Latest Posts by ephostame - Page 4
'Biomechanical Surrealism' Landscape Paintings By: H.R. Giger (1972-1979)
just the Negotiator and Skyguy being total bros, you know, the usual
FILTH TEACHES FILTH.
naiad in the water
peel back the skin to see what lies underneath
Wara! 2023 - oil on canvas — Krzysztof Powałka (Polish, b.1985)
https://www.instagram.com/k.powalka_oilpaintings
Wara! 2023 - oil on canvas — Krzysztof Powałka (Polish, b.1985)
https://www.instagram.com/k.powalka_oilpaintings
one day, Cody embarrasses himself in front of his General badly enough that he decides the only solution is to fake his death, forcing everyone else in the battalion to refer to him as Commander Colby, Commander Cody's 'replacement'
little does he know that Obi-Wan can tell that Cody isn't really dead, but is just too polite to bring it up with Commander 'Colby' even though he doesn't quite understand why his Commander felt the need to go through this masquerade
until he accidentally reveals his knowledge a month later by accidentally referring to his 'new' Commander as Cody, then immediately recognizing his faux pas and apologizing profusely for 'dead-naming' his Commander
'Colby' is so mortified that his scheme was seen through that he immediately fakes his death again and returns as the miraculously-revived Cody, and swears everyone to secrecy about the matter
which, of course, means that the entire GAR knows about the incident within a standard week
while Rex is busy making sure that Cody never lives this down, Fox decides that the idea is genius and decides to replicate it himself on Coruscant whenever he thinks a Senator is starting to get too familiar with him
this is why there's so many different named Coruscant Guard Commanders: it's all Fox all the way down
the Chancellor is baffled by this, but can't let on that he's noticed Fox's charade without risking revealing that he can tell all of the 'different Commanders' he interacts with are the same man using the Force, so he is forced to play along
Scary dog privilege
so i was reading a bunch of star wars fanfic (i have not actually watched star wars yet. shh.) and ruminating about how clearly the Jedi teachings have a serious disconnect between what they ostensibly mean (as a perfectly stable space philosophy based on a perfectly stable nonspace philosphy) and how they are presented, definitely irl (i.e. a number of people being like NO ATTACHMENTS?! NO EMOTIONS?! HOW CAN YOU NOT CARE ABOUT WHAT YOU GOVERN?! HAVE YOU NO COMPASSION?! when i am given to know that is in fact strictly incorrect) and presumably also in-universe because i have a very limited view of what exactly happened in Anakin’s head during Everything but popular consensus seems to be that There Was A Disconnect. and also possibly he needed therapy he maybe didn’t get, and also possibly that since the Jedi didn’t usually take in older initiates, they were legitimately unprepared to raise someone with different fundamental foundational ideas, even notwithstanding his specific circumstances.
*anyway*
then i jumped to reading a youjo senki fanfiction where Tanya was doing the ‘i believe strongly in the intensely rational and try not to let myself be ruled by emotions because that’s foolish and inefficient, what do you mean i am not always self aware about that’ thing. (i have personal interpretations of Tanya but they’re neither here nor there for the purposes of this thought.)
and then i made the connection of hey, what if post-life-as-Tanya she got yeeted into star wars? i mean you could also do some neat things with Salaryman getting yeeted directly there without being in youjo senki proper first, idk, but the main point is just… what sort of Jedi would Tanya be? because like her thing about ah yes we must not let emotions rule us, rational behaviour is the only way forward, *is* in direct opposition of any YOU MUST USE EMOTIONS TO FUEL THE DARK SIDE or whatever is going on there, like, that shit is something Tanya would be explicitly philosophically opposed to. (especially if she doesn’t have to go full magical doping into combat.)
on the other hand Tanya is… her decisions do not make her seem like an ideal Jedi, to the untrained eye. also while i personally interpet her even as Salaryman to have been neuroatypical as heck and therefore (mood) having a somewhat nonaverage experience with how emotions work, i feel also like there are some that she probably does just… not unpack properly? like, in a way that impedes inner peace and self-understanding or something, idk. which i feel like would be a quiet albatross around any potential Jedi teachings she may or may not absorb?
like i said idk, but mostly it would be interesting to explore the idea of how Tanya would react to getting isekai’d again, now into Star Wars, maybe as a baby Jedi. even notwithstanding how you could use her to fuck up the entire plot of Star Wars in basically any way you see fit, her relationship with the philosophical structure would be interesting to explore. also there are many ways you could append Being X to that superstructure, or, like, unappend him, and I think that would be neat.
