no one ever asks me anything but i hoard alllll these fuckin gifs jUST IN CASE someone ever does. like. “im waiting. i am ready with my 108357 gifs that i have never gotten to use”
Sam is thirteen when he reads Wuthering Heights for the first time for his English class.
He doesn’t understand it.
“They had choices,” he says to Mr. Stockton, his English teacher. “And they made the worst ones.”
“That’s what a tragedy is, Sam,” his English teacher says, somber as he nods. “A story about people with flaws or a conflict with some higher power that leads to their destruction.”
Sam’s brows draw together in surprise and confusion, blinking against the hazy late afternoon sunlight that fall in slices through the blinds on the windows.
But they had choices he wants to repeat.
Instead, he says, “I thought Wuthering Heights was supposed to be a romance.”
“If you think love equals obsession with someone and find the destruction of yourself and everyone around you for the sake of it romantic, then yes. It’s a romance.”
He doesn’t understand, not then—not yet—but he nods anyway.
He’s fourteen when he reads Romeo and Juliet for his ninth-grade English class.
Star-crossed lovers and he understands them so much better than Cathy and Heathcliff. He can’t articulate why, exactly, but he feels it to his bones.
He’s sixteen when he kisses his brother for the very first time, soft, tentative brush of lips that sears him to his soul, branded forever by the way Dean kisses him back, hand coming up to touch his cheek, shaking with the faintest tremor he’s never seen in his brother’s hand.
This hand that has held guns and killed monsters since before Sam knew monsters were real, cupping his face, so gentle, pulling him in, and it breaks his heart to know how fragile Dean really is, vows then and there never to let him shatter. Wraps his arms around his brother’s shoulders and kisses him with wild, fierce promise.
He’s eighteen when he finally understands Wuthering Heights, staring into the truth of his father’s face for the very first time.
He’s barely twenty-six when Dean dies for the final time, ripped apart by Hellhounds. Twenty-six and he has nothing but this empty hole through the middle of him, aching and crying out his brother’s name, heart beating like a fist wrapped in blood.
He kisses still, pallid lips one last time, cleans his brother’s body and dresses him in fresh clothes, digs a grave and commits him to the ground. He lies against the fresh-turned dirt when it’s done, one hand clasping the amulet around his neck, tears slowly turning the loose earth against his cheek into mud.
He lies there until the sky lightens, slate gray at its edge, and wishes for even a single drop of poison.
I am really interested in these tag posts so here is another