This is a predominantly Supernatural blog, but you will also see a lot of other TV shows, books, and movies. Expect whining, crying, musing, and occasional accidental humor that results from my unfortunate life. I like margaritas and musical theatre.
His eyes aren’t windows. They’re keyholes, and you’ve always been good at picking locks. You open him up, make him doubt, make him choose.
It’s a slow, casual breakdown; it’s a lesson; it’s will. He only hits you once, only one hundred times less than you deserve.
You lost the key, and the locks have been changed. He’s got secrets in his palms, and you realize later you never asked to hold his hand.
You think (maybe) what if angels (angels) can’t (don’t) choose (need) how (to) to live (breathe)?
He’s learned how to say no. And you know you’re the one who taught him about free will but you want to hold him, shake him, beg him: please, please, choose me.