Fox after reading his nth xenophobic death threat: Civvies are getting lazy with their death threats just bland 'You'll never find the body meat droid' is such a boring threat. A better threat would be "You'll never stop finding the body"
Thorn, equally bored: Or just say "They'll be finding parts of you for at least four months...and you'll still be alive for three of them"
Fox: Now that's a threat!
Quinlan sitting up: Do you guys need therapy
Fox: Just another day as a Corrie guard
Random Civilian: I love your accent, Commander. Where's it from?
Commander Fox: A cloning lab
Some thoughts on Sam & Dean’s handgun preferences
Or: why Sam has more guns, but Dean is the better shot
So I can’t find much proper meta about the weapons (and even the SPN wiki was making mistakes.) But I think there’s a goldmine of good character stuff here. Ryan Steacy has been the SPN armorer since the beginning of the show, and he’s put some really nice thought into the boys. Respect, love, appreciation for him.
So… I’ll just jump right in, shall I?
Dean’s M1911A1
Dean carries the baddass American pistol. It’s very macho, very MURICA. The 1911 was the service gun during WWI & WWII, right up through the Korean war. So it gets (and deserves) a lot of love. They have a reputation for needing more maintenance than some modern pistols, but considering how often Dean’s just sitting there, casually cleaning while chatting with Sam, he probably sees this as more a feature than a bug. He’s a natural mechanic. Firearm maintenance is probably relaxing and zen for him.
(I do think that for Sam it’s more a stressed-based compulsion. He tends to do it when he’s feeling helpless or scared. In “Hello, Cruel World” Dean interprets Sam’s gun-cleaning as sign that he’s in a bad headspace.
BOBBY: Well, at least he’s not curled up under the sink. DEAN: Yeah, no, he’s just sitting there silently field stripping his weapon.
And Hallucination!Lucifer sees it as evidence that Sam’s suicidal. Sam goes for a more traditionally low-maintenance pistol, and I kinda think Dean may clean it for him a lot of the time.)
But anyway. Dean’s 1911 holds large .45 caliber Colt ACP rounds - which means it can only fire seven shots before he has to reload. (Sam’s pistol, by the way, can fire seventeen shots in a row.)
And people who like the 1911 say this is fine. The bullets are so big and the gun is so powerful that seven shots is all you need. (You hear the phrase “stopping power” or “knock-down power” a lot.) But there are also the people who think that the 1911 is just over-powerful, and it isn’t worth it to sacrifice carrying capacity and accuracy for pure force.
Because yeah, it is harder to be a really good shot when you’re using .45 ACP rounds. Target shooting teachers will probably start you off with baby .22mm bullets, then slowly move you up to something bigger (bigger bullets = slower bullets = less accurate bullets. Also more recoil, which makes everything harder.) This guy is kind of intense, but puts it well when he says “every step up the caliber ladder means another round of very serious training.”
But hey, Dean is a better shot than Sam
Like, I don’t think it’s ever explicitly stated, but of course he is?
Their entire childhood, it would have been Sam going back to the motel room early to study or do his homework, while Dean dutifully puts in another three hours shooting coke cans off fenceposts.
This also helps explain his choice of handgun. Dean uses a less accurate pistol with a smaller carrying capacity because he can. He knows he’s going to hit the thing the first time. And if he’s going to be fighting literal wendigos, I guess he wants the holes he pokes in them to be as big as possible.
(plus all this classic Americana does kind of go with the Impala)
Sams’ Taurus PT92AFS
Sam spends the first season borrowing Dean’s Smith & Wesson 5906. It’s very clearly Dean’s - it fires .45 ACP rounds (Dean’s preference) and Dean sometimes actually loads it before handing it over to Sam. Since Sam doesn’t actually want to be a hunter though most of S1, this makes perfect sense.
Then in S2, Sam gets his Taurus PT92AFS – basically, a budget version of the Beretta M92. In a lot of ways, the Taurus is the souped-up Honda civic you get when you can’t afford a Ferrari. (and in both cases, you’ll totally get people saying they’re being smart by not paying extra for the brand name.)
