more like, i’m not touching this fic with a ten foot pole are you fucking kidding me

Blogrates 'cause I'm almost at 2k.


Wait what? How? omg, love y’all.


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Promo!! :3


Because i’m close to 1.2k and I’ve got a new theme! c:

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  • ends whenever i start posting the promos (probably tomorrow at this time)


here sam winchester is around 26 years old, and has just been told to lose bobby’s number


now imagine what this face looked like at seventeen years old, hearing the words “If you go to stanford, don’t come back” from his own dad

imagine what his face looked like when Dean said he would drive him to the bus station, didn’t even stick up for Sam or argue with Dad


The weight of the cello on my back, usually barely noticeable, was crippling today. I had a sort of embarrassment getting onto the bus, the wide hips of the instrument catching between the doors. The driver, a woman who seemed to be Death’s own secretary, looked down at me from her perch with sullen, bagged eyes. I think she tried to say something (most likely along the lines of “Hurry the fuck up and get your dumb instrument through the door so I can get you to school.”), but I heard nothing and proceeded to sit down in the first seat on the left, my cello propped in the window seat like a silent companion.

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