why do humans get such lame differences in appearance?? like there are a bunch of different species of dogs and turtles and birds like why couldnt’ we get cool stuff like spikes coming out of our heads or giant fangs or the ability to spray acid out of our mouths no we got different fur color
we can’t even handle having different skin tones without fucking everything up
i am supposed to be writing fanfic and being productive
but all i want to do is curl up into a ball and finish reading the 200k unfinished avengers fanfic i found last night and am already a quarter of the way through
also i think i’m coming down with a cold
It’s been months since Sam’s had any sort of positive touches. Weeks and weeks building up where he’s so desperate for affection or attention of any kind that he lies in bed at night with his palms pressed flat against his stomach, thumb rubbing against his lowest rib, along the dip of his hipbones. He doesn’t even go lower than his waistband, he just wants to feel some sort of skin-on-skin contact, who cares if it’s sexual.
The night he finds out about Gadreel, the night he wakes up alone and terrified in a motel room, no way of knowing what city or even what state he’s in, Sam thinks the lack of human contact is going to make him collapse. Gadreel had taken another temporary vessel so he could leave Sam’s body and communicate with him like that, but Sam didn’t want to touch the angel that had been inhabiting him so grotesquely for the past few months, and Gadreel made it obvious he wanted to be out of there as quickly as possible anyway. So he left Sam alone and now Sam’s standing in front of the bathroom mirror, shaking so hard he thinks he might throw up. He can’t look at himself, just at his hands, clenched white around the sink. Sound of his knee hitting the rusted drainpipe loud and echoing in the cramped space, and Sam’s sure he’s going to pass out.
He hears a voice behind him, low and familiar in a way that makes Sam’s entire body ache, and when he turns he’s facing—Lucifer. It’s not Lucifer in any vessel Sam recognizes, but Sam knows him instantly. Would know him anywhere, that curious tilt of his head, the way his eyes sharpen into focus and then soften in curiosity as they look Sam over. The patient, half-smile curving his lips at the corner.
The way his Grace, however dulled it might be, reaches out to Sam like a beacon, soothing over his soul and cooling down the fever inside him.
“Hello, Sam,” Lucifer says, quiet, and Sam punches him.