A Taurus PT92AFS is a practical and cautious choice. It’s not the least bit flashy. It’s light and accurate, it carries a lot of rounds, and they’re little .99mm rounds, which are more budget conscious and accurate than .45 ACP rounds.
Partway into S2, Sam’s Taurus gets nickel plating and pearl grip. Possibly Sam did this so his gun would match Dean’s. Or possibly Dean customized Sam’s pistol as a gift. (it’s the firearm equivalent of painting racing stripes on your car.) Either way, it’s a pretty darn cute touch.
Sam’s Taurus Judge (his “witch killer”)
“For an unknown reason, Sam appears to prefer using this gun for firing witch-killing bullets rather than loading his regular pistol with them. In contrast, Dean uses his Colt M1911A1 for witch-killing bullets rather than employing a similar practice.”
@supernaturalwiki, it’s because the witch-killing bullets Sam makes are .45 ACP, not .99mm. They wouldn’t fit in Sam’s normal Taurus PT92AFS. He makes them for Dean, so of course he makes them in a caliber that Dean prefers.
Sam’s Taurus Judge is a close-quarters backup piece that fires five shots. This is just in case Dean (the better shot) isn’t able to take out the main threat. Hilariously, the Judge is a revolver that chambers both .45 ACP rounds and shotgun shells. This means Sam can load it up with rock-salt shells or witch-killing bullets or silver bullets. So you know. Whatever’s on the menu that day.
Soulless!Sam’s Heckler & Koch Mk23
Sam switches over to this when he loses his soul, then switches back to his Taurus products when he gets his soul back. When Soulless!Sam and Sam!Sam fight in their vision quest, they fight Heckler & Koch vs Taurus.
The Heckler & Koch Mk23 is designed to have the power of Dean’s 1911 and the carrying capacity of Sam’s .99mm handgun. So it’s huge, and very intimidating. It’s waterproof, crazy durable. It’s made by a fancy schmancy German defense contractor known for their precision engineering and their popularity with the special forces. H&K weapons are also known for being crazy expensive. This pistol would have set Sam back at least $2,000 (and for reference, you can get a Taurus PT92AFS for $500, easy.) So, either Soulless!Sam killed someone with a Mk23 and looted it, or somehow raised 2K very quickly. And I’m not even sure which option is more terrifying.
But the Mk23 still has that vibe of practicality and caution that Sam seems drawn too. (’Over-prepared’ is a good word to describe it.) It’s still an in-character choice. Just, Soulless!Sam is more brusque and intimidating when he’s dealing with persons of interest, as opposed to Sam!Sam’s softer, more approachable manner. And I think those two attitudes are pretty well represented by the H&K Mk23 and the Taurus PT92AFS respectively.
Interestingly, the H&K Mk23 does not fire Sam’s normal .99mm bullets. It fires the larger .45 ACP caliber rounds. And Soulless!Sam can get away with this because - I’m pretty sure Soulless!Sam is a much better shot than Sam!Sam.
SAM: Ever since I came back, I am a better hunter than I’ve ever been! Nothing scares me anymore. ‘Cause I can’t feel it.
Like again, why wouldn’t he be? Soulless!Sam is ice cold, steady heartbeat in a crisis. Marksmanship is a mental thing as much as it’s practice, and Soulless!Sam’s hands aren’t shaking. And that’s why he eventually switches back to his Taurus PT92AFS. It doesn’t matter if your shots are more powerful, if they don’t hit anything.
(he still does have that H&K Mk23, though. He cleans it when he’s in a bad mental place. It’s not like he borrowed it from the Campbells or anything.)
tl;dr
Dean uses big slow American bullets, because he’s a good enough shot to compensate. Sam uses little, accurate European bullets, and he uses a lot of them (because he’s cautious, and not quite as good as shot as his brother.) The witch-killing bullets Sam makes are a larger caliber, because he makes them for Dean. He’s got a little revolver that can take them, but he’d prefer it if he didn’t have to use it so much.
Soulless!Sam is both a better shot, and not adverse to giant expensive German handguns acquired though less-than-legal means. So he switches over to a pistol that shoots giant bullets, and lots of them.
(Also, disclaimer: I do not pretend to be a firearm expert. I’m just here to have fun.)
closing lines of a 4th-c. woman’s epitaph to her husband:
Now with all these things wrenched away I am a mourning spouse: happy, if the gods had left me a living husband; but happy nonetheless, because I am yours & was yours & after death, soon, I will be yours.
