who was terrified out of his mind about all of the evil in the world that he should have been sheltered from!! terrified that his dad and his brother were going to be killed anytime they were out of his line of sight!!

in conclusion, i could've raised him, i could've kept him safe

[thereluctantinquisitor]

“I can hardly stand myself.”

In which Ralon and Cyrus bond (sorta, in their usual antagonistic way) in the Herald’s Rest over a lot of booze…

“I can hardly stand myself.”

Lowering his tankard from his lips, Ralon snorted wryly as he regarded his friend. “Yeah? Well, I can hardly stand you either, so… we’ve finally got something in common.”

Slumped at a table on the upper floor of the Herald’s Rest, Ralon and Cyrus had outpaced and outlasted even the most diligent drinkers for the evening. Now, they were accompanied only by the sound of their own voices and the gentle slosh of ale, the evening limping into true night, dark and cold as winter finally reached the mountains. 

“Yeah… fuck you too,” Cyrus mumbled into his cup, voice echoing slightly. It was about as civil as their conversations got. “Piss-head.”

For a moment, Ralon considered firing back an insult of his own, but he decided against it, his drink-addled mind wandering down a slightly different path. “That’s real messed up, y’know.” He jostled his tankard, stretching out one finger to point in Cyrus’ general direction. “You’re kinda stuck with yourself, Prickles. Might as well enjoy it.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Could shorten it to Prick?”

Cyrus gave a unimpressed grunt; the kind typically used to replace words like sure, fine, and whatever. “Y’don’t think I know that?” he continued, jumping back to before Ralon had so expertly insulted him. He leaned forward and attempted to plant his chin on the heel of his palm. It took him two tries before he met success, his elbow sliding slowly across the tabletop. “Y’don’t think it’s a fucking nightmare, being stuck in skin you don’t even want to look at?”

After regarding the thoroughly inebriated Orlesian for a moment, Ralon huffed and raised his brows. Or at least, he thought he did. His face was kinda numb. “Well, shit… you’re a miserable drunk.” Without missing a beat, he reached out and snagged a bottle of ale Cabot had fetched for them before heading to bed and poured it into Cyrus’ tankard, filling it to the brim. “That’ll do ya. Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with your skin. I mean, sure, the rest of you could use some work, but…” He trailed off, not sure where he was really going with the comment, then shrugged. “Guess I don’t see the problem.”

If Cyrus could have delivered a glare, Ralon was certain he would have. But, as it were, he just blinked slowly in Ralon’s general direction, one eye a little slower than the other. Eventually, Cyrus reached up and gestured to his face. “This.”

Ralon squinted, as though peering into a wishing well and trying to read the year one of the coins was minted. “Yeah.. gonna have to be more specific.”

Huffing, exasperated, Cyrus gestured again, this time running his finger along the lines on his face. “This,” he repeated sharply. “This shit right here. Fuck me…” Picking up his tankard, Cyrus dove in for another series of gulps. Ralon waited him out, saying nothing until the man eventually thudded his cup back down on the table.

“The… tattoos?”

“Call the Nightingale, we’ve found her a new agent,” Cyrus drawled, rolling his eyes. “Yes, genius. The tattoos.”

For a moment, Ralon just inspected them, eyes following the pale lines running down Cyrus’ face. Sure, they weren’t the most flattering things, but he had just assumed the Orlesian possessed a quirky artistic side that he kept buried under layers of snark and bitterness. Although, thinking about it now, the theory seemed beyond absurd. “Why’d you get ‘em, then?”

It seemed like a perfectly reasonable question, but the second Ralon asked it he knew it was the wrong one. Cyrus’ expression, more open than he’d ever seen it before, suddenly closed off, snapping shut like a door in the Antivan’s face. He broke eye-contact, picked up his mug, and drained the entire thing in a serious of deep, determined gulps. When he finished, Cyrus shoved himself back, stool skidding across the floorboards. “’m done,” he slurred, then staggered, barely catching himself on one of the beams that lined the upper floor of the Rest. Ralon pushed himself to his feet as well, reaching out to steady his squadmate. When Cyrus belligerently shook him off, Ralon frowned.

“Hey, we had a deal.” He moved in again, this time hooking his arm around Cyrus’ waist, ignoring the man’s protests. “No. Listen. We’ve had a miserable couple of weeks, so we were going to get pissed out of our minds and help each other stumble back to the barracks. Remember?”

“Get off. ’m fine,” Cyrus hissed, but as he spoke he swayed, first away from Ralon, then back against him, leaving the Antivan to bear most of his weight for a moment as his legs all but gave out. “F-Fuck…”

Also drunk but not dumb enough to chug an entire ale as a nightcap, Ralon staggered but managing to regain balance for the both of them. “Whoa, alright. C’mon, short-stuff. Let’s get goin’ before I end up carrying you back.”

“‘m… not short…” Cyrus’ feet dragged slightly as he walked, but he managed to keep them under him, much to Ralon’s relief. “You’re jus’… giant…”

Reaching the stairs, Ralon snorted, resting one hand on the railing to steady himself as he began a slow and careful descent with his precious Orlesian cargo. “Of all things to be in denial about,” he mused, but let it go, deciding Cyrus had been through enough for one night. Maker, he’d pay double for it come morning. “C'mon. Easy does it. If we’re lucky, we’ll make it back in time for Connors to whip up that hangover cure of hers before training.”

Cyrus groaned, the thought of training clearly turning his stomach. “Ugh. Kill me.”

Barking a laugh, teetering slightly as they reached the bottom of the stairs, all Ralon could do was sigh in solidarity. 

“Well would y’look at that? Another thing we agree on.”