You Are Beautiful

the people I’m housesitting for don’t have the Space channel - someone PLEASE link me to the Doctor Who finale?

I know I’m not supposed to be here but I’m desperate - anyone have a link for the doctor who finale???

GHOST WRANGLERS IS THE CASTLE EQUIVALENT OF GHOST FACERS YOU CANNOT CONVINCE ME OTHERWISE

you are always awesome <3

ever-so-plucky:

lyssa oh my god i just noticed it was you bc your icon looks like someone else’s icon and HIIIIIIIII

shhhh I’m not really here

ALSO QUICK QUESTION: Does anyone know why I can’t ask questions on anyone’s blog? It looks totally fine but when I try to click “Ask” nothing happens??

While I’m here… a little update on my life… I have a boyfriend now and his name is Andrew and he’s pretty much perfect and I like him a lot and yes he’s the one I posted about several times apparently he likes me so that’s super duper cool and I’m just really happy now because he’s adorable and sweet and he makes me feel like being me is someone worth being?? so that’s extra cool and yeah I just couldn’t not share that. I’m not back to regularly scheduled blogging… maybe reblogging awesome things people make but probably no more text posts. But yeah. 

if there’s one thing that i know

ceesquatch:

They’re parked for the week in eastern Texas – dust from the Polk county red clay has turned the Impala’s glossy black veneer into something more like a rusty, bleeding sienna, and the towering pines make even Sam feel like he’s caged in, the tips of the trees cutting into the surprisingly brilliant night sky. Dean’s been eating up the miles, running from whatever it is with more zeal than he normally runs from his problems into hunt after hunt, and he’s being even more taciturn about it than usual - Sam could count on one hand the number of substantial conversations they’ve had since they put Dad’s body to rest, and it’s itching at him, the disruptive silence. Dean’s been hitting the bottle hard, as of late, too – the taste of Dad’s ashes hasn’t washed out of either of their mouths, yet, no matter how hard Dean tries to drown it in bottom shelf whiskey and cheap, watery ale. Sam’s dragging Dean out of yet another run-down bar after last call, not wanting to take his chance with the locals – they look as road-weary as he and Dean are, and he counted the butts of way too many pistols sticking conspicuously out of belts for his comfort. Better play it safe – Dean’s a mouthy drunk, and the reputation of piney woods Texas more than precedes itself.

Sam slides the Impala into a faded parking space in front of their door at the slouchy motel they’re bunked in, mindful of the potholes that take up most of the cracking asphalt – Dean’s fading in the passenger seat, but he’s known his brother to wake up at the slightest jar from his baby’s suspension to chew Sam’s ass for “running her into a goddamn ditch, she’s a lady, Sam,” but he just shakes awake when Sam cuts the engine and blunders out of the car.

The room this time is blessedly devoid of any kitschy theme, but Sam feels like the huddles of spiders in the corners of the paneled walls and the pile of orange dust on the threshold provide an atmosphere of Midwestern discomfort in spite of themselves. He watches Dean flop onto the threadbare olive-green sheets, his face a bit pink and his eyes glazed over. Sam expects him to nod off before he’s gotten his boots off, and he sets up camp at the rickety desk and chair to work on the case – it’s a doozy, with people of color in the community being found hung with razor wire from the ceilings of their own houses, all of their teeth and fingers removed. The town’s police are chalking it up to hate crimes, which isn’t really something that surprises Sam, but they’re cooperating, which is something that does.

Sam’s thinking it’s a run-of-the-mill vengeful spirit, a sick, racist one at that, but whenever he flips through the case file, he gets the sensation of something scratching at the back of his neck, and the only person he trusts more than his gut is Dean. He’s scribbling on a pad of paper and typing at the same time when he hears Dean shuffling on the bed. Sam expects him to fall asleep and start snoring, but he hears Dean’s jaw pop, once, and the sound of his brother’s throat working before he talks, low:

“We hit a deer, once, Dad and me.”

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Hey Jude

lovemesomepiee:

It had been a little over two years since the fire that had killed their mother. Dean tried not to think about it as he carried Sammy to the bed in the motel. After the fire, their father had packed up the Impala with anything salvageable, bought necessities, and taken off with the boys. Dean had lost count of how many motels they’d stayed at. John was out, probably at the nearest bar.

Dean laid Sammy down in the center of the dingy bed, tucking the scratchy blankets around him. He found extra pillows in the closet and piled them around Sam, ensuring he didn’t roll off in the middle of the night. In the years since Mary had passed, John hadn’t once mentioned her, and so Dean felt there was an unspoken rule—not to talk about her at all.

But he was scared that he wouldn’t remember her. How she smelled, her smile, how she cut the crust off of his sandwiches. He lied down next to Sammy and began to sing softly.

“Hey Jude, don’t make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better. Remember to let her into your heart, then you can start to make it better.”

He only remembered the words of the first verse, but Sammy’s eyes had already closed, and his breathing had slowed. Dean leaned over and kissed Sammy on the forehead, whispering “Goodnight,” and shut off the lights.

[x]

I’M BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAACK

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