***
Parking lot was a disaster. Sam managed to get his truck into a spot -- didn't double park in the pick-up lane, unlike some people -- but he hopes whoever's in the Toyota next to him doesn't have a passenger, or if they do that the passenger's pretty thin. Like, model-thin. Now it's the hallways, milling adults looking lost, kids rolling their eyes and tugging on hands, lockers decorated with Welcome, Parents! in carefully printed bubble letters.
"Da-aad."
"Yeah, coming," Sam says, and Dean rolls his eyes, like every other kid. Sam tries not to let it bother him. Every kid goes through this phase. He did, at least. He doesn't have a lot of experience, otherwise.
Dean leads the way, confident, and polite at least to other parents when they have to squeeze past. How Sam knows he isn't fucking this up completely. He slips through a gap that only a fourth grader could manage, though, and Sam's left to dance politely around a rotund couple he doesn't recognize, scolding some older twin boys under their breath. The wife finally notices him and looks up and then up, blinking, and Sam takes the look he's used to. "God, sorry!" she says, sticking out an arm and shuffling her kids out of the way to make a space. "Like a cattle call in here, huh?"
"Moo," Sam says, which makes her laugh too hard, which makes her husband frown, but then he's past, where Dean's bouncing in his light-up sneakers, annoyed. Sam pushes his hand through Dean's hair before he can duck away. "What?"
"Moo?" Another eyeroll. Sam should maybe tell him the lie about getting stuck that way. "You are so weird. And we're gonna be late."
"When have we ever been late?"
Dean does actually grab Sam's hand, yanking. Sam lets himself be pulled, enjoying at least that his kid's deigning to hold Dad's hand after being far too old for it, at least as Sam's been told. "Last year? Mrs. McMorrow made us reschedule!"
"I think getting in a car accident was a decent excuse," Sam says, mild, and Dean groans and says, "Come on," stomping ahead down past the 5th grade classrooms to where Ms. Valdez is, see, just saying goodbye to the previous couple. Sarah Gold's parents, given that Sarah's waiting on the little blue plastic chair outside, reading a library book, making Dean halt in his tracks and making Sam almost run into the back of him. He's heard a lot about how Sarah's very, very annoying. Most annoying girl in school. Somehow she always gets an invitation to Dean's birthday parties, anyway.
Sam fits a hand around Dean's little shoulder. Small bones. Always makes him feel like a giant and also not big enough, like he needs to be planet-sized to protect this kid from all that could be. Still. A girl's not that scary. "See, on time," he says, easy, and Dean's blushing deeply when he shrugs.
Ms. Valdez is a good teacher, Sam thinks. She's in her late twenties, which Sam knows is plenty old enough but still makes her feel like a kid to him. If he does the math she really could be his kid. She's nice but not saccharine, complimentary but not a suck-up. Dean seems to be doing okay. He likes math and science, loves P.E., suffers through his music and art specials, does the reading but insists he doesn't like the 'girl books'. "I think he's overcompensating," Ms. Valdez says, and laughs lightly, and Sam's hit with this strange weird flush that makes him queasy, for a second. His throat closing.
She blinks at him. "Mr. Winchester?" Then, uncertain: "I didn't mean--"
"No," he says. An effort to smile but he does it anyway. "I think you're right. It's important to look tough in front of the right people, if you know what I mean."
She smiles back, relieved. She is young. "Maybe he'll grow out of it. Although, maybe not. Some boys never do."
"No," he says, "they don't."
She shows him the units they'll be going through for the rest of the term. Egyptian mythology, with art components and a small writing assignment and a research paper, just to get the kids used to what sources mean, writing in paragraphs instead of often-incomplete sentences. She leans close. Smells like jasmine. He realizes only when the twenty minutes of the conference are about up that she's been flirting, the whole time. Her smile small and her eyes softly dark, telling him that Dean's a good kid, and if it's not rude to say she thinks he's done very well, since the divorce, and he seems to be adjusting. She was sorry not to see Mrs. Winchester, this evening.
