January 2012
His favorite color is white. Not like his skin or puffy, pillow-esque clouds carrying condensation; more the crayon blending other colors together on paper, adding layer to layer over deeper extremities. Every day he does this: tears a tiny piece out of his college-ruled notebook, smears tape over one edge, and adds it to the collection on the wall of his dorm. He covers it from top to bottom in tiny, fine red print. The color is symbolic for the friend (keeper, conscience, tormentor, whatever) in his head. He supposes this makes him crazy, but lots of people think they're crazy - and oftentimes, they're perfectly sane. Only... sometimes the voice is all that makes sense in a world of bigotry and arrogance and hate. Sometimes the voice cuts cleanly through the bullshit and the threads of reality, and sometimes he forgets himself and he talks back.
Listen, this is what makes Sam Winchester crazy: not the voice, only the habit he has of considering it. What his fellow kinsmen and peers fail to consider - and what he himself never fails to - is that most humans possess mental voices that whisper to them unspoken truths. They aren't very loud, not usually: most of them fall quiet and bitter over time as humans grow into their social normalities and expectations. But they never really leave, they're always there, biting their nails in boredom, maybe slowly losing their grips on their own 'sanity,' and it mustn't be too healthy to negate them like that. That's got to cause problems. Really, they ones that talk back to their voices must be the more humane bunch. That's what Sam figures, anyway.