mishencockles replied to your post: mishencockles replied to your post: but actually…
wait is it time for summer time already ????? shit uhm but if you google supernatural countdown or smth you can just see how many hrs are left until the epi airs. thats how i do it cus i am utter crap at timezones. ;A;
idk idk i think they change them differently in different countries cause i already saw someone talking about it weeks ago…
but yeah thanks that helps i’m hopeless with timezones too!
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when you’re sad, just remember that meg died for love.
she died for her unicorn.
That made me feel worse. Thank you.
Today, Castiel, you did not kill a good man.
It’s a small thing; for now, it can be enough.
The tablet is warm against his chest as he stares out of the window. The bus judders and creaks, its passengers bored and restless, but Castiel – for all his failings, all he lacks – feels strangely at peace with it all.
He watches the world shoot past the window – green and brown, a hundred thousand lives all streaming by. People he fought to save, people he damaged along the road; people who need him, and those who never will.
The bus pulls up at a rest stop – lets them all get out, ‘stretch their legs’, buy coffee. The families on board screech and squabble, and Castiel – Castiel sits quietly on the low wall that borders the truck stop, his legs drawn neatly together, the tablet in his arms. The bus driver comes out – descends the steps of the bus, looking at him. When she reaches him, she stops.
“You alright there, sir?”
No one’s ever called him sir before. He looks at her. “I’m fine.” He lies. She looks uncomfortable. He never was much good with deceit; time has taught him that, well enough.
“You wanna talk about it?” she says. He smiles softly, appreciatively, at her.
“No, thankyou.” He replies. “I’m just – thinking.”
“Well. Go to the bathroom before we leave, okay? Won’t stop again for another five hours.” She ambles away, a hand under her baseball cap, looking strangely at him as she goes.
Castiel, sat on the low wall, surrounded by humans, a powerful, powerful object in his hands, takes a deep, deep breath. Then he lets it go.
He doubts this is what freedom feels like – like the musty smell of a bus radiator, like cheap coffee and the scent of portable lavatories, which carries over to him as a breeze blows, tugging at his coat.
But he’s alive. There is that.
He smiles to himself, the stone tablet strangely warm in his hands.
He is alive, of his own free will, for the first time in what seems a long, long while.
i uh. reversed a gif
I read a lot of romance novels. Or I used to, before I got so sucked into fandom. One of the most common tropes in paranormal romance—you know, the kind with vampires and werewolves—is the fated-to-love, only-you, now-and-forever mate-bond trope.
Now, I love a good psychic mate bond as much as the next weirdo fangirl, but I don’t really like the way this trope gets used in paranormal romance. If there can be only one, what’s the point? Where’s the drama? It’s all destiny, tied up in a neat little bow.
What I love about Dean and Cas is that it’s not destiny. It’s destiny-defying. It’s about two people choosing one another, over and over, even though they’re not supposed to. There’s nothing fated about it.
It’s all choice.
And it’s the choice—or really, many choices, one every day, every minute—of two people who haven’t had very many opportunities to decide their own lives. Dean was supposed to be Daddy’s blunt little instrument. He sure as hell wasn’t supposed to grow up and fall in love with a man-shaped wavelength of celestial intent. Castiel is an angel. He isn’t even supposed to be capable of choice.
They’re not fated to love each other. If anything, the universe seems determined to push them apart. There’s no guarantee that they can ever be together, let alone stay together. Because that’s how it is when people fall in love. We decide to try it, and then we decide to keep trying it. We can leave any time we want to. But we don’t. We make that choice every day. We choose each other.
We make it up as we go along.
sam was forced to watch dean die 100 times :)))
castiel was forced to kill dean 1000 times :)))))
there are times i strive for perfection
but it is not this day
wee little blushing bb deerstiel~ ;u;
#but can we talk about how Naomi had Castiel practice just this#she knew his biggest weakness was Dean#and she knew if anyone would try to stop Cas it would be Dean#and he had to do it so many times to get it just right#can you imagine the complete and utter breakdown Cas had during the first few kills#he probably couldn’t even do it#imagine Naomi having to hand over hand teach him how to kill the person he worked so hard to save#and cas crying the entire time (via octopifer)
Supernatural 8x17 (1)
//: OVERIDE KILL ORDER
favorite spn ladies→ kate
five years from now? hopefully passed the bar exam, practicing law. nothing corporate… something green, you know?
“Cas.” he murmurs when the bed dips, when a warm weight joins him under the covers; when fingers link with his own. If Dean has ever said his name without it being desperate, he doesn’t know when.
The angel slots himself up against Dean - a knee between his, their fingers laced on one hand, his other tracing Dean’s ribs, soft, up and down. “It’s you?” he says. You can never be sure.
The angel shifts closer, buries his nose in Dean’s neck. “It’s me.” he says.
“How long do you have?”
The angel doesn’t answer. He kisses Dean’s neck, a brush of his lips, dry and gentle.
“Cas?” Dean asks, again, and the angel sags against him. Sighs.
“Not long.” he says, quietly.
Dean nods, his chin brushing through Castiel’s hair. Castiel’s voice comes again, low.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” he traces, slow, the lines of Castiel’s back - his hips, the curve of his legs - with his hands. “One day.”
The angel smiles against his skin. “One day.” he says, a little wistful, a little disbelieving. “Definitely.”
“When this is all over.” Dean murmurs back, falling asleep. it’s a mantra, by now.
“Yes. Then.”
it’s the little things that make me happiest though. like dean tossing a cold compress to sam, who throws it crankily to the ground.