"She never actually took my name," Sam says, and Ms. Valdez -- Marisol, he remembers -- lets her mouth form a small moue, like -- he doesn't know. Some implication he should pick up, if he were looking to do so, but he isn't. She is pretty. Long dark hair she sweeps into a messy bun, full mouth, elegant hands with bitten nails. Apparently has a thing for older men. But--
He comes out into the hall where Dean's sitting on the little plastic chair the lovely Sarah has vacated, eating a cupcake. "Hey, where'd you get that?" Sam says. He has a sense of having dodged a bullet.
Dean shrugs. "Honors Society kids having a bake sale," he says, garbled.
"Don't talk with your mouth full," Sam says, and Dean raises his eyebrows and chews like a cow, exaggerated. "Well, I want one. Lead the way, buddy."
They make their way out to what this school thinks is a playground. The 2030s have really just taken away all of the possible edges from being a kid. They sit on a bench under a tree and Sam bites into his cupcake while Dean mows through his second. Awful, storebought, chemical-tasting frosting. Cake. They don't have it very often.
It's a pretty night. Warm, for the time of year. The moon up, nearly full, past all the school lights, and Sam thinks that after this they'll go pick up a pizza, maybe, and they'll go back to the house, and he'll let Dean watch an episode of that new Star Trek cartoon -- or is it Wars? he can never remember -- and then he'll have to insist about bedtime and Dean will whine but he'll go because despite the eyerolling he is a good kid, confirmed, the best thing Sam's got in his life at this point, and from how things have gone the best thing he'll have, from the end of that place that was and where he'll never be again, until...
"Da-ad."
He blinks. Dean's sitting crosslegged on the bench, looking at him, eyebrows high. "What?"
"You were on Planet Dad again," Dean says. No eyeroll. "Did you run into any Cardassians? Or like, a big Andorian cruiser?"
"Yeah," Sam says. "Fought 'em off with my lightsaber."
"Da-ad, you know that's Star Wars," Dean says, genuinely offended, and Sam huffs, cups the side of his head. His face that's entirely his own, some mix of his parents that ended up not looking much like either of them somehow, but his expression, sometimes. Something around the eyes.
"I'll get it one day, buddy," Sam says.
"Sure," Dean says, doubtful, and slides off the bench, bouncing on his toes, ready for pizza. They get pizza and they watch the show -- Trek, who knew -- and Sam puts him to bed with the exact amount of whining he knew he'd get and turns out the light -- knows Dean will read comics by flashlight, with the flashlight that always has fresh batteries in his bedside table -- and he looks at the small lump in the blankets through the crack in the door for a solid minute, standing in the hallway of the house he never wanted. Then he goes downstairs and pours himself a drink, and sits on the porch where the night's getting cold, and he sits on the deck chair that he really ought to repaint and he thinks, god. God.
Then he goes inside, and goes to bed, and there's the next day to get through, after that.
Dean, hands gripping Sam’s waist, smiling up at his baby brother who’s gotten so much taller since leaving, finally hitting proper height, thumbs pressed into the divots of his hips, rubbing little circles into flesh. Sam, staring down at Dean with flushed cheeks and gentle eyes, taking in Dean’s freckles and the cut on his lip, how much he’s changed, pressing their chests together to feel his steady heartbeat while his own hands settle just above his ass, barely keeping decent.
And Jess, watching from the doorway in something between horror and shock as Sam opens his mouth and professes — “babe, this is my brother, Dean.”
Wincest Wednesdays
for @wincestwednesdays Sept 3rd prompt: Radio
on AO3
“You’re listening to KZSU Stanford at 90.1 FM. I’m Nicole and I’ll be your host for the next hour as we open the lines up for some dedications. This first one is going out to Brad from Angie…”
The coffee shop nearest to his dorm catered mainly to the college crowd and played the campus radio station at a volume that was loud enough to hear when the ambient clatter and hiss and chatter didn’t drown it out.
Sam had developed a habit of studying at a table in the corner, where he had the wall at his back and could see the entire place easily. His father’s voice was still too loud in his head to ignore, barking at him about situational awareness.
But the noise, rather than being distracting, made it easier for him to focus. Like the act of filtering out the activity around him opened his mind up to remembering, cataloging, making connections in the information. Something about habits developed through childhood made them especially hard to shake, and even when he wasn’t trying to read or do school work in various cafes, diners, and restaurants, he would still need to tune out his brother. Dean who’d always had the tv or radio on, laughing or singing along, or sitting silent and brooding (which somehow was always louder to Sam than anything else).
