sometimes i have like really deep thoughts like the internet is fucking incredible man i can go on google and see like 10,000 dicks in an hour and like imagine back before the internet even, you couldn’t see that many dicks in a life time. I’ve seen more dicks this week than any Babylonian prostitute did in her entire life. Amazing.
HOLY FUCK THE NOTES.
If you’re my follower and you don’t reblog this we have a problem~
HOLY SHIT LOOK AT THE NOTES
you better reblog this.
reblog EVERY TIME THIS IS ON YOUR DASH .
(( REBLOG IF YOU FUCKING WANT TO BECAUSE NO ONE CAN TELL YOU WHAT TO FUCKING PUT ON YOUR BLOG ))
I have so many people ask me what a tattoo of the moon could possibly mean to me and it angers me so much. In 2 years I have gone from being the happiest person I have ever known, to somebody that felt unworthy of living, and I’m almost back to that happy girl again. Change. Everything changes. Family, friends, hobbies, interests, priorities, feelings. Everything. My parents went from being the light of my life, to the reason why I despised myself, and now I can’t go a day without telling them I love them. Whilst they aren’t always in my view, and they are constantly changing, they always end up they way they were in the beginning. So I could get this whole paragraph tattooed on my leg or I could get the phases of the moon. My tattoo is a reminder, it’s my sense of comfort, it’s my surety that in the end, everything will be okay.
So far I have, and will continue to, follow every person that reblogs this. I love you guys so much.
I really would love to see that crossover, repeatedly, in every possible position. Even if it would end in tears because let’s be real, everything the Winchesters touch ends in tears. Poor little shits.
“Look kid,” Sam says. It’s the third time he’s tried the good cop routine and Dean can hear it wearing thin. “We know you had nothing to do with the murders. But we also know you’re not the only werewolf in town.”
The kid tips his head and sucks on his lips, the total absence of fucks glaringly obvious. Dean is both frustrated as hell and grudgingly impressed because, hell, they’ve dealt with demons less sassy than this.
Sam sighs, and Dean has to cough into his hand to keep from laughing because that particular brand of exasperation is usually reserved for him. “Just be straight with us.”
For some reason, that’s hilarious. It takes a second before Dean remembers the dude they’d seen the kid with before they’d picked him up. Big, serial killer looking guy, sporting leather and a possessive hand on kid-snark’s back. Oh man.
Dean snorts and gives Sam patented ‘what? it’s funny’ shoulders when it earns him a glare.
“Trust me, dude,” the kid says. “I’m being as straight with you as…well, I was gonna say humanly possible but…”
A flash of canines has Sam rolling his eyes and sue him, Dean sorta wants to high-five the kid. You know you’ve been hunting for too long when you start rooting for your mark.
“You’re driving a stolen car,” Sam says. “You’re carrying a fake ID. Every word out of your mouth so far has been bullshit-”
“Says the hunter posing as an FBI agent,” the kid says, tapping a nonchalant beat on his water bottle.
Sam pulls out bitch-face number eleven. “Is anything about you real?”
The kid grins and bobs his head. “My boobs.”
Dean laughs so hard he almost pulls something.