“We’re dropping way back into the 70’s on this next song with Foghat’s I’ll Be Standing By for Samantha from an anonymous caller. Ooh, watch out Samantha, this one’s giving off creeper vibes.”
~~~
“It’s Tuesday again, so you know what that means! Got a special song for that special someone? Our phone line is open for the next hour, 855-723-9010.”
“Triple shot, soy, flat white!” the barista announced as he slid a cup onto the pick-up counter.
Sam scooped it up and headed back to his regular table. Sitting down he pulled out his class notes and laptop. He popped the lid off his coffee, so it would cool faster, and got to work. Handwriting in class then transcribing later into a Word doc helped cement the information in his memory, and digital notes were so much easier to search when he was studying for tests. By the time he was finished, he slugged down the rest of his coffee, which had been room temperature for a while now, and started to pack up to go to his next class.
“For our final dedication today Samantha’s anonymous 70’s rock fan is back! This time he’s requested Zeppelin’s Out On the Tiles. So, Samantha, this one’s for you.”
The driving opening riff hit hard and familiar as Sam pushed through the door and strode out onto the sidewalk. A surge of nostalgia smacked a smile on his face as he shoved his hands deep in his pockets and tried his best to look like he fit in.
~~~
“Third Tuesday in a row, we’ve got ourselves a regular caller. Samantha, if you’re out there, here’s Telegram Sam by T-Rex.”
~~~
“Oh, Samantha, we’re back in maudlin territory this week. Your anonymous friend requested Dylan’s If You See Her, Say Hello. Maybe check on the people you know, 10:15 in the morning seems a little early to be that drunk.”
Sam was taking both Latin and Greek this semester since he already had a solid grasp of basic Latin and he was taking it because it was a requirement for more advanced classes. He hadn’t been as well versed in Greek so he spent more time going over his notes and working on his translations.
“Two requests in one show? I think I touched a nerve when I said he sounded drunk. Sam, Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd.”
~~~
“Another Tuesday, another dedication to Studious Samantha from your 70’s classic rock fanboy. So here’s Paranoid by Black Sabbath. Sam, your creeper’s got a nice voice but he seems to be going through a manic phase, watch out.”
~~~
“Okay, Samantha, this is the sixth week in a row and I gotta admit, I’m intrigued by your man’s musical choices. This week he’s dedicating Shame on the Moon by Bob Seger to you.”
Sam’s eyes went wide. It was the Seger song that finally made the pattern click. It had to be. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and punched in a number he knew by heart. It rang twice.
“Heya, Sammy.”
“Your mix tapes? First and last song on each?”
“Took you long enough. Hey, that Nicole sounds hot, think it’s just her voice or…”
“Jesus, Dean. Did you need something or have you really been calling up a college radio station DJ for a month and a half just to get my attention?”
“Just trying to have a little fun, shoulda known you be pissy about it.”
Sam rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose while Dean was quiet on the other end of the line.
Finally, Sam heard an irritated huff and then, “Whatever, man. Get back to studying, wouldn’t want to bother you.”
The call disconnected.
Sam sighed and looked at the phone, like he couldn’t believe that was it. He dialed again and it went right to voicemail.
At the beep Sam simply said, “Jerk.” and hung up.
normal AU except its just a series of reddit posts that all of sam and dean’s creeped out SOs inevitably end up writing once they realize that their boyfriend wants to die in his brother’s arms Notebook-style
“people on the outside of the Wincest/ Wincest adjacent bubble are like “so you think Sam and Dean want to have sex?”
and honestly I’m here like no, you absolute pedestrian. They want to crawl up inside each other and and occupy the same skin and exist away from the whisper of threat of feeling they ever have to compete with anyone or anything for one another’s devotion. And only one of them even realizes how fucked up that is.
If they wanted to have sex it would literally be more normal. That’s how insane they are”
- saint-wincest [x]
In my mind, Dean always reminisces based on Sam's age. So, instead of saying "when I was 15", he would say "when Sammy/my brother was 11" and Sam doesn't notice. John doesn't notice. Meanwhile, all of Dean's dates notice because it is very very bizarre but they don't know how to point it out.
Eventually, Crowley picks up on it (after that summer camp with Dean) and he brings it up and you can see both brothers staring at him in confusion because:
Sam is convinced that can't possibly be the case and he tries to trace back some instances when Dean has referred based on his own age and comes up blank and then freaks out (and feels bad, because he's Sam)
Dean is fully aware he does this and he thinks it's the most normal thing in the world and doesn't understand why Crowley is pointing it out or why Sam is suddenly freaking out.
Crowley is so done with them both.
[I have an argument for believing this is the case. Dean is pretty much Sam's parent. Parents obviously talk about events based on their children's age (except when they are talking about events before the child was born). So on this essay....]
Sam: I’m big and tough, you don’t scare me- go fuck yourself.. torture me all you wan-
Dean: Sammy?
Sam: dean, yes.. that’s the mean lady right there.
Ok but could you imagine if Adam ended up in John’s Dean’s care?
Sam would be about 12/13 and still looking like he’s 9 because he hit puberty late and Dean looking like he’s in his early 20s from all this trauma he gained as a child
Dean who just lost another 18 years of his life to play parent(s) to another one of John’s kids
Dean would be out one day with the two, Adam babbling on his hip as he holds Sam’s hand to cross the street and some lady coos and says he has cute kids
Dean stalling in the middle of the road before Sam whines about ice cream
He a father to a 5 year old toddler and a young teenager
that one line from bobby's hunting guide or whatever, about how john picked up dean one night on the side of the road after dean had gone out looking for him... in my gut I know john was a "get out of the car; you're hoofin' it from here" kind of parent. a "quit that right now or you're walking home; hope you can find you way" kind of parent.
so I need sam waiting on tenterhooks in the motel room of the week, up way past midnight waiting for john and dean to get back from a hunt. for him to breathe deeply for the first time in what feels like days when he hears the rumble of the loudest car in the universe rolling into the lot, and for john to give the special knock at the door and sam's so relieved to let them in, equilibrium resettling, all three of them together under one roof.
only dean's not with john.
he's not out under the weak light of the parking lot sodium lamps. he's not crouched over the back seat of the impala, rifling through the footwell. he's not unpacking gear from the trunk or coming back from the bank of vending machines with condensation-wet cans of squirt jammed in his pockets or leaning bloody and spent against dad's shoulder.
he's not. fucking anywhere.
I need sam losing his absolute shit, zero to feral in six-point-three seconds flat. screaming and scrabbling at john, "where is he where is he where the fuck is he?!" I need sam just sobbing with his whole chest because it finally happened, this is his nightmare, his literal worst fear realized because dean's dead out there somewhere and knowing dad, he's probably already salted dean down and soaked him in gasoline and lit him up, a tragedy with no loose ends.
I need sam just wailing, can't catch his breath crying, the ugly snotty gagging kind of crying as john finally just manhandles him back into the room and tries to tell him, "jesus, sammy. he's fine. thought it'd be a good idea to run that smartass mouth of his on the way back, so he's taking a little time to himself and walking the last stretch here."
I need sam who looks at john with more disgust and visceral loathing than a twelve year old should be able to manage. who grabs his coat off the bed and his knife from under the pillow and is out the door into the night before john can get a hand on him. I need sam sprinting down the busted concrete drive to the main road and taking off along the sloping gravel shoulder in the oh-dark-thirty blue-blackness, still crying but trying to get his breath back so he can holler for dean.
(I need dean trudging along in the pre-dawn dark, pulling up short when he hears the slip-slide of running feet on gravel headed towards him and his name screamed into the dark. dean who takes off at a dead run because sammy sammy sammy sammy shit-fuck sammy what's the matter)
(I need sam who launches himself bodily at dean when he finally gets close enough. who lets his heart pound rabbit-quick against dean's chest through their jackets. who's probably too big to be picked up and held like this, really, but who can't won't let go once he's got dean wrapped up in his arms. who slides around to dean's back and pulls dean's collar aside so he can put his ear to dean's pulsepoint as he's piggybacked the rest of the way back.)
anyways... john pretends to be asleep when they make it back to the motel. they know he's awake, he knows they know he's awake, but no way is he gonna look at sam's face again without at least five hours of sleep under his belt.
(nobody says a word about it when they pack up and check out in the morning. nobody says a word about it, ever.)
"Maybe we'll be different, Dean." "What kind of Kool-Aid you drinking, man?"
SUPERNATURAL 4.12 Criss Angel Is a Douchebag